Chapter 13: The Boy, the Cart, and the Man Who Knew
We built the cart ourselves.
It wasn't pretty, but it was strong — wood wheels from broken furniture, handles wrapped in old tyre rubber, a metal frame tied together with steel wire. It creaked when it moved, but it moved.
Naledi painted a small symbol on the side: the leaf in ash — this time surrounded by a circle, like a seal.
"It's official now," she said with a proud smile. "We're a moving business."
The cart could hold twenty bundles at once.
Each bundle now sold for R35 in the coastal town and R30 in the villages.
If we moved all twenty in one trip, that was R600 to R700 per delivery.
And with weekly sales in two locations, our monthly total passed R2,500.
Our savings were now R7,800.
We could feel the future getting closer.
But we needed help.
The chopping, the loading, the travel — it was starting to wear us down.
So I asked around — carefully.
We found him near the edge of the village: a quiet seventeen-year-old boy named Lutho.
He had eyes like someone who'd seen too much too young. But he didn't ask questions. He just listened.
"I'll pay you R100 a week," I told him. "You don't talk about the bundles. You just help collect, pack, and push."
He nodded. "I don't need to know. I just need to work."
He was perfect.
Fast. Strong. Loyal. Silent.
By the end of his first week, we'd moved 30 bundles, earning R1,020 after costs.
Naledi cooked extra pap and beans for him. Lutho never smiled, but I caught him once — eyes soft, watching us from the firelight.
"You two aren't like anyone else around here," he said one night.
"What do you mean?" Naledi asked.
"You move like people who've already lost everything," he said, "and won't let it happen again."
He was right.
Then came the man.
He appeared one quiet afternoon at the edge of the charcoal pit.
Tall. Pale shirt. Sunglasses even though it was cloudy.
Lutho was out collecting sticks. Naledi was inside boiling water.
I was alone.
He didn't approach with threats. He just stepped forward and said, "You're not who you say you are."
I stayed silent.
He took off his glasses. "I know who you were. What you did. Why you ran."
Still, I said nothing.
He smiled. "Relax. I'm not here to arrest you."
My hand gripped the knife in my pocket. Not fear — instinct.
"I'm here to offer you something," he continued. "Protection. A bigger platform. Connections. I can make this charcoal thing a real company. Factories. Trucks. You'll never carry a bundle again."
"And the price?" I finally asked.
He smiled wider. "Just a little loyalty. Maybe a favor now and then."
"I work in silence," I said coldly. "And I don't owe anyone."
He leaned closer. "That's a mistake. Silence won't save you when the real wolves come."
I didn't flinch.
"You should leave," I said.
He studied me.
Then turned.
And left.
That night, I told Naledi everything.
Her jaw clenched. "He knew?"
"He said he did."
"And you believed him?"
"I don't trust him," I said. "But we have to prepare. If he's real, others will come."
"What do we do?"
"We expand. We grow faster. We register the business… under Lutho's name."
She blinked. "You trust him?"
"I trust what I see. And I see someone who needs a future as badly as we did."
We called Lutho inside the next day.
He listened to everything without interrupting.
When I asked if he'd let us use his name on paper, he paused.
Then said, "Only if I can stay in the team. Not just your face."
I nodded. "You'll be our brother. Not our worker."
And just like that, the family grew by one.
The next few weeks were intense.
Two deliveries a week.
R3,000 earned in one month.
Lutho now led the chopping team.
Naledi began designing packaging for cafés — reusable canvas bags with the ash leaf symbol.
I planned a trip to a town farther inland — maybe even Durban one day.
But still, I felt that man's voice in my head.
"Silence won't save you when the real wolves come."
I looked at Naledi across the fire that night, her eyes glowing with pride, her hands sketching on brown paper.
"We need more than silence now," I said.
She looked up. "What do we need?"
"Strategy," I replied. "Power. Legal cover. And a name for our brand."
We stared at each other.
Then Naledi whispered, "Embers & Ash."
I smiled. "Perfect."