I woke with the memory of running.
Not in a dream—but in real life. Barefoot. Half-naked. Heart thundering like the hooves of ancestral cattle stampeding through the earth.
Now I lay on my bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, the morning sun crawling slowly across the walls. My shirt still smelled like damp soil and panic. My legs ached. My hands were scraped raw from branches I didn't see as I bolted.
I had run from the mountain.
I didn't even try to deny it. It wasn't just fear—it was a raw, overwhelming energy I wasn't ready to face.
I remember reaching the old well at the edge of the forest just before dawn. I'd stripped, folded my clothes, and stepped into the icy water, hoping to cleanse my body before climbing. The chill woke up every nerve in me. For a moment, it was peaceful. Sacred.
Then the mist came.
It slithered up from the earth like smoke without fire—thick, white, heavy. At first I thought it was just morning fog. But this... this moved with intention. It wrapped around the stones, the trees, and finally around me. I couldn't see where I came from. Couldn't see the path ahead.
And then I felt the earth beneath me move.
Not shake—breathe.
As if the ground itself was alive and aware of me.
My instincts screamed. Something deep in me couldn't handle it. I fumbled, dropped the pouch of herbs Gogo Nomusa gave me, and backed away from the well.
Then I ran.
I didn't look back. I grabbed my clothes, crashing through bush and thorn, stumbling half-dressed and terrified. At one point I tried hopping into my pants and nearly fell face-first into a ditch. I'm sure anyone watching would've laughed—Zulu boy fleeing spirits, one sock on, shirt inside-out.
But now, in the quiet of my room, there was no laughter.
Just memory.
Just shame.
And... something else.
Tears.
They came quietly, warm against my temples. I wasn't crying because I failed—I was crying because the mountain had shown me something, and I'd turned away.
As I lay there, I thought of my mother.
She used to teach me to sit on my own as a child. Every time I leaned against her, she'd gently push me upright.
"Qina, Nkululeko," she'd say. "Your spine is the staff the ancestors gave you. Sit tall."
I didn't understand her back then. Thought she was being hard.
But now I saw it.
She was preparing me for the moment when no one could hold me up.
The moment like this—when only my backbone would matter.
That thought broke something open inside me.
The mountain didn't reject me. It tested me. And I wasn't ready.
But I would be.
---
For the next few days, I barely spoke to anyone. Ayanda didn't push. She watched me with knowing eyes, brewed my tea the way I liked it, and sat beside me in silence.
"When will you go back?" she asked one evening, brushing the side of my hand with hers.
"Soon," I said. "But next time, I won't run."
She nodded once, that gentle smile blooming on her lips. "Then prepare. And prepare like you mean it."
So I did.
Every morning, I was in the river before the sun, letting the cold teach me how to breathe through shock. I started meditating longer—until my legs went numb and my mind got quiet enough to hear things under the noise. I journaled everything: the dreams, the sensations, the memories.
Ayanda helped me build a small altar in the corner of the room. We placed white cloth, river stones, a small bowl of water, and a candle.
Every night, I lit the impepho.
I said my ancestors' names out loud.
I apologized for fleeing.
And I promised to return.
---
By the end of the week, something in me had shifted.
I could feel it in the way I stood taller, the way my breath felt rooted. The panic that once followed me into my sleep was gone. Replaced by stillness.
I flipped open the notebook Ayanda had given me and began to write—not for performance, but for truth.
> "We don't climb mountains to see the view. We climb them to remember who we were before the world made us afraid."
The words flowed without effort.
I read those lines again, over and over, and felt them settle deep in my chest. I didn't know what would come next—just that I was finally ready to speak from that place.
I had agreed to be interviewed on a spiritual podcast the following week.
They wanted me to talk about healing, ancestral wisdom, and finding peace through fear. A few months ago, I wouldn't have known where to begin.
Now I knew exactly what I would say.
I'd gone to the mountain seeking answers.
Even in running, even in failure—I'd come back with direction.
Now I knew what I had to do.
The mountain was waiting.
And this time, I would see it through.