I woke up gasping for air. My whole body was trembling, my chest tight, my skin clammy with cold sweat. The dream was so vivid it felt like I'd been there — in that dark, airless space where Mlotshwa stood over me, stabbing me again and again. Each thrust felt real, each twist of the blade sent fire through my body. This was different from anything before; it was as if Mlotshwa had found a new way to reach me, something more potent, more direct.
I was supposed to spend the day on the outskirts of town, consulting with nature and rebalancing myself. But now that plan had evaporated. My mind raced: how could he do this? What power did he have that could stretch across such a distance?
For a second, I tried to brush it off as just a terrible dream — maybe the trauma from that night when he and his goon almost killed me was still hanging on. But deep down, I knew better. Around two in the morning, I tried to drift back into sleep. It was impossible. The moment my eyes closed, the nightmares came, one after the other, like someone was yanking on my spiritual strings, pulling me into a place I didn't want to go.
Somewhere out there, Mlotshwa must have sensed my resistance. I later learned he had gone to Smanga, and Smanga — the snake — had handed over my belongings without hesitation. Mlotshwa took them straight to his sangoma, a woman who dabbled in the darkest of magics. That alone was enough to explain the change in the energy. This wasn't just intimidation anymore; it was a full-on spiritual assault.
Mlotshwa was preparing himself. He must have thought I'd come back his way eventually, so he wanted to make sure I'd never get the chance to be a problem. The thought made my skin crawl.
In the stillness of that night, I got up, my hands shaking as I reached for inyamazane. I set it alight, letting the smoke curl through the air, wrapping around me like a fragile shield. The scent always brought me a measure of calm, and slowly, I drifted into a lighter sleep.
When I woke, the day had already started without me, but my mind was heavy, clogged with worry. I couldn't focus on anything. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the dream over and over. A neighbor knocked at the door at one point, but I kept silent, holding my breath until the sound of their footsteps faded away. I couldn't let anyone see me like this — drained, paranoid, and spiritually frayed.
The distance between me and Mlotshwa didn't matter anymore. He was over 400 kilometers away, yet his presence hung over me like a shadow that had learned to stretch. I started thinking maybe going to Johannesburg had been my first mistake. Had I stayed in Ladysmith, maybe none of this would've followed me.
Still, my gut told me Smangaliso was involved. I didn't need proof; my instincts had been honed too sharply over the years to ignore. I'd been back in Ladysmith long enough to have nearly earned my black belt in spiritual warfare — metaphorically speaking. I'd studied, observed, survived. And I knew the patterns, the signs, the feel of an attack.
I called Ayanda, my voice low, heavy with exhaustion. I told her about the dream, the stabbing, the sense that Mlotshwa had stretched his hands through the night and wrapped them around my soul.
She listened, her tone calm and certain. "Wait it out," she said. "If it doesn't stop, you'll have to go see Gogo Nomusa again."
Her advice was sensible, but it left me uneasy. Waiting it out felt like giving the enemy room to work. And Gogo Nomusa… well, I respected her, but the idea of needing her help again felt like admitting I hadn't grown strong enough to handle my own battles.
For the rest of the day, I felt like a rope in a tug of war — one side pulling me towards the light, the other yanking me into the dark. Every thought was contested ground. One moment, I'd think about cleansing myself, seeking the bright side, reconnecting to the earth's pulse. The next, the darkness would whisper in my ear, telling me I was already marked, already losing.
I could almost see them — not in front of me, but in the space between my thoughts — two forces fighting for me. The bright side was patient, its pull steady and unyielding, like the slow tide of a river. The dark side was aggressive, sharp, and relentless, dragging me towards the edge of something I couldn't quite see.
It wasn't just Mlotshwa anymore. It was whatever that sangoma had called up, whatever she had sent crawling into my dreams. And it was working. I was tired, detached, floating between worlds without a firm hold on either.
The smoke from the inyamazane lingered in my room, clinging to the curtains and walls. I breathed it in like medicine, letting it coat the inside of my lungs, willing it to drive out whatever darkness had found me.
But the truth was, I didn't know if I was winning or losing. All I knew was that I couldn't stay in this state for long. If I let the darkness settle in, it would root itself so deeply that no cleansing, no prayer, no medicine could pull it out.
Ayanda's voice replayed in my head: Wait it out. Maybe she was right. Or maybe the longer I waited, the deeper Mlotshwa's reach would become. I didn't have the answer yet. All I had was the rope, my hands burning from the pull, and the knowledge that whichever side won, it would take all of me.