The morning was still.
Too still.
Naledi was by the water tank washing a load of clothes. I was reviewing inventory, pen between my teeth, double-checking new vendor requests.
Then the dogs began to bark — not warning barks, but sharp, snarling rage.
Naledi dropped the bucket.
I froze.
The sound of boots on dry leaves.
"Inside!" I shouted.
But we were already surrounded.
Three men.
Unmarked clothing.
Gloved hands.
Guns.
Not the kind of guns you see in the township — military-style rifles with silencers attached.
"Down!" one yelled, grabbing Naledi by the arm and forcing her to the dirt.
I rushed forward, fists ready — but the barrel of a gun met my chest.
"Try it," he said. "We'd love a reason."
Naledi looked at me.
Her face was calm.
But her eyes said, Don't give them the reason.
I didn't.
They tied our hands.
Not tight — controlled.
Professionals.
No shouting. No screaming. Just silent efficiency.
"You've made noise," the leader said. "That article. That woman. You're painting targets on your backs."
"Then why don't you shoot us?" Naledi asked.
He paused.
"Because someone wants to see you… broken first."
They trashed the shed.
Sliced through 8 new bags of premium coal. Broke the phone we used for orders. Smashed the scale. Poured kerosene over our written ledgers.
But still — no blood.
No killing.
Just damage.
Psychological warfare.
When they left, we were untied.
Another message.
Another warning.
"Next time," the man said at the gate, "there's no warning."
We didn't cry.
We swept.
Naledi and I worked in silence, picking up every destroyed fragment.
Later, I found her alone behind the cabin, hands shaking, the back of her shirt wet with sweat.
She didn't see me at first.
But when she did, she whispered, "Zukhanyi… I don't want to be brave today."
I walked toward her, slow.
Wrapped my arms around her from behind.
"Then be scared with me," I whispered back.
And we stood like that, shaking together in the silence.
That night, we didn't touch the money.
We didn't talk about revenge.
We just held each other.
The moonlight cut shadows across the room, and I whispered a promise in her ear.
"I won't let them take you."
She turned to me, eyes burning.
"Then we stop hiding."
In the early morning, Zukhanyi made a call.
Not to a friend.
Not to a vendor.
To someone she swore she'd never contact again.
Tessa Molefe.
The journalist picked up, breathless.
"I heard," she said. "They came for you."
"They didn't come to kill," Zukhanyi said. "They came to warn."
"I know what that means."
"I want to escalate."
Tessa hesitated. "To what level?"
"To the world."
They agreed.
Live interview.
One week.
National television.
Two women. One story.
No masks.
No hiding.
"I want them to see our faces," Naledi said. "So when they come next time, they'll know we're not shadows anymore. We're fire."