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Title: Content: fattened on promises they once swore to burn for. Sam despised them most. They�d traded ideology for opulence and left the struggle behind like an old uniform. His first act on returning was not celebration. It was pilgrimage. To the graves of his Wife, Children, Brothers, Parents, People who died waiting for him, people who died because of him. Some faded quietly in time�s shadow; others were hunted down, slaughtered for his choices. He arrived at dusk, like a thief, because even in death, some names breed whispers. Few would recognize him now, and fewer still would welcome him. But resentment lingers longer than memory, and Sam knew some still blamed him for the blood spilled in their homes. The only one who kept the Zungu name breathing was his sister, herself long gone from the family land. She tended what was left, her children and grandchildren now the last fragile branches of a dying tree. She alone knew he was coming. She alone kept his secret. She didn�t ask why. Perhaps she understood that men who walk with ghosts need silence more than sympathy. When the rituals were done, Sam slipped back to Gauteng and found the only man who could still look him in the eye without flinching�Colonel Sandile Sithole, Frail now, but once a lion in exile. They�d bled in the same shadows, mourned the same graves. Sithole had returned after the war, found his way into the new police service, and held on through the years. Appeasement was dead. Old comradeship was all Sam had left. And Sithole gave it freely, sliding him a lifeline that led to a job at the MacBride household. A Housekeeper - That was the word on paper. But Sam Zungu hadn�t come home to clean floors. He�d come to clean his past�and maybe stain his hands all over again. �I want those gadgets on my desk before the day is over.� The minister�s words hadn�t left Mazibuko�s head since the call. They clung there like a curse, looping back every time he glanced at the clock. Now, it was pushing half past ten. The day was bleeding out, and still�nothing. No laptop. No phone. No salvation. Technically, the day had ended hours ago. Mazibuko knew the minister had meant the close of business, not the stroke of midnight. But desperation breeds strange comforts, and he clung to the illusion that the next ninety minutes still counted. Ninety minutes to deliver the impossible. Ninety minutes to keep his world from burning. Page Number: Update Page