The backlash came swiftly.
News anchors called her a cult leader. Politicians accused her of inciting rebellion. Even old comrades from the liberation struggle condemned her as “a dangerous mystic manipulating youth through witchcraft.”
At first, Noluntu ignored it. But when her closest ally — a journalist named Lindiwe — disappeared after exposing corruption in the energy ministry, silence became complicity.
That night, Noluntu walked alone through Yeoville, her hood pulled low. Every alley whispered with eyes. She could feel them — watchers, agents, spirits, all converging.
At the corner of Rockey Street, she found a black car idling. Inside sat a man she recognized: the lawyer who had handled her uncle’s estate.
He gestured for her to enter. “They know who you are,” he said, voice low. “They’ve been watching you since the funeral.”
“Who?”
“The same people your uncle worked for. The Ring. They control half the economy, and now they want your movement silenced.”
He handed her a folder. Inside were photos — her meetings, her speeches, even her dreams rendered in strange symbols.
“They fear you because your mother’s prophecy is true,” the man said. “You are the last descendant of the priest-king Zedekiah. And The Ring was built to keep your bloodline hidden.”
Noluntu felt the air constrict. The serpent symbol. The seven doors. The fire. It all circled back.
“What happens if I refuse to hide?”
The lawyer smiled grimly. “Then you’ll have to finish what your uncle began — but this time, cleanse it.”
As she left, she whispered a prayer that was both invocation and vow:
“Let no chain be unbroken that truth cannot burn.”
Lele Muthali 