Broken Chain

Chapter 19

Month seventy-one, I learned to use all ten fingers.

Teacher from the course sent me exercises. Printouts. “Type A S D F J K L ; for 10 minutes every day.”

My fingers got blisters. I wrapped them with tape from the clinic.

First day: 12 words per minute. 14 mistakes.

Month end: 22 words per minute. 2 mistakes.

Accuracy first. Always.

R34,900 in the safe. Plus R4,200 salary. Minus R2,500 rent. R36,600.

Month seventy-two, Amahle started high school.

Big boy uniform. Tie. Shoes that had to be polished.

He stood in my doorway looking scared. “Aunty, high school boys are mean.”

I handed him shoe polish and a rag. “Mean boys can’t polish their own shoes. You can. That’s power.”

He nodded. Sat on my floor and polished until his shoes shone.

Month seventy-three, Thabo’s cast came off.

Arm thin. Weak. He hid it in his sleeve.

“Boys will laugh,” he whispered.

I rolled up my sleeve. Showed him my wrist. Chain mark faded to nothing.

“See this? People laughed at me too. Then they forgot. You will too.”

He unrolled his sleeve. Flexed his arm. Small, but his.

Month seventy-four, the clinic supervisor left. New manager came. Man. Loud voice.

He watched me type for one minute. “Two fingers? In 2026? We need speed, sisi.”

I didn’t look up. Kept typing. “Nonhlanhla Mthembu. Date of birth 04-09-1994. No allergies.”

Zero mistakes.

He walked away. Didn’t say anything else.

R36,600 + R4,200 - R2,500. R38,300.

Month seventy-five, Zanele called at 2am.

“Noni, please. Thabo has fever. 40 degrees. Ambulance is coming.”

I was at her door in 20 minutes. Two taxis. R60.

Held Thabo while they took him. 12 years old now. Too big for my back, but I carried him anyway.

Hospital. Drip. Waiting.

Zanele slept with her head on my lap. Like she did when she was studying for nursing exams.

Thabo opened his eyes at 5am. “Aunty, did I die?”

“No, bhuti,” I said. “You just scared us. Now you owe me R60 taxi money.”

He laughed. Weak, but laughed.

Month seventy-six, I got a letter. Not from Mandla. From the city.

“Compensation for relocation: R25,000. Approved.”

For Germiston. For moving again.

I stared at the paper. R25,000. Plus R38,300.

Sixty three thousand.

I didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. I just folded the letter and put it in the safe. Next to Mandla’s photo.

R38,300 + R25,000. R63,300.

Month seventy-seven, I turned 34.

No cake. No candle. I bought a keyboard instead. Second-hand. R400.

Plugged it into the old computer supervisor let me take home. Broken screen, but keys worked.

Every night after work I typed. 10 fingers. Slow. Accurate.

A S D F J K L ;

Until my fingers knew the road without my eyes.

Month seventy-eight, the landlord knocked.

“I’m selling,” he said. “You have two months.”

Again.

I nodded. “Okay.”

Okay.

R63,300. Enough for a deposit on something different this time. Not a room. A small flat.

I started looking. Not at rooms. At flats.

One bedroom. Kitchen. Toilet inside. R3,500 a month. Deposit R10,500.

Month seventy-nine, I found it.

Germiston. Third floor. No lift. But windows that opened wide. Light that came in all day.

Landlord was a woman my age. She looked at my hands. At the tape on my fingers.

“You type?” she asked.

“Slow,” I said. “But accurate.”

She smiled. “I’ll take slow and accurate over fast and messy any day. R10,500 deposit.”

I counted it out. Cash. On her table.

R63,300 - R10,500. R52,800.

She gave me three keys. Front door. Flat door. Security gate.

“Don’t lose them,” she said. Same words. Always those words.

Month eighty. Six years in Joburg.

Moving day. One trip. Safe, fridge, mattress, keyboard, one bag.

Third floor. No lift. I carried the safe myself. Arms burned. But I carried it.

New flat. 1 bedroom. Kitchen corner. Toilet with a door that locked. Window with light.

I turned the key in the flat door. Click.

Then the security gate. Click.

Then bolted the safe to the floor. New bolts. New dust. Code 1925.

Put R52,800 inside. Click.

Sat on the mattress. No floor this time. Mattress on a frame. R900 from f*******:.

Looked around. At the light. At the kitchen. At the toilet with a door.

Six years. Six moves.

Gate at 19. Room at 23. Room that broke at 27. Steel door at 29. Bigger steel at 30. Bigger flat at 34.

I unlocked the safe. Took out R10,500. Rent envelope. R3,500.

R49,300 left.

I stood at the window. Looked at Germiston spread out below. Cars, taxis, people moving.

No one was hooting outside. No one was waiting at my gate.

The gate closed at 19. The door opened at 23.

Now at 34, I had a flat. With light. With a kitchen. With a toilet that locked.

I wasn’t waiting for “one day” anymore.

I was living in “today.” R49,300 of it.

The gate was closed. The door was mine. The key was mine.

And for the first time, I didn’t check the lock three times before sleep.

Once was enough. Because I trusted it. Because I trusted me.