Ashes beneath the city

The Weight of Bread

The morning after rejection always felt heavier. It wasn’t just his body that ached — it was the air itself, thick with yesterday’s failures. Luthando woke before dawn again, but this time there was no rush to leave. He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the cracked concrete floor.

His mother’s coughing broke the silence. It started softly, then grew until her whole body shook. He rushed to her side. “Ma, breathe slowly. Here, sit up.”

Zanele obeyed, pressing a cloth to her mouth. When she pulled it away, he saw a faint streak of blood. His heart dropped.

“Ma…”

She smiled weakly, trying to hide the pain. “It’s just the dust, mntanami. The dust.”

He didn’t argue, but the fear in his chest burned. He fetched a tin cup of water and rubbed her back. Ayanda stirred from her sleep, blinking. “Is Ma okay?”

“Yes,” Luthando lied gently. “Go back to sleep, sisi.”

When the coughing subsided, he helped Zanele lie back down. “You need to see a doctor,” he said.

She shook her head. “You know how much the clinic charges if they don’t have free medication. Save your money for food.”

“Food means nothing if you’re not eating it,” he said, the edge in his voice unintentional.

Her eyes softened. “You have your father’s stubborn heart.”

Luthando looked away, swallowing the ache that came with that name. His father had died when he was sixteen — a taxi driver killed in a hijacking that was never solved. Since then, Luthando had become the man of the house, though he often felt like a boy pretending at strength.

He stepped outside into the cool air, needing to breathe. The township was stirring — women carrying buckets to the communal tap, men heading toward the taxi ranks, the smell of coal smoke hanging like a veil. Life here never paused for sorrow.

At mid-morning, he walked to the taxi rank to look for day jobs. Men stood around in small groups, some holding signs — “Painter,” “Plumber,” “Driver with license.” Luthando’s sign was simpler: “General work.”

A bakkie stopped nearby, and a man leaned out. “Need two for a moving job in Fourways!”

The crowd surged forward. Luthando managed to squeeze in, one of the lucky two.

The job was grueling — carrying furniture up three flights of stairs in a posh apartment complex. The kind of place where silence felt expensive. The tenants barely looked at them.

By sunset, his arms burned and his palms were raw. But when the boss handed him R150, it felt like a small victory. Enough for food, maybe medicine. He took the taxi back home, watching the city’s lights shimmer through exhaustion.

At the shack, Ayanda was bent over her schoolbooks, lips moving silently as she read. Zanele was asleep, her breathing shallow but steady.

He set the money down on the table. “We’ll buy groceries tomorrow,” he whispered to his sister.

Ayanda nodded. “Ma needs those white pills again — the ones the clinic gave last month.”

“I’ll check if the pharmacy has them cheap,” he said.

For dinner, they ate pap and tinned beans. The taste was simple, almost comforting. They didn’t speak much — words felt like luxuries at the end of a long day.

The next morning, he took Zanele’s clinic card and headed toward the Alexandra Community Health Centre. The waiting area was crowded, the smell of disinfectant and sweat thick in the air. Mothers with babies, old men coughing, teenagers staring at their phones — the whole township seemed to be here.

After two hours, a nurse called, “Next!”

The nurse was young, probably his age, with kind eyes behind tired glasses. Her name tag read Nandi Dlamini.

“Morning,” she said, smiling. “What seems to be the problem?”

“It’s for my mother,” Luthando explained. “She’s been coughing badly. Blood sometimes.”

Her expression shifted from polite to concerned. “Did she get tested for TB before?”

“Yes. They said it was clear. But that was months ago.”

Nandi nodded, jotting something down. “We’ll need to test again. Bring her in if you can. Is she taking any medication now?”

“Only what she got here last time. But we ran out.”

She looked at him, eyes softening. “Okay. I’ll check if there’s still free stock of the antibiotics. If not, I can maybe help you get a voucher.”

He hesitated. “Thank you. Really.”

She smiled again — not the forced kind people gave out of duty, but the kind that reached the eyes. “You don’t have to thank me for helping. It’s what I’m here for.”

Something in her calm voice eased the tightness in his chest.

As she handed him a small paper bag with medicine samples, she added, “Tell your mother she’s lucky to have a son who cares this much. Most people your age are out chasing things that don’t matter.”

He laughed quietly. “Maybe I’ll chase them too — once life stops chasing me.”

Nandi grinned. “Fair enough.”

On his way home, the sun burned high, but he didn’t mind. He had medicine in his hand and a strange lightness in his heart — like he’d met a piece of calm in the chaos.

When he reached the shack, Zanele was sitting outside, sewing a torn shirt. “You went to the clinic?”

“Yes. They gave this for you. And said you should come for another test soon.”

She smiled faintly. “Always looking after me.”

“That’s my job,” he said.

Later, while Ayanda washed dishes, Luthando sat on the stoop, watching the sky fade to orange. His thoughts kept drifting to the nurse with the tired eyes and kind voice. He didn’t even know why — maybe because she’d spoken to him like he wasn’t invisible.

He imagined what she might do when she wasn’t wearing that clinic uniform — maybe she studied late at night, maybe she dreamed of changing things bigger than herself.

For the first time in weeks, the world didn’t feel entirely against him.

The next few days passed in rhythm — morning job hunts, odd gigs, evenings caring for his mother. One night, after dinner, Ayanda asked, “Do you think life will ever get easier?”

Luthando thought for a long moment before answering. “I don’t know. But I think we’ll get stronger.”

She smiled at that, and for once, so did he.

On Saturday, he returned to the clinic to thank Nandi properly. She was busy helping a line of patients, her hair tied back, her movements precise but gentle. When she saw him waiting, her face lit up in recognition.

“You came back,” she said.

“I promised I’d bring my mother soon,” he replied. “But also… I wanted to say thank you.”

Nandi tilted her head. “For the medicine?”

“For treating us like people,” he said quietly. “Most don’t.”

Her eyes softened again. “Everyone deserves dignity, Luthando.”

He didn’t know how she remembered his name — but hearing it from her lips made something stir inside him.

They talked a few minutes longer, until another nurse called her. As he turned to leave, she said, “Hey — keep believing in better days, okay?”

He looked back, smiling faintly. “I’m trying.”

That night, lying on his bed, Luthando replayed her words. Better days.

He wasn’t sure when they’d come — but for the first time in a long while, he could imagine them. Not as miracles waiting to fall from the sky, but as something built, slowly, from the weight of survival and the warmth of small kindnesses.

And in that thought, sleep came easily — deep, dreamless, and full of quiet promise.