đź“– Chapter 4: The Hunt for Truth / Detective Oyena
Her heart raced as the taxi entered Khayelitsha.
It wasn’t her first time seeing the township — but it was her first time entering it alone.
No school trip. No outreach project. No adult standing between her and its heartbeat.
She wore plain jeans, a neutral hoodie, and takkies that already looked dusty.
Still, she stood out.
Skin too smooth. Bag too clean. Posture too cautious.
The stares followed her before her feet even hit the pavement.
---
She didn’t know exactly where to start.
Her phone had three clues:
Nomandla Nkosi
A social worker’s name from the file: “Thandeka M.”
An address from 16 years ago that now led to... a wall.
That home was gone. Torn down. Replaced by a new row of RDP houses.
When she asked a passing woman about the Nkosi family, the woman frowned and shook her head.
> “Nkosi? No, sisi. Too many with that name. Unless you have something more.”
“Her name was Nomandla. She had a daughter.”
“Sorry. Don’t know her.”
And just like that, the woman disappeared around the corner.
---
Three more people brushed her off.
One told her to go back where she came from.
Another warned her not to be seen asking too many questions.
> “You think this is a movie, sisi? Go before someone thinks you're a cop.”
She ducked into a corner café — the kind that sold vetkoek and loose cigarettes — to catch her breath.
She was trembling now.
Not from fear exactly, but from something deeper: doubt.
Was this stupid?
She didn’t know where she came from.
She didn’t belong here — but she didn’t belong there either.
---
That’s when she saw him.
A man with one eye, wearing an old SANDF jacket, selling muti and roots from a crate near a spaza shop.
Something about him felt... different.
Not safe, but awake.
She walked over slowly.
> “Sawubona, Malume,” she greeted.
“Mhm,” he grunted without looking up. “You’re far from Constantia, aren’t you?”
Her stomach twisted.
He knew.
> “I’m looking for someone,” she said, swallowing her fear. “Nomandla Nkosi. She lived here. About sixteen years ago.”
The man finally looked up. His one good eye burned like coal.
> “Why?”
“She’s my mother.”
“You came here alone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re brave,” he said, “or stupid.”
---
He looked around, then stood slowly.
> “Follow me. Don’t speak. And stay close.”
They weaved through narrow alleyways until they reached a tin shack behind a tavern.
Inside sat an older woman with a tired face and a doek wrapped high like a crown.
> “This is her child,” the man said simply.
“Whose child?” she asked, frowning.
“Nomandla’s.”
The woman dropped her cup.
---
She didn’t say much.
Only that she once knew Nomandla.
That Nomandla had power. That she had gifts.
But people called her crazy. Said she was cursed.
She tried to help them, and they turned on her.
One day, she was gone.
Some say she died.
Others say she walked into the river and never came back.
> “She said the river would remember her,” the woman whispered. “Said her child would carry the gift.”
Oyena’s throat closed.
> “Is she really gone?”
The woman only looked away.
---
As the sun dipped low, the man walked her back to the taxi rank.
> “This place watches you,” he said. “Be careful who you ask. People talk. People lie. But the river never forgets.”
Before she could thank him, he handed her a thin, dry bone wrapped in red string.
> “For protection,” he said. “If you truly are hers... you’re going to need it.”
---
That night, back in Constantia, the lights felt too white.
The rooms too quiet.
Her dads too concerned, but too unaware.
Martin asked how the retreat went.
Lawrence reminded her about her maths test.
She smiled. Said it was fine.
But in her room, she opened her journal and wrote one word for the first time with full conviction:
OYENA.