The interview was set for Sunday.
It was now Tuesday.
We had four days to prepare for the most dangerous conversation of our lives.
"I want the truth," Tessa said during the pre-call. "But only what you're ready to say."
Zukhanyi responded quietly, "I've been running from the truth for most of my life. I'm ready to stand still."
Naledi took her hand and said, "Let them hear us. The real us."
The story would run under a special broadcast:
"Buried in Ash: The Women They Tried to Erase."
National coverage.
Prime-time slot.
Live.
No cuts.
No filters.
In the days leading up to it, tension buzzed through every corner of our little house.
Zukhanyi rewrote her timeline, organizing key facts:
The orphanage.
The fire.
The fake deaths.
The silence.
The business.
Naledi rehearsed her trauma — the years of hiding, the violence she endured, the fear that never left.
But neither of us knew what would happen once we said the words out loud.
Lutho came to visit the night before the recording.
"You sure you want this?" he asked.
Zukhanyi nodded. "I'm tired of surviving in pieces."
He handed her a flash drive.
"Security footage of the warehouse break-in. You'll want to show that."
Naledi added, "We'll also bring the photo. The one they left of me."
"You sure?" he asked again.
She smiled gently. "If they want war, let them start it with their face showing too."
We were quiet that night.
No talk of sales. No charcoal. No strategies.
Just… us.
Lying on the mattress under the mosquito net, listening to the crickets sing the kind of song that only survivors understand.
"You remember the day we met?" Naledi whispered.
"I remember everything about it," I said.
"The way you didn't look at me… but you saw me."
I smiled. "You looked like something that hadn't given up. That's rare."
She turned, tracing my lips with her finger.
"Tomorrow we burn the mask."
"And what rises after?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she kissed me — slowly, deeply, with every part of herself.
And we made love like it might be the last night we'd ever get to touch each other freely.
In the morning, the world looked different.
Our chickens clucked louder. The air was sharp with charcoal and fear.
Naledi wore a simple white blouse and dark jeans.
Zukhanyi wore the only blazer she owned, faded at the collar but clean.
They stood in front of the mirror together, brushing each other's hair.
Two women. One storm.
The car arrived at 10:13 AM.
Tessa Molefe stepped out, dressed in grey, holding two microphones, a camera operator behind her.
"No questions off the table," she warned.
"No lies either," Naledi replied.
The interview began in the back garden.
Camera on.
Mic live.
And then, the first question:
"Who are you?"
Zukhanyi took a deep breath.
"I'm Nomathemba Dlamini. But no one's called me that in years. Because they buried me in a fire I didn't mean to light."
Naledi added, "And I'm Naledi Thwala. I'm here because I killed the man who raped my sister. And I don't regret surviving."
By the end of the interview, no one was the same.
Not the reporter.
Not the crew.
Not even us.
Because for the first time, we didn't just survive the fire.
We walked out of it holding hands.