Foreword
This story began with a question I couldn’t silence: What if grief didn’t end us, but shaped us?
In a country burdened by the relentless weight of gender-based violence, it can be easy to lose hope. But I believe stories can be a form of protest—quiet, sharp, enduring. This novel weaves together rage and tenderness, trauma and healing, truth and love. It’s about fighting for justice, for visibility, and for the right to be whole. It’s about what happens when women decide they’ve had enough.
To the readers who find themselves in these pages—whether through Ayanda’s fire, Khanyi’s redemption, or Resegho’s devastating loss—know this: you are not alone. Your voice matters. Your survival matters. And your story, like theirs, is worth telling.
To anyone who has ever carried unanswered questions. To anyone who has ever loved someone who cracked you open just by being near. This story is yours too.
Thank you for holding it in your hands
Copyright © 2025 by Thaya Mkhize All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the author. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Trigger Warning
This novel contains themes and depictions of gender-based violence, sexual abuse, trauma, panic attacks, and grief, which may be distressing for some readers. Please take care as you read. If you or someone you know is affected by any of the topics explored in this book, consider reaching out to a support organization in your area. You are not alone.
‘The Girl Who Wore Purple Shoes’
Ayanda
South Africa bleeds. Everywhere you go, you see one face. On flyers, billboards, news tickers, TikTok clips, Instagram, X, everywhere, bright eyed nineteen-year-old Resegho Maseko, a Wits University medical student who vanished two weeks ago after leaving her boyfriend’s apartment in Braam. For days, hope has flickered through social media, prayer circles, candle vigils.
There’s rules in true crime. Don’t get too close. Never let your voice tremble. Don’t allow the names to live in your chest. Don’t dream about them. Don’t even imagine what they would have become. Gather the facts, follow the trail, ask the hard questions, and stay out out of it.
But this time — I can’t do that.
Because Resegho Maseko isn’t just a name, she isn’t just a victim, Resegho Maseko is my sister. We grew up in the same government group home in Soweto, St. Agnes home for Girls. We shared a bedroom, a toothbrush once, years of silence no child should ever know. I was there when she got her first period, when her breasts grew, when her anger grew, I taught her how to braid her hair.
This isn’t just a case. I should stay neutral, I should approach this like all other episodes, meticulously, cleanly, carefully. But how can I do that when the case is my own family? For weeks I’ve been speaking to people who knew her, friends, classmates, her boyfriend. I’ve followed the evidence, asked what the police haven’t, clashed with the detectives in charge of the case, been threatened with jail time for obstruction of justice, intruding on crime scenes, hindering an ongoing investigation. I didn’t care.
Then, five days ago, her dismembered remains, charred beyond recognition, were discovered in a shallow ditch behind an abandoned construction site in Parktown, wrapped in melted plastic and tragedy.
The nation has erupted.
Protests bloom across the streets like bruises. #JusticeForResegho has been trending for days. Familiar war cries have returned,
‘EnoughIsEnough!’
‘AmINext?’,
‘NoMeansNo’,
‘EndGBV’,
‘WhereAmISafe?’
‘StopKillingUs’
The rage is collective, and me? I will not stop. Not because I want to exploit her memory, but because I owe her this. Her name was Resegho, she wanted to be a doctor, she wore purple shoes whenever she was nervous, and now she’s dead, she never came home.
I will find out why even if it’s the last thing I do.
🎙️Bloodlines | Episode 18: ‘Her Story.’
[Intro music fades in - Idea 25, Gibran Alcocer and Andrea Vanzo, ambient tones. A soft heartbeat in the background.]
🎧 Ayanda (soft, steady): Welcome back to Bloodlines, we’re on episode 18 of the She Never Came Home Season. I’m your host, Ayanda Khoza. This episode is different. This one hurts. Three weeks ago, nineteen-year-old Resegho Maseko went missing. Last Friday, her remains were found. South Africa is in mourning. But mourning without answers. Today, I will be speaking to two people who knew her best. Not as a headline, but as a human being, a friend, a sister. This is ‘Her Story’.
Let’s begin.
[Sound Effect: A soft breath, shuffling, transition tone. Live audio begins.]
Ayanda: Joining me first is Thato Mokoena, Resegho’s roommate and friend since first year. Thato, I know this must be difficult, thank you for being here.
Thato (voice trembling): Thank you…for doing this. For not letting people forget her.
Ayanda: Tell me about Resegho.
Thato (soft chuckle): Oh she was chaos. She used to burn noodles. Who burns noodles? She left the Colgate open and it would dry up, she drove me mad. She was…(whimpers) I’m sorry…she was just…so happy. She danced even when there was no music playing, she made up songs, her notebook had glitter. She was one of the brightest students in med school, she was going to become someone. She was just…
Ayanda: Take your time, Thato.
Thato: I’m fine. She was a really special girl.
Ayanda: What was she like in private?
Thato: Really sensitive, brave, she loved hard, too hard sometimes. Especially him…I—can I say this?
Ayanda (curious): Say what you need to say, this is a safe space.
Thato (voice lowered): Neo, her boyfriend. He wasn’t good for her, he hurt her. Not with fists. The secrets, the abusive language, she forgave too much.
[Short Pause]
Ayanda: Thank you, Thato.
[Soft Transition Music]
Ayanda: Next, I will speak to Lunga Ndlovu, a quiet but consistent presence in her life. They met in high school, he was hesitant, but he agreed to speak.
[Live Audio Begins. Transition music cuts]
Ayanda (gently): Lunga, welcome.
Lunga (tight breath): Yeah…ng’yabonga.
Ayanda: How are you holding up?
Lunga (voice trembling): It’s…it’s been hard. I keep seeing her. I can’t sleep.
Ayanda: You and Resegho were close. What was your relationship like?
Lunga: We…we were friends. She stole my colour wheel in grade eight and ran. I chased her down and when I caught her, we both just burst into fits of stupid laughter. We were inseparable after that, we stole guavas from Gogo MaKhumalo’s trees, she made me knit dolls for visual arts class, we did projects together, she helped me with math. We applied at the same university, she told me everything, you know, then she met him.
Ayanda: By ‘him’, you mean…Neo?
Lunga: Yes! He changed her…I tried to tell her.
Ayanda: Tell her what?
Lunga (long pause): That he was cheating. Lying. She wouldn’t listen. She said I was just jealous.
Ayanda (carefully): Were you?
Lunga (voice cracks): Yeah…I was. But I was right too. She had to see that! I needed her to see!
Ayanda (gently, curious): You’re shaking, do you want to stop?
Lunga (restless, suddenly hyperventilating): No! I–I’m sorry…I didn’t – I never meant to hurt her!
[Silence]
Ayanda: What?
Lunga (crying): I didn’t mean to…I swear. She came to confront me, she said Neo broke up with her and it’s my fault! She was so angry, we shouted…
[Silence]
Ayanda (breathes slowly): Lunga, tell me everything.
Lunga: She wouldn’t listen to me. I told her this was a good thing, that she didn’t need Neo…that she had me. She cursed, she wanted to leave…I grabbed her arm, she pulled away…I didn’t mean to push her that hard…
Ayanda (voice tight): How did you kill her?
Lunga (crying): I—I didn’t…she fell, she hit her head on the corner of the coffee table…she wasn’t moving…the blood…oh God…there was so much blood…I panicked, I didn’t know what to do…I cut her up…I burned—(throws up)—I thought it would all go away! I didn’t want to lose her!! I thought it was all just a terrible nightmare!!
Ayanda (trembling, voice stammering but composed): To everyone listening. Call the police. Now. This is not a joke. This is not fiction. This—this is a confession.
[Sounds of muffled movements, a glass breaking, Thato shouting ‘You bastard! How could you!?’, Lunga weeping, ‘I’m sorry, Rese, I’m so sorry’. Live Audio Cuts. Outro music starts playing – Clair de Lune, Debussy]
Ayanda (voice trembling, low): Thank you for tuning in on Bloodlines. This brings us to the end of episode 18 of ‘She Never Came Home’. I’m your host, Ayanda Khoza, and tonight – someone finally told the truth.
[Music fades out. End of Episode]
