eQ Handpicked

eQ Handpicked-

Calvin S. Mdlalose

Copyright © 2024 Calvin Mdlalose
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 9781776448364
Edited by: Book Connection Editors
Proofreading by: Zinhle Ngidi
Cover Design & Lay Out by: CS Mdlalose/Kemati Ndlela
Printers
**About the book**
In the heart of Hammarsdale, where violence and despair reign, a beacon of hope emerges. eQ is a powerful and poignant exploration of the human condition, delving into the complexities of morality, trauma, and redemption. With vivid descriptions and nuanced characters, this narrative masterfully weaves together themes of resilience, community, and the search for meaning in a chaotic world.
Through the eyes of a young protagonist, we witness the brutal realities of life in Hammarsdale, where the lines between good and evil are constantly blurred. Yet, amidst the darkness, we find glimmers of hope, courage, and the indomitable human spirit.
With echoes of CS Lewis's thought-provoking storytelling, Victor Frankl's profound insights into the human condition, and Mark Twain's witty social commentary, eQ is a literary tour-de-force that will leave readers spellbound and inspired. This is not just a story – it's an immersive experience that will challenge your perceptions, touch your heart, and leave you breathless.
*Why eQ Handpicked?*
The name "eQ Handpicked" suggests a carefully curated selection of stories that showcase the best of human resilience and hope. The word "Handpicked" implies a level of quality and attention to detail that sets eQ apart from other stories.

**the Author**
Calvin Mdlalose is an introspective author, artist, and devoted father, anchored by a profound faith and a deep appreciation for creativity. As an introverted character still finding his footing in Christ, Calvin often prefers the solace of solitude to the clamor of the world. His passion for storytelling and unwavering commitment to nurturing the next generation reflect his belief in the transformative power of art and literature. Through his works, he explores themes of identity, self-discovery, and the intricate connections that shape our lives.

In "eQuinox Handpicked," Calvin draws readers into a world where the nuances of introversion come alive through vivid characters and relatable experiences. When he isn’t writing, he immerses himself in research, continually seeking to expand his understanding and vision. He finds immense gratitude in the inspiration that guides his work, acknowledging that, despite the challenges he faced, it is God—rather than people—who has always been present in his journey.

**Acknowledgments**
I would like to express my deepest gratitude to the Holy Spirit for guiding my thoughts and words throughout this journey. Thank you for the wisdom and strength that have inspired me at every turn.

To everyone who listens to the gentle whisper of the Holy Spirit, thank you for your unwavering support and belief in the power of creativity. Your encouragement fuels my passion for storytelling and reminds me of the importance of sharing our unique voices.

I am especially grateful to my family and friends, whose love and support have been my foundation. To my fellow writers and mentors, your insights have been invaluable as I navigated the challenges of writing this manuscript.

I hope that "eQuinox Handpicked" resonates with you and inspires you to embrace your own journey.
**Introduction to Chapter One**
Chapter One of "eQuinox Handpicked" introduces us to an introverted character whose world is rich with introspection and quiet observation. This character navigates the complexities of social interactions, grapples with self-doubt, and seeks solace in the beauty of solitude. Through their lens, we explore the delicate balance between introversion and the yearning for connection.
As we delve into this chapter, we awaken the intricacies of their thoughts and emotions, providing a glimpse into a world often overlooked amid the rush of daily life. This journey reveals how quiet moments can spark profound realizations and foster deep connections with oneself and others.
Join me as we peel back the layers of this character’s experience, illuminating the strength that can be found in vulnerability and the transformative power of being true to oneself.
I invite you to step cautiously into my world, deep within the dungeons of the Den of Thieves—Hammarsdale’s hidden heartbeat. Here, shadows slither with secrets, and laughter dances uneasily on the edge of tension. Ambition entwines itself with risk, casting an enchanting spell that lures you deeper into the foreboding abyss.
In my latest encounter—a chilling fourth meeting with the specter of death—I found myself spiraling down a treacherous rabbit hole into the labyrinth of my past. Just yesterday, this familiar adversary ghosted through my reality once more, bringing with it a suffocating shadow of despair that loomed ominously, threatening to engulf everything in its path. Yet, in that darkest hour, a flicker of divine intervention pierced the gloom, as God resolutely denied the enemy's malicious claims. "I will not die but live and proclaim the works of the Lord," echoes Psalm 118:17, a beacon in the oppressive darkness.
This was not our first clash; three times before, this spirit had darkened my threshold, and three times, God’s protective hand had prevailed, like an unseen guardian against encroaching shadows. But this fourth encounter struck a deeper chord within me—a haunting reminder of the lessons in Joshua 7:11-12, where Israel fell into despair, shackled by the remnants of their enemy’s belongings. The truth hung heavy in the air: "You cannot conquer the dark while clutching what belongs to it."
God does not burden us with trials without illuminating the path to resolution (1 Corinthians 10:13). His voice urged me to relinquish the grip the enemy exerted over my life, an urgent plea to let go of the shadows that sought to tether me to despair.
As I turned the pages of the Book of Joshua, a powerful verse leapt out, shrouded in ominous significance: "He made darkness His hiding place" (Psalm 18:11). That line resonated like a distant thunder, reminding me of Exodus 14:20, when God wielded darkness as a veil, separating the Israelites from their pursuers, the Egyptians, with a suffocating shroud of night. The very fabric of fear and faith interwoven, each word whispering promises of protection, even as shadows lurked just beyond the edge of my vision.
And so, the battle continues.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Kind of a Daughter
Rest in the Word
My Mind (Yet not my own)
Betrayal
Preview
"you think you'll take this taxi from me? It's better you end me now, because you won’t get it while I’m still breathing.”
It all began here
At the tender age of seven, I witnessed a brutality that haunts me to this day—eight men dropping a boulder onto a man’s face, crushing his skull. This was the genesis of my spiritual trauma.
God speaketh once, yea twice, yet man perceives it not..."
"As I stood at the edge of the hospital ward, surrounded by the quiet struggles of my patients, I felt the weight of my apron, stained with the remnants of past battles. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale glow on the worn linoleum floor, where empty containers once filled with the lifeblood of my patients now lay discarded. My hands, still trembling from the last surgery, grasped the familiar instruments of my craft: the scalpel, the forceps, the sutures. But as I gazed out at the rows of beds, I felt an unfamiliar stir within me, a spark of creativity that refused to be extinguished.
By spiritual profession, I'm a surgeon, trained to heal the wounds of the body. But by God's gift, I'm an artist and also a painter, blessed with the ability to capture the beauty of the soul. And as I began to create, I felt the presence of something greater than myself, a spiritual force that guided my brushstrokes and infused my art with the essence of life. I painted vivid images of Hammarsdale, raw and alive, the colors bleeding and blending together in a swirl of hope and resilience. The people of Hammarsdale, with their struggles and their triumphs, seemed to come alive on my canvas, their faces etched with the lines of hardship and their eyes shining with the fire of the human spirit.
As I worked, the spiritual hospital ward around me began to fade away, and I felt myself transported to the very heart of Hammarsdale. I saw the township's narrow streets, lined with makeshift four room houses bustling with life. I saw the people, with their vibrant clothing and their infectious laughter. And I saw the struggles, the poverty, the pain. But most of all, I saw the hope, the resilience, the unyielding spirit of a people who refused to be defeated.
And when I finally emerged from my creative trance, I beheld a masterpiece, a tapestry woven from the threads of hope, creativity, and the unyielding human spirit. The blood of my patients, drained from their bodies and infused into my art, seemed to pulse with the very heartbeat of Hammarsdale. It was as if their struggles, their pain, their resilience had been distilled into this one, vivid artwork. And as I stepped back, I knew that I had created something truly impeccable, a testament to the power of creativity and the indomitable human spirit."
With the finesse and flair, let’s set the scene with precision and impeccable appeal, like a skilful advocate would...
Chapter One: Collecting Bits and Pieces
(Shattering)
In the heart of Hammarsdale, where the streets whispered secrets and the night cast long shadows, stood the Den of Thieves—a place where loyalty and fear walked a tightrope, each step threatening to tip the balance. The air was heavy with the scents of ambition and peril, every corner teeming with stories of respect and ruthlessness.
As the sun sank below the horizon, draping the world in the deep hues of night, the Den came alive. Each member played their part in a dangerous dance of life and crime, the stakes climbing higher with every hushed promise. The raw, unyielding narratives echoed through the alleys, ensuring the Den's legacy thrived wherever fear and respect intertwined.
I find myself drawn back to the sweltering summer of 1986, when Hammarsdale’s fractured soul cast its shadow over my life. Memories linger like restless ghosts, their echoes hanging thick in the air. From those recollections, a figure rises: Morgan, the flamboyant taxi owner, draped in gold chains that gleamed like trophies, his magnetic smile disarming even the hardest of hearts.
Though not a member of the Den, Morgan was its anchor, a gravitational force that pulled us into his orbit. His taxi rides turned the ordinary streets into theaters for his stories—tales of love lost and reclaimed, of youthful dreams crushed against the jagged edges of reality. His laughter, a melody of defiance, briefly soothed our restless spirits, even as I glimpsed the cracks beneath his bravado, the vulnerability he so carefully concealed.
In the gritty underbelly of Hammarsdale, where shadows whispered secrets and danger lingered like smoke, the Den of Thieves thrived—a realm where loyalty was as fragile as glass and fear carved its name into every heartbeat. At its helm stood Mbuzi-Goat, a towering figure whose presence radiated raw power and unpredictable menace. His very name silenced the nocturnal hum of the streets, a force both revered and dreaded. Mbuzi navigated this treacherous world with an unparalleled grace, his every step a calculated move in a game of loyalty, betrayal, and survival.
Mbuzi's visage was striking—a coarse crown of hair framed his nostrils and intense, predatory eyes, while thick brows merged at the center, casting an unsettling shadow across his countenance. His booming voice commanded reverence, resonating like a drumbeat in the still night. Raised in the shadow of his shebeen queen mother and overshadowed by an older brother who climbed to prominence as a lawyer in Johannesburg, Mbuzi harbored a simmering resentment. Competition fueled his being, a relentless fire that drove him to seek dominion at all costs. With him, danger loomed close, yet his unyielding intensity turned even the direst of adversities into thrilling dances with fate.
Beside him stood Kata, the Original Gangster—a sage of the streets whose weathered face bore the stories of a life lived on the edge. Kata's wisdom shaped the Den's younger generation, his tales woven with both cautionary warnings and lessons on survival. Rumors whispered of a dark past: brothers turned enemies, betrayal turned bloodshed. Kata’s life was a haunting melody of resilience and regret, a song that echoed through the corridors of the Den.
And then there was Durban D—the celestial king, the enigmatic glue binding this fractured family. His charm was a dangerous cocktail of humor and menace, an aura as intoxicating as it was threatening. With an English nose and the magnetism of a Bob Marley-esque mystic, Durban D’s presence demanded attention. His mind, a labyrinth of calculated genius, could unravel into chaos without warning. Yet in moments of clarity, his words were like smoke—elusive, captivating, and layered with hidden meaning. Durban D was the mastermind, the one who turned the Den into an empire of fear and respect. Even under the shadow of unimaginable tragedy—witnessing his friend gunned down by an off-duty cop—he remained unshaken, his resolve as unyielding as the streets that forged him.
Among this constellation of hardened souls was Arthur, the quiet observer. A strikingly handsome young man, Arthur’s silence was his most potent weapon, a canvas of mystery that drew others toward him. His independent spirit burned with an intensity that defied the weight of his surroundings. Even the police in Pietermaritzburg whispered his name in trepidation, and his exploits—like stealing thirty cars in a week—were the stuff of urban legend. He moved with a quiet defiance, carving his own path and earning respect through his audacious brilliance.
In the shadows lurked Xolani, a specter of death whose reputation sent chills down spines. Tales of his atrocities were whispered like ghost stories—a pickaxe turned weapon, a life ended without hesitation. Yet after the Den’s demise, Xolani transformed, shedding his dark skin like a snake, leaving behind an unsettling legacy that still haunted the streets.
And then there was Gcwabe, affectionately called Toto, a swift and lethal enigma whose cunning and adaptability made him both feared and revered. Alongside his twin brother, Toto could blend seamlessly into the night, carrying out deeds that defied the limits of morality. Yet beneath the darkness, Toto harbored a fierce loyalty, his love for family unwavering even in the face of his sins.
In this intricate web of shadows and loyalty, Sizwe—nicknamed Bigfoot—emerged as a quiet force. His devotion to Durban D was unmatched, his actions precise and calculated. Sizwe didn’t seek glory; he simply got the job done. But when Mbuzi’s dominance began to waver, it was Sizwe who introduced a new era of ruthlessness, bringing associates whose lethality eclipsed even Mbuzi’s reign. As the Den evolved, so too did the stakes, each heist and betrayal etching their legacy deeper into Hammarsdale's streets.
The Den of Thieves was more than a network of criminals; it was a symphony of survival, ambition, and despair. Each member was a note in a haunting melody that echoed through the gritty realm of Hammarsdale. And as long as the streets buzzed with tales of reverence and fear, the legacy of the Den would remain, a shadow etched into the fabric of the night.
Let us pause to reflect on Bustard, a living monument to defiance and survival. His audacity transcended the confines of his circumstances; he wore his scars like medals, each one a testament to the battles fought in a world that rarely offered mercy. Our shared glances spoke volumes, a silent dialogue between two souls who saw the world in hues of defiance and pain. Bustard’s Tupac-esque swagger was undeniable, his fierce, glimmering eyes radiating both rebellion and resilience. In him, I saw a kindred spirit—an artist in his own right, shaping his existence with bold strokes of determination and grit.
And there I stood, a quiet observer amidst the chaos, an introvert with an artist's soul. My perception turned the cacophony of life into a vivid palette of colors and contrasts. I captured the essence of this world in my mind: the rhythm of voices, the kaleidoscope of clothing, and the raw emotions carved into faces. Each figure became a masterstroke on the stark canvas of my reality, immortalized through my observing gaze. My introversion shaped me into a silent witness, someone who found solace in unraveling the depth of others’ stories while quietly carrying my own.
The summer of 1986 was a feverish blur of life in Hammarsdale, a place teeming with characters that painted our shared reality in vibrant, often violent, strokes. Each life intersected with the others, creating a tapestry of loyalty, betrayal, and survival. Among the vivid players in this world, Slwane and Guluva loomed like titans—fearsome figures whose reputations inspired both reverence and terror.
Slwane, brutal and unyielding, carried an air of mystery. His silence was as unnerving as his actions, and when he spoke, his words dripped with nostalgia for a past shattered by violence. His vulnerabilities, though rarely acknowledged, hinted at a depth buried beneath the surface. Guluva, by contrast, was a walking enigma. The tension in the air shifted whenever he entered a room, his presence as magnetic as it was menacing. Whispers of his past—half-truths woven into legends—only deepened the mystery surrounding him. Guluva thrived in chaos, his motives inscrutable, his actions calculated to keep even his closest allies guessing.
In stark relief to these fearsome figures stood Mabandla and Ngane, a pair whose spirited banter provided a necessary counterpoint to the ever-present threat of violence. Mabandla’s easy humor and sharp intellect often masked the weight of his existence, while Ngane’s wit cut through tension like a blade. Together, they offered moments of reprieve, their playful rivalry acting as a shield against the harsh realities around them. They were the Bud Spencer and Terence Hill of our streets, embodying a paradoxical blend of absurdity and survival. Mabandla’s confidence was larger than life, and his size only amplified his unshakable belief in his ability to face any threat head-on. “I don’t run,” he once declared with unsettling nonchalance. “I shoot back because I’m too big to flee.” His words carried the weight of truth, a stark reminder of the sheer physical presence he commanded.
Then there was Ngane, a force of nature whose unpredictable energy could turn a moment into legend. He was chaos personified. One night at the Den of Thieves, an argument erupted, waking Ngane from his slumber. Without hesitation, he fired two shots into the ceiling, silencing the room with a single, chilling declaration: “Let’s go.” The air around him vibrated with a terrifying intensity, his actions fueled by an unhinged defiance that left everyone in awe and fear. On another occasion, he casually removed the pin from an M5 grenade, plunging the room into a deadly silence. Moments like these made Ngane both a legend and a warning, a living reminder of the fine line between control and madness.
Even after being shot multiple times and left for dead, Ngane’s willpower defied all logic. He survived as if by sheer force of will, a walking embodiment of resilience. In court, his chilling defiance left the room stunned. “Let’s hope you fly and don’t walk on the ground,” he told the judge, his words dripping with ominous promise. Ngane’s audacity was legendary, a chaotic symphony that no one could orchestrate but him.
Vusi the Trickster was Ngane’s mirror, reflecting chaos in a way that was clever and calculated. Vusi thrived on outsmarting others, his laughter a weapon that disarmed even the most hardened criminals. For him, life was a game, and his philosophy was simple: the best way to steal from a thief was to make them laugh. His charm masked a dangerous intellect, making him as endearing as he was perilous.
In this chaotic tapestry of rebellion and survival, each character was a thread, woven together in a narrative that was as vibrant as it was dark. These were lives lived on the edge, where violence and camaraderie intertwined, creating a world both brutal and beautiful. Against the backdrop of Hammarsdale’s swirling chaos, we existed—fighters, survivors, and storytellers, painting our lives with the colors of defiance and endurance.
The other Vusi, however, was the serpent in this garden of misfits. His charm was deceptive, and his manipulative tendencies possessed an inherent threat. He knew how to carve words into flesh with precision. He would ensnare his victims in webs of trust before delivering the fatal blow—an illusionist in a world where the stakes were life and death. Whereas the first Vusi tempted fate with laughter, the second danced with darker motivations, illustrating the delicate balance of trust and treachery within our community
As I watched these forces, I couldn’t help but ponder on the choices that defined them. Ngane, the embodiment of chaos, reveling in destruction; Vusi the Clever, seeking amusement amid mischief; and Vusi the Shadow, lurking in the depths of deceit. They were not merely characters playing out their roles but representations of the choices that one could make when operating outside the bounds of societal norms.
What bound them all was the fundamental realization that chaos and cunning were mere tools. How each chose to wield those tools brought their destinies into sharp focus. In this unforgiving milieu, we were all players, maneuvering through the expansive maze of morality, grappling with the specters of our choices and their consequences. In our world, the boundary between hero and villain blurred with every passing moment, making it all the more compelling and dangerous.
As I contemplate the manuscript before me, I am captivated by the idea that the native tribes of Hammarsdale are intricately woven into a rich tapestry of ancient principalities, each name reverberating with the echoes of history. Names like Vusi transcend mere labels; they pulse with vitality and beckon forth echoes from deep within our spirits.
I remember my time among these people, where an almost primal aura enveloped them, akin to being in the presence of a wild animal. Their demeanor, their energy—thick with fear and history—hung palpably in the air.
Yet, the indifference of the IFP to the losses in Hammarsdale raises unsettling questions. What transpires when those in power dismiss the very spirits that bind them to their communities? This contradiction is indeed profound. Perhaps this is why the reverence for surnames carries such layered significance; every syllable, every sound opens a gateway to the past demanding our attention. It feels as though the universe compels us to honor our lineage.
Indeed, the whispers grow ever more insistent. These names are not mere monikers; they are legacies yearning for acknowledgment. They remind us that death is not a definitive end but rather a transformation—a continuum interwoven with the spirits guiding us, whether toward light or the shadowy depths. Here is where our true exploration begins.
As I reflect on the manuscript, I find myself entranced by the notion that the native tribes of Hammarsdale are woven from a tapestry of ancient principalities and rulers (Ephesians 6:12), each name carrying echoes of the past. The names, like Vusi, transcend simple identification; they vibrate with energy. What do you think they awaken within our spirits?
It’s fascinating! Take Vusumuzi, for instance. Isn’t it intriguing how it seems to call for the restoration of ancestral altars? These names are whispers from our lineage, urging us to reconnect.
And it’s not just the names. When we honor them, we partake in something greater—perhaps even engaging in a dialogue with the spirit world. Isn’t it remarkable how the concept of evoking animal spirits is so deeply intertwined with their history?
Yes, indeed. The deeper we delve into these names, the more they reveal—a mystery concealed beneath layers of history. Each name is a vessel, harboring the essence of animals, evoking their strength and wisdom. It’s a language of the soul.
Exactly! Like Isilo, the Zulu king. The term means “beast,” right? It brings to mind the ferocity and guardianship intertwined with leadership. There’s power in that title, a resonance with the animal spirits that once walked these lands.
I used to sit with these people; they had a strange vibe about them—exactly like when you're in the midst of a dangerous dark animal. Everything about them—their demeanor, their aura, and the entire energy—felt palpable and rich with fear and history.
And yet, the IFP’s indifference to the losses in Hammarsdale prompts further questioning.
What compelled my belief in the existence of principalities and rulers influencing our society are the echoes of our experiences before the age of ten. Let us continue to peel back the layers, unveiling the messages and mysteries that beckon us forth. We honor the past while reclaiming the connections that shape our identities.
In this exploration, we are not merely unearthing names; we are indirectly lured in reviving spirits—the animals, the ancestors, the very essence of what evil is to us. This journey may very well reshape our understanding of existence itself.
As I contemplate the rich tapestry of Hammarsdale's history, I am struck by its own principalities and rulers, resonating with the words found in scripture, particularly Genesis 6. In times long past, celestial beings imparted their wisdom upon humanity. I can still recall the enchanting folklore of a mermaid who could drain the brains of children, through nostrils, transforming into a tempest that swept across the land. We often witness sudden darkness, in the blink of an eye, the sun could vanish at noon, casting the world into an eerie darkness.
Reflecting on Hammarsdale's vibrant past, it becomes evident that ancient powers, whether long forgotten or subtly influencing our lives, governed this land, reinforcing the accounts found in scripture. Whispers of angels imparting knowledge to our community linger in the air. The tale of the mermaid haunts my memories—some even claimed to have seen her as a great serpent—and the very fabric of reality seemingly shifted in her wake.
These fantastical stories ignited my childhood curiosity, inspiring me to explore the wonders of science, though I sometimes ponder the cost of such intrigue. I cherish the memories of homemade experiments that sparked my passion for discovery. At the tender age of seven, we played with mercury—can you imagine? By fourteen, we had taken the art of crafting counterfeit banknotes to a whole new level, astonishing even the keenest observers. Who would have thought that a simple slice through a tennis ball could reveal the mystery of unlocking a car door? How could we learn about all those adventures at such a young age without some guidance?
Those early explorations fueled a lifelong hunger for knowledge. My chemical experiments were nothing short of delightful: dancing raisins in soda, homemade lava lamps crafted from vegetable oil and Alka-Seltzer, and vibrant slime concocted from glue and food coloring.
Physics experiments captivated me, too. I inflated balloons inside plastic bottles to illustrate air pressure, orchestrated mini tornadoes with water, glitter, and dish soap, and demonstrated magnetic levitation with paper clips and magnets. In biology, I watched crystals grow, built miniature ecosystems in jars, and studied the fermentation process of yeast. I even dabbled in electronics, generating electricity with lemons and potatoes, and creating simple LED circuits.
Each bubbling reaction and magical transformation reignited the wonder that those mermaid tales instilled in me. What about you? Do you have cherished memories of homemade scientific experiments that sparked your curiosity? I often reminisce about our fearless explorations into the unknown, reminiscent of those ancient stories.
Are you still suggesting that Satan is not behind the technology, warfare, and our entire civilization? I'm not claiming that God was absent—He was present, but we ultimately choose our adversary through our actions. How could we learn about all those adventures at such a young age without some guidance?
Have you embarked on your own scientific journey? Have you encountered experiments that felt otherworldly, or experienced moments when your curiosity led you down unexpected paths? I would love to hear how these experiences have shaped your understanding and imagination.
Gcwabe completed this mosaic of existence with remarkable swiftness. When conflict arose, he responded with agility, earning both respect and fear through his prowess in warfare. His strategic mind, navigating chaos with an almost graceful finesse, positioned him as a formidable figure among his peers, as if he danced between the shards of violence with an uncanny poise. Gcwabe was notorious for his scary stories, each one more chilling than the last. But the story that truly topped them all was the one about a man who owed him four hundred. The tension in Gcwabe's voice as he recounted it was palpable, drawing me in with every word.
He explained how, after countless reminders and empty promises, he finally reached the breaking point. Late one afternoon, Gcwabe tracked down the man who owed him money. It was as if a dark cloud loomed over that moment, the kind you only see in gripping drama or horror films. In an instant, everything escalated. Without a moment's hesitation, Gcwabe pulled out a gun and shot the man in the head. Just like that, it was over—the debt, the tension, the life.
As I listened, a mix of disbelief and fear coursed through me. Stories like this, while they might have seemed exaggerated in the heat of the moment, revealed a stark reality for Gcwabe—a world where debts could have terrifying consequences. It was a chilling reminder of the extremes to which people could go when pushed to their limits, leaving me with an uneasy feeling that lingered long after he shared it. Gcwabe's tales weren't just stories; they were cautionary lessons wrapped in dark humor, where the line between laughter and fear blurred all too easily.
Then there were my uncles, a wild bunch who lived by the code of the fist. Mthoko and Bongani were the brawlers, fists flying like wildflowers in summer. But then there was Mayedwa, who became notorious for his relentless stabbings, and his brother Tonqo—an enigma wrapped in a shroud of unapproachability. Tonqo was no ordinary man; while the fiercest of the Den of Thieves might have seemed intimidating to most, they were mere thoughts of dust in the shadow of his legacy.
Tonqo walked through life with an air of danger that clung to him like smoke, his laughter echoing through the air like the crack of thunder. He was alive in a way that rendered him untouchable. I remember the story he told me one afternoon as he navigated the streets in his taxi, a mix of pride and nonchalance in his tone. More than ten armed men, rifles gleaming menacingly in the sunlight, stormed into his taxi, demanding its surrender. They threatened his life with such casual disregard, but Tonqo merely laughed in their faces. "Go ahead," he said, his voice unwavering, "you think you'll take this taxi from me? It's better for you end me now, because you won’t get it while I’m still breathing.”
At that moment, surrounded by the threat of death and madness, it was clear that Tonqo wasn’t just a man; he was a force of nature, laughing in the face of danger, a reminder that fear crumbled before the indomitable spirit. The would-be thieves, realizing they were standing not before a mere mortal, but before a legend, left him alone, their bravado extinguished. This was Tonqo—untouchable, unstoppable, a character etched in the annals of our family’s wild heritage.
People often shared dramatic, almost cinematic tales about my uncle Tonqo—stories that could send shivers down your spine, especially those from his time in prison. He would listen, his laughter a hearty balm over the chilling narratives, and say, “Siya, be careful what you entertain. Do you believe such nonsense? I have no time for foolishness.” Beneath his humor lay a woundedness, a subtle acknowledgment of the chaos he had encountered, yet he remained a humble soul, deeply grounded and resilient, a stark contrast to his brother Mayedwa.
Mayedwa, on the other hand, would boldly proclaim, “I alone am equivalent to ten men and a few criminals.” His confidence was palpable, exaggerated—a striking juxtaposition to Tonqo's quiet wisdom and humility. While Tonqo sought simplicity and truth, grappling silently with his scars, Mayedwa reveled in bravado and self-importance. Their differences painted a vivid picture of the diverse tapestry of family life, each infusing their flavor into our stories and memories. Tonqo had a unique approach to life—never hasty, always calm. It was as if he could see the chaos of the world unfold before him, and rather than rush in, he would simply sit there, a silent observer of the madness, choosing his moments with care.
This dynamic reminds me of two powerful narratives from history and scripture. First, there's the tale of God and Lucifer. As scriptures tell, iniquity was found in Lucifer’s heart—a painful transformation that resonated with the wounds of betrayal. God watched as Lucifer’s character shifted, observing him as he gained followers—one-third of the celestial hosts—drawn into his rebellion. But when the time came, God stood firm, casting them out and restoring order with a decisive authority, a reminder that a heavy heart can sometimes spur righteous action.
Then there's the story of Bustard, a close friend of Durban D. I vividly recall a morning when I arrived, wounded and seeking guidance, my heart heavy with despair, hoping for him to come to my rescue. Instead, he simply gazed at me, seemingly unfazed, before handing me a chrome barrel 9mm pistol and saying nothing at all. That was Tonqo for you—calm under pressure, dealing with situations with a quiet strength that often left you both bewildered and enlightened, yet tinged with an underlying current of pain that he seldom revealed.
His demeanor, reminiscent of these powerful narratives, showcased a profound ability to gauge situations without rushing in—offering wisdom through stillness rather than chaos. Whether witnessing conflict or confrontation, Tonqo remained a steadfast observer, embodying a rare blend of patience and quiet resolve. As I contemplated the layers that each character contributed to our lives in Hammarsdale, I began to realize the beauty lay in their contradictions. These individuals, shaped by their experiences and choices, painted a complex portrait of existence within a fractured landscape. The laughter mingled with violence, the moments of levity amidst despair—they all belonged together, forming a collective narrative that spoke to the depths of the human experience.
In this vibrant tapestry of relationships, we were not solely defined by our roles or actions but by our shared humanity—flawed, resilient, and forever seeking connection in a world that could feel overwhelmingly disconnected. Each character, including myself, danced between light and shadow, embodying the struggle for understanding, survival, and redemption in the heart of Hammarsdale. I found myself painting the rows of dilapidated houses, the ramshackle four room houses, and the majestic mountains alongside fading signs in the shops that told stories of resilience. The bustling market thrummed with life—vendors passionately calling out their wares, crowded streets filled with people of every shape and size. My artwork transcended mere representation; it chronicled the intricate tapestry of lives woven together by fate and circumstance, a vibrant testament to the resilience of the human spirit amidst the wounds we carried. With each stroke, my painting transformed into a microcosm of Hammarsdale, a place where dreams and despair intertwined like threads in an exquisite dance. Here, the lines between right and wrong, good and evil blurred, leaving survival as the only focus amidst the chaos.
Then, one fateful morning, a searing, golden light shattered the darkness. Time stood still, its icy grip piercing my soul like glass. The Celestial King, my cousin Durban D., whispered hauntingly in my mind: “Face the consequences of your desires.” His chilling voice sent shivers down my spine, and the silence around me felt like a beast devouring my sanity
Durban D.’s ominous presence loomed, and I had been begging him to take the guns with me to school. Amid this turmoil, Durban D. rammed two pistols into my face, steadfastly pressing against my trembling figure. "The pistols gleamed with precision-crafted elegance, their metallic beauty mesmerizing. The .45 caliber titanium steel barrel shone with a frosty allure, its satin finish shrouding the weapon in an aura of sophistication. Beside it, the .22 chromium-plated Phantom metal seemed to radiate an icy intensity, its mirror-like polish reflecting the faintest glimmer of light."
The fusion of form and function yielded an awe-inspiring sight, as if art and lethality had converged in perfect harmony. In that heart-stopping moment, his chilling words pierced through the silence: “You think you know darkness; I fathered darkness, I gave birth to darkness, and I am darkness.” His declaration compelled me to confront the deepest recesses of my desires and fears.
He shoved a .45 into an empty container of liquid fruit juice, disguising its lethal potential as we made our way. Once I was at school, emboldened by reckless abandon—my grandmother selling liquor provided a dangerous temptation—I stole a bottle of Smirnoff gin. The students got drunk that day, laughter intertwining with foolishness, each sip welcoming chaos.
After school, caught up in the thrill, I tested the .22 on my friend, adrenaline coursing through my veins. It was an impulsive act, a moment of exhilaration, but I realized later how close I had come to irrevocable harm; I could have killed my friend.
As I stepped into the abyss, two pistols dug into my waistband like twin talons, their cold metal biting like a serpent's kiss. Shadows trembled like leafless trees. My fingers clenched around the pistols, a desperate grasp on destiny. The .45 Titan and .22 Phantom nestled in my hands, their contoured metallic curves merging seamlessly with my flesh. The hum of potential energy vibrated through me as if the weapons had awakened, alive and eager.
Mesmerized, I surrendered to their beauty—the fluid lines, precision-crafted engineering, and raw power dormant within. Each pistol felt like an organic extension, a symbiotic fusion of steel and sinew. Guns, once tools of destruction, now symbolized my tumultuous quest for protection and redemption.
I stood at the crossroads, pistols fitting snugly in my hands like a second skin. The late-night air was electric with gunfire – rifles, pump-action shotguns, automatics, and semiautomatics, including the sharp reports of 9mm, .40 S&W, .45 ACP, .38 Special, .357 Magnum, R4, R1, AK-47, M4, AR-15, M60, PKM, M249 SAW, Browning M2, DShK, Remington 870, Mossberg 500, Benelli M4, AKKS-74, and Winchester 1897 – echoed ominously around me.
As I wandered through the haze, the sound of gunfire gave way to an unsettling silence. I approached a small alley on my left, where steps led up into the darkness. A male figure lay on the ground, facing up, while another figure stood over him, handgun in hand. The figure fired a single shot, then walked away, leaving behind a stone-deafening silence.
The swirling smoke and sparks obscured my path, but I glimpsed a figure in the distance. A man with a gold chain glinting dully against the chaos lay on the ground, a bullet hole in his forehead. His name was Morgan, I’m sure you remember him. I recalled the brutal demise of Norbert, and the cataclysmic storm that had torn through the streets, leaving shattered lives in its wake.
The violence continued to unfold. I learned that the shots I had heard were meant for Goat, a notorious figure from The Den of Thieves, who was hit with over thirty bullets and died on the spot. Days later, Bustard, another member of the infamous crew, was gunned down in his own home, with witnesses frozen in terror around him.
The brutality hit close to home when a group stormed my house, demanding my cousin, Durban D. They beat him to death without hesitation, leaving me shaken and scarred.
The shots, I later learned, were meant for Goat, a notorious Days later, Bustard, another member of the infamous crew, was gunned . I had never considered myself a member of The Den of Thieves—yet perhaps I was, transporting guns and stolen goods for them until Durban D looked me in the eyes and said, “This is not your life.” It was just after the murder of my other cousin, Arthur (I’m sure you remember him), who was stabbed to death without mercy. In the heavy silence that followed, I whispered, “Let us pray
Days apart, the words “Emakhaya kukude” echoed—a TRC testimony recounting Sgangi's family's murder, the voices merging into a mournful crescendo. Let’s talk about that legend, Sgangi. Sgangi walked alone, commanding awe, with shadows following in his wake. echoes of conflict that reverberated through Hammarsdale were hauntingly reminiscent of humanity’s struggle against the forces of darkness. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) stood as a witness to the stories and scars etched into the lives of those who bore witness—particularly the testimonies of the IFP members, all of whom seemed to carry a singular name on their lips: Sgangi.
From a young age, Sgangi had been an enigma, a figure cloaked in both fear and fascination. Since the tender age of 12, he was hunted by a ghost deep within the lush jungles of Lusaka. He was a raw and formidable general from the MK—a warrior as swift as an eagle, as ferocious as a young lion and a lioness—unfazed by the chaos around him. Tales of his prowess and power were enough to send shivers down the spine of even the most hardened warriors; it was said he could feel a man with a single punch.
His ferocity on the battlefield was legend. Sgangi was not just a fighter; he was a shadowy specter, able to snatch opponents from their midst and extinguish their lives like a vampire stalking the night. Even my uncle Tonqo would often jokingly recount, "Siya, “you don’t approach lunatics if you value your life," a grim reminder of Sgangi’s notorious reputation. We would observe from a distance, mesmerized by the spectacle of his confrontations with the Inkatha. It was as if the very fabric of reality warped around him; opponents would vanish as if swallowed by the ground, their disappearances as surreal as a scene from a terrifying film.
In the TRC, the testimonies rang out in haunting unison: “We have been looking for him since then, and we continue to search to this day.” This was no idle threat; even the most fearsome among them spoke of Sgangi as if he were an elusive phantom. One witness recounted how Sgangi had been present to witness the tragic murder of his comrades, some of whom were innocent children. The scars of their memories ran deep, each story a testament to the relentless pursuit of a specter who seemed to dance just beyond their grasp—a real-life embodiment of the darkness that shadows humanity, forever eluding those who sought to confront him. Time froze as Hammarsdale morphed into a battlefield. Neighbors faded into mere specters. At dawn, that piercingly beautiful yet blood-soaked melody resonated within me; Kata’s ordeal flashed vividly in my mind. I reiterate, at dawn, upon hearing the crescendo of that beautiful blood-soaked melody, Kata's ordeal flashed back. I abruptly stepped outside, following the melody. Three figures emerged, their presence shaking the ground beneath them. Two men pursued a semi-chubby figure, their knives glinting in the morning light as he crumpled to the earth like a sack of potatoes, mercilessly the attackers closed in, their knives glinting in the morning light, stabbing him with a ferocity that left me frozen in horror, my heart shattered into a million pieces. His name was Kata, I’m sure you remember him.
When I met Kata 15 to 20 years later, I faced him again as a friend teaching us gun control. Kata's eyes locked onto mine, his gaze burning with intensity.
"Never place your finger on the trigger unless you are intentional and intend to pull it," he whispered. "True strength lies not in violence, but in restraint."
His words echoed in my mind, a reminder
The Den had a father, Mjay, and a son, Xolani, notoriously known as Sqothu - The Reaper. As the shadows danced upon the walls, a chill ran down the spines of all who dwelled within The Den of Thieves. For in this forsaken place, a figure emerged, shrouded in an aura of malevolence. Mjay, the patriarch of this dysfunctional brood, stepped forth, his presence heralded by an unsettling cackle that sent shivers down the spine.
His eyes gleamed with a mischievous spark, as if fueled by the very darkness that dwelled within. And by his side, his favored son Xolani stood, a chip off the old block, forged from the same mold of malice and depravity. Together, they reveled in the shadows, their bond strengthened by the shared darkness that coursed through their veins.
Mjay's reputation preceded him, a testament to his egregious behavior. His tales of brutality and violence were the stuff of nightmares, and his penchant for bragging about his heinous acts only served to underscore his depraved nature.
One such anecdote, oft-repeated and never forgotten, told the tale of his wife's alleged infidelity. According to Mjay's twisted account, he had exacted a gruesome revenge, subjecting her to an act of unspeakable violence. The very memory of it seemed to delight him, and he would often regale his audience with the lurid details, his laughter echoing through The Den like the cackling of a madman.
It was said that Mjay's wrath had been so severe that he had taken a most intimate and personal part of his wife's being, fashioning it into a twisted token that he wore as a grotesque badge of honor. The mere whisper of this atrocity sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it, a grim reminder of the depths of Mjay's depravity.
On one fateful occasion, a respected member of the community, the wife of Baba Hadebe, dared to offer Mjay a glimmer of hope. She suggested that he seek out a new partner, one who could provide emotional support and domestic care. But Mjay's response with a crudely suggestive remark, saying "woza ngibhebhe wena mama," which translates to "come let me make you my whore, mama."
This exchange illustrates the kind of behavior that Mjay exhibited, which was notorious and troubling. His loud and boisterous demeanor only added to the distressing impact of his actions. Day by day, my understanding of Hammarsdale deepened, fostering an appreciation for its resilience and strength. As I sit in my mental studio, surrounded by the vivid images of Hammarsdale, I can't help but reflect on the myriad of lives entangled within this journey—Morgan, Goat, Bustard, Durban D, Arthur, and so many others. Each brushstroke tells a story, weaving together a complex and vibrant tapestry that embodies the beauty and chaos of our community. It’s a narrative filled with violence, death, and addiction, yet it feels as if these experiences are not mere coincidences but part of a greater design.
Another exterminator emerged, known as "Mkheqe" (Trip), a skilled MK soldier with a reputation for never missing his target. One day, Gcwabe, also known as Toto, was leaving a neighbor's house after a lengthy visit when he suddenly sprinted past his own home, having spotted an ambush. A hail of gunfire erupted, with bullets flying in every direction.
After a while, Toto crawled back, his body riddled with bullet wounds and blood-soaked. He revealed to me that Mkheqe and another soldier had shot him at least five times. Miraculously, Toto survived the ordeal and was back on his feet the following month, still recovering from his injuries and wearing a catheter tube for urinary care.
Mkheqe's campaign of violence was not limited to Toto, however. He was sent to target the Den and iNkatha, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. One of his most notorious victims was Durban D, whose death was orchestrated by Mkheqe himself. The details of the killing are still shrouded in mystery, but one thing is certain: Mkheqe's actions had a profound impact on the community.
In a shocking turn of events, Toto broke into the home of IFP
Another exterminator emerged, known as "Mkheqe" (Trip), a skilled MK soldier with a reputation for never missing his target. One day, Gcwabe, also known as Toto, was leaving a neighbor's house after a lengthy visit when he suddenly sprinted past his own home, having spotted an ambush. A hail of gunfire erupted, with bullets flying in every direction.
After a while, Toto crawled back, his body riddled with bullet wounds and blood-soaked. He revealed to me that Mkheqe and another soldier had shot him at least five times. Miraculously, Toto survived the ordeal and was back on his feet the following month, still recovering from his injuries and wearing a catheter tube for urinary care.
Mkheqe's campaign of violence was not limited to Toto, however. He was sent to target the Den and iNkatha, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. One of his most notorious victims was Durban D, whose death was orchestrated by Mkheqe himself. The details of the killing are still shrouded in mystery, but one thing is certain: Mkheqe's actions had a profound impact on the community.
In a shocking turn of events, Toto broke into the home of IFP leader Sipho Mlaba, only to be met with a barrage of gunfire. He was shot six times on one side with a pump-action gun, yet somehow managed to survive. Both Toto and Mkheqe are alive and well, a testament to their resilience and determination.From my background in Christianity, I can't shake the feeling that there is a deeper spiritual purpose to my observations here. The happenings I've witnessed—the killings, the strife—are not random events; they feel like altars servicing ignorance and despair. In biblical terms, I recognize the concept of principalities and powers, which, according to scripture, are territorial spirits that influence the very fabric of our lives.
These spirits affirm the patterns that dwellers in this community often accept as normal—whether it’s the pervasive poverty, the violence that erupts with disturbing regularity, or cycles of addiction that seem inescapable. If one takes the time to observe closely, as I have, you can see these patterns throughout families and communities; they’re not just unfortunate coincidences but manifestations of something far more profound.
It's easy for the untrained eye to dismiss these occurrences as mere random acts of violence or bad luck. However, my perspective reveals that this is much more significant; it is about blood and altars that speak a strange language in the spiritual realm. There is a narrative woven into the fabric of Hammarsdale that transcends the physical, connecting us to a spiritual lineage that influences our present circumstances.
I've come to understand that the chaotic experiences we encounter are part of a larger story—a spiritual battle playing out in our midst. Recognizing this calls for a shift in perspective; it urges us to take responsibility not just for our actions, but also for the spiritual implications of those actions. It challenges us to break free from cycles of violence and despair and to seek a higher understanding of our existence within this beautiful, yet tumultuous tapestry of life. In moments of hushed solitude, the divine presence of God envelops me, His grand design unfolding with unwavering purpose and meticulous precision. Amidst the sea of fallen souls, I stand as one of the few survivors, my bond with Ngcwabe—a beacon of unyielding resilience in a world draped in shadows—serving as a testament to an indomitable spirit that refuses to be extinguished. In the heart of Hammarsdale, shadows of despair loom over abandoned streets, hiding stories of dreams crushed by the weight of reality. Arthur, my cousin, once aimed for greatness in Johannesburg but fell victim to the city’s harshness, lost in the grip of darkness.
Sibusiso Zuma (and many more) a celebrated athlete, is now another casualty, drowning his hopes in bitterness. The enemy hides here, feeding off despair, lurking in the corners of our minds, weaving plots of addiction and hopelessness that ensnare the unwary.
Amidst this gloom, flickers of resilience arise as I assume the role of a surgeon in my spiritual hospital. In this theatrical ward, I witness patients courageously battling their struggles—each a testament to the indomitable spirit that refuses to yield. Their challenges ignite a spark within me, inspiring me to transform pain into art, illuminating the profound and often hidden truths of our lives. Through this creative lens, I find beauty in their journeys, reflecting the strength that lies within us all.
As I paint, I expose the enemy's plots, revealing how darkness tries to silence us. In creating, I reclaim the narrative, turning despair into a poignant reminder of hope and resilience. In Hammarsdale, we fight back, forging our own stories of strength against the lurking shadows.
"As I stood amidst the ruins of the Den, I couldn't help but feel a sense of sorrow and loss. The once-thriving community was now a mere memory, a reminder of the devastating consequences of violence and bloodshed.
But even in death, the Den's legacy lived on. The young men who had grown up within its walls had been forever changed by the experiences they had endured. They had been molded into warriors, their innocence lost in the fire of gang violence.
I thought back to the countless funerals I had attended, the countless lives lost to senseless killings. The boy from 2north, barely 14 years old, who had taken out multiple OGs before meeting his own demise. The rising stars, ambushed and gunned down in their prime.
It was as if the very fabric of our community had been torn apart, leaving behind a trail of broken dreams and shattered lives. And yet, even in the midst of such chaos and destruction, there was a strange, twisted beauty to it all.
A beauty that spoke to the resilience of the human spirit, to the ability to find hope in the darkest of places. A beauty that reminded me that, no matter how broken we may be, we are never beyond redemption.
As I walked away from the Den for the last time, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. It was a peace that came from knowing that I had survived, that I had made it through the storm. And it was a peace that came from knowing that, even though the Den was gone, its memory would live on, a reminder of the devastating consequences of violence, and the transformative power of hope and redemption."

Devouring Darkness
In the quiet of those early morning walks, my mind races with questions and reflections. I think of my siblings—my younger brother, now a liar who seems to find comfort in deceit. I remind myself that these struggles may stem from deep-rooted family curses. As a Christian, I grapple with my own slips into dishonesty and indulgence, whether in substances or fleeting comforts. I recognize that these are not just curses but the carnal side of humanity; as the scriptures say, "There is no one righteous, not even one." This truth forces a defensive posture, often leading to evil for evil.
At 5 a.m., I am on the streets, walking towards the hospital—4.7 kilometers away. I will return the same way, on foot, without a penny for transport. Tears freeze on my cheeks as the biting cold cuts through me. The temperature hovers around minus one, two, or three degrees, and my fingers feel numb. Clad in my child's sweater, once a comfort for my son, it now becomes my sole shield against the frost, as I have no extra clothing or resources to keep him warm. I am left with a hollow abyss of hope.
Yet, in this relentless darkness, I have forged an unbreakable covenant: to finish this manuscript, no matter the cost. This work is more than mere words; it is my legacy, a beacon of aspiration for my children amid life’s tribulations. For them, I will sacrifice everything—my comfort, my safety, my very essence—until the ink flows pure and untainted. The spirits of masters like Viktor Frankl, C.S. Lewis, and Mark Twain guide me through this storm. In this moment, I stand unyielding, ready to confront the trials of life. The sweater is my only solace against the chill—no spare clothes, no money to send warmth, no hope.
As dawn's golden light breaks over the horizon, a familiar ache settles within me, like a winter chill that refuses to thaw. I mourn the moments lost with my son and daughter, memories we’ll never create. Yet I hold steadfast to my covenant: I will finish this manuscript, no matter the cost. It’s personal—a dream, an inheritance for my children. I will sacrifice everything.

Organized Diversification
Even though I don’t want to blame things on far-fetched circumstances like hereditary or foundational curses, I can’t help but reflect on my uncle—a powerful singer who was also a womanizer. His children may sing, but they find themselves in underground circles. As a Christian, I often find myself battling in spiritual warfare, emerging victorious through hardship, yet somehow ending up conforming again. I recognize that there are no excuses, but the impact of my environment weighs heavily on me.
I watched in horror as death consumed my uncle, his skin turning obsidian black, his body becoming thinner than paper. He was once a highly esteemed singer whose voice could shake mountains, radiating a celestial charm that could melt iron. When I was about seventeen years old, I volunteered to donate a kidney out of pure love, but he refused. The cold and cruel silence of CS Mdlalose echoes in my mind. Yet, in those dark moments, God revealed to me, “You were not rejected by men, but by me, to clear my name.”
Laughter and brotherhood once filled our lives, spinning bottles and dreams. Those days of hope have vanished, replaced by careers and hatred. A tiny, castaway stick became God’s instrument for me, floating like an axe—a testament to divine power and redemption amid my devastating sorrow. When I’m asked in an interview, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” I can’t help but scoff and think, “C'mon man, I’m not a prophet; I don’t even know where I’ll be tomorrow.”
I have amassed wealth, becoming a millionaire, while facing dark forces and the chilling reminders of witchcraft. “Lower your guards; we’ll return to this moment!” All that you’ve read are the lengthy “lost in zoning” thoughts that poured into my mind while I stood lost in contemplation. Then, suddenly, I felt death's icy chill—a chrome .45 ACP pressed against my temple. A neighbor intervened, pleading with the gunman, “There are no bullets.” The pistol fired, striking our neighbor, condemning him to a wheelchair to this day.

Let Us Pray
Mercy in the river, compassion in the flow, Ancient of Days, Rock of Offense, Master of storms and waves, timeless eternity, My Well of Wisdom, Gentle flowing waters of Shaloah, I am your blank canvas. My divine manifestation. Potter, I am your clay; mold me. Brothers, I guess I was saved for greater works—floating axes, purifying waters, saving souls. A noble purpose that ignites my heart.
The Holy Spirit envelops me, a cool breeze of presence, providing safety, a majesty that evokes child-like love. While others describe His presence as warm, I know it as gentle and soothing
Quest for Truth
In my search for pure intentions, I realized a book should not merely be captivating but instead beautifully misleading. It should foster a spiritual dialogue, yoked in truth, purpose-driven, and unflinchingly honest. Bound in pure intentions, tied to consistency, it sounds—a pestering sound, unpredictable like the Holy Spirit.

Dichotomy
I was a product of a toxic environment, where violence and dysfunction reigned supreme. The Den of Thieves—a gang I was entangled with—left a trail of destruction in our wake. Goat, Bustard, and Durban D, all fallen comrades, their lives abruptly snuffed out by the very lifestyle we embraced.
I was a slave to my own demons, transporting guns and stolen goods until Durban D's words pierced through the chaos: "This is not your life." But I was too far gone, consumed by the darkness.
Our household was a breeding ground for dysfunction: fatherless children, born of wedlock, rarely experiencing the sanctity of marriage. Male figures, consumed by womanizing, altered destinies, leaving scars that refused to heal.
I was a statistic, a byproduct of a hereditary curse: womanizing, substance abuse, financial constraints, jail, chronic illnesses, unfulfilled dreams. The thief—a metaphor for satan and the destructive forces in our lives—stole our blessings, our destinies, our stars.
CS Mdlalose's silence was deafening, a cold and cruel response to the chaos we had wrought. Ostracized, rejected, and left for dead, I was forced to confront the truth of my existence.
I was a tiny stick, rejected and left to rot until God’s heavy hand intervened. I was consumed by hallucinations, because of substance abuse; His presence tearing through my soul like a tempest. Fear overpowered me, my teeth gnashing uncontrollably as my spirit wrestled with the forces that sought to consume me.
Left with a choice: to continue down the path of destruction or to embrace the cross—the solution to the chaos that had enveloped me.

X the Enigma
In the midst of Hammarsdale's carnage, one name resonated with terror: Xolani (Im sure you remember him)His reputation for brutality and bloodlust preceded him, striking fear into the hearts of all who crossed his path. With an unyielding ferocity, he slaughtered without remorse, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake.

Xolani was more than just a figure of fear; he was a friend of Schiza the exterminator, his mentor, who killed 10% of Hammarsdale, who would not yield to death even when struck to the point of holding his brain in his hands. Such was the resilience of those who walked the shadowy path alongside Xolani, a testament to their determination—only after the witchcraft belts were removed did they find a semblance of peace from their torment.

His obsession with violence was mesmerizing, a twisted allure that drew him to the darkest depths of human depravity. His eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity, a window to a soul consumed by an insatiable hunger for bloodshed.

But Xolani's legend was not without its scars. He had faced death itself, surviving a hail of bullets in a daring attempt to disarm a gunman. The incident only added to his myth, a testament to his unwavering resolve.

Xolani's influence extended far beyond his own actions. He had been the secret weapon of big parties like the IFP, using his brutal expertise to further their interests. However, everything changed when he met Durban D and Goat. Xolani's allegiance shifted, and he turned against his former allies, becoming a rogue element in the deadly game of political violence.

This betrayal would prove to be a pivotal moment, setting off a chain reaction of events that would forever alter the landscape of Hammarsdale's brutal underworld. Xolani's transformation from a ruthless enforcer to a rogue agent marked the beginning of a new era, one where allegiances would be tested and the rules of the game would be rewritten.

As the years passed, Xolani's legend grew, a cautionary tale of the devastating consequences of unchecked brutality. His name remained etched in the collective consciousness, a haunting reminder of the horrors that humanity was capable of inflicting.

One haunting memory associated with violence has always lingered in my family. My grandmother, while working for the Red Cross, once witnessed a man who had been stabbed countless times. Despite the chaos surrounding them, she bravely sought to save the lives of those who were in danger. As she approached the dying man, she asked him who had inflicted such violence upon him. With his last breath, he uttered a name that sent chills down her spine: “Mayedwa Mntambo,” his son, my uncle, I’m sure you remember him. This chilling connection to familial violence underscored the very real horrors that Xolani and others like him perpetuated in their wake.

Durban D and Goat's transformation served as a grim testament to Xolani's enduring influence, a legacy blood and destruction that continued to unfold long after the initial carnage had subsided. In the end, Xolani's story became not just one of personal horror but a reflection of the cycle of violence that gripped an entire community, forever altering the lives of those who remained.

Durban D and Sizwe(Bigfoot)

In the depths of Hammarsdale, where darkness reigned and silence was deafening, two legends emerged: Durban D and Sizwe (Bigfoot) I’m sure you remember them. Their bond was unbreakable, a union forged in the fires of adversity. Durban D, once a victim of relentless bullying and humiliation, found solace in Sizwe's shadow. The latter, a towering figure with an arsenal of guns, taken from fallen police officers, not handed to him, but seized through blood and sweat.

Sizwe's arrival marked a drastic change in Durban D's fate. No longer would he be the laughing stock, the wet bedder, the emotionally battered soul. With Sizwe by his side, Durban D transformed into a force to be reckoned with. His name struck fear, his reputation preceded him, and his actions left a trail of awe.

Gcwabe, my closest friend, was the bravest of them all. Durban D himself acknowledged Gcwabe's fearlessness, saying, "If you want to join us, be brave like him." Gcwabe was the only one who dared challenge Durban D, and their bond was forged in the heat of that rivalry.

As we navigated the treacherous landscape of Hammarsdale, Durban D's legend grew. He robbed cell phones with impunity, sometimes four at a time. His notoriety peaked when he shot a former bully in the leg, earning his name and cementing his status.

Sizwe, the celestial king, watched over Durban D, his protégé, his brother. Together, they ruled the streets, their silence deafening, their darkness palpable. Theirs was a bond of blood, forged in the depths of obsidian, unbreakable and eternal.

In this world of drastic change, where creation and destruction walked hand in hand, Durban D and Sizwe stood tall, their names etched in the annals of Hammarsdale's history. Their story, a masterpiece of suspense and rawness, would forever be etched in the hearts of those who witnessed their reign.


Chapter 2 Amen – A New Meaning

I once thought I had it all, with over three million rands and material possessions galore. But I gave it all away, only to realize that true wealth lies beyond earthly riches. Mark Twain's words echoed in my mind: "The earth was here first."

I delved into the vastness of our universe, trying to comprehend the magnitude of creation. The Earth, a mere drop in the ocean, yet teeming with life. The Creator's puzzle, comprising 7 billion pieces, each one of us a unique part of the grand design.

I've walked through the fire and emerged scarred, yet wiser. Brain cancer, HIV, strokes, heart incision, covid and more – my body bears the marks of a life lived on the edge. But I've learned to proclaim my testimony, to demonstrate power before teaching.

My mornings begin at 1 am, with worship and prayer, undoing incantations, commanding blessings, and seeking guidance. I take the enemy to the courts of heaven, seeking verdicts and justice. This is my worship, my resistance against the devil.

The name Yahweh, "I AM," is etched in our DNA, a reminder that we are all God's property. When we speak, we invoke His name, acknowledging His presence in our lives.

I see Adam as the first prophet, confirming God's names for the animals. And I wonder, did God already name them, or did Adam's words hold the power of creation?

In the midst of conception, a mind trapped in a psychic ward, a heart battling internal truth. Fear takes physical form, a voice that commands attention. Evil resides, numbing the soul, yet familiarity offers a semblance of comfort.

This is my story, a tale of darkness and light, of struggle and redemption. The journey is far from over, but I'll continue to seek the truth, no matter how brutal it may be.


Chapter Three: Transition

Concealment is God's glory, but kings seek to uncover the truth (Proverbs 25:2). A marble ashtray shattered on her face, and his world stood still. Fear rushed in as she fell, responsive to the impact. This was no mere drama; it was a glimpse into the cruelty that lurked in every corner.

Let's unravel the scenario slowly. A young boy struggled to stand after witnessing his grandmother being struck. He swiftly ran past her, into the next bedroom, where their domestic helper was being forced down. He realized later that it was rape, a truth he was too young to comprehend.

I'll guide you through the chaos. From sunrise to sunset, the boy accompanied his friends to the wilderness, hunting and setting traps. They built wire cars, played cards, and stole food from local shops. But amidst the chaos, he felt an aforesense yearning, warning him of the darkness that loomed over the neighborhood.

He found solace in three things: sitting with his grandmother, learning from her wisdom and teachings; enjoying artwork, finding peace in still art; and sitting with me, his constant companion. I inspired him, and he found heaven in those moments.

I sat beside him, behind him, and even inside him, perceiving everything from his perspective. I saw it all, experienced it all, with heightened senses. You may wonder who or what I am. I'll reveal the truth, but first, let's confront the darkness head-on.


Automaton

I delighted in observing his dopamine reactions, fascinated by the intense sensations and stimulations. Witnessing happiness entice his dopamine was a wondrous sight. I'd exit his mind and observe from behind, watching the sun between the mountains with him. The horizon was magnificent, a kaleidoscope of colors that defied description. I'd sit with him, observing the colors transition from glass white to yellow, orange, and finally, red. The sun's light danced across the horizon, a breathtaking display.

He was a unique individual, propelled by ambition and curiosity. His mind was soul-searching, and I chose to indwell him because of his peace and humbleness. Though he was fearsome and clueless, he had a generous heart, and his enemies attested to his kindness.

But on that fateful day, everything changed. The horizon, once a symbol of beauty, became a reminder of trauma. The violence and fear that surfaced would haunt him forever. His grandmother, a pillar of protection, had left for work, leaving him vulnerable.

Now, I'll let him continue the story, but be warned: his flashbacks may be challenging to navigate. I'll intervene when necessary to guide him through the darkness. Now let me ease that curiosity edged in your heart as you’ve been wondering who or what am I, I am his Spirit the narrator.


Transition II

In the depths of a forsaken house, a marble ashtray shattered on her face, unleashing a canvas of blood that seemed to scream in silence. His world froze, fear crystallizing in his veins like icy shards. She crumpled to the ground, her body surrendering to the impact, as if the darkness itself had consumed her.

This was no mere dramatization; it was the chilling reality of cruelty, a glimpse into the abyss that lurked within the hearts of men. The air was heavy with the stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, a noxious miasma that clung to the skin like a bad omen.

Everyone in the house was intoxicated, their drunkenness fueling the violence that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. His cousin, overwhelmed and pounding in his chest, signalled him to hide under the bed, as if the shadows themselves could protect him from the horror that unfolded.

In the midst of chaos, he heard whispers, saw his uncle being stabbed by a knife-wielding stranger, the blade glinting like a sliver of moonlight in the darkness. Time stood still, fear overpowering him, as if the celestial king himself was lurking in the obsidian thick darkness, watching and waiting.

The only sounds were distant screams, shouts, and prayers, a cacophony of terror that seemed to reverberate through the very fabric of existence. And then, a glimmer of hope - the police arrived, bouncing onto the bed, a new meaning to the word "amen," a fragile thread of salvation in the midst of unmitigated horror.

Actualization
Fast-forward to 2012—a new chapter beckoned as I secured a job in Johannesburg, and I could almost taste the sweet nectar of financial freedom. But lurking in the shadows was the specter of my past, ready to resurface and threaten to engulf me once more. The city pulsed with vibrant energy, yet a quiet unease settled in the pit of my stomach like a heavy stone.
As I navigated the sprawling concrete jungle, memories of my tumultuous childhood lingered like ghosts, reminding me of the violence and trauma I had endured. Determined to forge a new life, I resolved to leave the shackles of my past behind and carve out a brighter future.

This Is Not Your Life
A dark cloud perpetually loomed overhead, casting an unyielding shadow of despair upon my soul. The spiritual trauma I had endured left an indelible mark, a persistent reminder of the anguish I faced. My existence felt like an endless battle, an internal war fought within the confines of my own mind.
I vividly recall the day fury consumed me. A driver's reckless indifference ignited a firestorm within my chest. I pursued him, a tempest of rage propelling me forward, determined to unleash chaos. I dragged him from his vehicle, letting loose a storm of violence. His desperate attempts at self-defence merely intensified my wrath. I was an unstoppable force—ferocious and relentless.
“This is not your life,” Durban D’s words echoed in my mind, a poignant reminder that I was living a lie, a mere shadow of my true self.

Labour Pains
I veered off my path, momentarily side-tracked by the demons of my past. The memories of a heart incision lingered, painfully reminding me of my own fragility. Two conflicting spirits warred within me—one steeped in doubt about a higher power, the other yearning for solace in faith.

Pruning
In the depths of a ruthless winter in 1987, in notorious Mpumalanga, KwaZulu-Natal, a colossal foe emerged. Boh, a towering monolith with a heart of black stone, descended upon me with unbridled ferocity. His boulder-like projectile struck me, squeezing the breath from my lungs, leaving me gasping like a fish cast upon a desolate shore. The aftermath was a slow, agonizing descent into darkness—a battle for survival against insurmountable odds.
Fast-forward: my heart swelled like a ticking time bomb, the aorta leaking life-giving blood with reckless abandon. A diagnosis loomed—one that felt insurmountable, a death sentence mocking my very existence. The physicians at Joburg Gen Hospital, esteemed guardians of medical excellence, fought valiantly for my life with a ferocity that matched the storm within. My heart, surgically removed, became a ghastly vision from a horror story; the pain was immeasurable, my chest split open like a ravaged canvas.
Yet, against all odds, I survived—a phoenix rising from the ashes. Despite my survival, my conscience echoed mercilessly with the heartaches of my past, the social ills plaguing my township like a malignant cancer, and the haunting void of a fatherless existence reverberating through my life.
Death became my constant companion—a shadow that refused to dissipate, trailing me like a grim specter. Cousins, friends, relatives—all casualties of fate’s cruel hands, swept away like leaves in a hurricane. I existed in numbness, yet the spirit within urged caution, reminding me that trust must be earned and maturity tempered, like steel forged in the fires of adversity.
Thus, I searched for answers, for a way to escape the labyrinth of despair.

Infernal Intro
They say dreams do come true, but first, let’s test your memory. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” I would scoff, “Five years? Com'on man I’m not a prophet I hardly know where I’ll be tomorrow!” Yet fate scripted an unexpected plot twist. In the blink of an eye, I found myself a millionaire—an unwitting magnet for hate, jealousy, and malignity.
Now, as I recount, I stepped into my new house with arrogance, clutching over R3 million. I splurged on a R300,000 television, outfitted my home with motion sensors and voice command technology. Opulent cars adorned my driveway, and I frequently found myself in upscale strip clubs, where entrance fees soared above R700, showering attention on women with offerings exceeding R2,000 each. My wardrobe grew extravagantly—R5,000 jeans and R100,000 in clothing collected like trophies of indulgence. Each night, I amassed R100,000, excluding R4,000 spent on luxurious colognes, with stores closing just for me—an homage to my sinful worship.
Yet, this lavish lifestyle, my sacred altar, bore the weight of nightmares. My narrative could indeed qualify for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). Life is a dirge of tangled connections, and reckless gambling births dire consequences. So hold tight, for the inferno is primed to unfold…

Chapter Four: Why Is My Bed Wet?
In the depths of a forgotten hospital, I find myself locked in an endless nightmare. The oppressive air, thick with the scent of decay, immerses me in a dread that grips my very being. My body, a vessel of pain and sorrow, lies in a bed that feels as if it were crafted from shadows and despair. It has become a wasteland, saturated with sweat, tears, and the remnants of a life interrupted.

Around me, echoes of the fallen linger—seven elders lost in less than a week. Their silent forms haunt the dimly lit corners of this forsaken place, serving as grim reminders of my own fragility. The sorrow seeping through the walls wraps around me tightly, numbing my heart, making grief my only companion. Still, I endure—an unwilling warrior in a battle I never chose.

Then, abruptly, I awaken to an unsettling realization: my bed is soaked. The oppressive weight of my drool-soaked pillow crushes down on me, a grotesque souvenir of restless nights and poorly chewed meals, an embodiment of dysfunction. My throat feels parched, a relentless thirst gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, while my body remains an unwilling prisoner of its own failure.
This pillow, now a reservoir of my silent despair, bears witness to the countless tear-stained nights—a reminder of the torment I endure. The air is heavy with the acrid scent of antiseptics, mingling with the stale perfume of loss and hopelessness. My sheets, smeared with blood, speak of daily struggles, the harsh reminders of my body's withdrawals from the substances meant to alleviate my pain.

I examine my arms, skeletal and thin, the skin stretched tight over bones that ache with every flicker of movement. My pallor speaks volumes, my sunken eyes reflect a shadow of the person I used to be. I feel like a ghost, adrift in this bleak existence.

Tethered to a drip tube, I recognize my dependence on medical machines—I am trapped within this web of suffering. Weakness has taken hold, depleting my spirit while fate pushes me further into the abyss. I am ensnared, a captive of flesh and sorrow.

Yet, amidst this suffocating dark, a flicker of defiance ignites within me. A flame of determination, fierce and unyielding, flickers against the cold reality of my existence. I refuse to be extinguished. I will not succumb to despair; I will rise from this torment.

I am a phoenix, poised to rise from the ashes of my pain. My wings—though battered—are still capable of flight; my heart, though heavy, beats with an unquenchable resolve. I am not just a victim of circumstance; I am a warrior engraved in the story of my own life, a hero yet to emerge fully.

With every heartbeat, I claim my power. I am the master of my fate, the captain of my soul. And though the walls may close in, I promise myself this: I will not be defined by this suffering, but by my relentless pursuit of hope and healing. I will emerge from this dark chapter, reborn and unwavering, ready to reclaim the life that awaits beyond these sterile walls.

Chapter Five: Narrow Path - Strictly Believers
In the depths of darkness, where silence reverberates and stillness envelops, I discovered the invincible power of God's presence. "Peace, be still, and know that I am God"—a divine decree that shattered my fears and ignited an unquenchable fire within me.

As I journeyed along the narrow path, steadfastly guided by the principles of faith, I encountered the invisible force of God’s presence. It surged through me, dismantling strongholds and breaking the chains of doubt that had once bound my spirit.

With each step, I felt the weight of God’s determination propelling me forward, even amidst uncertainty. The scriptures, once mere words, now ignited a fierce passion within me as I grasped the simplicity and power of God's promises.

“I led you astray—deliberately—to bring you here; this was my purpose, a divine decoy,” I realized. “No, no, no, don’t turn away; hold fast to your declarations as you often say. Be open to different perceptions.”

As I shared my story, I revealed random thoughts, unquoted verses, and experiences that had led me to my greatest treasure—a treasure more valuable than gold, borne of significant cost. I had to be sifted like wheat, much like Peter, to find the strength to stand firm. Sometimes, I needed to depart before I could return.

God allowed me to be mute, but within that silence, I discovered my voice. I learned not to retrace my steps but to press forward, relying on the wisdom of God as my guide.

I recognized that wisdom would protect me from the allure of a wayward woman with her seductive words, one who had forsaken the partner of her youth and forgotten her covenant with God. I learned to wear the wisdom of God around my neck like a cherished necklace, discerning the seasons of my life.

I came to understand that I was at war and that there exists an art to such battles. I had to stop thinking like a typical Christian and begin to comprehend the package the angel delivered. I had to nurture my heart, just as I would my daughter, and find rest in the Word.

I confronted the thorn in my flesh—the deep pain of betrayal—and leaned on the mind of Christ for strength. I allowed myself to grieve what I had lost, yet I was reminded that the God I serve can strengthen feeble knees and help one stand again.

This book is not solely about me; it is about the journey—the narrow path followed by strictly believers. It encompasses declarations, wisdom, love, and the boundless power of God. So let us breathe, let us begin, and let us walk this path together.

I am not a theologian or a seasoned writer; I am not qualified or recognized as an author. I am merely a humble servant—unworthy and unqualified. But I have God, and that is everything. My aim is not self-promotion; it is to proclaim the truth.

I recall Moses' encounter with God, when he was asked, "What do you have in your hand?" Moses replied, "A staff." God transformed that staff into a snake, prompting Moses to flee in fear. Yet God instructed him to grasp the snake by the tail, and it returned to the staff. This story reminds us that what we need is often hidden in plain sight; we must seek out and utilize what we already possess.

I hold the Word of God with utmost care, committed to avoiding errors and misinformation. Scholars warn against the penalties of heresy and biblical inaccuracies. As ambassadors of Christ, we must be truthful in our interpretations, guided by the following principles:

- Literal(plain interpretation)
- Scriptural(contextual understanding)
- Traditional/Cultural (considering customs and background)
- Metaphorical
- Spiritual

I am not perfect, but I strive to apply my knowledge wisely, recognizing the perfection and infallibility of scripture. Let us focus on proclaiming truth, not self-aggrandizement.
Her

“When I smiled at them, they scarcely believed it.” (Job 29:24)

Wow! Seriously? Are we really expected to invest in this book? Personally, if this book were a meal, I would rather cancel my order and demand a full refund—and maybe even pursue legal action for my wasted time. My sincerest apologies for that outburst; it is rather ungracious to begin a book in such a manner. Yet, how does one start a book on such a high note? Even opera singers seldom reach those heights; diabetics certainly don’t strive for such extremes.

Let’s try anew.

Growing up, I knew five utterly beautiful girls—at least, in appearance: Natoli, Nombuso, Mandisa, Kage, and Swazi. Yet, despite their external allure, none approached the essence of this singular one I’ll refer to as “she” or “her.” What set her apart was an inner beauty—one that transcended mere words. When we first met, I was meticulous, driven, and orderly, and she, with her keen sense of observation and desire to grow, absorbed every ounce of the goodness I had to offer. Everything I taught her, she exceeded—truly a reflection of a nurturing spirit.

The Bible says, “Wisdom is proved right by her children.” Look at our daughter to see her; she embodies her mother, a perfect reflection of our joint efforts. In her, we see nobility of character. At times, I ponder how I found her, but I did. She was humble yet brimming with quiet confidence and possessed a wealth of intrinsic value.

In my life, she has brought me joy, never harm. She would wake while it was still dark, providing nourishment for our family, crafting coverings for her bed. Because of her, I was respected. She spoke with wisdom, and faithful instruction flowed effortlessly from her lips. “Many women do noble things, but she surpasses them all.” As the book of Proverbs reminds us: “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.”

God has watched over her; her light shines like a beacon, guiding her through darkness. Oh, how I long for the days of her prime when God’s intimate friendship graced our home. I etched her name in the palm of my heart, as the Almighty was with us, surrounding us with the laughter of our daughter. In those moments, her path overflowed with abundance, and the very rock poured forth streams of olive oil for me.

The young and old alike would stand aside as she passed. Chiefs fell silent, covering their mouths; the voices of nobles were hushed, their tongues adhering to the roofs of their mouths in reverence. Whoever encountered her spoke well of her, and those who beheld her sang her praises. Even the dying blessed her; she brought joy to the widow’s heart. She wore righteousness like garments; justice enveloped her like a regal robe.

She was eyes for the blind and feet for the lame. A father to the needy, she stood up for the downtrodden. Her roots reached deep into the waters; the dew lingered lovingly on her branches. Her glory was unyielding, and the bow in her hand remained ever new.

People gathered to listen to her, hanging on her every word in anticipating silence. When she spoke, the air grew still; her voice was a gentle rain upon their ears. They awaited her counsel as one awaits a refreshing shower, drinking in her wisdom as if it were spring rain. The light of her smile was precious—to them and to me. When she smiled, they could scarcely believe it.


Chapter Eight: He

One enthroned in heaven laughs; the Lord scoffs at them. (Psalms 2:4) Allegedly

In the midst of my darkness, I thought of five aspiring brothers, but one stood out - 'He'. He was aspiring me from the inside, beyond words. I grew up loving art, and the first artwork that inspired me was drawn by Him when I was seven. I looked up to Him like a big brother, my mentor, role model, and king. He was articulate, and I wanted to be like Him.

But when I introduced Him to Her, He approved of Her as a wife material. I was glad, but when His praises grew overwhelmingly, I became alarmed. After my first stroke, I lost everything, including Her. She separated from me, and I went back to my old ways. I was in chains for seven months, and when I returned, everything had changed. Beauty turned to ugliness, sweetness to bitterness, light to gloom, and holiness to pure evil.

I saw Him set a snare like Satan, a calculated trap for Her. I tried warning Her, but She wouldn't listen. This situation was the strangest occurrence. I remember laying in bed, thinking of Her and what She had done with Her employee. Little did I know, I was entering into a second stroke. She was the last person on my mind before the second stroke attacked me.

I wrote Her a message, "I saw U crying while compromising yourself. I know I was the cause." I told Her, "Everyone's priorities have changed, and this will never work out." I warned Her, "He will one day get tired of you and want to get married to someone else, and then what will happen to our daughter?"

I felt like David on Uriah the Hittite, Bathsheba's husband. He sabotaged me with speech therapy attendance and transportation money because I depended on Him financially. I believe it was His way to keep me mute.

His photo is in the room I'm sleeping in. I remember crying for days, asking Him in that photo to stop hurting me, and asking God when it will stop. Now, some of you will ask how long has this been. Three years! Yes, it's been three years since so-called "Christians" have been testing the almighty God.


Chapter Seven: Azan (Equilibrium)

Thoughts accusing them and at other times even defending them. (Romans 2:15) My world crumbled after a recurring stroke, and I lost everything, including Her. She separated from me, and I spiralled into darkness, seeking solace in alcohol, drugs, and the houses of prostitutes. I was chained with killers in rehab for seven months, a poignant reminder of life's fragility. Yet, in the midst of turmoil, I discovered a glimmer of hope – the realization that true freedom lies within.

When I returned, everything concerning Her had changed drastically. Beauty had turned to ugliness, sweetness to bitterness, light to gloom, and holiness to pure evil. Some secrets I promised God not to speak of, sealed like the mystery of the seven thunders of God. I realized that our mouths symbolize a hyssop, used to invoke God's presence, and that our words should build, not destroy.

In the midst of chaos, I missed the found and lost solace in the innocence of a child, who walks around naked, feeling no shame. A child invades everyone's space, grabs, and drags, with no concept of privacy or fear. They will give you whatever they have, including laughter, and drag you into their world. That's the beauty of innocence.

But our relationship was marred by darkness. We did terrible things to each other, and I don't exclude myself. I remember her pain, her warnings, and her pleas. I saw her change, like a good girl gone bad, and I knew I had to let go. I sacrificed my secrets, my trust, and my heart, but she broke down, lied, and mocked the word of God.

I knew I had to pray from afar, to seek hope in Christ, and to fear God. I sent her lyrics, quotes, and scriptures, but she became more stubborn. I described her actions using scriptures from Isaiah and Psalms, warning her of the dangers of evil altars and inherited sins. But I kept quiet, knowing that Jesus said, "Do not give what is sacred to the dogs; do not throw your pearls to pigs."

Chapter Nine: Abel, My Brother's Keeper (Genesis 4:9)
Weren’t you supposed to be my brother's keeper? Yet instead, you've become a heartless destroyer, ravaging the lives of those I hold dear. Your treachery has awakened the beast within me, and now you will face the full fury of my vengeance.
I remember the day you drew that artwork for me, and I looked up to you like a big brother. But now, you reveal yourself as the monster you truly are. You gave me milk, treated me like a child, only to drive a firm peg into my temple, like Sisera.
Like David with Saul, I spared your life a thousand times, but now I will show no mercy. You've taken my weak concubines as Absalom did with David, and now you will suffer my wrath. I’ll tear you apart like a rabid wolf, leaving nothing but shattered bones and splintered flesh.
You've unleashed the darkness within me, and now it will consume you. I will be the angel of death, descending upon you with fiery wrath. Your fate is sealed. Prepare to face the abyss, for I am the instrument of your destruction.
I will pour out my vengeance like a flood, and you will be consumed by its ferocity. You will beg for death, but it will come slowly and agonizingly. Your agony will be my ecstasy.