Run away bride: should I trust him?

CHAPTER 11: THE RUN AWAY BRIDE-(MONDAY)

Monday arrived. I didn't sleep the night before.

I kept checking my phone — 2:13 AM, 3:40 AM, 4:05 AM. My new Soweto number that Arjun now knew. Every time a taxi hooted outside I thought it was his Fortuner. Every time a dog barked I thought he got out on bail early and came to our house.

Ma Dineo found me awake at 5 AM, sitting on my mattress, my enrollment letter for Dube Adult Centre in my lap.

"My child, today is your victory day. Not his," she said, tying my hair neatly. "Wear the yellow dress again. The one my daughter gave you. You wore it when you were brave."

The court was full, seems people are really interested in this story.

Orlando Magistrate Court is not big, but today it was packed. I didn't know how people knew. Maybe the police women told people. Maybe the stadium story spread — "Girl in yellow dress almost kidnapped at President's event." There were mothers with babies, old men, even some girls from Dube who had heard I tutor.

I walked in and everyone looked at me. I felt small in my yellow flower dress, even though Ma Dineo had ironed it and fixed the torn shoulder with a needle.

Nkosi was there just like he said. He was in full uniform again, standing near the front with his broad shoulders straight. When he saw me, he gave me a small nod. Not a smile, but a nod that said "I am here." My heart stopped beating so fast.

Bra Solly and Ma Dineo were my biggest support system. I was scared but they held my hand through it all. Bra Solly on my left, Ma Dineo on my right. They didn't let go, even when we sat down on the hard wooden bench.

Then they brought him in.

Arjun.

He was wearing a different shirt now, a white shirt that the police gave him, but his eyes were the same. He looked around the courtroom like he owned it. Like he was looking for someone to bribe. His lawyer — a fat man in a shiny suit — was whispering to him.

When Arjun saw me, he smiled. That same smile from the toilet corridor. The promise smile.

My hand squeezed Bra Solly's hand so tight.

The prosecutor, a woman with a loud voice, stood up. "Your Worship, this is a case of attempted kidnapping, assault with intent to cause grievous bodily harm, possession of an unlicensed firearm found in his vehicle at FNB Stadium during a presidential event, and contravention of the Immigration Act."

Immigration Act? I didn't understand.

Then the lawyer stood. "My client is a businessman, a resident—"

The magistrate, a woman with glasses, cut him off. She looked at a paper.

"Mr. Arjun Patel, your passport shows you entered South Africa on a business visa that expired 14 months ago. You are in this country illegally. You have a prior case of intimidation in Limpopo from 2024 that was withdrawn. And on Saturday you attempted to abduct a 19-year-old girl at a national key point where the President was present, with an illegal firearm in your car. Do you think this court is a joke?"

Arjun's smile faded a little.

His lawyer tried again, "My client is willing to pay bail, Your Worship, R20,000—"

"No bail," the magistrate said. She banged her gavel.

Then she looked straight at Arjun.

"Arjun was deported back to his country. 'The Nigerian law will handle it. You are to never visit South Africa again' was all I heard and all I needed to hear."

The magistrate said, "This court does not have jurisdiction for your immigration violation combined with attempted kidnapping at a national key point. You will be handed over to the Department of Home Affairs and the SAPS Immigration Unit for immediate deportation. The Nigerian law will handle your other matters. You are to never visit South Africa again. If you return, you will be arrested at the airport. Take him away."

Just like that. No long trial. No R20,000 bail.

Two immigration officers in black uniforms came and held Arjun's arms. He tried to turn back to look at me one more time, but Nkosi stepped in front of me, his broad back blocking Arjun's view completely.

They took him out the side door. His Fortuner would be impounded. His money would not save him this time, because you cannot bribe the army when the President is involved.

Finally I was free. I cried even though I didn't mean to. I was genuinely happy.

It started as a small sob, then it became big, ugly crying. The kind where your nose runs and your shoulders shake. I had been holding my breath since my white wedding day in Tshidimbini. Since I ran through the mealie field in sneakers. Since Khathu's phone was stolen. Since the toilet door at FNB.

And now someone in a robe just said "never again."

Ma Dineo reached for a hug as well as Bra Solly. These two are like my parents. They treat me as their own.

Ma Dineo hugged me and cried too, her hat falling off. "You are free, my child! You are free!"

Bra Solly hugged both of us, his old cap in his hand, his eyes wet. "My daughter is free. My daughter can go to school now without fear."

People in the courtroom clapped. Not loud, but soft. Some mothers ululated.

Nkosi walked over. He didn't hug. He just stood there, and then he said in his deep voice, "It's over, Milondo. He is on his way to Lindela today, flight tomorrow. He will not come back."

I wiped my tears with my yellow dress. "Thank you," I whispered to him. "For the toilets. For the jacket. For today."

He almost smiled again. "You still owe me a boot polish for the water you poured on me."

I laughed through my tears.

Outside the court, the sun was bright. Soweto was loud with taxis hooting, children shouting, music playing.

"This calls for celebration!!" Ma Dineo screams. She was shouting in the middle of Orlando, not caring who looked.

And she was right. We have to celebrate. After the longest while things are finally working out for me.

We went home and Ma Dineo cooked her best — chicken, rice, beetroot, and even bought a small cake from Shoprite that said "CONGRATS" in pink icing, even though it was meant for someone else.

We ate on the floor, three of us plus Nkosi who Ma Dineo forced to stay for lunch. Bra Solly opened a cold beer. I had cold drink.

In the middle of eating, my phone rang. Thohoyandou number. Hospital.

I answered, heart in my mouth.

It was the nurse. "Hello, are you Milondo? Khathu is awake. He asked for you. He says he is walking with crutches now. Slowly, but walking."

I put the phone on speaker so everyone could hear. And we all screamed again.

Things were finally working out for me. Arjun was gone. Khathu was walking. I was enrolled in school. I had parents in Dube, and a rude soldier from Meadowlands who drinks black coffee and blocks monsters with his broad shoulders.

I looked at my plate of chicken and rice and thought — hmm, I like how freedom tastes like.