The sun began its descent, casting long shadows over the crowded streets of the city. The underpass was alive with activity, a place where life moved on the edges. Cars passed by, indifferent to the people standing against the worn-down walls of the overpass. Among them stood Thandi, her arms crossed tightly against her chest, her face expressionless as she leaned against the cold concrete, waiting.
Thandi had grown up in this city, but it never felt like hers. As a child, she watched her mother struggle to provide for her and her younger brother, working long shifts as a cleaner in the wealthier parts of town. Their home, a small shack in the informal settlements, was a place of constant struggle. The city had promised opportunity, but for people like Thandi, opportunity felt like a ghost—something always out of reach, just slipping through her fingers whenever she thought she might grab hold.
As she stood under the overpass, her mind wandered back to the days when she still believed things could be different. Back then, she dreamed of being a nurse, of wearing a crisp white uniform, her face a symbol of comfort for those in need. But dreams cost money, and money was something her family never had.
At 16, she dropped out of school to help her mother, taking on odd jobs wherever she could find them—cleaning houses, selling snacks on the street, but nothing ever seemed to be enough. Then, one fateful day, she met Lungi. Older, confident, with a charm that pulled her in, Lungi offered her a way to make more money than she had ever seen. He didn’t promise luxury, just survival, and that was enough.
The underpass became Thandi’s new place of work. It wasn’t glamorous, and it certainly wasn’t what she had ever imagined for herself, but it was survival. The girls here were like a family—each one of them with their own stories of how they ended up on this side of the city. Some were running from broken homes, others from abusive relationships. A few, like Thandi, had simply run out of options.
But standing there, with the rumble of cars above and the chatter of the city around her, Thandi felt a shift in her spirit. The concrete felt heavier today. She watched as the other girls laughed and chatted, trying to make light of their reality, but Thandi couldn’t shake the growing weight in her chest.
Earlier that day, her younger brother, Sipho, had called her. He was still in school, determined to finish, even if it meant doing so alone. He was the last thread that held Thandi’s hope. Sipho didn’t know what his sister did to make ends meet, and she planned to keep it that way.
“I’m going to university next year, sis,” Sipho had said proudly over the phone.
Thandi had felt a swell of pride and fear all at once. How was she going to support him through university? Her meager earnings barely covered the rent for their shack and the groceries for the week. But she couldn’t let Sipho down. He was her chance—her only shot at redemption. If Sipho succeeded, maybe, just maybe, she could forgive herself for all the choices she’d made.
As the evening grew darker, the streets started to clear out, and the underpass became more desolate. It was in these quieter moments that Thandi allowed herself to dream again. She thought about what life could be like outside of this concrete prison. She imagined going back to school, starting over. She dreamed of a future where Sipho didn’t have to carry the weight of their past, where he could be free to chase his dreams without the burden of knowing what his sister had sacrificed.
But dreams were dangerous. They made you forget reality, even if just for a moment. And in Thandi’s world, reality always came crashing back.
“Hey, Thandi,” a voice interrupted her thoughts. It was Zama, one of the newer girls. “You good?”
Thandi nodded. “Yeah, just thinking.”
“About?”
