Days turned into a blur of work and silence.Without Ayanda, the Seed House felt incomplete — like a song missing its rhythm.People noticed his absence but didn’t ask.They sensed it wasn’t gossip — it was grief.Luthando buried himself in repairs. He fixed walls that didn’t need fixing, painted over cracks no one else saw. Every stroke of the brush was an apology he couldn’t say out loud.Nandi watched him from a distance, waiting for the right moment to speak. When she finally did, it was gentle, not scolding.“You can build forever, Lu,” she said, “but you can’t plaster over pain.”He didn’t look up. “The Seed House is standing, isn’t it? That’s what matters.”“No,” she said softly. “The people inside it matter. You matter.”Her words hung in the air like dust in sunlight — visible, unavoidable.A week later, Mandisa called a board meeting. The topic was simple: how to move forward.“We need new leadership voices,” she said. “Ayanda’s absence left a gap. We can’t let that turn int

For weeks, the Seed House buzzed like a hive.Visitors poured in — university students, foreign donors, local politicians eager to pose beside the mural.At first, it felt like victory.Every handshake, every photo, every mention on social media whispered: We see you now.But fame has a strange hunger.It eats quietly — until the people feeding it forget why they started.One Monday morning, a sleek black car pulled up outside the gates.A man in a tailored suit stepped out, his smile polished like glass.“Mr. Dlamini,” he said warmly, extending a hand. “My name is Kabelo Nare. I represent a foundation — The Renewal Initiative. We’d like to invest in your project.”Luthando hesitated. “Invest how?”“Funding, expansion, national recognition. We can help you replicate the Seed House model across the country. Imagine—fifty centers like this one, all carrying your name.”The words your name stung. They didn’t sound like hope — they sounded like temptation.Mandisa sat in on the meeting, h

The first stone came through the window on a Wednesday evening.No warning, no shouts — just the sharp crack of glass and the dull thud of fear.By the time Luthando ran outside, the street was already filled with voices.Angry, confused, misled voices.“They said you stole!”“They said you lied to the city!”“Where’s the money, Dlamini?”He tried to speak, to calm them, but words were swallowed by noise.Someone threw another bottle. It shattered near the gate, flames licking at the dry grass.Mandisa and Nandi rushed out with buckets, stamping it out before it spread.When it was over, Luthando just stood there, staring at the blackened patch of earth.It looked too familiar.The police came late — too late. They took statements, nodded politely, and left with empty promises.Inside, the Seed House smelled of smoke again.Not enough to destroy, but enough to remind.“This is what they want,” Mandisa said bitterly. “Fear. Silence. Submission.”Luthando leaned against the wall, exhaus

A week feels longer when your name is on trial.The city whispered his story on street corners, in buses, in church pews.Some said he was a fraud.Others said he was a saint.But most just said, He tried.The Seed House stayed open — unofficially.The volunteers came early and left late, working in defiance of silence.Luthando told them to rest, but no one did.“You can’t rest while your home’s on trial,” Nandi said.On the morning the verdict was due, the sky hung heavy with rain.Luthando didn’t plan to attend City Hall again.He’d already said everything that mattered.But Mandisa insisted.“They need to see you — the real you, not the rumor.”So he went, dressed plainly, shoulders straight.Outside the steps, a crowd had gathered — hundreds of faces, young and old, holding handwritten signs:“HANDS BUILT THIS.”“THE SEED HOUSE IS OUR HOME.”“TRUTH GROWS HERE.”The police tried to keep order, but the chanting wasn’t angry.It was steady, almost melodic.Inside, the council chambe

A year later, the city didn’t look the same.Not because the skyline had changed — the skyscrapers still stood tall, indifferent and glass-faced —but because the streets beneath them had begun to breathe differently.You could feel it in the markets, in the parks, in the alleys where people once whispered about hopelessness.Now they whispered about building.The Seed House network had spread — from one quiet corner of the city to seven neighborhoods, then ten, then beyond the city limits.Each new house was different: some were built from wood and tin, others from brick and glass.But they all shared one thing — a single mural painted on every front wall: a phoenix rising from a city skyline.It became a symbol of survival, of community, of faith in something that didn’t depend on politicians or donors — just people.Luthando had stopped giving speeches.He no longer needed to.Others had found their voices.There was Zola, who once came to the Seed House hungry and now ran the kitc