The sky was overcast as the private jet descended into King Shaka International Airport. The air was thick with the scent of coastal rain and something heavier—history. Nokwanda Cele leaned back in her plush seat, her fingers intertwined with Zenande's. The quiet thrum of the jet did little to calm her racing heart. She was going home… again. But this time, she was not hiding. This time, the country knew her name, her face, and her truth.
The last visit had been painful, confusing. She had snuck into KwaZulu-Natal like a shadow, avoiding attention, unsure of her place in a family that once held her in high esteem. But now, her image with Zenande—hand in hand, regal and unapologetic—had flooded every media outlet. She wasn't just "that girl who disappeared." She was a headline. She was scandal. She was power.
Her mother had already called. Twice. Thembekile's voice trembled between rage and longing. "Ungabuya, Nokwanda," she had whispered. "Please… just come home. Talk to us."
Justice Zulu hadn't spoken yet. The last time they had spoken, he had disowned her. Now… silence. But silence could mean anything. It could mean guilt. Or shame. Or strategy.
Zenande squeezed her hand gently. "Are you sure you want me to come with you?"
Nokwanda looked at her and gave a soft, tired smile. "I want you there. But I need to walk into that house alone. Just for the first few minutes."
Zenande nodded. "I'll wait in the car. But if anyone raises a hand or a voice to you, I'm storming in with cameras and lawyers."
Nokwanda chuckled—genuinely. It felt good to laugh. "Deal."
The plane touched down.
At the Zulu homestead, tension sizzled like the summer storm brewing above. The gates stood open, not because the family welcomed the visit, but because they didn't know how to refuse her anymore.
The mansion was slightly faded from its former glory, still proud but showing signs of financial strain. The security guard at the gate looked at her nervously. He recognized her immediately but seemed unsure whether to salute, open his arms, or bow.
She nodded politely, walking past him with poise.
Thembekile stood in the foyer, her posture rigid, eyes red as if she hadn't slept. Behind her, Justice stood like a statue, arms folded, expression unreadable.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Thembekile moved forward and… hugged her.
Tight. Desperate.
"My child…" she whispered into Nokwanda's shoulder. "I didn't know how much I missed you until I saw your face again."
Nokwanda didn't cry, even though her throat tightened. She hugged back but with restraint. There was still too much unsaid.
Justice cleared his throat.
"So… it's true. You changed your name."
She turned to him, meeting his gaze. "Yes. I became who I needed to be."
"And Zenande Mthembu?" His tone was careful.
"She's my partner. Not just in love, but in life."
A beat passed. Then Justice surprised her.
"She's powerful," he said. "Clever. Like you."
It was the closest he would come to approval. And she took it.
Outside, in the waiting car, Zenande tapped her phone. News alerts kept pouring in—Menzi Dlamini was trending again. But this time, not as a respected businessman.
Zenande had made sure the documents she released didn't directly mention Menzi's name. But the dots were too easy for the public to connect. Fraud. Murder. Misappropriation of funds. Her father's death wasn't just suspicious anymore—it was a case.
And Menzi was panicking.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
"You think you've won? We'll see. — M"
Zenande's smile didn't waver. She pressed record and saved the message. "Come for me, baby," she whispered. "I'm not the Zenande you left in that wheelchair."
As the clouds split open with a distant rumble, Nokwanda walked out of the gate, her head held high. She slipped into the car beside Zenande and exhaled.
"Well?" Zenande asked.
"They're not ready," Nokwanda said, "but they didn't throw me out."
Zenande kissed her hand. "That's a start."
Neither of them said the words, but they both knew—this wasn't just about family anymore.
This was war.