Oyama: Her Story

CHAPTER 31

The car sped along the dirt road, every bump jarring my aching body. Qhawe’s grip on me didn’t falter. His presence, solid and unwavering, was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. My head rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calming the chaos swirling in my mind. The sun began to set, casting the sky in hues of orange and crimson. The windows of the Legend 50 reflected the fiery light, but inside, it was a cocoon of heavy silence. Mzi, in the front passenger seat, had his rifle across his lap, his eyes scanning the horizon. For as long as I have known him, he’s never been this quiet ever. Lwandle, behind the wheel, drove with practiced ease, his focus sharp. I sit up and look back, there’s about 2 other cars to following us. I sit back in his lap, he kisses my forehead, “Look what he did to you” he whispers, he moves his hands over my face.
“I’m OK” I whisper.
He looks out the window, but his body is shaking, shivering.

“Wake up” he whispers, “We are home”.
I heavily lift my body and sit up, Lwandle is slowing down. I look out the window, he stops at a gate.
It stood proud and Bold. A wild Boar sigil stood in front of us, written, ‘Kolobe Estate’ at the bottom I look around, I thought they were playing, but there’s no houses in sight, they own all the land. The gates slowly swing to the sides and armed guards walk out, he slowly pulls forward. We start driving in green fields protected by white log fences. Then it comes into view, their main house with Rondavels in the back, its so big, it looks like there were built separately, but now they are joined by corridors, but its been extended. Its really big, like a smaller version of the White House.
The car stops in the front, of a house with an extremely large door. His mom stands by the door, arms folded.
The car stops, Qhawe opens the door and we step out, the cool evening air kissed my bruised face, but it did little to soothe the ache beneath my skin.
“Go inside with ma, there’s something we need to do” he says.
I glanced up at Qhawe, his face shadowed under the fading sunlight, but the hardness in his jaw was unmistakable. There was a storm brewing behind his eyes, one I wasn’t sure I wanted to understand. His mother stepped down the patio steps, her expression unreadable but commanding. Her arms, no longer crossed, extended slightly as if preparing to usher me inside. I hesitate, but he smiles at me, I leave his comfort and walk up the stairs one step at a time. Then she helped me step through the door, and my breath caught in my throat. The grandeur of the house was overwhelming, yet it felt distinctly lived-in. Its different to their houses in Sandton.

High ceilings adorned with wooden beams stretched above us, and warm lighting softened the expansive space. An intricately woven rug spread out across the polished floor, leading to a sitting area with plush leather couches and a crackling fireplace. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke and something floral, a subtle touch that felt at odds with the tension hanging around us. She guided me gently toward one of the couches. She didn’t speak immediately, her commanding presence filling the silence as she studied me. I met her gaze hesitantly, unsure of how to read her. There was no overt hostility, but there was a sharpness in her eyes that demanded answers, even if she wasn’t asking questions.
“You’ve had a rough day,” she finally said, her voice calm but firm, “Sit.” I obeyed, sinking into the soft cushions. The ache in my body made itself known again as I moved, and I couldn’t suppress the wince that crossed my face. She noticed, of course.
Nothing seemed to escape her.
“I’ll bring you something for the pain,” she said, turning toward what I assumed was the kitchen. Her steps were measured, purposeful, and I was struck by how much she reminded me of Qhawe. The same controlled strength, the same air of authority that demanded respect without needing to ask for it.
Alone for a moment, I let my eyes wander. The house was beautiful in its details—the kind of beauty that came from a deep connection to heritage. The walls were decorated with black-and-white photographs of family members, landscapes of sprawling fields, and what I recognized as awards from Business Conventions. Above the fireplace hung a large shield adorned with intricate beadwork, flanked by two spears.
This is Black Excellence.
Scratch that its African Excellence.