Something wasn't right.
I felt it even before I opened my eyes that morning. It wasn't just nerves or excitement about returning to the mountain. It was deeper. A subtle static in the air. A tension that clung to my skin.
The night before, a man I didn't recognize had come knocking on my door. Claimed he was sent to summon me to a prayer meeting. He had a kind smile, but his eyes were wrong. Too still. Too hollow. I lied and told him I was busy, but I knew. I knew it wasn't a regular man. Something darker had found its way to my doorstep.
Ayanda had been away, visiting a relative in Bergville. If she had been home, I doubt that presence would have dared to show up. But the dark waits for an opening, a crack in the light. And my door had been ajar.
All day, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had smudged my aura. I tried to meditate. I lit imphepho and said a prayer. Still, that heaviness didn't lift. It sat on my shoulders like wet cloth. Pressed behind my eyes.
The truth is, the dark has always followed me. Maybe because my light burns too bright. From a young age, people used to say I was different. That I was too quiet, too kind, too gentle for a boy. They said I had an old soul. Teachers liked me, strangers trusted me, but I always felt a strange distance from my peers. Like I was walking through a world that saw me, but didn't understand me.
And the ones who did see me—truly see me—some of them resented it. Jealousy is a funny thing. It doesn't always shout. Sometimes it just waits. Watches. Finds ways to chip at you little by little.
Clothes would go missing. Random scratches would appear on my school books. One time, someone poured urine into my shoes during a class outing. I never told anyone. I just learned to hide my light. To shrink.
But you can't un-become what you are. You can only delay the becoming.
That afternoon, with the weight pressing harder, I caved. I did what I had always done in moments like this. I embraced the chaos.
Two minutes later, I was at the tavern.
The smell hit me first: sweat, stale beer, braai smoke, and despair dressed up as joy. A Friday afternoon at Ratanang was always loud. Music bumping, bottles clinking, people dancing their pain away like the world wasn't burning.
I bumped into some old friends by the counter. Mlungisi, Shabba, and Bheki. We used to get drunk together almost every weekend back in the day.
"Yoh! Nkululeko!" Mlungisi shouted, slapping my back hard enough to knock the breath out of me. "You don't come here no more!"
"Been busy," I said, managing a weak smile. "Trying to make things work with my coaching business. You know, people need guidance."
Shabba laughed, mouth wide open. "Okay, okay... Coach!"
We all burst out laughing. It felt good. Too good. I bought a round with the money Ayanda had given me to buy herbs from Gogo Nomusa. As the drinks flowed, my guilt grew.
I tried to ignore it.
You don't negotiate with chaos. It doesn't reason. It just takes.
I saw them dance. I saw them laugh. But beneath the joy, I saw it—the same pain I carried. The same disconnection. Township life teaches you to survive, not to thrive. We were all fighting ghosts. Some danced with theirs. I chose to drown mine.
Halfway through my drink, I closed my eyes. And I saw the mountain.
Gogo Nomusa's voice returned, soft and sharp as a whip: "The mountain won't give you what you want. Only what you need."
Then, my mother. Her arms stretched out to me when I was just a toddler trying to walk.
"Qina, Nkule," she would say. "Qina, mntanami. Don't lean on me. You must sit by yourself."
Her tough love had shaped me. She never coddled. She never babied. But when I cried, she'd wipe my tears. And when I succeeded, even in small things, her eyes would shine.
The memory pierced through the fog. My throat tightened.
What was I doing?
I threw the rest of the drink to the floor and rushed out. Shabba shouted something, but I didn't turn around.
The streets were still buzzing with Friday energy. I passed a couple fighting, a baby crying on someone's back, the rattle of Amapiano pouring from a passing car.
I walked fast. Heart pounding.
The light in me wasn't gone. Just buried.
Back in my room, I lit a candle. I sat cross-legged on the floor. The silence roared.
Ayanda had always seen this part of me. The one that fought silently. The one that stumbled, got up, and stumbled again.
She knew my darkness. But she never let it define me.
I owed it to her. To Gogo Nomusa. To my mother. To myself.
The mountain owed me a second visit.