Ashes beneath the city

Chapter Six: Ashes and Seeds

The city always moved forward, even when you didn’t.

Taxis still shouted their destinations. Vendors still fried vetkoek by dawn. Life went on, indifferent to who had fallen behind.

For Luthando, time had slowed — not stopped, but thickened. Days melted into one another, and survival became a quiet routine: doing odd jobs, helping his mother, walking through Alexandra’s restless heartbeat.

Yet, every evening, when the noise dimmed and the sky turned the color of rust, he opened his notebook.

The first line still read:

New project: For those the city forgot.

Each day, he added something new.

Ideas. Names. Fragments of thoughts.

Youth center — no fees.

Community garden — to feed the hungry.

Workshops — real skills, not empty slogans.

It was all impossible, of course. But so was survival — and he’d done that his whole life.

One morning, he went back to the abandoned community center — the one with broken windows and peeling paint. Children still played outside, chasing a half-flat soccer ball.

“Hey, bhuti,” one of them called, “you coming to play?”

He smiled. “Maybe later. I’m too old to embarrass myself in front of pros.”

They laughed. Their joy, so effortless, made something inside him soften.

He walked around the building, pushing open the creaking door. Dust rose in the air like memory. Sunlight pierced through the cracks, catching on old posters that read: “Youth Against Drugs” and “Clean Up Alex Day 2010.”

It smelled of neglect — but also possibility.

He could almost hear the echo of what this place used to be: a center for kids, a shelter for dreams before corruption and decay took it.

He whispered, “You still have a heartbeat, old friend.”

Later that week, he met Nandi again. She’d been avoiding him since the scandal — not because she doubted him, but because her own job had become fragile under hospital politics.

When she saw him waiting outside the clinic, she stopped in surprise. “Luthando… you look—”

“Alive?” he finished for her.

She smiled cautiously. “Something like that. What brings you here?”

“I need your help,” he said. “And your honesty.”

That earned a raised brow. “You always want the impossible.”

He chuckled softly. “I found an old community center — dead place, but I think I can bring it back. For kids, for people with nothing to do but survive. I just need… supplies, maybe some medical outreach, and someone who believes I’m not mad.”

Her eyes softened. “You’re not mad, Lu. Just stubborn.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

She looked away, thoughtful. “If you’re serious, I’ll ask around. Some of the nurses might help with a health day. But I can’t promise funding.”

“I’m not asking for money,” he said. “Just a start.”

He began small.

He cleared the weeds himself, borrowed paint from a friend who worked in construction, patched the walls using discarded boards.

Children watched him curiously, then joined in — some bringing brushes, others helping to clean. Word spread fast. Within a week, the whole neighborhood knew Luthando the thief was fixing a broken building for free.

Some mocked him.

Some whispered pity.

But others — quietly — began to help.

Old men brought leftover wood. Women donated chairs and buckets. A taxi driver offered to drop off cement from a construction site.

It wasn’t much. But it was a beginning.

He painted the words “THE SEED HOUSE” above the entrance.

“Why that name?” a teenager asked.

“Because everything starts small,” he said. “Even change.”

Soon, young people began to gather there after school — drawn by curiosity, then by belonging.

He taught them how to write CVs, how to speak at interviews, how to tell their stories without shame.

He borrowed a whiteboard from a church and scribbled quotes across it every morning:

“You don’t need a title to lead.”

“Truth doesn’t need permission.”

“If they won’t give you a seat at the table, build your own table.”

They started a garden in the yard — planting spinach, tomatoes, and onions. Some laughed at first, but when the first green shoots pushed through the soil, the laughter turned to pride.

Even Ayanda joined, teaching the younger kids their homework, smiling for the first time in months.

One day, she said, “Bhuti, this place feels like home.”

He looked at her and thought, That’s exactly what it’s meant to be.

But not everyone saw it that way.

Bright Horizons heard about The Seed House.

It began with an email.

Mr. Maseko,

We have been informed that you are using Bright Horizons’ community program concepts and materials under an unauthorized initiative. Please cease operations immediately or face legal action for intellectual property infringement.

Regards,

Management, Bright Horizons Youth Empowerment.

He read the message twice, stunned. Then he laughed — the kind of laugh that comes from disbelief.

“They want to own hope now?” he muttered.

When he showed the letter to Nandi, her eyes filled with fire. “They can’t do that. You’re not using their name or funding!”

“They don’t care about that,” he said quietly. “They care about control. My existence embarrasses them.”

“So what will you do?”

He folded the letter, slid it into his pocket, and said, “Keep building.”

The threats grew louder. Online, fake stories resurfaced — anonymous posts accusing him of theft, manipulation, fake charity work. Someone even vandalized the Seed House walls with graffiti: “Thief of Dreams.”

It hurt — but he didn’t stop.

Every insult became fuel. Every setback, a lesson.

The community saw his persistence. Slowly, people who once avoided him began to visit, bringing donations or just sitting in silence, feeling safer near his defiance.

One afternoon, an older woman approached. “My son… he was one of those volunteers at Bright Horizons. He told me what really happened. You didn’t steal anything. You just refused to stay quiet.”

He nodded, emotion thick in his throat. “Thank you, mama.”

She placed a small envelope in his hand. “For paint,” she said, and walked away.

Inside was R200 — not much, but more than most had to spare.

He looked at the peeling wall, then at the kids running in the garden, and whispered, “We’ll make it enough.”

By late summer, the Seed House had transformed.

The garden flourished.

The walls glowed in bright colors — painted by local artists with stories of resilience and freedom.

On weekends, the place filled with music — local poets, street dancers, young rappers performing for whoever showed up.

It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the skyline, Nandi stood beside him, watching the kids laugh and dance.

“You did it,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “We did it. The city just forgot how strong its people were.”

She smiled. “You’re not just surviving anymore, Luthando. You’re sowing.”

He looked at the glowing letters above the gate — The Seed House — and whispered, almost to himself:

“Let’s see what grows.”