Certainly. Here's Chapter 7: When Winter Comes, a chapter that tests Bonitah's resilience once more as hardship returns in the form of cold, scarcity, and internal struggle. It's a reminder that even the strongest hearts can be shaken—but not broken.
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Chapter 7: When Winter Comes
Winter crept in slowly—first in the early dusk, then in the breath that turned to mist, and finally in the ache that settled in Tariro's bones.
The room she and Thando shared was never warm, but now the wind seemed to curl through every crack in the wall, every gap beneath the door. The blanket that had once been enough for both of them now felt too thin, too worn.
Benaiah coughed in his sleep.
She sat up, pressing a hand to his chest. His breath was steady, but shallow. Panic flickered in her mind. She wrapped him tighter, pressing him close to her own skin, trying to warm him with her body.
The next morning, she boiled water to make a weak porridge and used the last of the sugar. The small fire took ages to light, and smoke filled the room. Lindiwe opened the window slightly, coughing.
"I'll try to bring more wood tonight," she said. "They're burning old furniture at the back of the salon."
Bonitah just nodded.
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The streets had changed too. Fewer people came to buy vegetables in the cold. Her stall stood lonely on the corner, shivering like she did. Sometimes she didn't make enough to feed them both.
She tried not to let Benaiah see her frustration. But children feel things. Even babies. He cried more. Clung to her more. And when he got sick, truly sick—fevered and fussy—Bonitah felt something inside her start to unravel.
She rushed him to the clinic, holding him under her coat, whispering prayers with every step.
The lines were long. The nurses overworked. Jessica wasn't there that day.
A tired doctor looked him over briefly, handed her a packet of pills, and said, "Keep him warm. Make sure he eats. Come back if he worsens."
That night, she barely slept. She held him, watched him, listened to his breath like it was the only sound in the world.
At 3 a.m., she broke down.
Not quietly.
The sobs came hard and sudden. For all the moments she'd kept strong. For all the days she'd pretended everything would be okay. For all the nights she'd gone without food so Benaiah wouldn't.
Thando woke up and sat beside her.
"You're allowed to cry, you know," she said softly. "Even strong people bleed."
They sat like that for a long time—two young women with broken pasts and uncertain futures—holding onto the only things they had: each other, and hope.
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The next day, the church group sent word.
One of the women had found a job opening for a part-time cleaner at a community center. It paid little, but came with one hot meal a day and a childcare corner where Benaiah could stay while she worked.
Bonitah took the job immediately.
It wasn't glamourous. She mopped floors, scrubbed toilets, washed dishes. But when she received her first payment—a small envelope of folded bills—she stared at it like it was gold.
That night, she bought thick socks, a second-hand sweater for herself, and a warm onesie for Benaiah. She even bought bread and margarine and made toast in the pan like her mother used to.
Thando smiled when she saw the food.
"You'd think you won the lottery," she teased.
Bonitah laughed, for the first time in days.
"I did," she said. "His fever is gone."
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Winter had come, yes. It stripped leaves from trees and warmth from walls.
But it didn't take her faith.
Because in the middle of the cold, someone—something—was still carrying her.
And that, she decided, would always be enough.
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