Chapter 11 - The Spark and the Struggle

The next morning, Johannesburg throbbed with a pulse that settled heavy in my chest. I hadn't slept sirens, shouts, and the city's endless hum bled through the thin walls, kept me on edge. The bread and water from last night sat dull in my stomach, just enough to keep the hunger at bay, but not enough to stop my hands from shaking. I needed work. I needed food. I needed to prove to myself that I could survive here.I pulled my jacket close and stepped into the street. Sunlight ricocheted off the glass towers, cutting sharp patterns onto the broken pavement. Every face I passed belonged to someone who looked like they had a purpose, a place. I felt like a ghost, drifting past shops and office blocks, dropping off resumes, forcing polite smiles, swallowing the sting of each rejection.Near a busy intersection, I spotted him again the boy from the café. He leaned against a streetlamp, grinning at something on his phone. When he glanced up, our eyes met. I hesitated, caught between wanting to disappear and wanting to be seen. He raised a hand, a small, simple wave."Hey," he said, voice soft beneath the city's noise."Hi." My voice barely cleared my throat.He tucked his phone away and nodded toward me. "Saw you yesterday. Figured you needed that pastry more than I did."Heat crept up my neck. "I did. Thanks."His smile was easy, a little crooked. We started walking, conversation awkward at first, then loosening as we went. His name was Thabo. He asked about home, about why I came here. I gave him pieces just enough to paint a picture, not enough to show the cracks.By mid-morning, Thabo steered us to a small café tucked off a side street. We split a pastry, sat outside, watched the city spill past us. I found myself laughing—real laughter, the kind that shakes something loose inside. For a moment, the city didn't feel so sharp.But reality pressed in. My pockets were empty. Rent was due. I still had no work. The hunger was always there, waiting, a silent ache beneath every light moment."Want to hang out later?" Thabo asked, casual, spinning his cup between his palms. I hesitated. The offer felt warm, dangerous. Connection was a risk in a place where I was barely holding on. "I can't. I have to keep looking."He nodded like he understood, but his smile faltered.That night, back in my cramped room, I counted coins. Enough for the bus. Maybe a meal if I stretched it. Hunger gnawed as I lay on the bed, thinking about Thabo, about the city, about my mother somewhere out there.A strange fear crept in I was starting to care. About Thabo's kindness, about finding a place here. That kind of hope made me soft, made me careless. I couldn't afford it. Not now. Still, under the fear, something stubborn glowed. If I could last here through hunger, exhaustion, endless rejection maybe I could find my way. Maybe I could let someone in without losing myself. Johannesburg was alive, wild, unpredictable. And so was I