TWENTY – EIGHT: When the hunter becomes the hunted

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It was late. Almost midnight.

Grace sat slumped in her armchair, the one with the torn cushion she could no longer afford to replace. Her legs ached. Her dialysis machine hummed softly beside her, a constant reminder of what her body had lost and what her soul was still fighting to keep.

Her phone buzzed again.

She didn’t want to look. But she had to.

A message flashed on the screen:

PICK UP, BITCH. OR I SWEAR, WHEN I FIND YOU, YOU’LL WISH FOR DEATH.

Her hands trembled as she answered.

“B-Big Boss K?”

The voice on the other end sneered. “Gile. You’re playing games with me.”

“No, Big Boss K. I’m not. I swear.”

“Listen here,” the voice dropped low and menacing. “I want my money. All 800,000 kwacha. By tomorrow morning.”

Grace shot to her feet. “800,000? How? We only borrowed 200,000!”

“Guess you didn’t read the fine print.”

“That’s theft!”

He laughed, a cold hollow sound that sent chills down her spine. “Gile, don’t mess with me. 800,000 tomorrow or your husband starts receiving your body parts.”

She cut the line.

She slammed back into the chair, hopeless.

Her screen lit up again, a flood of harassment messages from unknown numbers:

DIE, BITCH.
MAY THE SOULS OF THE GIRLS YOU TORTURED HAUNT YOU FOR LIFE.
I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. I’M COMING FOR YOU.

Grace was almost in tears.

Since someone had exposed her social media accounts and phone numbers, the harassment texts and calls from victims’ families and angry citizens had become her daily norm.

It was driving her insane. The texts and calls never stopped coming.

She grabbed her phone, trembling, and dialled her lawyer.

“Attorney Evans, please. Won’t you reconsider? Take my husband’s case?”

The attorney’s voice was cold. Dismissive. “Mrs. Bweupe, you jest. I don’t do charity cases.”

“I’ll pay you!”

He sneered. “With what money?”

Desperate, she yelled into the phone. “Collins was good to you before all this!”

He laughed. “So what? It’s not like his generosity was heartfelt. We each got what we wanted from each other.”

“Please. I’m begging you. I can’t do this alone. I need Collins here. I need him to fight this!”

He dropped the line.

She tried to call back. Unreachable.

Grace covered her face with her hands, sobbing silently.

That’s when the TV anchor’s voice cut through the silence:

‘…Yolanda Chomba, wanted for the murder of Joseph Chomba Senior and the attempted murder of Luthanda Chomba, remains at large. A reward of fifty thousand kwacha is being offered for any information leading to her capture. If you see her, do not approach. Contact authorities immediately.’

Grace sneered.

She muted the TV with a flick of the remote then cursed under her breath.

“Fifty thousand kwacha? Is she worth that much? I could hand her in for free.”

She glanced at the empty pill bottle on the table, her last dose of painkillers. No money for more. No one willing to help.

She had never felt this alone.

Her husband was incarcerated, awaiting trial, while her daughter rotted behind bars in Abu Dhabi on charges of drug trafficking.

Both might never walk the earth as free persons again.

The phone rang again.

She didn’t answer.

It rang again.

She let it ring.

Then a knock.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just there.

Grace froze.

She crept to the window, peering through the thin curtain. Her breath caught.

There she was.

Yolanda stood on the porch, hood pulled low, shoulders hunched, eyes darting like a cornered animal. She looked thinner. Harder. Her face was shadowed but Grace knew those eyes. That mouth.

Slowly, Yolanda pulled the hood down.

It really was her.

Grace’s hands clenched.

She didn’t want to open the door.

But she had to.

She unlocked it slowly and yanked it open.“

“Mom…”

Grace didn’t let her finish.

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the night like a gunshot.

Yolanda stumbled backward, crashing onto the concrete. She looked up, dazed, at the woman glaring down at her.

“Mom…?”

“Don’t you dare ‘Mom’ me,” Grace hissed, voice trembling with rage. “Don’t you dare.”

Yolanda scrambled to her feet, wiping blood from her lip. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed. “It’s all your fault. My family is in this mess because of you.”

Grace didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her broom from behind the door and swung.

Yolanda ducked then lunged, grabbing the broom and wrenching it from Grace’s hands.

“My fault?” Yolanda sneered, shoving Grace back. “You’re delusional. You did this. You and your insatiable greed.”

Grace stumbled, overwhelmed.

Yolanda laughed, looking around at the nearly empty house. “I’m not here to argue. Give me some money.”

“Are you crazy?” Grace spat. “With your greed, you must’ve stashed something somewhere.”

“I didn’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t give you a dime. Get lost.”

Yolanda’s eyes flicked then locked onto the iPhone on the table. Sleek. New. Expensive.

Grace saw it too and tried to hide it but Yolanda was faster.

She snatched it and bolted.

“NO! NOT MY PHONE!” Grace screamed, scrambling to her feet. “It’s the only thing I have left! Yolanda, PLEASE!”

But Yolanda only walked faster, head down, phone clutched like a trophy.

The noise woke the neighbours.

“What’s going on? What’s the ruckus?”

Yolanda didn’t look back.

Grace, knowing she couldn’t catch her, so she shouted, her voice raw. “KAWALA!”

In seconds, a dozen people were at her side, alert, angry, ready.

Yolanda turned, eyes wide, as the mob surged forward shouting “KAWALA!”

She sprinted like a deer chased by a lion. Maybe, metaphorically speaking, she was.

She wove through the shabby houses, the shouting growing louder, the crowd swelling. Her lungs burned. Tears blurred her vision. She knew if they caught her, she was toast.

Lucky for her, no streetlights.

Desperate, she dashed for the highway, ignoring the danger.

Then:TIRE SCREECH.

SICKENING THUD.

Metal met flesh.

The entire compound fell into deafening silence.

The Hiace bus that hit her had swerved off the road into the drainage ditch.

Before other motorists could stop, before anyone could check:

Yolanda groaned.

And bolted.

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© Ponda

VOCAB

Kawala — Thief ( when shouted in public, it’s taken as a call for help and instantly mobilizes neighbours/ the public into vigilant mobs