Kabelo's Safehouse
The city felt different when you were running for your life.
Every sound was sharper.
Every passing person looked suspicious.
Every car that slowed down made Dombi's heart kick against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
Kabelo didn't waste words as they moved. He guided her through Pretoria West's back routes like a ghost who had memorised every crack, every alley, and every corner where danger could hide. His hand gestures were quick, precise:
Wait.
Move.
Stay low.
Cross now.
Dombi followed, her lungs burning, her mind spinning, her chest tight with fear and anger all tangled together.
They reached a dead-end alley squeezed between two worn-down buildings. Kabelo scanned the surroundings one more time, then knelt beside what looked like an old rusted metal sheet leaning casually against a wall.
He pulled it away.
Behind it was a small grey door — so well hidden it looked like part of the concrete.
Dombi stared.
"This... is your safehouse?" she whispered.
Kabelo gave a tired, crooked smile — the first softness she'd seen on him all night.
"No," he said. "This is the entrance."
He placed his thumb on a tiny keypad. A soft buzz followed, then a metallic click.
He pushed the door open.
"Inside."
Dombi hesitated, her breath trembling. But something in Kabelo's eyes — a mix of honesty, burden, and loyalty — told her she wasn't walking into a trap.
She stepped inside.
A narrow stairwell descended underground, cold and silent. Kabelo followed and shut the door. Darkness swallowed them for a heartbeat before dim emergency lights blinked on, glowing faintly along the walls.
They descended.
At the bottom was another door — this one reinforced steel with heavy bolts. Kabelo unlocked it with a key from a chain around his neck.
The safehouse on the other side was nothing like she expected.
Small. Quiet. Warm.
A sanctuary built from fear and necessity.
Inside she saw:
A single bed pushed into a corner
A worn couch
A desk scattered with papers and maps
A tiny sink and stove
A radio scanner buzzing softly
A pile of old newspapers
A stack of bottled water and tinned food
It wasn't luxurious, but it was safe.
Safer than anywhere she had been in days.
Kabelo locked every bolt behind them — then finally exhaled, shoulders dropping. It was the first time he looked human, not like the soldier he had been outside.
"We're safe here," he said.
Dombi set her bag down and nearly collapsed onto the couch, relief crashing into her so hard her knees gave way.
"How did you—"
"My father built this place," Kabelo said, leaning against the wall. "When he realised Mandla didn't just want control of the company. He wanted everything."
Dombi's stomach twisted.
"So… he knew this was coming?"
Kabelo nodded slowly.
"He knew they were coming for him. For your parents. For the entire Ntuli legacy."
Her throat closed. Her eyes stung.
Everything she thought she knew… everything she trusted… had been a lie.
She stared at the little room, feeling the weight of secrets pressing against her chest.
"Kabelo… what do they want from me?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to his desk and picked up a folded newspaper. He placed it in her hands.
Dombi unfolded it — and her breath caught.
NTULI GROUP ANNOUNCES TRANSITION OF POWER — PRESS CONFERENCE IN 48 HOURS
Underneath the headline was a photo of Mandla, smiling like a man who had already won.
Dombi's hands tightened around the paper.
"What transition?" she whispered, voice shaking with anger. "They don't have the right!"
Kabelo sat down opposite her, elbows on his knees.
"They don't. But they're pretending they do."
Her heart thudded painfully.
"When your parents died, everything — the company shares, the properties, the trust — went to you. Mandla's been hiding that from everyone. Including you."
He paused.
"But now you know. And now they know you know."
Dombi felt the room tilt.
Her breath trembled.
"They killed my parents," she whispered.
Kabelo didn't soften it.
"Yes."
Her fingers curled into fists so tight her knuckles went white.
"And Gugu?" she asked. "Why would she—"
Kabelo's voice dropped.
"Everyone has a price. Some people will sell their soul for money. Some for power. Some just to survive."
Dombi's heart cracked.
"She raised me," she whispered.
"And she betrayed you."
The truth hit harder than any slap.
Dombi wiped a tear — quickly. She wasn't crying from weakness. She was crying from betrayal that cut deep.
After a long silence, Kabelo's voice came again.
"We need a plan."
He pointed at her backpack.
"You still have the USB?"
She nodded.
"Tomorrow," Kabelo said firmly, "we go through everything. Every file. Every secret your parents left behind. Then we decide how to take Mandla down."
Dombi looked up at him.
"Kabelo… why are you helping me?"
He didn't look away.
"Because my father died trying to protect your family," he said. "Because your parents were good people. Because Mandla has destroyed enough lives."
He paused, eyes darkening.
"And because this time… he doesn't get to win."
Dombi inhaled shakily, fire rising inside her chest.
This wasn't just grief anymore.
This wasn't just pain.
This was war.
She grabbed her backpack tightly.
"Tomorrow," she whispered, "we fight back."
Kabelo nodded once.
"Tomorrow."