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Chapter 11 - WHEN SILENCE SCREAMS

Chapter 11: What We're Building

It started with R120.

Four bundles of charcoal. One bag. One village.

Now, just five weeks later, our sales had grown beyond what either of us imagined.

Zukhanyi was keeping track in a small, torn school notebook. She wrote only in pencil, numbers clean and neat, each page a private map of everything we were building.

Week 1: R120

Week 2: R310

Week 3: R470

Week 4: R620

Week 5: R890

Our customer base had tripled.

Seven villages. Fourteen regular buyers. Two butchers. And a tavern cook who now ordered weekly for his braai pit.

No one knew Zukhanyi's name.

They only asked for the charcoal with the leaf in ash stamp.

"What should we do with the money?" I asked one night, watching her count the new batch of notes beneath candlelight.

She looked up slowly. "We save most of it. But we fix what's broken first."

So we did.

We used R200 to buy:

A new iron kettle

Two locks — one for the cabin, one for the shed

Heavy boots for me

Two tins of black and white paint

Zukhanyi used the paint to redo the symbol on every sack. The curled leaf now stood out boldly against the canvas like a brand, like a badge. It was no longer just charcoal.

It was ours.

We added two shelves to the inside wall of the cabin — nailed together from salvaged crates.

One for food.

One for books and the notebook.

"We'll call this shelf 'our future,'" she said, placing the notebook down gently.

And beside it, a thin envelope with the first R100 she didn't touch.

"For the house," she whispered. "The one we'll build with stone."

Then came the risk.

Zukhanyi had twisted her ankle while chopping thick wood. Nothing serious, but enough to keep her from walking far for a few days.

"I'll go to the Thursday market," I offered.

She frowned. "Are you sure?"

"You've carried this business alone long enough. Let me be your hands."

She hesitated. "Don't use my name. Don't speak much."

"I'll be quiet."

"And don't go alone. Ask Sizwe, the tomato vendor, to walk back with you."

I kissed her forehead. "I'll be back by sunset."

The Thursday market was alive and loud. People shouting over stalls, children running wild, someone singing off-key near the fish stand.

I kept my scarf loose but low, my posture quiet. I spoke softly. Smiled gently. And I made the trade.

Ten bundles, sold at R25 each.

R250 in hand by midday.

It felt good — not because of the money, but because I was doing it for us.

I bought beans, candles, soap, and a tin of sweetcorn.

Then I passed a woman I hadn't seen in almost four years.

She was thinner. Her eyes sharper. But I knew her voice.

She had once worked for the man who tried to own me.

Her eyes flicked toward mine.

And paused.

I looked away fast and disappeared into the crowd.

I returned home breathless. Zukhanyi was waiting by the trees.

"You're early," she said.

"I walked fast."

She reached for the basket, but I held it close.

"There's something I need to tell you," I said quietly. "Someone might've recognized me."

She stilled.

"Are we in danger?" she asked.

"Not yet," I said. "But we need to be ready — in case someone asks questions."

She nodded once. "We stay ahead. We prepare."

That night, we counted the money, recorded the numbers, then made a list of who we trusted.

Only three names.

Everyone else? Just customers.

By the end of week six, our total earnings had passed R4,000.

We kept it split — half in the envelope, half hidden in a jar buried near the fire pit.

"Someday," I said, "we'll have a house with tiles, a window that faces the sunrise, and a gate with no chains."

"And a wall full of books," Naledi added. "And shoes by the door that belong to our kids."

I blinked. "You still think about children?"

"Only with you," she said.

That night, as rain tapped gently on the roof, she touched my wrist and whispered, "You made something from ash, Zukhanyi. You made something out of nothing."

"No," I said. "I made it with you."

We held each other in the quiet, firelight soft on our skin, hearts beating steady like home.

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