Unhinged Love

CHAPTER 76

Final Chapter

The MasterChef SA kitchen is hotter than I imagined — not just from the stoves, but from the pressure. Cameras hover, judges whisper, and the clock ticks like a countdown to destiny. I stand at my station, ingredients laid out like puzzle pieces. My heart races, but I remind myself: I belong here.
The final challenge Is announced — a three-course meal that tells our story. I take a deep breath. This is more than food. This is my life on a plate.

I begin with the starter: a wild herb salad with roasted pumpkin seeds and a tangy citrus dressing. It’s inspired by the days Mndeni and I used to forage in the hills behind our old house, surviving on whatever nature offered. I drizzle the dressing slowly, remembering the bitterness of those years — and the sweetness of finding him again.
During the first break, I step outside. Nqobile is waiting with a bottle of water and a fierce hug.
“You’re doing amazing, Hle. Don’t hold back. Let them taste your truth.” She encourages and I give her a small smile, grateful for her presence.

Pamela joins us, her energy grounding me. “You’re not just cooking. You’re rewriting your story. You’ve already won.”
I smile, heart swelling. Their words warm me up and I just know that even if I don’t win, I will always be rich because I have them in my corner.

Back inside, I prepare the main course — umngqusho, slow-cooked with smoked paprika and rosemary, served with grilled lamb marinated in a blend I created during my darkest days. It’s my mother’s comfort dish, the one she made when life felt unbearable. I plate it with care, honouring her strength. When I serve it, the judges sing praises and my heart swells again. It is one thing doing a dish close to your heart, but it is another when the judges can actually feel the emotion radiating through every bite you take.

“I have eaten this dish before more times than I could count, but hearing you share your story with us and actually tasting what you made for us, chef, you just took me to your childhood home. Please open a version of Healthy Eats that actually sells this type of food.” That complement throws me off. I can’t even believe that he just named my restaurant like he had been there before.

“Thank you so much for the feedback, chef.” I respond in a humble way but my heart is doing backflips.

“I just love how you incorporated the rosemary in your dish and made sure it wasn’t too overpowering. The taste was simple, but not so simple at the same time. You have something here, Mabuyakhulu. And if this is how you combine flavours in your restaurant, expect me to drop by any time soon. You can literally invent different flavours by combining those that have never been paired together. Well done, chef.” That comment is from the Lazy Makoti and I just wish I can jump her and hug her. She is the best.

Another break comes and I head out. Not that I don’t want to chat to the other chefs, its just that my anxiety levels are high and I feel like everyone is nervous for what’s to come. So it’s better to just steer clear of their way so that they can catch a breather. I find Melisizwe near the dressing room, leaning against the wall, calm and steady. He is wearing a navy suit and navy shirt with no tie. Why is he this hot? I can’t lose while my man looks like that.

“How are you feeling?” He starts off and I shake my head. He just chuckles meaning he understands my body language. He steps closer and wraps his arms around me. “I am so proud of you, my love. You just ooze with grace and talent. I would be so scared going up against you because not once have you received a critique. It just shows how much you prepared for this and how much you deserve it. Now go out there and shine for the last time. Be glorious and bring this home.” He kisses the top of my head and I just melt in his embrace.

I needed this. This type of reassurance and the type of support. With him by my side, I know I can fall at ay moment and I know he will pick me up and make me a better version of myself. I wish every woman had a support system like this. But one shouldn’t rush finding such love. It finds you when you least expect it and you don’t have to beg for it. Everything comes naturally.

“Thank you for being here, Mnguni. Iyakuthanda eyakwa Ndiyema.” I swear I hear him giggle but I don’t but him on the spotlight. I love my man so much. I am grateful for his presence. He doesn’t try to fix me. He just sees me.

…
Dessert is the hardest. I make a tart — bitter orange and honey, garnished with edible flowers. It’s delicate, painful, and beautiful. Just like me. I make sure to add elements that redefine the dessert and make it mine, not just a rendition of an existing dessert. The judges eat with their eyes before even tasting what I have presented in front of them. Their complements are very personal because I know they are not just comforting me with lies. They don’t know me. They are just going off with what I have presented in front of them and that is talent coupled with hard work.

The first judge takes a bite. He pauses, eyes closed, letting the flavours settle. When he opens them, there’s a softness I haven’t seen all season.  “This is… poetic. The bitterness hits first, but then the honey follows — like pain followed by healing. It’s not just dessert. It’s a journey.”

The second judge leans in, fork in hand, nodding slowly. “It’s bold. You didn’t play it safe. You told a story — and you told it with courage.”

The third judge, the toughest of them all, takes her time. She chews slowly, then sets her fork down and looks me straight in the eye. “This is the kind of dish that stays with you. Not because it’s perfect — but because it’s honest. And honesty, Hlengiwe, is the rarest ingredient of all.”

I blink back tears. For the first time, I feel seen — not just as a chef, but as a woman who dared to turn her scars into seasoning. After that, I step back and allow the judges to finish the dessert and decide on my fate.
I sit with the other contestants. I don’t mind what they are doing. I just look down and smile. My mind conjures up the first tart that I have had which was baked by my mother. I smile, remembering my mother’s voice in back home. She used to say: “The perfect tart isn’t about sweetness, Magcina. It’s about balance. Life is sour, bitter, and sweet — and if you can make people taste all three, you’ve done more than cook. You’ve told the truth.” And today, I’ve done just that. And I hope I have done her proud wherever she is.

We are called to the front after a few minutes and my heart drops. This is the moment I have been waiting for. This is make or break. Hlengiwe, you brought your all. Even if you don’t win, you will always be proud of who you are and the authenticity you put out there. The judges start talking, remarking about the other contestants and complimenting them on the work they put out. Then they finally come to me. Lapho I am quarter to from fainting.

The head judge clears his throat, eyes sweeping across the room before landing on me. “Hlengiwe, your dessert was more than a dish. It was a declaration. You didn’t just cook — you invited us into your story. And we tasted every chapter.”

Another judge leans forward, smiling. “You’ve shown us that food can be a form of truth-telling. And your truth? It’s powerful, layered, and unforgettable.”

The final judge stands, holding the results envelope. My heart thunders in my chest. I glance at Nqobile, Pamela, Mndeni, and Melisizwe — all of them watching, hoping, believing. “This season has been one of the most competitive we’ve ever seen. But one chef stood out — not just for technique, but for heart, for courage, and for authenticity.”
She opens the envelope slowly, dramatically. “And the winner of MasterChef South Africa and recipient of the R1 000 000 prize is… Chef Hlengiwe Mabuyakhulu!”

The room erupts. Nqobile screams. Pamela jumps and hugs Mndeni. Melisizwe doesn’t move — he just smiles, eyes glistening, hands in his pockets, proud and still.
I cover my mouth, overwhelmed. I walk forward, tears threatening to spill, and accept the trophy with trembling hands.
I’ve won. Not just the title — but my freedom, my voice, my place in the world.

I stand here, trophy in hand, surrounded by cheers, tears, and the kind of love that doesn’t need words. My heart is full — not just with pride, but with peace. For the first time in years, I feel whole. I think about the girl I used to be — the one who ran from her past, changed her name, and tried to disappear. I think about the woman I’ve become — the one who stood in front of the world and said, “Taste my truth.”

This win isn’t just mine. It belongs to every woman who’s ever had to start over. Every survivor who turned pain into purpose. Every dreamer who dared to believe again. I’m not just a chef. I’m a healer. A builder. A teacher. And tomorrow, when the cameras are gone and the lights are off, I’ll be in my academy — apron on, sleeves rolled up, showing young women how to turn their stories into strength. Because this isn’t the end.

It’s the beginning.