Chapter 12: The Road to the Sea
The wind carried the smell of the ocean that morning.
It was faint, just a whisper — salt and distance mixed with morning dew. But it stirred something inside me. A need to move. A sense that it was time to look further than the hills, beyond the village fires and broken fences.
"The coastal town is growing," I told Naledi, unrolling the hand-drawn map on the table. "Tourists, restaurants, markets. They'll need charcoal too. Especially the kind that burns clean."
She studied the map, brows furrowed. "That's far, Zukhanyi."
"I can make it there and back in three days. I'll take half the stock. Just a test. If it works, we open a second route."
Naledi hesitated. "And what if she's there?"
The woman from the market. The one who might have recognized her.
I squeezed her hand. "Then I'll vanish before she sees me. Just like I always have."
"But I don't want you to keep vanishing," she whispered. "I want you here. With me."
I pressed my forehead against hers. "I'll always come back."
That night, we packed 15 charcoal bundles — the largest delivery yet.
At R30 each, that would bring in R450 if I sold them all.
We split the cash from the last batch again — some hidden in the floorboards, some in the cooking jar, and the rest in our envelope labeled "House of Stone."
R4,000 had become R5,380 in six weeks.
We'd already repaired the door hinges. Added a curtain. Painted a single white strip around the cabin's outer wall — a sign of progress.
Every brushstroke said, We are staying. We are becoming.
I left at sunrise, bundled in Naledi's old jacket and scarf, backpack loaded, knife tucked near my ankle.
The walk to the coast took a day and a half.
I slept under a broken bridge, the stars watching like they were trying to remember me.
The next morning, I arrived.
The market was louder. Bigger. Less curious.
People didn't care who you were — only what you brought.
I set up beside a woman selling roasted mealies. I placed two bundles of charcoal down and sat, silent.
Before noon, four buyers had come.
By evening, I'd sold 10 bundles. The last five were bought in bulk by a café cook who wanted to test them in his wood-fired oven.
He looked at the stamp and nodded. "I've seen this before in smaller villages. You're the quiet one, huh?"
I just nodded.
"Smart brand," he said. "Keep it small. Don't make noise."
If only he knew how much that advice meant.
I slept near the docks that night, the ocean whispering in my ears.
I dreamed of a house near the sea. Naledi planting rosemary. Children laughing. Firewood stacked neatly against the back wall.
A place with walls that remembered only peace.
Back home, Naledi had started something of her own.
She'd begun teaching the village children how to write their names using charcoal dust and dry leaves.
She told them stories about the girl in the woods who turned fire into food, silence into survival.
The children didn't know it was me.
They just called her "uMama Womlilo" — the Mother of Fire.
When I returned, my pockets held R780.
I dropped the money into Naledi's hand and kissed her wrist softly.
She blinked. "You made all this?"
I nodded. "And more. A café cook wants to order in bulk. Weekly."
She stared at the notes. "Zukhanyi… we're going to make it."
"No," I said. "We already have."
That night, we made a list of goals on a scrap of fabric:
Build a second storage shed
Find someone to help cut wood
Start saving for a cart
Dig a small garden
One day… buy land
And one day… maybe register the charcoal brand officially, in someone else's name
Because I couldn't be found.
Not yet.
But two days later, I returned from chopping wood to find Naledi pale and shaken.
"She came to the forest," she whispered. "The woman from the market. She asked the children about 'the girl who makes fire.'"
My jaw clenched. "Did they say your name?"
"No," she said. "They just smiled and said she's a myth."
I exhaled slowly.
"She's looking," I said.
Naledi nodded. "But she doesn't know where to find the real version."
I pulled her into my arms.
"She won't," I promised. "Not unless we let her."