(Naledi — POV)
Naledi read the term sheet the way she read everything important: twice for meaning, once for danger.
Sipho sat across from her on the low plastic chair, the shop's back light buzzing faintly above them. The door was half-closed—not secrecy, exactly, but discretion. Night had settled into the market with its usual noise: laughter, a radio bleeding gospel into static, someone arguing about the price of tomatoes.
Thirty percent equity.
She circled it with her pen.
Equity was a word that pretended to be abstract. It wasn't. It was time. It was decision-making. It was who answered when something broke on a Tuesday afternoon and everyone else was unavailable.
"A board seat," she said aloud. "Means veto power, even when they call it advice."
Sipho nodded. He didn't interrupt. He was listening in the way people did when they suspected something expensive was about to be revealed.
"And oversight," she continued. "Is not about growth. It's about behavior."
She leaned back, eyes unfocusing as the ledger opened in her mind.
The valuation wasn't bad. That was the danger of it.
It promised continuity.
In her life, continuity was rarer than freedom.
Thirty percent meant reporting cycles. Slower pivots. Fewer instincts, more permissions. It meant someone else deciding which rider was "efficient" enough to keep. It meant routes redrawn by people who had never stood at an intersection at six a.m., waiting for a courier who might not come.
"What's the valuation?" she asked.
Sipho told her.
She calculated quickly. Her pen hovered, then stilled.
"This solves Rashid," she said. "Immediately."
"Yes."
"It stabilizes payroll."
"Yes."
"And it guarantees my retainer," she added, not looking at him.
"Yes."
The word sat between them. Solid. Uncomfortable.
Outside, footsteps slowed near the window. Someone lingered just long enough to look in. Naledi felt it like a pressure change.
Sipho noticed her stillness. Followed her gaze.
"Is this already a problem?" he asked.
"Tumi asked about you this afternoon," she said.
Sipho's eyes lifted sharply.
"He didn't ask what you wanted," she continued. "He asked who you were."
She stood and pushed the door closed fully this time.
"That means the story has crossed the threshold," she said. "It's no longer market noise."
Sipho exhaled slowly. "I didn't think—"
"I know," she said. "Gossip doesn't need intent. It needs proximity."
She tapped the term sheet.
"This deal," she said, "will look like confirmation."
Sipho blinked. Just once. As if she had pointed out a hidden clause he'd missed.
A flush crept up his neck. He looked from the paper to her face, understanding dawning with a faint, unmistakable shame. He had been calculating percentages. She had been calculating reputations.
Confirmation of what? he almost asked.
Of dependence.
Of imbalance.
Of the quiet, corrosive lie that a woman's competence must always be underwritten by a man's capital.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't need to look.
Miriam.
She answered anyway.
"Naledi," her sister said, breathless. "Where are you? Mama's blood pressure is up again. The clinic wants cash tonight."
Naledi closed her eyes.
"I'm at the shop."
"You said you'd cover the late shift."
"I know."
"Well, you're not here."
The accusation wasn't sharp. That was worse. It was exhausted.
"I'll come," Naledi said. "I'll find it."
She ended the call and stood very still.
Sipho rose halfway from his chair. "I can—"
"No," she said, reflexive. Then, softer, more precise. "Not like that."
She looked down at the term sheet. Thirty percent. Oversight. Immediate liquidity.
"You're afraid of losing control," she said.
"Yes," he said, too quickly.
"And you should be," she replied. "Because you will."
He swallowed. "But we don't have many options."
Options were her currency. She had survived by manufacturing them from nothing.
"This isn't just about you," she said. "This affects your riders. Your routes. My name."
"And my survival," he said quietly.
That landed.
She exhaled. "This is where we are different."
He waited.
"I don't need autonomy," she said. "I need durability."
The words settled into place with surprising weight.
"Durability means compromise," she continued. "It means letting someone else carry weight, even if they set the terms."
Sipho shook his head. "That's how you disappear."
"No," she said. "That's how you stay."
Outside, someone laughed. Someone whispered. The market absorbed everything and remembered.
Naledi folded the term sheet carefully and set it on the counter.
"We renegotiate," she said. "Lower equity. Limit oversight. Time-bound board seat."
"And if they refuse?"
She met his eyes. "Then you decide what you're willing to lose."
He looked down at his hands. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "I didn't bring this to you to convince me."
"I know," she said. "You brought it because you can't decide alone anymore."
That was the truth between them.
Her phone buzzed again.
She picked up her bag.
"I'm going to the clinic," she said. "We finish this tomorrow."
"Naledi—"
She paused at the door.
"This partnership," she said without turning, "doesn't mean agreement. It means consequence."
She stepped into the night, the shop light dying behind her.
She did a final calculation as she walked.
Risk: gossip, judgment, delay.
Reward: capital, leverage, continuity.
The ledger had a new column now.
Liabilities: Shared.
The ink was still wet.