Chapter 9: The Silent Weapon
I woke up before Naledi again.
Lately, my mind had been waking me before my body was ready. Not with fear, but with plans. Every day brought another question, another piece to fit into the growing puzzle of survival.
This morning, the question was simple:
Who is that man — and what does he know?
I pulled my scarf over my face, wrapped my coat tightly, and slipped out of the cabin while the sky was still purple.
I followed the trail carefully. The same one he'd walked two days ago. My boots were silent on the wet ground, my breath held each time a bird flapped too close.
I didn't know what I'd find. I only knew that waiting for trouble felt worse than facing it.
The small road that cut through the forest eventually led to a rundown cottage near the edge of the village. I spotted him through a broken window — the man with the limp. He was seated at a dusty table, sipping black tea, a newspaper spread before him.
I crept closer through the trees, staying hidden behind a cluster of thick aloes.
He made a phone call. I couldn't hear the words — but I saw what he pulled from his coat pocket:
My photo.
Not a recent one.
One from years ago. When I was thinner, younger, with eyes full of fear. A photo taken when I was someone's prisoner — not someone's lover.
He said something sharp, slammed the phone down, and stood.
He walked outside and headed toward the main road, whistling.
I waited until he was far, far gone.
Then I broke into the cottage.
Inside, the space was small and damp. A bed. A bag. Some documents. A locked wooden chest. But it wasn't locked well.
I picked it open with a flat nail I carried in my boot.
Inside:
A small notebook
Cash
Another photo — this one of my old house, the one I burned to escape.
A printed file: "Missing Person Report – ZUKHANYI L."
My hands shook. But I didn't panic.
I slipped the photo of me into my coat. Then I placed the lock back and left everything else as I found it.
Back at the cabin, Naledi was waiting. Her face was pale when she saw me.
"Where were you?" she asked, grabbing my arms.
"I found where he's staying."
Her eyes widened. "And?"
"He's looking for me. Officially. But not for justice. I think… someone paid him."
She closed her eyes. "Do you want to run?"
I shook my head. "No. I want to hide in plain sight. I want to make him forget I ever existed."
"How?"
"By becoming someone else," I said. "Someone smarter. Someone too quiet to chase."
We spent that day cleaning out the old storage shed behind the cabin.
Naledi helped me seal the ground, line the walls with plastic, and turn it into something more than a place to store wood.
It became a backup home. A silent escape. A place to disappear into, if needed.
"This is where we'll store the charcoal," I said. "And documents. And emergency supplies."
She nodded. "And if he comes here?"
"He'll find two women living simply. Selling coal. Nothing else."
That evening, I sat by the fire, legs curled under me, notebook open on my lap.
I didn't write about pain or escape.
I wrote about strategy.
I listed all the villages I could sell to
I drew a symbol — a leaf curled in ash — that I would stamp onto every charcoal bundle. No names. No identity
I wrote in code, just in case
And then, I made a promise:
"I will never be hunted again. I will not be the prey. I will build my world in silence and protect the one who gave me breath again."
Naledi came and sat beside me, reading over my shoulder.
"You're brilliant," she whispered.
"No," I said. "I'm finally awake."
Later, as we lay under the thin blanket, she whispered something against my shoulder.
"I love you."
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't scared.
Just true.
I turned to her, eyes burning. "Say it again."
She kissed my cheek.
"I love you, Zukhanyi. In silence. In storms. In every fire you start and every one you put out."
I held her close, my hand resting against her back like a vow.
And for the first time since I ran — I didn't feel hunted.
I felt held.