Ashes beneath the city

Chapter Five: The Burned Bridges

The chill of late autumn hung over Alexandra like a warning. Mornings came slower now, and even the sunlight seemed cautious, creeping through the corrugated gaps in the shacks as if afraid of what it might find inside.

For Luthando, the days at Bright Horizons had started to blur together — endless meetings, empty promises, smiling faces hiding rotting truths. Yet he stayed. Not out of loyalty, but because he believed walking away without exposing the rot would make him no better than them.

He arrived early that Monday, only to find a police van parked outside the NGO gates. A cluster of staff stood whispering near the entrance.

“What’s going on?” he asked one of the volunteers.

“They say there’s been an audit,” the girl replied, eyes wide. “Donations missing. Fraud or something.”

Inside, the usually pristine office buzzed with tension. A stern-looking man in a grey suit was speaking to Ms. Khumalo, who — for the first time — didn’t look entirely in control.

“Miss Khumalo,” he said, voice flat, “we’ve found discrepancies between your financial statements and your sponsors’ reports. Over one-point-six million rand unaccounted for.”

She smiled, though her hands trembled. “There must be a clerical error.”

“There are no clerical errors in three separate accounts,” he replied. “We’ll need to review all staff access and interview key personnel.”

Luthando turned to leave quietly — but she noticed him.

“Mr. Maseko,” she said suddenly, her tone sharp. “You have access to the storeroom records, don’t you?”

He froze. “Yes, but—”

“Then perhaps you can explain why several shipment logs have your signature and missing boxes.”

The room went silent.

“What?” He blinked, stunned. “Those were already half-empty when I—”

“Enough,” she interrupted smoothly. “It’s disappointing, Luthando. We trusted you.”

The man in the grey suit looked at him with suspicion. “You’re saying this employee had access to donor inventory?”

Ms. Khumalo nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Luthando felt the air leave his lungs. He wanted to shout, to expose her lies right there — but his voice caught in his throat.

The man scribbled something on his notepad. “We’ll have to report this. Please remain available for questioning.”

By midday, the story had already begun to spread among the volunteers.

“Did you hear?” someone whispered. “That guy Luthando — they say he stole stuff from donations.”

“No ways! He was always preaching honesty and hope.”

“Exactly. The loudest ones are always hiding something.”

Their words sliced him like knives.

Nandi found him later sitting outside, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

“Tell me it’s not true,” she said, voice trembling.

He lifted his head slowly. “You really think I could do that?”

She hesitated. “I don’t. But they’ve got documents, Lu. Your signature—”

“Because I worked there! I signed for those boxes, not what was inside them!”

She sat beside him, eyes full of worry. “Then you have to fight back. Don’t just let them destroy you.”

He nodded faintly. “I will.”

But fighting the system wasn’t as easy as speaking truth. When he tried to confront the auditors with what he’d seen — the fake receipts, the missing goods, the false branding — they told him politely that further investigation was ongoing.

By the next week, he was called into the office for a “disciplinary hearing.” Three people sat behind a table: Ms. Khumalo, a legal advisor, and a board representative who avoided meeting his eyes.

They accused him of gross misconduct, mishandling of donor inventory, and breach of organizational trust.

He defended himself fiercely. “You’re making me a scapegoat for your corruption!”

“Please, Mr. Maseko,” said the board representative, “these are serious accusations. Without evidence, we can’t—”

“Evidence?” he shouted. “You think she leaves evidence? Go check her travel logs, her hotel invoices! Look at the Cape Town trips, the donor transfers—”

“Enough,” Ms. Khumalo snapped. “We’re done here.”

The hearing ended in silence.

Two days later, he received an email.

Dear Mr. Maseko,

We regret to inform you that your volunteer contract with Bright Horizons has been terminated with immediate effect due to violations of conduct and trust. You are not permitted to enter the premises henceforth.

We wish you well in your future endeavors.

Just like that — erased.

The betrayal burned more than poverty ever had.

At least hunger was honest — it didn’t pretend to be something else.

Now he couldn’t walk through the township without whispers chasing him. Some of the same people he’d inspired now crossed the street when they saw him. Even the kids he’d once mentored looked away.

Sizwe found him one night at the corner tavern, nursing a cheap beer.

“Heard what happened, mfethu,” he said. “You shouldn’t have trusted those people.”

Luthando sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t trust anyone.”

Sizwe smirked. “Now you’re starting to sound like me.”

“I don’t want to sound like you,” he muttered.

Sizwe laughed. “Then keep fighting. But remember — the world doesn’t reward honesty. It rewards survival.”

Weeks passed. Luthando tried to find new work — security, retail, construction — but every door closed before it opened. Word of his “theft” followed him like a shadow.

Nandi still visited, though less often. She was torn between supporting him and protecting her own fragile career.

One evening she arrived, face pale.

“I heard from a nurse at the clinic,” she whispered. “Khulu — the old woman from block six — said Bright Horizons used your story in another event. They played your speech video, said you were an example of a young man who fell from grace but inspired others to do better.”

He stared at her, jaw tightening. “They used me… as a warning?”

She nodded. “They turned you into a lesson.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he laughed — not the warm kind, but hollow, dangerous.

“So they steal my name too.”

That night, he walked aimlessly through the dark streets, past the flickering lights and broken pavements. Somewhere in the distance, music played — muffled house beats from a shebeen.

He thought about everything he’d done to climb out of the mud. Every speech, every promise, every spark of belief. And how it all ended — not with failure, but with betrayal.

A group of young men sat near a fire barrel, drinking and joking. One of them — skinny, restless, no older than twenty — called out, “Luthando! You joining us, broer?”

He hesitated.

It would’ve been easy to sit down, take the bottle, let the night erase his thoughts.

But something in him refused.

He walked past them, through the narrow alleys, until he reached the hill overlooking the city skyline. The towers glowed like gold teeth in the dark — beautiful, distant, indifferent.

He whispered to himself, “They burned my bridge, but I’m still standing.”

He thought of his mother, frail but wise. Of Ayanda’s small hands tracing words in her schoolbooks. Of Nandi’s voice, soft but steady.

And he knew — if they could still believe in him, he had no right to quit.

The next morning, he sat outside the community center — an abandoned building with broken windows and graffiti walls. Children kicked a ball nearby, their laughter echoing through the cracks.

He opened his notebook, tore out a page, and wrote:

“New project: For those the city forgot.”

It was only a sentence, but it felt like breath returning to lungs.

He didn’t know how, or when, or with what money. But he’d start something real — small, honest, built from the same dust the city tried to bury him in.

Because if the bridges behind him were gone, then he’d build his own — even if it was out of ashes.