Zanele didn’t tell anyone she was leaving Lagos. Not her co-workers. Not her landlady. Not even Tolu, who had once promised her the world before disappearing into the arms of another woman with fewer questions and more patience. All she did was book a one-way flight, send a short text to her parents “I’m coming home” and board a plane with two suitcases, a heavy heart, and no plan.

The late-afternoon sun blazed down as the taxi rolled into Soweto. Johannesburg had the same dry heat she remembered, but it felt different now less like home, more like a mirror she wasn’t ready to look into. The roads were familiar, yet every turn reminded her of the years she’d spent trying to escape this very place. The air smelled of braaied meat and sun-dried laundry, and that peculiar metallic scent she only noticed when she was nervous.

Her parents’ house was exactly the same white picket gate chipped at the edges, two rose bushes still stubbornly blooming near the porch, and the same wind chime made from seashells dangling from the eaves. Her mother had made it the year Zanele turned fifteen, proudly declaring it a symbol of “peace in motion.” Zanele had always thought it sounded more like ghost whispers than peace.

The moment she stepped out of the taxi, her father opened the front door. He didn’t smile.

“You’re early,” he said flatly.

“I took the 6:30 flight. Less traffic,” she replied, shifting her weight.

Her mother emerged behind him, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “You didn’t say why you were coming back,” she said, trying and failing to keep the judgment out of her voice.

“I just needed to come home,” Zanele said, trying to sound firmer than she felt.

Her mother gave her a long look before stepping aside. “Your room’s still upstairs. Just... try not to take over the kitchen.”

Zanele hauled her bags in, swallowing the lump in her throat. This was not the welcome she had hoped for not that she’d expected fanfare. But something inside her had foolishly imagined a hug. Even a smile.

Her room was a time capsule walls still pale yellow, with faded stickers from her high school notebooks, and a single poster of Beyoncé staring down from the closet. The bed creaked when she sat on it, and the mattress still had the dent from her teenage years.

She exhaled deeply. This is temporary, she reminded herself. Just until I get back on my feet

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