The sun rose over Pretoria, painting the Union Buildings in shades of gold and violet. For Zweli Masilela, the view from the 20th-floor penthouse of the Menlyn Maine residence was spectacular, commanding, and utterly lonely.
He stood in the ultra-modern kitchen, wearing an apron over his white dress shirt. The granite counters were sleek and cold, devoid of the clutter that defined the Shongwe kitchen. There were no chipped mugs, no half-empty bags of maize meal.
On the stove, a R5,000 Le Creuset pot bubbled softly. Inside, Zweli was steaming dombolo—dumplings. It was a comfort food, a taste of the life he had just been exiled from.
He checked his platinum Rolex. 06:15 AM.
Time to go to work.
He packed the dumplings and a beef stew into a Tupperware container—not a fancy thermal flask, but a stained plastic tub he had stolen from Zinhle’s cupboard before leaving. It was his peace offering.
He took the elevator down to the private garage. The Rolls Royce Phantom gleamed under the fluorescent lights, a beast of luxury. Zweli looked at it, then shook his head.
“Too loud,” he muttered.
He walked past the Phantom to a black Mercedes V-Class van. It was practical, spacious, and armored to Level B6 standards. It was a mobile office.
He slid into the driver’s seat. He wasn’t the billionaire heir today. He was the employee.
Kalafong Heights: 06:45 AM
The mood in the Shongwe house had shifted from chaotic noise to terrified silence.
Zinhle Shongwe, usually the queen of the morning scream, was tiptoeing around the kitchen. She made tea without banging the kettle. She glanced nervously at the front door every few minutes.
“Is he coming?” she whispered to Jones, who was sitting at the table, staring at a blank wall.
Jones didn’t answer. Since the night at the Monument, Jones had retreated into a shell. He had fired a gun. He had saved his mother. He had revealed a twenty-year secret. He was exhausted.
“He is coming,” Beauty said, walking into the room.
She looked formidable. She wore a charcoal pantsuit, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She held a tablet in one hand and a travel mug in the other. She looked like a CEO, but her eyes were tired. She hadn’t slept. The image of the bomb timer and the revelation of Zweli’s identity played on a loop in her mind.
“Beauty,” Zinhle said, wringing her hands. “Maybe… maybe you should invite him in for breakfast? Just to be polite? If we anger him, he might… you know… send the helicopters.”
“He is not a monster, Ma,” Beauty said coldly. “He is my husband. And right now, he is my driver. And drivers wait outside.”
A horn honked. Once. Polite.
Beauty grabbed her bag. “Don’t wait up.”
The Driveway
The lady neighbour was outside, sweeping the driveway. She was stunned and stopped sweeping as the Mercedes van pulled up, leaving her jaw almost falling to the ground as she saw Zweli in the driver’s seat.
Zweli stepped out of the van. He wore a simple black suit, no tie. He walked around to the passenger door and opened it.
“Good morning, Mrs Masilela,” Zweli said. His tone was neutral, professional.
The neighbour’s broom fell, and her jaw was about to, only that the facial muscles still held it, as her eyes popped. Zweli and Beaty saw none of that.
Beauty stopped at the gate. She looked at him. She looked for the arrogance of the billionaire, or the submissiveness of the “useless” son-in-law. She found neither. She found a man waiting.
“Good morning,” she replied stiffly.
She climbed into the back seat. Zweli closed the door gently.
As he walked back to the driver’s side, he caught Zinhle peering through the curtain. He gave a small, two-finger salute. The curtain snapped shut instantly.
Zweli got in and started the engine. He adjusted the rearview mirror to catch Beauty’s eyes.
“The itinerary for today?” he asked.
“Site inspection at 08:00,” Beauty read from her tablet, not looking up. “Meeting with the municipal water engineer at 10:00. Supplier review at 12:00. And Zweli?”
“Yes?”
“The glass partition. Raise it.”
Zweli’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. She wanted silence. She wanted the separation.
“As you wish,” he said. He pressed a button. The soundproof glass divider slid up, sealing him in the front cabin.
He was now just a chauffeur.
Menlyn Construction Site: 08:00 AM
The site was buzzing. The Emoyeni Group’s injection of resources had turned the project into a 24-hour operation.
When the Mercedes van pulled in, Vusi, the foreman, ran over to open the door. But he didn’t run to the back door. He ran to the driver’s door.
“Boss! Mkhulu!” Vusi beamed, ignoring Beauty, who was stepping out of the back. “We poured the west wing slab last night! It cured perfectly! And the Titan guards caught two guys trying to steal copper wire. We gave them to the police!”
Zweli stepped out, raising a hand to silence Vusi. “Vusi. I am the driver. She is the Boss.”
He pointed at Beauty.
Vusi blinked, confused. He looked at Beauty, then back at Zweli. “But… you own the trucks. You own the land.”
“And I work for her,” Zweli said firmly, pointing his finger softly at Beauty, but hiding it from her. “Report to Mrs Masilela.”
Vusi awkwardly turned to Beauty. “Morning, M’Ma. Uh… report is ready.”
Beauty walked past them, her heels sinking slightly into the gravel. “Walk with me, Vusi. I want to check the rebar spacing.”
She led the foreman away, barking questions about tensile strength and curing times. Zweli leaned against the van, watching her. She was a natural leader. She just needed the space to breathe.
He reached into the van and pulled out the Tupperware container. It was still warm.
He walked over to the site office, placed it on her desk, and walked out.
The Water Crisis: 10:00 AM
The meeting with the municipal engineer did not go well.
Beauty stood in the middle of the site, arguing with a man in a high-visibility vest. Mr Naidoo, the city engineer.
“I cannot approve the main water connection,” Naidoo said, crossing his arms. “The pipe pressure in this sector is too low. You need a dedicated line from the reservoir. That requires a new environmental impact assessment. Six weeks minimum.”
“Six weeks?” Beauty exclaimed. “We need water for the mixing plant today! We are trucking it in, and it’s costing a fortune! The plans were approved months ago!”
“Plans change,” Naidoo shrugged. “The council passed a new by-law yesterday. Water scarcity measures. My hands are tied.”
Beauty rubbed her temples. This smelled like The Architect’s lingering influence, or just typical bureaucratic incompetence. Either way, it was a disaster.
“Is there no other way?” she asked. “An emergency waiver?”
“Maybe,” Naidoo said, his eyes flicking to his pocket. “But waivers are… administratively expensive.”
A bribe. He was asking for a bribe.
Beauty stiffened. “Shongwe Enterprises does not pay bribes, Mr Naidoo. I will file an appeal.”
“Good luck,” Naidoo sneered. “The appeal board meets in August.”
He turned to leave.
Zweli, who had been leaning against a pillar nearby, listening, pushed himself off the wall. He walked toward Naidoo.
“Mr Naidoo,” Zweli called out.
Naidoo stopped. He looked at the tall driver. “Who are you?”
“I’m the transport manager,” Zweli lied. “My boss is very ethical. She won’t pay you.”
“Then she won’t get water,” Naidoo laughed.
“However,” Zweli stepped closer, lowering his voice so Beauty couldn’t hear. “I am not so ethical.”
Naidoo’s eyes lit up. “Now we are talking. Five thousand rand. Cash.”
Zweli smiled. It was a terrifying smile. “I don’t have cash. But I have information.”
“What?”
“Your wife,” Zweli whispered, making sure that Beauty does not see him. “Priscilla. She thinks you are at a conference in Durban next week. But you booked a suite at the Sun City Palace with your secretary, Miss Dlamini. Room 405.” He then stood like a security guard, as if he said nothing, in case Beauty looked on.
Naidoo’s face went grey. “How… how do you know that?”
He looked at him with the corner of his eye, then leaned over to him and continued to whisper. “I know everything,” Zweli said, his eyes boring into Naidoo’s soul. “Now, you are going to approve the connection. You will classify it as ‘Emergency Infrastructure Repair’. And you are going to do it in the next ten minutes. Or Priscilla gets the booking confirmation.” he stood upright again as if he did not say anything.
Naidoo swallowed hard. He looked at his clipboard. He pulled out a stamp.
“There must have been a mistake,” Naidoo stammered loudly, for Beauty’s benefit. “I see here… yes… emergency waiver code 77B. It applies.”
He stamped the document and handed it to a stunned Beauty.
“Approved,” Naidoo squeaked, fleeing toward his car.
Beauty stared at the stamped paper. She looked at Zweli, who was standing firmly upright, like a soldier ready to salute.
“What did you say to him?” she demanded.
He peeped at her with a sidelong look, then spoke innocently, “I appealed to his better nature,” Zweli said, trying to project an innocent look.
“Zweli!!” she warned. “Did you threaten him?”
Realising that he was busted, again, he came out of the act, “I just reminded him of his family obligations,” Zweli shrugged. “Are you hungry? I put stew in your office.”
The Office Lunch: 01:00 PM
Beauty sat at her desk, eating the dumplings. They were perfect. Fluffy, savoury, just like he used to make on Sundays.
She felt a lump in her throat. She missed him. She missed the man who cooked this. But she was eating it in an office bought with his secret billions, guarded by his private army.
Zweli knocked on the open door. “Mrs Masilela. You have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“A courier. High priority.”
A man in a black motorcycle suit walked in. He carried a sleek, silver briefcase. He placed it on the desk.
“Package for Mr Zweli Masilela,” the courier said. “Biometric lock. Requires a thumbprint.”
Beauty looked at Zweli. Zweli stepped forward. He placed his thumb on the scanner.
Beep. Click.
The case opened.
Inside was neither money nor weapons. It was a single, heavy envelope made of cream vellum, sealed with red wax. The crest on the wax was a Lion.
The crest of the Masilela Group, Cape Town.
Zweli picked it up. He opened it. He read the single card inside. His face hardened.
“What is it?” Beauty asked, her curiosity overriding her anger.
Zweli looked at her.
“It’s from my father. Jackson.”
“What does he want?”
“He is summoning the Board of Directors,” Zweli said quietly. “In Cape Town. Next week.”
“So go,” Beauty said. “You are the heir.”
“The card says: ‘Attendance is mandatory. Bring your wife. The family wants to meet the woman who tamed the Dragon.’“
Beauty froze. “Me? Go to Cape Town? To meet the billionaires?”
“You are the CEO of Shongwe Enterprises,” Zweli said. “But to them… you are just the township girl who married the lost prince. They will eat you alive, Beauty.”
“Let them try,” Beauty said, standing up and smoothing her suit. “I survived The Architect. I survived a bomb. I can survive a cocktail party.”
Zweli looked at her with intense pride.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we need to go shopping. Because you cannot wear a pantsuit to the Lion’s Den.”
1 Trackback / Pingback