At first, he thought it was an injured animal. Hunters sometimes set traps in the forest, and animals could remain trapped for days.
The sound came again, weaker this time.
Vuzi put down his bundle of wood and moved through the trees, pushing aside branches. Then he saw her.
An old woman sat against a tree trunk, half-hidden by tall grass. Her cloth was dirty and torn. One sandal was broken. Dried blood marked her arm. Her gray hair was covered in dust, and her ankle was badly swollen.
For a moment, Vuzi froze.
If he left now, he might still make it to the market. Maybe he could earn enough for rice. Maybe the children could have a real meal.
But if the old woman stayed there under the heat, she might die before nightfall.
She slowly lifted her eyes to him. She said nothing. Her gaze was tired, but calm.
Vuzi thought of Nomsa. He thought of Temba and Zanele. He thought of the nearly empty flour sack at home.
Then he looked at the old woman again.
He knew he had to choose.
“Mother,” he said softly, “can you hear me?”
The old woman blinked. “Yes.”
“Did you fall?”
She nodded. “My car broke down. I tried to walk… then I fell.”
Vuzi looked around. No car. No road. No house. Only trees, dust, and silence.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
He examined her wound. The cut on her arm was not deep, but her ankle was swollen. She could not walk.
He took out his almost-empty bottle of water.
“Drink a little.”
She drank slowly, her hands trembling.
Vuzi looked back at his firewood. He thought of the money he would lose. Then he made his decision.
“I’ll take you to the village.”
The old woman looked surprised. “You can’t. I am heavy. And you have your wood.”
“The wood can wait. You cannot.”
He knelt in front of her.
“Climb onto my back slowly.”
She hesitated, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Vuzi stood with difficulty. His legs trembled, but he began walking.
The path home felt endless. The heat pressed down on him. Sweat ran down his face and soaked his shirt. His shoulders burned, but he did not stop.
After a while, the woman asked, “What is your name?”
“Vuzi.”
“You are a good man, Vuzi.”
He said nothing. It had been a long time since anyone had called him that.
When they reached the village, people stared. Two young men sitting outside a shop laughed.
“Look at him!” one shouted. “He found a madwoman in the forest.”
The other shook his head. “He already has nothing for his family, and now he brings trouble home.”
Vuzi kept walking.
At home, Nomsa was cleaning leaves in a basket. When she saw her husband with the old woman on his back, she jumped up.
“Vuzi, what happened?”
“I found her in the forest. She was injured.”
Nomsa looked at him, then at the bundle of wood he had dragged behind him. She understood immediately that he had not gone to the market.
“You didn’t sell the wood?”
Vuzi shook his head.
Nomsa lowered her eyes. She looked worried and tired, but she said nothing cruel. She only sighed.
“Bring her inside.”
They laid the old woman on a mat near the wall. Nomsa cleaned her wound with a damp cloth. Zanele watched silently. Temba stood near the door.
“Is she going to die?” he whispered.
“No,” Nomsa said. “Not if God protects her.”
That evening, the meal was smaller than usual. Nomsa made thin porridge with the little flour they had left. She shared it between the children, Vuzi, and the old woman. She herself ate almost nothing.
Vuzi noticed, and guilt tightened his chest.
As the sun disappeared behind the trees, the old woman looked around the house. Her eyes moved over the cracked walls, the old clothes near the door, the children’s worn shoes. Then she looked outside at the large dry land behind the house.
“Who owns that land?” she asked.
“I do,” Vuzi said.
“It is big.”
“Yes, but it is worth little. Nobody wants to farm here. There is not enough water.”
The old woman continued looking at it.
“And if someone wanted to buy it, how much would it be worth?”
Vuzi frowned. He did not understand why she cared about that dry land.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe not much.”
She nodded slowly. “Still, it is big.”
“Big, yes. But the soil is hard. When the rain delays, nothing grows.”
She asked no more questions.
That night, Vuzi could not sleep. His body hurt from carrying her. Beside him, Nomsa breathed softly. The children slept in the next room. But Vuzi kept thinking of Sibusiso and the threat hanging over their home.
In the middle of the night, he heard the old woman coughing. He got up and brought her water.
“You are not sleeping?” she asked.
“I’m trying.”
“You have many worries.”
Vuzi gave a tired smile. “Like everyone here.”
She took a sip.
“You owe money?”
He hesitated. “Yes. A lot.”
“Too much for you?”
He said nothing.
The next morning, the old woman seemed stronger. Her ankle was still swollen, but she could stand slowly with a branch for support. Nomsa gave her a small bowl of porridge before she left.
Vuzi walked with her to the main road, almost an hour away. She leaned on him whenever her foot hurt. When they reached the paved road, she stopped.
“I never told you my name,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“My name is Mama Tandeka.”
Vuzi repeated it silently. The name sounded strong and calm.
She looked at him. “Why did you help me?”
“Because you were hurt.”
“Many people would have kept walking.”
“Maybe.”
“But not you.”
Vuzi looked down the road.
“When someone falls, you help them. Otherwise, one day, when we fall, no one will lift us.”
Mama Tandeka was silent. For the first time, he thought he saw emotion in her eyes.
A shared taxi arrived. Before getting in, she turned back.
“Thank you, Vuzi.”
He nodded, and the car left in a cloud of dust.
When Vuzi returned home, he immediately felt something was wrong.
Nomsa stood at the door with her arms crossed. Beside her was Sibusiso, wearing a perfectly ironed shirt and polished shoes. Two men stood behind him.
Sibusiso smiled coldly.
“There you are.”
“What do you want?” Vuzi asked.
“I came to remind you that time is passing.”
“I told you I would pay.”
“Yes. But words do not fill my pockets.”
He pointed to the land behind the house.
“That land could become mine. Give it to me, and I will erase part of your debt.”
Vuzi felt anger rise.
“That land is all I have left.”
“Then find the money.”
Sibusiso turned to leave.
“I give you seven days. After that, I take the house or the land.”
Seven days.
And Vuzi did not even know how he would buy food tomorrow.
For the next two days, he worked like a man fighting death. He cut wood before sunrise, carried sacks at the market, unloaded crates, repaired fences, pushed carts from the mud. His hands bled, his shoulders burned, but the money was never enough.
Some people took advantage of him. One man promised fair pay for carrying sacks of charcoal, but after Vuzi finished, covered in black dust, he gave him only a few coins.
“That’s not what we agreed,” Vuzi said.
“If you don’t like it, go complain elsewhere.”
Vuzi took the coins. He had no time to argue.
Every evening, he and Nomsa counted the little money on their wooden table. It was far from enough.
On the third evening, Temba asked quietly, “Papa, will we have to leave our house?”
Vuzi wanted to say no. But no words came.
Nomsa answered for him.
“Your father will find a solution.”
Later, when the children slept, Nomsa brought out her small metal box. Inside were the only pieces of jewelry she owned: a simple necklace, two bracelets, and a pair of earrings from their wedding.
“Take them tomorrow,” she said.
“No.”
“We have no choice.”
