Chapter 11: The Shift Beneath the Surface
808 Words
It was nearly midnight when the knock came.
Zanele stood barefoot in her apartment, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her laptop glowing with spreadsheets and digital trails. She opened the door to a lean man in a navy trench coat and leather gloves—her private investigator, Nkosi Mthabela, the kind of man who left no shadow behind.
“You said discreet,” he said without greeting. “I parked two blocks down and looped through the service entrance.”
She nodded, letting him in. “What do you have?”
Nkosi dropped a thin folder on the marble counter. No words. Just weight.
Zanele opened it.
Inside: bank statements, flight logs, surveillance stills. Most damning of all—a notarized contract for a property in Mauritius, recently purchased under a shell company connected to Kay’s cousin. The title deed? Co-signed by Mandlenkosi James Moyo.
Zanele’s hand trembled.
And tucked between those documents was something worse.
A birth certificate.
The child’s name was there.
Mandla Jabulani Moyo Jr.
Date of birth: Four years ago.
Place of birth: Botswana.
Mother: Kaylene Masinga.
She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she gasped.
Nkosi folded his arms. “There’s more. Your husband's recent trip to Gaborone was not for a consulting conference. He met with a lawyer. Preliminary paperwork for a trust fund in the boy’s name. Intended to transfer into it next quarter.”
Zanele stared at the folder. The floor beneath her felt less like marble and more like water.
“Burn it,” she said. “After I memorize every page.”
Nkosi nodded, turned to leave, then hesitated. “Ms. Moyo... You need someone watching your back. These people aren’t careful. And they’re not done.”
Zanele gave a hollow smile. “Neither am I.”
---
An hour later, she found herself in front of Thami’s apartment.
She didn’t remember deciding to go. She just drove, folder in the passenger seat, like it might try to escape.
She rang once.
He opened in sweatpants and a plain grey T-shirt, rubbing his eyes, half-asleep.
“Zanele?”
“I need... someone I can trust.”
Thami’s eyes flicked down to the folder in her hands. No questions. He stepped aside.
“Come in.”
---
They sat on his worn leather couch under the quiet hum of a fan.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak for several minutes.
Then she handed him the folder.
He flipped through it slowly, page by page, his jaw tightening.
When he reached the birth certificate, he closed the file and placed it gently on the coffee table like it might explode.
Zanele stared ahead, her face expressionless.
“I’ve been preparing for war,” she said, her voice flat. “And I didn’t even know the battlefield.”
Thami looked at her, not with pity—but with something steadier. Softer.
“You still have the high ground,” he said quietly. “But you’ll need a new plan.”
She nodded, staring into nothing. “I know.”
Thami moved to the kitchen, poured her a glass of water, and returned. She took it wordlessly.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He sat beside her, not too close, not too far.
The silence between them crackled—not tense, but alive.
Zanele could feel her pulse in her fingertips. Her eyes kept drifting to his mouth. His hands. His breath.
She bit her bottom lip and turned away.
He noticed.
But said nothing.
“You’re too good at seeing me,” she said.
“I don’t want to see through you,” he replied. “Just beside you.”
Zanele exhaled.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “You’re just hurting. But you’ve never stopped knowing.”
Their eyes met again.
The urge to lean in hit her hard, like a wave. Her body remembered him. Her skin remembered what almost happened.
She shifted back slightly, shoulders stiff. “I need clarity, Thami. Not comfort.”
“I know,” he said, his voice low. “I’m not here to collect anything. I’m here because you came.”
She looked down at her lap. “It’s not easy, being near you like this.”
Thami’s smile was gentle. “Then we sit in the hard.”
She laughed softly, a tear sneaking out.
And for the first time, she didn’t wipe it away.
---
Before dawn, Zanele pulled herself together.
She stood by the balcony, folder in one hand, her phone in the other.
Text to Sipho:
> "Call an emergency board meeting for Thursday. I’m triggering the ethics clause. I have the documents to back it."
New plan. New path.
One that didn’t just burn bridges.
It rewrote the map.
- Writer
