Chapter 16: The Message in the Dust
It was barely past dawn when I found it.
A note. Folded twice. Slipped underneath a charcoal sack we hadn't touched in two days.
I crouched slowly, heart stiff in my chest.
The paper smelled faintly of smoke and sweat — familiar in a way that pulled memories from dark corners of my mind.
I opened it.
Five words.
He knows where you sleep.
No signature. No threat. Just a warning.
And the handwriting?
I knew it.
Sipho.
An old friend. An old fighter. A man I thought was gone.
If Sipho had found me… it meant others could too.
I burned the note in the fire before Naledi could see it.
But she sensed something anyway.
"You didn't drink your tea," she said, eyes narrowed.
"It's too hot," I lied.
She stared harder. "You're too quiet."
I didn't answer.
Because I was thinking about how we'd made it this far — and how quickly it could all fall apart if someone betrayed us.
Later that morning, I sat with Lutho outside the shed.
He was cutting small branches into bundles for kindling, humming a low tune.
I watched his hands.
Strong. Steady. No sign of nervousness.
"Did anyone stop by yesterday?" I asked casually.
He shook his head. "Just the usual chicken seller."
"And the sacks? You touch the ones near the back?"
"No. Not yet. Why?"
I shrugged. "Just checking inventory."
He went back to work.
But something was off.
A pause. A flick in his eyes. Almost too still.
I didn't trust it.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I sat by the door, knife in hand, listening to the forest.
Naledi eventually stirred. "You're watching again."
"Only until I feel safe," I whispered.
She sat beside me, wrapped in a blanket. "When was the last time you truly felt safe?"
I didn't answer.
Because I couldn't remember.
The next day, we delivered twenty bundles to a town just past Umkomaas.
We returned with R800 and two new orders for the following week.
Our weekly income now sat at R1,900, and savings passed R14,000.
But money didn't matter when the ground beneath us was soft.
That evening, Lutho brought a visitor.
A boy he called a cousin. Slim. Sharp eyes. Too quiet.
"This is Njabulo," Lutho said. "He can help."
I shook Njabulo's hand. Calloused. Farmer's hands. But his eyes?
They didn't blink enough.
And when Naledi offered tea, he declined — the first visitor ever to do so.
After they left, I turned to her.
"Keep him away from the safe room," I said.
"You think he's the danger?"
"I think danger doesn't always speak."
She nodded. "Then I'll listen harder."
That night, Naledi left something for me on the pillow: a small painted rock, white with black lettering.
Trust carefully.
She didn't say a word.
She didn't have to.