UNSEEN TIES

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Mrs Zungu

As I sit here, her words still ring in my mind like an unrelenting echo: "Ungumama onjani, Camilla?" How does a mother abandon her child? It’s been a full day since that phone call from my daughter, Olwethu, and I haven’t been able to think clearly since. I’m paralyzed, unable to move past the sheer grief, guilt, and shame weighing on my heart. The words tore into me, revealing the pain I’d long buried, the secrets I’d tucked away, and the reality I tried to escape.

My husband, Mnqobi, doesn’t know about Olwethu, and I have no idea how to tell him. I’ve been lying to myself, hoping that my past would remain there—forgotten and undisturbed. But my past found its voice in the trembling, tear-filled words of my long-lost daughter. I feel torn between my life as Mrs. Zungu, the wife of one of the most powerful and feared men, and the young woman I was when I was still Camilla Jone, a scared girl who made impossible choices.

As I sit alone, the memories flood back, painfully vivid.

Years ago, I was just an 18-year-old girl—young, spoiled, and carefree. My parents were wealthy business tycoons, and I’d known nothing but luxury and ease my whole life. My father was strict, while my mother always tried to shield me from the world’s ugliness. They made sure I had the best of everything, but I was always somewhat of a rebellious spirit, never quite content with the sheltered life they offered.

I met Mnqobi the year I finished matric. He was older than me—26, wise beyond his years, confident and charismatic. I was drawn to him instantly, fascinated by his power and magnetism. He made me feel seen, something I had rarely felt even in the midst of my family’s wealth. Against my parents’ wishes, I started seeing him, falling deeper and deeper until I found myself completely consumed by him.

When I fell pregnant with our first child, Bhekokwakhe, my parents were furious. They weren’t thrilled with the idea of me being with Mnqobi, but once they knew a grandchild was on the way, they softened. They accepted my decision, albeit reluctantly, and even helped support me financially. I felt lucky, blessed even. With my parents' support, I went on to study medicine, determined to make something of myself despite everything.

During my final year of university, I found out I was pregnant again—this time with Bonginkosi. It was a whirlwind of emotions. I was thrilled, and so was Mnqobi. We were happy for years, blissfully ignorant of the dangers that lay ahead. Our little family felt complete. I graduated with my medical degree, and for a few brief, shining years, we built a life that I thought would last forever.

But that dream was shattered. One evening, I found out that Mnqobi was more than the man I thought I knew; he was part of the Mafia, deeply entrenched in the underworld. My world tilted as I uncovered his other life. The darkness I’d sensed around him wasn’t just paranoia; it was real, and it was deadly. The man I loved, the father of my children, was involved in things that could destroy us all.

As if the shock wasn’t enough, Mnqobi began to change. The kindness he once showed me faded, replaced by anger and cruelty. He became violent, lashing out in ways I never thought possible. Our once-happy home turned into a prison. I endured months of physical and emotional abuse until, one night, he went too far. I ended up in the hospital, barely able to move, with bruises and scars that went deeper than just skin. It was then that my parents intervened. They told me I needed to leave before he killed me. They insisted I escape while I still could, while I still had a chance at survival.

Reluctantly, I agreed. It wasn’t just about my safety; I had to think of my boys, too. My parents took Bhekokwakhe and Bonginkosi, promising to keep them safe. I left them in their care, knowing they would provide them with stability and security that I couldn’t.

I ran to Nkandla, a small, quiet village far from the chaos and violence that had become my life with Mnqobi. There, I lived with my brother—my mother’s brother, who had always been a constant, albeit distant, presence in my life. He agreed to shelter me, understanding the dire situation I was escaping. It was there, amidst the rural landscapes and the calm of village life, that I discovered I was pregnant again.

Olwethu. My sweet, beautiful Olwethu.

I gave birth to her in Nkandla, surrounded by people I barely knew, isolated from everything I had once called home. I was alone in every sense of the word. No one to share in the joy of her birth, no one to witness the miracle of her first cries. It was supposed to be a fresh start, a new beginning, but all I felt was despair.

My parents called one day, urging me to come to Durban. They said they had found me a job at Netcare Umhlanga, where I could work as a doctor, rebuild my life, and maybe one day reclaim some semblance of happiness. It felt like a lifeline. I convinced myself that leaving Olwethu behind was the best choice, that she’d be safer with my brother than caught in the life I was struggling to piece together. I promised myself it was temporary, that I’d return for her once I was settled.

But life had other plans.

While I was in Durban, I reconnected with Mnqobi. He’d changed, or so he claimed. He was remorseful, swearing he’d left that dark world behind, vowing to be a better man. Against my better judgment, I believed him. I convinced myself that maybe, just maybe, we could find happiness again. I let him back into my life, and together we rebuilt a family, but this time, he didn’t know about Olwethu. I was afraid of what he’d do if he found out about the child I’d kept hidden. And so, I buried that part of my life, letting Olwethu become a ghost in my past.

My parents returned my boys to me, and for a while, I felt like maybe I’d made the right choices. I was safe, my boys were safe, and Mnqobi seemed different. But each time I thought of Olwethu, a pang of guilt stabbed at my heart. She was there, alone with my brother, while I was here, pretending like she didn’t exist. I tried to reach out a few times, but each attempt was cut short by fear. What if my world came crashing down? What if Mnqobi found out?

Then came Asante. Another beautiful girl, another chance at being the mother I couldn’t be to Olwethu. When Asante was born, I made arrangements with my parents, sending her to America to keep her safe, just as I’d tried to keep Olwethu safe by leaving her in Nkandla. I thought I was protecting them, but now I realize I was only running away.

And now, with one phone call, my world is unraveling.

"Ungumama onjani, Camilla?" Her words haunt me, a painful reminder of everything I’ve failed to be. A mother? How could I ever call myself that after abandoning my daughter? She told me her uncle—the man I entrusted her to—was a monster. He hurt her. He hurt my baby, and I wasn’t there to stop him. The thought tears me apart. My tears won’t stop, and no amount of rationalizing or justifying will change what I’ve done.

I wonder what she looks like now. Is she as beautiful as I remember? Does she have my eyes, my smile? Or is she haunted, broken by the life I condemned her to? I can’t bear the thought of facing her, of seeing the hurt I caused written across her face.

But I have to. I owe her that much.