The fire had begun three months before the story began—at least, that was what the police reports said. But Noluntu remembered no smoke, no screams, only light. Blinding light. When she woke, her hair smelled of frankincense and burnt cedar. Her hands bore no burns. She was told she was lucky. She didn’t feel lucky; she felt chosen.
Fragments of her past came back in flashes: her mother’s laughter during marches; the red berets of the Azanian Socialist People’s Movement; the chants of “Amandla!” echoing against government buildings. Her parents had been revolutionaries once—before the revolution was commodified, before slogans became hashtags. Her father had written pamphlets; her mother had written prayers. Together, they had believed in a South Africa that could be holy again.
And yet, their movement had disappeared like smoke after the flame. Corruption swallowed it whole. Some comrades became ministers, others moguls. Her uncle—beloved, feared, and enigmatic—had become a legend in exile. When he died, men in black coats and gold rings carried his coffin through the township, their tattoos glowing faintly in the sun. It was only then she learned he had been part of The Ring, one of the continent’s most notorious underworld networks.
It was said The Ring had financed revolutions and bought politicians. It was said they trafficked both weapons and dreams. It was said they’d been blessed by witches of the old lineages—those who walked the thin veil between matter and spirit. And Noluntu, with her amnesia and strange visions, began to wonder if the blood of that covenant ran through her veins.
By day, she worked in a café on Commissioner Street, serving imported lattes to disillusioned poets. By night, she wrote. Or perhaps was written. Her journal filled with strange diagrams: interlocking circles that resembled constellations, symbols of ancient priesthoods she did not recall studying. And always, in the margins, one word repeated in another hand: Judáh.
One evening, as rain bruised the horizon, a man entered the café. He carried the kind of stillness that made the air hold its breath. His eyes—grey, but warm—met hers briefly, and the world rearranged itself. There was something unbearably familiar in him, something from before the fire.
He ordered tea, left a generous tip, and a note on the saucer: “You’re not losing your mind. You’re remembering.”
Lele Muthali 