Ngenhliziyo

The Awakening

The Next Morning

The house stirred slowly as the grey light of morning crept in through the windows. Outside, heavy clouds hung low, the wind bending the trees with every sharp gust.
It was a cold, restless kind of morning — the kind that settled deep into your bones.

Sphiwo was the first to rise, moving around the kitchen quietly, trying not to wake anyone too harshly. She put together a simple breakfast: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and some coffee she found in the cupboards. She even set the table properly, placing plates for everyone, trying to bring a sense of normalcy back into the day.

But when the others shuffled in, sleepy and silent, it was clear no one really had an appetite.
Each person took a bite here, a sip there. Mostly, they just sat, staring down at their plates, lost in their own thoughts.

The safehouse had already been stocked with clothes and toiletries, so after a quick wash and change, everyone got ready to leave. No wasted time, no wasted words. Just movements — mechanical and tired.

They climbed back into the Quantum, the same seats as the night before. Mandla drove, the engine humming low against the sound of the wind howling outside. Lulu watched the sky through the window; thick clouds tumbled over each other like a brewing storm.

The hospital loomed up ahead, stark and cold. Mandla pulled into the visitors' parking, cutting the engine.

Inside, they approached the front desk together.
Lulu spoke first, her voice steady. "We're here to see Bhekinkosi and Bafana Mthembu."

The woman behind the desk nodded, giving them a soft, practiced smile. "The doctor is on his way to the hospital. Please have a seat, and we'll get him for you as soon as he arrives."

So, they sat.
And they waited.

Minutes dragged by like hours — 30, then 40 minutes — the tension building with every second. Mandla couldn't sit still, rising every few minutes to pace, then returning to the desk to ask about the doctor.

"Are you sure he's coming?" Mandla asked for the fourth time, his voice tight.

The receptionist, still trying to sound calm and professional, nodded again. "Yes, sir. He's been called. He's on his way."

Finally, after what felt like forever, the desk phone rang.
The receptionist picked it up, nodded, and waved them over.

"Doctor Zulu is here," she said, standing up.

A man in scrubs, late thirties maybe, hurried toward them with a serious expression. His name tag read Dr. Zulu.

"Good morning," he greeted quickly, offering a short, respectful nod. "I'm Dr. Zulu. I'm the attending physician for Mr. Bhekinkosi and Mr. Bafana Mthembu."

The family crowded closer, hanging onto his every word.

"I want to first let you know," he said, voice calm but firm, "both patients were rushed to surgery shortly after arriving last night. Myself and Dr. Nzima-"

Msizi, restless and impatient, snapped before he could finish.
"I don't care who you worked with, doc. I just wanna know — how's my father and brother?"

"Msizi," MaDlamini said sharply, placing a calming hand on his arm. "Let the man speak."

Dr. Zulu nodded, understanding.
He continued.

"Myself and Dr. Nzimande we were able to successfully remove the bullet from Mr. Bhekinkosi. However, given his age and his existing health issues, his recovery will be a bit more complicated. He's currently stable, but critical, and he's in ICU. It's going to be a slow road for him."