Nyasha sat motionless in the taxi, phone still pressed to her ear though the call had ended. The voice of the nurse from M&M Private Hospital and Surgery still echoed in her mind — "It's urgent, Miss Choga. The doctor needs to see you today."
Her heart pounded as the taxi rolled past the Gweru Post Office. She knew that her father was getting worse but somehow she dreaded what the doctor had in store him. The days he was left with? She closed her eyes, trying to hold herself together. There was no room for breakdowns. Not yet.
At the hospital, she was directed to the doctor's office. Dr. Dhliwayo — calm but firm — called her in the small office, a scent of antiseptic heavy in the air. He flipped through her father's file with a worried look. Nyasha waited anxiously, her heart pounding loudly as if to break her chest cavity.
"Nyasha," he began softly, his eyes still on the documents. "We've done our best stabilizing him. But his kidneys are failing. The hypertension and diabetes combination has accelerated things."
She nodded slowly. "The dialysis sessions have helped… right?"
"They've kept him going," the doctor agreed, "but we need to get him on regular hemodialysis, at least weekly. Long-term, we'll need to get him on a transplant waiting list. But for now, the next few weeks are critical."
Her throat tightened. "How much for the next month?"
He gave her paper with the figure. It was more than she'd saved, more than she ever had. As she stared at paper, Nyasha felt herself going numb. Where would she get such money? And yet... Here was where her father would get the help he required.
M&M Private Hospital and Surgery had built a reputation as Zimbabwe's most advanced and trusted medical institution. Located in the heart of Gweru and different branches in all the major cities of the country, it stood out for its cutting-edge diagnostic equipment, highly trained specialists, and impeccable patient care. The hospital's private surgery wing was particularly renowned—clean, efficient, and staffed by surgeons whose experience rivaled any found abroad.
What truly set M&M apart, though, was its responsiveness. Unlike the sluggish queues and drug shortages common in many Zimbabwean public facilities, M&M operated like a well-oiled machine. Patients were seen promptly, procedures were scheduled without delays, and post-operative care was closely monitored.
Nyasha knew all this. She had seen too many friends lose loved ones due to late diagnoses and lack of resources. Her father's condition was worsening, and while other clinics offered vague timelines and guesswork, M&M offered something precious—certainty. It was the only facility with the expertise, speed, and tools to give her father a real shot. So despite the high cost, she knew this was her only path. Her father's life depended on it.
"I will arrange for the money, " she said, voice thick. "I'll top up this coming week. Please… don't stop the treatment. I'm begging you."
The doctor studied her. "We'll continue for now. But time isn't on our side, Nyasha."
She nodded, tears welling but not falling. "Thank you, Doctor."
Outside the ward, she stood for a while by the window. Her father slept peacefully. But inside, Nyasha warred with fear. Her job barely covered essentials. The emergency funds she'd built through saving, and hustling had nearly run dry. And she hated asking for help.
And still… she had to be strong. For him.
For herself.
Even if no one else knew the weight she carried.
***
It had been a week since the food spill accident at Food Basket, and Takudzwa still couldn't shake the image of that girl—the one who stood her ground, eyes sharp like she had nothing to lose and no time for his ego.
But life hadn't stopped.
During the day, he was all business—monitoring his investments remotely, checking in with his Petroleum and LP gas distribution manager in Shurugwi, clearing permits for his mining supplies company, and signing off on payments for his logistics fleet operating between Beitbridge and Gweru. He liked structure, even if the chaos of his personal life tried to ruin it.
By late afternoon, his Southdowns house transformed into a playground.
The music thumped, the scent of whiskey and perfume lingered in the air. Girls from MSU and Gweru Poly came and went—some for clout, some for cash, some for the thrill of the name Takudzwa Mukwa. He didn't keep their names, just their attention. He was proud of it. It kept the darkness out.
He had routines—wake up, workout, business check-ins, spend by day, party by night. A few of the girls even tried to get serious with him, asking for consistency, labels. He laughed them off gently. He didn't do commitment. He had different girls every night in his bed. And although the other girls saw this, it was like they were attracted to him more. Even close friends fought for him, to be with him. He knew they were there for the money but Takudzwa didn't care.
But every now and then, in the quiet lull before the music started and the shots were poured, he'd find himself back in that coffee shop… hearing that girl's voice in his head cutting clean through his charm. He hoped to see her but couldn't bring himself to go back o the pharmacy and surgery where she worked. Something about her was different. There was something that her eyes displayed: determination, conviction... sadness. He wanted to know what it was... and of course get her into his bed.
He didn't even know her name. But damn, she had stayed in his head.
He hated that.
***
Takudzwa Mukwa was born under uncertain skies in a small-town clinic on the edge of Harare. No surname. No trace of his mother. No whispered promises at birth. Just a folded blanket, a tag that read "Takudzwa," and the orphanage gates that opened to a life no child chooses.
He was raised at Mufakosi Children's Home, not in cruelty, but in quiet indifference. The caregivers fed and clothed him, but beyond the basics, he learned early that life owed him nothing. He grew up with thick skin and sharper instincts—watching, learning, absorbing.
By 8, he read faster than the older boys. By 13, he could fix broken radios and explain how electricity moved. He was always quick, determined and creative. One of the volunteers at the orphanage, a retired teacher, noticed his brilliance and helped him apply for scholarships. Takudzwa's O-Level results were the best in Harare province. A feature in The Herald earned him sponsorship through high school.
The real breakthrough came when he entered a nationwide coding competition sponsored by an American tech NGO. Takudzwa's software for offline school content distribution in rural areas impressed the judges—and the right eyes. One of them, a tech CEO from Detroit, sponsored his visa and education in the USA.
In Michigan, he studied computer science by day and freelanced at night—building websites, running drop-shipping stores, and eventually starting his own digital marketing firm. At 22, he hit his first million from a crypto marketing boom. By 26, he had diversified into online real estate platforms, affiliate ad agencies, and e-commerce logistics.
Now, back in Zimbabwe under the radar, he walked the streets of Gweru as a man reborn. Independent, successful, rich. An alpha male in all aspects.
Tall, dark-skinned, and built like he'd fought his way through life, Takudzwa was striking. His sharp jawline, well-groomed beard, and piercing brown eyes made him unforgettable. Always in tailored clothes, cologne sharp, gait confident—he looked like power without saying a word.
***
Nyasha sat cross-legged on her modest bed, the warm glow of her small bedside lamp casting soft shadows across the room. Her laptop hummed quietly beside a half-empty cup of tea. The house was still, save for the faint sound of her father's occasional cough from the next room — a haunting reminder of the urgency pressing on her shoulders. He was back from the hospital like always: spend a day or two at home and return to his hospital bed and medications.
She typed "quick medical loan options Zimbabwe" into the search bar for the hundredth time that month. Most pages opened with loud promises and harsh fine print. "Interest from 24% monthly," "Collateral required," "First repayment within 7 days." She sighed.
This was too expensive for her. A cough from her father's room came reminding her she was running out of time. She needed a miracle.
Just then one link caught her attention: NexSure MicroCredit – Emergency Medical Assistance Plan.
She clicked.
"No collateral required. 6% interest monthly. 3-month grace period. Instant payout within 48 hours upon verification."
Her heart skipped. Was this real?
Unlike others, NexSure didn't demand payslips or property titles. Just proof of need — medical reports, identity documents, and a brief explanation of the emergency. The repayment plan was structured around small monthly installments with an optional six-month extension for verified hardship cases.
She bit her lip, scrolling further — even the reviews seemed real. Positive.
She tried to apply for the NexSure MicroCredit – Emergency Medical Assistance Plan for her father's medical needs. As she filled in her father's details and attached the medical letter from M&M Private Hospital, the application process seemed to proceed normally. However, when she attempted to submit the application, the system indicated an issue and the application didn't go through. A notification popped up on the screen telling her to visit a specific branch of NexSure MicroCredit in person at a given address to complete the application process. The notification stated that additional verification was required and could only be done in person. She was initially disappointed that the online application didn't go through. She weighed the pros and cons of going to the Downtown Office to complete the application.
Another cough came. She raised her head and listened. She could hear the difficulty sound of breathing of her father. Considering the urgency of her father's medical needs and the promising terms of the NexSure plan, she decided to visit the branch in person as instructed.
She planned to go to the address given, taking the required documents like medical reports and identity documents to try and complete the application in person.
***
Takudzwa adjusted his dark Ray-Bans as he stepped into the cool, air-conditioned office building. The reception area was sleek and modern, with minimalist decor, polished floors, and a large digital screen displaying rotating loan options. He glanced around, slightly annoyed by the quiet buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
He wasn't here for money. Of course not. His name alone could open doors. But one of a minor logistics companies had a pending issue with a group of loan verification, and instead of sending his assistant, he'd decided to pop in himself — partly out of curiosity, partly because he was restless.
He strode toward the front desk when something caught his attention. Or rather, someone.
Sitting on a blue plastic chair in the waiting area, knees pressed tightly together and a manila folder clutched in her hands, was her.
The same girl from the café. The same girl from that brief, annoying supermarket run-in. That sharp tongue, those unimpressed eyes — unmistakable.
She looked tired, like the world had been weighing on her since the last time he'd seen her. Her long black braids were neatly tied back, and she wore a plain blouse and jeans. But her expression — focused, serious, distant — still screamed don't mess with me.
He smirked slightly.
She shifted uncomfortably on the plastic chair. The app had frozen for the third time last night, and her documents kept bouncing back with "unable to verify." So, she had taken a kombi across town, folder in hand, praying they'd consider her case in person.
She had barely slept. Her father's coughs had worsened again. Time was running out.
She glanced at the receptionist's desk, hoping her name would be called soon.
Then her eyes froze.
No way...
Walking through the doors like he owned the place — of course — was him. The same smug guy who had cut in line at the café. The one who seemed to pop up everywhere.
Their eyes met. Just for a second.
Nyasha's stomach twisted.
She looked away immediately, pretending to reread the faded loan poster on the wall.
But she could feel him watching her. Again.
***
The sun filtered sharply through the tinted glass of NexSure's modern, angular building in Gweru's CBD. It had been a busy morning for Takudzwa — meetings, calls, and a stubborn pitch from one of his insurance advisors who still didn't understand the value of minimalism in modern branding.
Takudzwa slowed his steps as he approached the girl.
He smirked.
"Well, well," he said smoothly as he approached. "We meet again. Let me guess — this time you're going to accuse me of cutting the loan queue?"
Nyasha froze mid-tap. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced sideways and caught his smirking face.
"No. Not this time," she said, deadpan. "I'm actually trying to preserve the little dignity I have left."
Takudzwa chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Why do I feel like you rehearse these lines just for me?"
She glanced at him, unimpressed. "Why would I rehearse what to say to you?"
"I don't know," Takudzwa said. "Maybe because I'm charming -"
"You really have a messed up idea of charming."
"Dude, what?" said with a laugh. "You don't think I'm charming?"
"I don't think about you at all," she said. "Matter of fact I always pray that I don't even see you."
"Oh, so you do think about me?"
"What? No," she said with narrowed eyes. "Where did you get that messed up idea?"
"You just said that yourself -"
"Dude, shut up."
Takudzwa laughed. "Are you mad at me?"
"No," she said with a sigh. "You just have a talent for showing up where people are already stressed."
Before he could reply, the receptionist — a young woman who seemed both slightly amused and very cautious — cleared her throat.
"Sir Mukwa, your team is ready in boardroom B," she said politely.
Nyasha's head turned like it was on a spring. Her expression shifted in a blink.
"Sir what?"
Takudzwa grinned and casually extended a hand.
"Takudzwa Mukwa," he said smoothly. "Owner of NexSure. Among other things. You can call me TK or Takue."
She didn't take the hand.
"Oh. That explains the smugness," she replied, gathering her folder. "Congratulations. You officially own the place I no longer want a loan from."
TK raised a brow. "Wait, what? You're canceling the loan because I own the building?"
"No. I'm canceling it because now it feels like a trap," she replied without missing a beat and turned to leave.
"Trap?"
He followed her through the lobby, now ignoring the curious eyes of staff.
"Come on," he said. "The loan terms are fair. Is this really about me? Or is it about pride?"
Nyasha stopped right at the main doors and turned around to face him. Her eyes were sharp and clear.
"It's not pride. It's boundaries," she said firmly. "You're everywhere. And now I find out you're this guy? The one the whole city's whispering about, partying every night like a teenager with his first paycheck?"
"So, you have heard about me," he said with a smile. "I was beginning to wonder which planet you were from."
"Oh, shut up," she said. "I don't want handouts from someone who doesn't take life seriously."
"It's not handouts if you are paying for it-" "Whatever."
TK blinked, her words stinging more than he expected.
"You don't even know my life," he said quietly, more curious than offended. She ignored him and continued walking away. "At least tell me your name? It's officially our fifth meeting after all -"
She paused. Then gave him a flat look. "Oh, so, you have been stalking me to get a name?"
"Hell, no!" TK denied. "I came here on official business, you heard the receptionist. This is by accident, trust me."
"I don't trust anyone," she said.
"Come on, I've seen where you work. Don't you think if I was stalking you I would have come there like a bunch of times?"
He had a point. "You probably have," she said. "You probably already know my name."
"No, I don't. Now please, can you tell me your name?" TK said. "I mean, after all the abuse I've taken, I deserve that much."
"Nyasha," she said.
And then she was gone. Descending the steps quickly, disappearing into the Gweru crowd as if she hadn't just shaken his day.
TK stood at the top of the steps, watching her leave. Amused. Slightly annoyed. But above all… intrigued.
"Sir?" he heard the receptionist calling. He turned slowly to look at her. "They are waiting for you."
TK grinned. "Right."