Zamageda his heart

chapter 4 ' a tragedy'

i've been sitting in my car outside the police station for what feels like an eternity, my mind racing with thoughts and emotions. I've probably cycled through every possible feeling in just one hour. Finally, I muster up the strength to grab my handbag and step inside. I join the queue, waiting my turn to approach the charge desk. When it's finally my turn, I explain my situation to the lady behind the counter, hoping she'll offer some guidance. Instead, she curtly points to a bench and shouts 'next!' I'm too drained to protest, so I sit down, expecting her to return with someone to assist me. But as the line dies down, she abandons her post, leaving me waiting. An hour passes, and she returns to attend to the new queue.

My anger boils over at her lack of urgency, so I take out my work identification and approach her post again. 'Sisi, I am a forensic investigator, and I'm here to identify a body. Can I please be assisted?' I say softly, showing her my card. But instead of helping me, she takes a jab and retorts, 'Lyk dit hier na 'n morgue?' (Does this look like a morgue to you?) in a thick, colored accent. Her dismissive tone and words cut deep, and I sigh in defeat, feeling frustrated and disrespected. I walk back to the bench, feeling helpless, and wait.

I'm jolted out of my misery by my ringing phone - it's my estate gate. 'Hi, ma'am, there's a Mr. Mabaso here for you. He says you're expecting him. Should we let him through?' the guard asks. I glance at the time - 6:15 pm - and suddenly remember my date with Zipho. I had completely forgotten!'  Hi, can you please pass him the phone?' I ask, trying to sound composed. After a brief shuffle, Zipho's deep voice comes on the line, 'I can't get stood up, ngiswenke kangaka sengwayo'. I feel a thrill of delight at the sound of his voice, and a light chuckle escapes my lips. I try to explain that I got held up, but he doesn't seem to mind, instead asking if he can take my number. I rattle it off, and before I can say more, he hangs up.

My phone rings again, and an unregistered number appears on the screen. I answer, hoping against hope that it might be Liz on the other end. But instead, I hear a familiar voice, laced with concern: 'Manzini.' My stomach twists into knots as I respond, and before I can even process my emotions, he asks, 'Kwenzenjani?' (How are you?). A heavy sigh escapes my lips, and tears flood my cheeks; his voice is my undoing. 'Khuluma nami, mama' (Talk to me), he pleads, and an even bigger lump forms in my throat. A slight sob escapes my mouth as I struggle to hold it together. He heaves a sigh and asks me to send him my location. I nod, even though he can't see me, and quickly send it to him via iMessage.

Fifteen minutes pass, and I see him walking towards me. I try to wipe away my tears, but it's a futile effort - they well up even more. He approaches me with a gentle smile and envelops me in a comforting hug. His scent is intoxicating, and it instantly eases the headache I've cried myself into. He holds me until I've cried it all out, then asks the receptionist to bring me water. She brings it, fluttering her eyelashes at him in a way that aggravates me further. 

Kwenzenjani?' he asks again, his tone a mix of concern and anger that I can't quite decipher. I recount my experience at the station, and he listens with a stoic expression that's impossible to read. When I finish, he stands up, his movements swift and decisive, and envelops my hand in his. 'Asambe,' he says, leading me down a dark passage into the station, the receptionist hurrying behind us. His pace is fast, making it hard for me to keep up.We enter the captain's office, where he's greeted with a warm smile. 'Mbulazi,' the captain says, standing up and extending his hand in expectation. But Zipho ignores it, his eyes flashing with anger as he gazes at the captain's face. The captain is taken aback, his smile faltering, and he quickly offers us seats instead. Zipho's grip on my hand tightens, a silent warning that I interpret as 'don't dare me'."