The fire had not burned since yesterday.
Luyanda Nxumalo sat outside the small mud hut, staring at the three cooking stones as if they might suddenly come back to life. Grey ash rested beneath them, cold and defeated. Winter wind moved through the yard, lifting dust into the air.
Inside the hut, his grandmother coughed.
The sound was thin and tired, like everything else in their lives.
Luyanda was fourteen. He did not know his parents. He only knew Gogo — her rough hands, her quiet prayers, her stories told beside the fire at night. She was all he had.
“Gogo?” he called softly as he stepped inside.
“I am here, mntfwanami,” she replied, forcing a smile.
She was wrapped in her old blue blanket, her small body shaking slightly from the cold. The sickness had made her lighter. Smaller.
“You must rest,” he said.
“And let you starve?” she teased weakly.
There was little food left. The maize sack in the corner was almost empty. The rains had been poor. The field behind the hut had given them almost nothing.
He cooked thin porridge that morning. Mostly water. Gogo ate only a few spoonfuls before pushing the bowl back to him.
“I am not hungry,” she lied.
He did not argue.
That night her coughing worsened.
Luyanda lay awake on his mattress, listening to her struggle for breath. Fear sat heavily on his chest.
“Luyanda,” she called softly.
He moved to her side.
“If something happens to me…”
“Nothing will happen,” he said quickly.
She held his hand tighter than he expected.
“This world is not kind,” she whispered. “It will not feed you. It will not protect you. But you must try to be strong.”
His voice trembled. “Who will I stay with?”
She did not answer.
Instead, she said, “Nkulunkulu sees you.”
But even her voice carried doubt.
The next morning was too quiet.
The birds sang outside. The sun rose normally. Everything seemed the same.
Except Gogo did not cough.
“Gogo?” he called.
No response.
He walked closer. Her eyes were closed. Her body still.
He touched her hand.
Cold.
“Gogo…”
He shook her gently.
Nothing.
The hut swallowed his voice. The world outside continued, unaware that his world had ended.
He did not cry immediately. He just stared.
Neighbours eventually came. Relatives appeared as if called by the smell of death.
They whispered in groups.
“Who will take the land?”
“What about the cow?”
No one asked, “Where will the boy go?”
The funeral was small. The coffin looked too big for her thin body.
As soil covered the coffin, Luyanda felt something inside him close — not break, but close.
That evening, everyone left.
He stood alone beside the three stones.
He tried to light the fire.
It flickered weakly, then died.
That was the first night he slept alone.
The days that followed were heavy.
Two uncles visited. They walked around the yard, inspecting the hut like buyers at a market.
“You cannot manage alone,” one said.
“I can try,” Luyanda replied.
A few days later, the cow disappeared.
No explanation.
No money given to him.
Just an empty rope tied to a tree.
He returned to school the following week, wearing his torn uniform. The other children stared.
During break, he sat alone. He had nothing to eat.
Soon, the headteacher called him.
“You have not paid school fees,” she said gently. “You cannot continue like this.”
He nodded.
He understood.
Fourteen years old, and already outside the system.
Hunger became his daily companion.
He tried doing piece jobs — carrying water, fetching wood, cleaning yards. Sometimes he earned a few coins. Often, nothing.
At night he drank water to quiet his stomach.
One afternoon, after two days without food, he stood outside the small spaza shop. A crate of apples sat near the door.
The shopkeeper was distracted inside.
His heart pounded.
He looked left.
He looked right.
He grabbed one apple and ran.
He did not stop until he reached the stream.
There, he stared at the apple in his shaking hand.
He had never stolen before.
He took a bite.
The sweetness filled his mouth.
Tears followed.
Not because he was guilty — but because he had become the kind of person who stole to survive.
Winter deepened.
The hut grew colder. The roof leaked when it rained. The wind slipped through cracks in the walls.
Without school, his days felt endless.
Without food, his body grew weak.
Without Gogo, his spirit grew tired.
People in the community noticed him less and less. He became part of the background — like an old fence or a broken gate.
“Poor child,” some women whispered as they passed.
But they kept walking.
One afternoon, Uncle Jabulani returned.
“There are people interested in this land,” he said.
“It was Gogo’s,” Luyanda replied.
“It belongs to the family.”
“I am family.”
The man shook his head. “You are a child. You have nothing.”
When he left, fear settled in the yard like dust.
Even the little he had was not safe.
As weeks passed, Luyanda grew thinner. His cheeks hollowed. His eyes looked older than fourteen.
One morning while fetching water, he felt dizzy. The bucket slipped from his hands.
He sat by the stream, staring at his reflection.
He barely recognized himself.
That night, lying on Gogo’s old mattress, he whispered into the darkness.
“You said God sees me.”
The wind pushed against the door.
“I think He is looking somewhere else.”
No answer came.
The final night arrived quietly.
The sky above rural Eswatini was clear, filled with cold stars.
Inside the hut, the air was sharp. His blanket offered little warmth.
He had not eaten in days.
His body ached constantly now. Even breathing felt heavy.
He stared at the ceiling and allowed himself to remember Gogo fully — her laugh, her cough, the way she stirred the pot over the fire.
“You must be strong,” she had said.
He had tried.
He had worked.
He had endured hunger.
He had survived alone.
But survival is heavy for a child.
“Gogo,” he whispered, “I am tired.”
His eyes closed slowly.
Outside, dogs barked in the distance. An owl called from a tree. The world continued.
Inside the hut, the boy who had fought alone finally stopped fighting.
Two days later, a neighbour noticed the silence.
No smoke.
No movement.
When the door opened, cold air rushed out.
Luyanda lay still on the mattress.
Peaceful.
As if sleeping.
Again, relatives came.
Again, whispers filled the yard.
“Such a tragedy.”
“He was too young.”
But life did not stop.
By the next week, the hut stood empty.
The land was discussed.
Plans were made.
Children passed by and pointed.
“That is where the boy used to stay.”
Used to.
The three cooking stones remained outside.
Grey.
Cold.
Unmoved.
The fire had gone out the day Gogo died.
It never burned again.
And in a quiet corner of rural Eswatini, a fourteen-year-old boy who fought the world alone disappeared as silently as he had lived.
