Ngenhliziyo

«Thimna Part 2»

Bafana and his gang arrive at an abandoned warehouse where they usually gather for such missions. The cold steel walls echo the hum of the chopper as they begin loading it with gear and weapons. They'll be flying overnight — destination: Russia.

The flight is long and tense, the thrum of the helicopter blades steady in their ears. By the time they reach Russian soil, morning light is just breaking over the snow-covered landscape. Fatigued and aching, they land at a private airstrip.

Awaiting them is a black SUV, sent by an old Russian contact — Sam — who once owed the Mthembu boys a favour. Sam had arranged everything: the house, the chopper, the safe haven.

They drive through narrow, icy roads until they reach a secluded house surrounded by thick pine trees. It's modest but warm, with smoke curling from the chimney and frosted windows casting a soft glow from within.

Inside, they unload their equipment. Guns are laid out across the wooden dining room table like tools of an unspoken ritual. Gazi stands by the window, cigarette in hand, watching the snow fall in lazy spirals. Cepheus helps himself to a strong Russian drink, settling into the comfort of warmth and whisky.

Mandla, Bafana, and Sam sit polishing the weapons. Cigarettes hang from their lips, drinks at their elbows. There's a heavy silence in the house — not of fear, but of experience.

Bafana finally stretches and announces, "We can rest today. That flight took everything out of me."

He picks a room, drops his bag, and sinks into the bed. Within minutes, he's asleep. The rest of the crew follow — quiet, calm, recharging.

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In a lavish office with tall windows and velvet drapes, a young runner rushes in, breath visible in the frosty air.

"They're here," he says in Russian.

Kalashnikov turns slowly in his chair, a devious smirk spreading across his face. "Серьёзно?" ("Really?")

The runner nods. "Yes, my lord"

Kalashnikov chuckles darkly. "Oh, what a lovely surprise. We should invite them over for dinner sometime..."

Fast forward to Sunday — the day of war.

The Mthembu boys had landed on a Monday, and by now, they had a plan. They knew exactly how they would hit Kalashnikov, and more importantly, they knew where Bafana's son, Thimna, was being kept. Kalashnikov had sent his men to watch the house, but there wasn't much to track — the crew barely left. All operations ran from within the safe house. Only Sam left when absolutely necessary.

Kalashnikov was fully aware of their location, but he didn't want to scare them off. He preferred to wait, to watch, and to see what the Mthembu boys were planning.

Sunday night, they pull up to a mansion on the outskirts of the city, cold, and eerie from the outside. But inside, it was far from abandoned. This was Kalashnikov's slaughterhouse, masked in shadows to keep police and prying eyes away.

The assault begins.

Bafana, Gazi, Mandla, Caphues, and Sam move in silence, taking down the guards posted outside with swift, brutal precision. Gunfire crackles briefly in the cold night air before silence returns. Then, they enter.

Inside is chaos more guards, more resistance. The firefight is intense and unforgiving, echoing through the empty halls. Room by room, they clear the place, searching for Thimna.

Finally, Bafana finds him huddled on an old mattress in a dark corner of an upstairs room. The boy's eyes are wide with fear.

But before Bafana can reach him, a gunshot rings out.

Kalashnikov.

He misses. A gunfight erupts. Bafana shouts to his team, ducking and diving, desperate to protect his son. He's bleeding, bruised, and breathless.

"He's just a four-year-old little boy!" Bafana yells, sweat and blood dripping down his face.

Kalashnikov, equally battered, roars back, "And my son was also a little boy! MY LITTLE BOY!!!"

In a wild moment, Kalashnikov grabs Thimna, pulling him close, using him as a human shield. His gun stays fixed on Bafana, trembling with fury.

Bafana, now unarmed, raises his hands slowly.

"Let him go..." he pleads.

Kalashnikov shifts his grip. For just a moment, he lets go of Thimna to hold the gun with both hands — to aim with deadly intent.

Thimna, terrified but brave, seizes his chance. He scrambles for a nearby pistol. A shot fires.

Kalashnikov stumbles backward, collapsing.

Bafana runs to his son, scooping him up, heart pounding. "It's okay... it's okay my boy give that to me. Are you hurt? Are you alright?"

Thimna begins to cry, his small body trembling. Bafana holds him close, tears slipping down his own cheeks.

The rest of the crew — Gazi, Mandla, Caphues, and Sam — burst into the room, too late to witness the final moment. They had been fighting downstairs, clearing the path.

They gather around Bafana and Thimna. The war is over.

They drive back to the safe house in silence, Bafana holding Thimna the entire ride, refusing to let go. When they arrive, he carries him inside, placing him gently in a dining room chair.

He crouches in front of him. "It's okay, you're safe now. Daddy's got you. I'm here."

Thimna sobs. "I thought you were never coming to get me."

Bafana brushes his hair gently, kissing his forehead. "What? no, I will always come and get you."

Gazi steps forward. "We will all always come and get you, boy."

"I wanna go home... I want my mommy..."

Bafana holds his face tenderly. "Don't worry, my boy. We'll go home soon, okay?"

He runs him a warm bath. Caphues prepares a bowl of noodles. Bafana feeds his son, then tucks him into bed.

Later that night, the crew gathers together in a quiet moment of unity, wrapping their arms around each other.

"Ngiyabonga madoda," Bafana whispers.

Mandla responds, "Uyazi sizohlala sikuphethe nsizwa."

With that, Bafana returns to his room. He lies down beside his son, pulling him close. He lets out a deep breath of relief, staring at the ceiling for a moment before planting one last kiss on Thimna's forehead.

Then he finally drifts to sleep.