Forbidden Love

The right arrival

The Wrong Number Text — Episode 5: The Right Arrival

Lungi arrived in Pretoria on a Saturday with a Checkers bag full of yeast, a power bank, and Gogo’s Tupperware.

“Smells like Elim in here,” she said, stepping into my tiny Sunnyside flat. No couch yet, just a mattress, my laptop, and the red beanie hanging on the door handle like a trophy.

“You came,” I said. Stupid. Like she’d taxi 5 hours for fun.

“Obviously,” she rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft. “You said 11:47am, not 11:47pm. That’s new. I like new.”

We spent the morning failing at magwinya. Mine were flat. Hers were burnt. Gogo’s Tupperware saved us — it was full of already-made ones. “Backup plan,” Lungi grinned. “Gogo doesn’t trust your yeast era yet.”

At 2pm, my phone rang. Work number.

“Naledi? It’s Noma from HR. Can you pop into Menlyn tomorrow? Quick induction thing. 10am.”

“Sunday?”

“Ja, sorry. The CEO’s sister flew in from Joburg. She wants to meet all new hires. Important client stuff.”

Lungi mouthed: Who?

I shrugged. “Sure, see you then.”

Sunday, 9:58am, Menlyn office.

I walked into the boardroom and froze.

Khutso’s sister. Same eyes. Same expensive perfume. Her name tag said Zandile Mokoena – Head of Accounts, BrightStar.

“Naledi, right?” She smiled, too sharp. “Khutso talks about you.”

My mouth went dry. “He… does?”

“He says you’re ‘ambitious’. Left Limpopo for a better life.” She sipped her coffee. “Funny how ambition makes people forget where they came from.”

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.

“Problem?” Zandile asked.

“Family emergency,” I lied, standing. “Can we reschedule?”

I didn’t wait for an answer.

12 missed calls. All from Lungi.

1 w******p: Thabo is at Spar. Asking my manager where I am. Says he “just wants to talk”. I’m hiding in the stockroom Nali.

My blood ran cold. I called her immediately.

“Are you okay?”

“Manager told him I’m off today,” she whispered. “But Nali, he was crying. Saying he’s sorry. That he messed up. That he saw my pics with you and it ‘woke him up’.”

“Where are you now?”

“Gogo’s. But he knows this address too.”

I looked at the glass doors of BrightStar. Zandile was watching me through them, phone to her ear. Probably calling Khutso.

“Sit tight,” I told Lungi. “I’m coming to get you.”

I didn’t go back into the boardroom. I emailed HR: Family emergency. I resign effective immediately. Hit send before I could think about R15K.

The taxi back to Louis Trichardt was the longest 5 hours of my life. I texted Lungi every 30 minutes: Still on the road. Still choosing you. Still 11:47pm.

I got to Gogo’s at 8:19pm. Thabo was gone. The BMW was gone. Lungi was on the veranda, red beanie on, Gogo’s blanket around her shoulders.

“You quit,” she said. Not a question. Zandile must’ve told Khutso, who told Thabo, who told the whole Limpopo gossip chain.

“I chose,” I corrected, sitting next to her. “R15K isn’t home if you’re scared in a stockroom.”

Gogo came out with two plates of pap and chicken. “Eat,” she ordered. “Then you tell me why this one,” she pointed at me with her spoon, “is back when she should be in Pretoria making money.”

Lungi looked at me. “Tell her, Nali.”

So I did. About the wrong number. About 11:47pm. About Khutso, Thabo, and a CEO’s sister who thought she could buy people.

Gogo listened, then nodded once. “Good. Lehakwe doesn’t work 9-to-5. It strikes when it wants.” She pointed at Lungi. “This one told me you were ‘the text’. Not ‘a text’. So don’t let Joburg people make you forget that.”

That night, we lay on Gogo’s spare mattress, Lungi’s head on my chest.

11:47pm.

Me: Jobless. Homeless in Pretoria. Probably blacklisted.

Lungi: Brave. Here. Mine.

Me: Still worth it?

Lungi: Ask me at 11:47am.

11:47am next morning:

Lungi: Yes. Now get up. We’re using your digital marketing skills to fix Spar’s f*******: page. Manager said he’ll pay R2000 if you get us 500 likes this week.

Me: Your manager or your gogo?

Lungi: Both. They had a meeting. You’re hired. Home safe?

Me: With you? Always. Even if home is Elim, Louis Trichardt, and a stockroom.

The Wrong Number Text — Episode 6: The Right Rise

Spar Elim’s f*******: page was a crime scene.

Last post: “Bread R15.99” from 2019. 3 likes. 1 comment: “Is this still available?” from 2021. No reply.

“R2000 for 500 likes?” I said to Mr. Khoza, the manager. “Bra, I can get you 5000. But I need admin access and 1 thing: let me cook.”

He handed me the password. “Don’t get us shut down.”

Day 1: I deleted everything. New profile pic: Lungi, red beanie on, holding a loaf of bread like it was a Grammy. Caption: “Elim Spar. Where the bread is fresh and the cashier is fresher 😏 #WrongNumberToRightStore”

Likes: 87 in 2 hours. Mostly Lungi’s cousins.

Day 2: Video: Gogo teaching me to make magwinya in the Spar bakery, me failing spectacularly. Gogo: “This one used SMS yeast. Not real yeast!” Me, covered in flour: “I texted the wrong number but I won’t mix the wrong dough again.”

Views: 12K. Comments: “AUBUTI GOGO!! 😭” “I’m coming to Elim just for these” “Tag your Spar please”

Day 5: 6,842 likes. Spar HQ called Mr. Khoza. “What are you doing in Limpopo? Our social team wants your strategy.”

Mr. Khoza walked out the stockroom with a shocked face and an envelope. R2000 cash. “They said… keep going.”

Lungi kissed me behind the bread shelf. “Told you. Lehakwe.”

That’s when Khutso escalated.

Friday, 4pm. A black BMW — not the same one — parked outside Spar. Zandile got out, heels clicking, contract folder in her hand.

“Mr. Khoza?” She smiled. Not nice. “BrightStar Holdings is buying this franchise. Effective next month. We’ll be… restructuring staff.” Her eyes slid to Lungi at till 3.

Lungi’s hand froze on the scanner.

I walked out from the bakery, flour on my jeans, phone in hand. I’d been live-streaming Gogo’s “secret yeast test” to 1,200 people. I didn’t turn it off.

“Restructuring?” I said, loud enough for the mic to pick up. “You mean firing the cashier who helped get you 10K followers in a week?”

Zandile’s smile twitched. “Business is business, Naledi. You should know. You quit us.”

“Na,” I said. “I quit you. Spar Elim is a community. And 10,000 people just heard you want to fire their favorite cashier because your brother couldn’t control her.”

I flipped the phone. Comments flying:

“PROTECT LUNGI AT ALL COSTS”

“BOYCOTT BRIGHTSTAR”

“AUBUTI KHUTSO IS THAT YOU??”

Zandile went pale. She looked at her phone. Khutso was calling. She declined it.

Mr. Khoza cleared his throat. “Miss Mokoena, Spar is a franchise. You can apply to buy it. But HQ just made me Limpopo Regional Social Media Lead. Based on… recent performance.” He held up his phone. Email from Spar HQ: “Keep the team that got us 10K organic reach. Promotion confirmed.”

Zandile left without the contract. The BMW disappeared.

That night, Gogo sat me down with a bowl of dough. “You want to know the secret to yeast, Naledi?”

“More sugar?” I guessed.

“No,” she laughed. “Patience. You don’t force it. You give it warmth, time, and you trust it will rise. Same as love. Same as this store. Same as you.” She pressed the warm dough into my hands. “Khutso and Thabo? They’re cold water. They kill the yeast. You and Lungi? You’re the warm room.”

11:47pm, we were on Gogo’s veranda. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing — brands DMing Spar’s page for collabs.

Lungi: So… we rich now?

Me: We employed. By your manager. Who your gogo basically manages.

Lungi: Gogo says you can have the flat behind the house. R800. But you have to make magwinya every Sunday.

Me: Deal. But you’re quality control.

Lungi: Always. Home safe?

Me: With you? I looked at her, at Gogo’s house, at the red beanie on the washing line. Always. This is 11:47am, 11:47pm, and every minute between.

11:49pm, one more text:

Unknown Joburg Number: You won this round. But Khutso doesn’t lose. He just changes games.

I showed Lungi. She deleted it, blocked the number, and put my phone face down.

“Let him change games,” she said, pulling me close. “We already changed our lives.”