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đź“– Chapter 11: Rootwalker
(Umhambi Weengcambu)
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At first, it felt like freedom.
Oyena had a backpack full of cash — her savings from years of being the good daughter.
She booked a quiet room in Muizenberg under a fake surname.
She could see the ocean. She felt clean, new, reborn.
She bought books on African spirituality.
Downloaded Xhosa prayer songs.
Lit imphepho every night.
Wrote in her journal like the ink could unlock her soul.
She was alone. But not lonely.
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Then the silence got louder.
The visions stopped.
The dreams dried up.
It was like the ancestors were waiting to see what she’d do without the comfort of being chosen.
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One evening, she got the message:
> Bank Balance: R412.65
She called Lawrence.
He answered.
But the voice was cold.
> “We saw your little letter.”
“You could’ve talked to us.”
“But you ran away like a brat.”
“Do you even understand what we sacrificed for you?”
Then Martin took the phone.
> “You’re confused, Oyena. You’ve thrown everything away. You don’t even know your real mother. What if she’s dead? What if she didn’t want you? What if we were the best thing that ever happened to you?”
Oyena bit her tongue until it bled.
> “You were a gifted orphan, Aurora,” Martin added. “Anyone else would be grateful.”
And with that — click.
They cut off her card.
Blocked her number.
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She sat in silence.
Let the pain burn through her like winter rain on bare skin.
And that night, without imphepho, without coins for tea, without a blanket warm enough to comfort her…
She had a vision.
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She was in a hut. A fire burned low.
Three old women stood in a circle.
Each wore a different color cloth: red, white, and black.
The one in white spoke first:
> “Uyalazi igazi lakho?”
Do you know your blood?
The one in red held a baby wrapped in cloth.
> “Wena wawulahlekile, Kodwa ngoku, kufuneka uzibize uzifumane.”
You were once lost. Now you must call yourself back.
The one in black touched her chest.
> “We did not go quiet. You just stopped listening.”
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She woke up crying.
Not from fear — from knowing.
This was her confirmation.
Not from parents.
Not from pastors.
Not from the state.
But from her blood.
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> “Even if I have to beg for bread and sleep on train benches,” she whispered, “I will walk this path until it bends toward home.”
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