The transformation was no longer metaphor. The line between waking and vision dissolved.
Noluntu’s eyes saw through time—through empire and dust, through exile and promise. She saw the first temples rise along the Nile, saw priests chanting psalms that would one day echo in Cape Town cathedrals. She saw slaves carried to ships under a red moon, their blood singing the same lament her mother once hummed.
She saw Africa’s glory buried under centuries of forgetting. And she saw it rising—not through politics or power, but through revelation.
When she came to, her book was open again. The page read:
“The veil burns only for those who remember their origin.”
In the following days, strange reports filled the news. Rivers ran backward in Limpopo. Lightning struck Parliament without rain. A mural of a lion appeared overnight on Constitution Hill—signed only with the word Judáh.
People began whispering about a movement led by a mysterious woman who spoke of fire and memory, who preached unity beyond race and creed. They said she could see through lies, heal wounds, read the air itself.
Government officials called her a threat. Churches called her a heretic. The youth called her Mother of the New Dawn.
Asher returned one last time. They met in the ruins of the café where it had all begun.
“Do you love me?” he asked quietly.
She smiled. “You are the mirror I was meant to find. But love is only holy when it serves its purpose. Ours is to remember.”
As he walked away, the wind carried the scent of cedar and flame.
Noluntu stood in the ashes, lifted the book to the sky, and whispered, “Let Judáh rise.”
Lele Muthali 