For 22 years, she thought she was crazy. She was wrong.
Kat Ndlovu has spent her life swallowing pills to silence the voices, sketching spirit creatures from her "hallucinations," and dreaming of escape to Tokyo where maybeâjust maybeâshe can be normal.
Then one of her rideshare passengers commits a shocking murder while something dark whispers in their ear, and suddenly Kat's carefully medicated world shatters. She's a suspect with 72 hours to prove her innocence, and the only person who can help her is Harrisonâa charming MMA fighter with secrets of his own.
To clear her name, Kat must stop running from the power pulsing beneath her skin. Because when the visions call, ancient spirits answer. When danger strikes, her ancestors rise. And when enemies finally reveal themselves, Kat discovers the "madness" she's fought her entire life isn't a curseâ
It's a weapon.
But awakening her true nature may be exactly what her enemies have been waiting for. The question isn't whether she's strong enough to survive. It's whether she's ready for what she'll become.
For 22 years, she thought she was crazy. She was wrong.
Kat Ndlovu has spent her life swallowing pills to silence the voices, sketching spirit creatures from her "hallucinations," and dreaming of escape to Tokyo where maybeâjust maybeâshe can be normal.
Then one of her rideshare passengers commits a shocking murder while something dark whispers in their ear, and suddenly Kat's carefully medicated world shatters. She's a suspect with 72 hours to prove her innocence, and the only person who can help her is Harrisonâa charming MMA fighter with secrets of his own.
To clear her name, Kat must stop running from the power pulsing beneath her skin. Because when the visions call, ancient spirits answer. When danger strikes, her ancestors rise. And when enemies finally reveal themselves, Kat discovers the "madness" she's fought her entire life isn't a curseâ
It's a weapon.
But awakening her true nature may be exactly what her enemies have been waiting for. The question isn't whether she's strong enough to survive. It's whether she's ready for what she'll become.
The world began in shadow.
Darkness lay upon the void like a cloak, vast and unending. Ithunzi, guardian of this perfect silence, was as a shadowâeverywhere and nowhere, his essence the fabric of eternity. In the absence of all things, there was neither sorrow nor joy, neither life nor death. Only the endless peace of nothingness.
And then there was a sparkâa tear in the shadowâs cloak. From it burst forth the spirit flame of creation.
Fire bloomed where no fire could exist, its hungry light devouring the darkness wherever it touched.
The Goddess Ma had awakened.
Where her flames licked and danced, possibility blossomed. Time itself was born in that first brilliant moment, and with it came the end of Ithunziâs timeless reign.
Enraged, the shadow spirit gathered his darkness like a storm. Black tendrils wove around the blazing heat, seeking to smother it. Darkness flowed like water, like windârelentless in its desire to reclaim the stillness that had been lost.
But the Goddess Ma would not be extinguished. Her fire dissolved the shadow, consuming it like ash in a tempest. For each and every one of Ithunziâs assaults, she answered with light more fierce, more determined.
Thus began their deadly dance, over the ages, between light and darkness. A battle without victors, a war without endâthe first conflict from which all others would be born.
* * *
The images of flame and shadow burn in her retinas. Vividly real images which come for her most nights for as long as she can remember.
Voices, distant and overlapping. The steady pulse of machines. Something chemical in the airâsharp, wrong.
Pain, white hot and searing.
ââtwenty-three year old femaleââ
ââBP droppingââ
ââneed to intubateââ
âWhat are these burn marks?â
Heat. Noâthe memory of heat. Her palms burning.
Someone was saying her name. Not Kat. The other one. The one her father used to whisper.
She tries to speak. Her throat is sand.
ââburn pattern is consistent withââ
ââno accelerant on the clothingââ
ââwe're losing herââ
ââdoesn't make senseââ
The present dissolves. The voices fade. She hears her own voice call, small and frightened.
* * *
âDada!â Six-year-old Katâs voice pierces the darkness.
A door opens and light spills into her childhood bedroom where pink elephants dance across the walls. Little Khethiwe âKatâ Ndlovu sits upright in bed, her honey-colored face streaked with tears, small hands clutching the covers to her chest. Her father, Lovemore, moves swiftly to her side, his tall frame settling on the edge of the mattress with practiced gentleness.
âDadaââ Katâs voice trembles in the half-light, her small brown eyes wide and haunted.
âThula, thula, âmntwana wam.â Lovemoreâs soft accent wraps the words in tenderness. Hush, hush, my child. âItâs just a dream.â
Dark fingers, long and elegantâa scientistâs hands that never lost their connection to older traditionsâreach out to stroke his daughterâs wild curls.
âBut I saw him, dada.â The certainty in her voice, her featuresâa perfect blend of her parentsâset with conviction. âIthunzi, attacking the Goddess Ma!â
âWhat did we say about these stories before bedtime?â
They both look up to find Andrea Robbins-Ndlovu in the doorway, arms crossed over her silk robe. The precise diction of her words betrays her East Coast upbringing despite years in California. Her blonde hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail, she stands with a familiar mix of concern and disapproval.
âIâll get the meds,â she says, already turning.
Katâs stomach sinks. She doesnât like the medicine. Its cherry sweetness canât hide the bitter taste underneath.
âAndrea.â Lovemoreâs voice is quiet but firm.
âThe ancestors arenât here, Love.â Her voice softens. âWe are. And she needs her medication.â
âIâve got this.â
Katâs body tenses slightly as they stare at one other, years of the same argument hang between them. Finally, Andrea shakes her head. Disappears from the doorway, her quiet footsteps fade down the hallway.
Lovemore watches her go, something unreadable in his expression, before his gentle eyes return to Kat. As he shifts on the bed, his gaze catches something on her nightstandâa piece of paper covered in waxy crayon marks.
âWhatâs this, âmntwana wam?â He picks up the drawing, studying the dark scribbles and jagged lines.
âItâs Ithunzi,â Kat says, her small voice gaining confidence.
Lovemoreâs expression softens as he traces the childish renderingâa mass of sharp angles and shadow Kat had pressed into the paper with such force the crayon had nearly torn through.
âClever girl,â he murmurs. âSometimes we must face our fears to master them.â
He sets the drawing aside and reaches for her curls. âBut for now, let me help another way.â His fingers find her hair, delicately pinching a single strand and pulling, not enough to hurtâjust enough to tug slightly at the scalp. He moves to another strand. And another.
The familiar sensation sends tingles down her scalp, through her body. Drawing her back home. Rooted.
âThere,â he murmurs. âAll the bad dreams.â
âAll of them?â Katâs voice steadies, finding comfort in their shared ritual.
âAll of them.â
She settles back against her pillow.
âDid he die? Ithunzi?â
Lovemore tucks the blanket around her small shoulders. âWeakened. But how do you kill a shadow?â
She considers this, brow furrowing with the impossible question. The one building inside her ever since the shadows first started reaching for her.
âDada. Why is there evil?â
A smile touches the corners of his mouth, sad and knowing. âBecause you cannot have good without it. They are two sides of the same coin.â
He continues gently pulling on her hair, one strand at a time. His voice drops into a gentle chant, the words carrying across years and oceans.
âThula, âmntwana wam. Thula, thula.â
* * *
Twenty-three-year-old Kat sat in her parked car on a side street in East LA, one hand absently pulling at the threads of her hair. The childhood gesture had transformed into a comfort ritualâone of the few traces of her father that remained.
Her makeshift studio filled the carâs interior: sketchpad balanced on the steering wheel, reference images clipped to the sun visor. She sketched as she listened to a Japanese lesson on her phone, the appâs mechanical voice filling her private cocoonâgreen tea air freshener and graphite pencils masking the lingering odors from this eveningâs passengers.
Neon from the taco truck across the street cast shifting patterns across her amber-brown featuresâfeatures that never quite fit into convenient categories. Faint bass and muffled laughter cut through the otherwise stillness. Its comforting presence provided distant but welcome companyâlike an unwatched television or unseen neighbor through a shared wall.
Through the windshield, late night revelers laughed and ate. A couple fed each other, the guy wiping the girlâs chin with his thumb. She playfully slapped his hand away.
âOshigoto wa nan desu ka?â the app intoned. What do you do?
âWatashi wa geijutsuka desu,â Kat responded, the syllables still awkward on her tongue. I am an artist.
In Tokyo these words would become real, not just aspiration.
Her pencil traced the Goddess Maâs fierce features, flames curling from her fingertips, Ithunziâs shadow form threatening from the margins. Panel after panel, their eternal battle was rendered in the clean lines of manga style. A graphic novel took shape in the stolen moments between faresâher fatherâs stories, now preserved in ink.
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
Familiar words appeared on her phone screen. Crazy Time.
She reached across the art supplies on the passenger seat, pulling an orange prescription bottle from the glove compartment. Olanzapine. 10mg. The label worn from years of careful rationing.
She tapped the contents into her palmâbroken pill fragments spilled out. At the fully prescribed dose, the voices stayed silent, but so did her creativity.
She selected a quarter, rolling it between her fingertips. Just enough to keep the shadows at bay, not enough to dull her pencil. A gambleâshe was two hours past her regular evening dose. Butâ
She glanced at the half rendered panel. Forty-five minutes more. Thatâs all she needed to finish.
A sharp knock on the window shattered her concentration. The bottle and pills fell over her sneakers.
âShit,â she muttered, scanning the floor mat for the scattered fragments.
Another impatient knock. She looked up to find the couple from the truck outside her car, tacos in hand, motioning for her to open the door.
âThe app,â she said, pointing to the ride-share decal on her windshield. âYou have to use the app. This isnât a taxi.â
The guy motioned for her to roll down her window. Rolling her eyes, she complied.
âLook, Iâm not on duty.â Though she hadnât made her self-imposed quota for the evening, she was done driving for the night. Her pencil was bursting with ideasânew techniques sheâd learned online. And she needed to get it down before the medication dampened everything.
âYou need to call for someone else.â
âPhoneâs dead,â he said with an apologetic smile.
âAnd thatâs my problem how?â
Through the window, between long painted nails, a hundred-dollar bill caught the neon light. One hundred dollars. One day closer to Tokyo. One day closer to escape. The mental calculus was quick.
The doors unlocked. The couple climbed in, giggling, almost spilling their food and drinks.
âHey, careful,â Kat bristled. âI just had the mats cleaned.â
She quickly pulled down the clippings, elbow bumping the rearview mirror. In the backseat, the guy sprawled comfortablyâolive skin, dark hair styled, his tight tee showing off a gym physique under a sports coat. His fingers traced a small medallion at his neck. Religious, maybe. The girl beside him adjusted her leather mini skirt, checking her reflection in the window while reapplying gloss to painted lips.
âYou donât carry a spare charger?â The girl asked, settling into the backseat as if she owned it.
âToo much EM,â the guy stated matter of factly.
The girlâs brow furrowed.
âElectromagnetic radiation. My bodyâs a temple.â
âAmen to that,â she murmured, eyeing him appreciatively.
Katâs alarm beeped again. She reached for the pill fragments scattered on the floor, her sense of control scattered with them.
âAre we just gonna sit here or what?â Painted Lips demanded.
âYou gonna tell me where weâre going?â Kat responded, fingers still searching for the lost medication.
A sudden slam against the hood startled them all. Kat looked upâ
A disheveled sketchy looking dude appeared in front of the car, fists pounding on Katâs hood.
âFucking bitch!â he shouted, eyes locked on the girl.
âJust drive! Go go go!â she urged, panic in her voice.
Katâs foot instinctively connected with the gas. She swerved around Sketchy Dude, pulling away. He receded in the rearview, shouting obscenities into the night.
âYou never said you had a boyfriend,â the guy said, glancing back at the diminishing figure.
âJust some rando from the club,â the girl replied with a dismissive wave.
âHe looked pretty pissed off.â
âMaybe because I took these.â
She dangled a little baggie of pills triumphantly.
âYou can afford a hundred dollar ride but you steal your drugs?â he asked, eyebrow raised.
âHere.â She offered him one of the pills.
Kat watched the exchange. The casual way the girl handled the pills, the freedom of it all.
âNope. Donât do molly.â His tone was light but firm.
âItâs not molly. Itâs way better. Mineâs already starting to kick in.â
She pressed it towards his palm.
The easy smile faded. âI said no.â His tone firmed, Temple Boy suddenly showing some backbone.
âFine. Be boring.â She tossed the pill back into the baggie.
In the awkward silence that followed, the guyâs gaze wandered to Katâs sketchbook on the armrest. His eyes widened at the fierce female warrior emerging from flames. He picked it up. An application form and an envelope fell out.
âPut that down please,â Kat said, sharper than intended.
He ignored her, flipping through pages. âThese are good. Really good.â He looked up. âYou a professional?â
âYou gonna tell me where weâre going?â Kat asked, deliberately changing the subject.
âDowntown. Arts district,â the girl answered, then reached for her seatmate. She pulled his face to hers, her eyes flicking briefly to Kat in the rearview. Back off, bitch.
As they kissed in the back seat, Kat returned her attention to the road. She noticed the streetlights overhead began to pulse slightly. Colors leaked beyond their boundariesâthe red of taillights smearing across her vision. First sign.
With renewed urgency, she reached again beneath her seat, fingers searching for scattered pill fragments. She had pushed her luck too far.
Her fingertips brushed against the jagged edge of a fragment. There. She needed it now, before the whispers started, before the shadows began to move.
She managed to pinch a couple of fragments whenâ
A flash in front of her.
She slammed on the brakes.
The haunted face of an older woman stared back from the middle of the road, eyes locked onto Katâs. Donned in a simple black dress and leopard print cardigan, she pushed a shopping cart filled with mysterious bundles. Her weathered features bore the same urban hardship of the unhoused people Kat passed every day. But there was something else in her eyes and postureâsomething that reminded Kat of the elders her father spoke of.
âWhat the fuck?!â the girl shrieked from the backseat.
She turned to see her passengersâthe girlâs perfectly curated outfit now drenched in beer, the guy pitifully mopping up with a couple of paper napkins.
âWhat is wrong with you?â the girl demanded, glaring at Kat.
Kat turned back to the roadâThe Elder had vanished, leaving only empty asphalt in the headlightsâ glare. But a cold certainty remainedâthose eyes had seen her. Had known her. And somehow, she had known those eyes too.
* * *
Kat pulled into a brightly lit gas station, its yellow-green glow casting harsh shadows across the pavement. Gas fumes cut through the night air, sharp against the smell of spilled drinks.
âYou better fucking hope beer washes out of leather,â Painted Lips snarled, yanking the door open and stepping out. Her movements were already unnatural, jerkyâlike a marionette with too many loose strings.
The guy followed, shaking his head apologetically at Kat through the window before they disappeared into the convenience mart.
Alone, Kat scanned the floor mat for scattered pill fragments. With trembling fingers, she picked up three and quickly popped them into her mouth. The bitter taste made her wince as she dry-swallowed. It would be twenty minutes until she felt the effects. Twenty minutes that couldnât come fast enough.
Nearby, a late night customer was refueling. The metallic clank of the gas nozzle being removed from its cradle made her flinchâthe scrape of metal as it was inserted into the carâs tankâeach sound striking like a hammer against her heightened senses.
Kat winced, burying her nose in her jacket sleeve. The fumes were everywhere now, triggering flashes of memory sheâd spent years trying to suppress. The hospital roof. Diesel cans. The striking of a match. Her fatherâs gentle smile.
It was too much. She needed air.
Kat fumbled with her seatbelt and made her way toward the convenience mart. The ground shifted beneath her feet, signs and logos pulsed with unnatural luminance. Each step felt like wading through water, her body both too heavy and too light. Second sign.
Inside she found a lone clerk manning the cashier. Overhead fluorescents assaulted her senses, battling the neon glow from refrigerator cases. She blinked hard, trying to adjust as she made her way toward the restroom at the back.
In the bathroom, Kat splashed cold water on her face, avoiding her reflection. The medication wasnât working fast enough. Shadows moved at the corners of her vision, stretching with unnatural purpose. Her hands found the edges of the sink, its cool porcelain providing a momentary anchor. Get a grip girl. You can do this.
She took a deep breath and stepped back into the store.
The light was streaked now, colors bleeding beyond their boundaries. Then the whispers came.
At first indistinct murmurs, just below the threshold of comprehension. Barely distinguishable from the hum of the refrigerators or the whoosh of the air conditioning. They came from everywhere and nowhere. Third sign.
She heard giggling.
Katâs male passenger stood by the drinks fridge, a roll of paper towels in hand, attempting to dry his companionâs dress while she swayed unsteadily, browsing the open cooler.
âCan you hold still?â he asked, irritation edging into his voice.
The girl stumbled against the display. A bottle slipped from her fingers. Smashed on the floor, the sound magnified tenfold in Katâs perception. The spilled liquid bubbled and hissed like acid.
âDonât worry, sheâs paying for it!â the girl announced, pointing at Kat.
âMaybe we should just get you home,â the guy suggested, concern replacing annoyance.
She pushed him away. âDonât be such a loser.â
The guy raised his hands in defeat and headed for the bathroom, passing Kat with a glance of shared exasperation. In another life, this might have been a scene from one of her mangaâtwo strangers united in dealing with a difficult third. But this wasnât a story. This was real.
The whispering intensified. Kat turned to locate the sourceâonly empty air. Shadowy forms moved at the periphery of her vision, there and gone in an instant. The shadows along the walls elongated unnaturally, taking on depth and substance they shouldnât possess. Transforming into looming figures, a mass of undefined shifting features.
Kat closed her eyes. Continued the exercises Dr. Gardezi had taught her. Fingernails pressing into her palms, feeling their sharpness. This is real. I am here now.
The girl slammed down a six-pack next to the clerk, her movements becoming more erratic, less coordinated. The sound rattled in Katâs skull. She opened her eyes to find she was no longer alone in witnessing the scene.
A man in an immaculate suit stood in line behind the girl. His slicked-back hair gleaming under the fluorescents, his face turned away from Kat.
He leaned in and whispered into the girlâs ear.
Kat couldnât hear the words, but their effect was immediate. The girl laughedâsharp, brittleâand knocked over a display stand. Candies scattered across the floor. Bouncing and dancing on the linoleum tile.
The clerk stooped down to clean up the mess, sighing with the weary resignation of minimum wage retail. His nametag read âAnwar.â
The Whisperer leaned close to the girl again, lips moving in rhythmic patterns. Words Kat couldnât hear but could somehow feelâmalicious vibrations in the air between them.
With sudden clarity, Kat watched the girl throw herself over the counter and reach underneath. She pulled out a revolver.
How the fuck did she even know it was there?
The clerk stood, finding himself staring into the barrel. His hands rose slowly, eyes wide. âPleaseâŚâ
The Whispererâs lips formed the same words over and over: Shoot him. Shoot him.
Kat willed herself to move, to scream, to do anythingâbut she could only watch, paralyzed by something deeper than fear.
âNo,â Kat breathed, the word catching in her throat. âDonâtââ
BANG!
The gunshot exploded through the small space, ricocheting off glass and metal, ringing in Katâs ears.
The clerk slumped to the floor, a red stain blossoming across his shirt.
The guy emerged from the bathroom. He froze in the doorway, taking in the scene: the gun in his dateâs hand. Blood splatter on the counter. Kat pinned, motionless against the wall.
Foam formed on the girlâs painted lips. Frothing. White bubbles against crimson. The gun clattered from her fingers as she crumpled to the tile in a boneless heap.
The guy looked to Kat, horror in his eyes. Then he backed toward the exit, glancing at the CCTV camera recording it all.
All sound drained from the world.
Kat stood paralyzed as The Whisperer turned to face her with unnatural stillness. For the first time she saw him clearlyâaristocratic features carved from cold marble, eyes like polished obsidian that contained nothing. Not just vacant, but the deliberate absence of all feeling.
Their eyes metâhis gaze penetrating, almost violating, and he smiled with terrible familiarity. Recognition without warmth, acknowledgement without empathy. He straightened his immaculate suit jacket, adjusted his cuffs with perfectly manicured fingers, and walked unhurriedly toward the exitâstepping over the girlâs comatose form with the indifference of someone avoiding a puddle.
At the door, he paused and looked back. His lips formed words meant only for her:
Until next time, Khethiwe.
Her true name. The name only her father had used. How could he possibly know?
He stepped out and disappeared into the night like ink dissolving in water.
Kat slid down the wall to the floor, legs no longer able to support her.
The storeâs alarm began to blare, but she hardly heard it. Soon there would be police, paramedics, questions she couldnât answer. But for now, there was only the expanding pool of blood on the linoleum, the clerkâs labored breathing, and the absolute certainty that whatever had just happened was only the beginning.
Amadlozi's Child: The Calling is a short novel about Kat, a young woman of South African descent who lives and works in Los Angeles, USA. She has struggled with mental health her entire life and is desperate for a normal life, one in which she doesn't rely on others and can focus on her art. However, a scary event at work means she may lose everything, her future as a paid artist being one of them. When she's looking for answers, trying to prove her innocence, she starts to wonder whether her visions are what they seem â what if what she's seeing is real?
What I liked
I don't think there was a boring moment in The Calling. The characters felt real; dialogue was realistic: angry, sad, witty; scenes flowed well; and it kept me wondering what would come next and how things would evolve.
Carl stood frozen, a witness to the fracture of something he couldn't repair. The medication fragments lay scattered on the carpet between mother and daughter like physical evidence of their broken relationship.
There was a lot going on with Kat, both internal and external, and there was enough tension to keep me flipping pages. Great use of imagery had me picturing scenes like I was there, and the action scenes were gripping.
Kat burst onto the main floor, heart hammering against her ribs with such force she feared it may crack bone. Adrenaline flooded her system, heightening everythingâtoo much, too fast, too real.
The spiritual beliefs of the AmaMuthala people (Kat's ancestors) mixed with modern-day beliefs made for an interesting read. I was fascinated by the different spirits/entities, their background, and how Kat would fit into this seemingly forgotten but very much present world.
What I didn't like
I feel like the blurb of The Calling promised more than it delivered, resulting in mixed emotions when I finished this first instalment* of Amadlozi's Child. Trying to explain this without giving away too much is tricky, but where The Calling ends, and the next instalment begins, is what I expected to be the main focus of the plot, not the end.
* Please note I'm presuming, based on the novel, that this is a series and not a standalone book.
Conclusion
Nonetheless, Amadlozi's Child: The Calling is an exciting book to read, and I recommend it to people who enjoy shorter reads**, drama, action, and a different take on mainstream supernatural.
And know that when you reach the last page, you will be wishing for the next instalment. I can't wait to see what's next for Kat.
** I think it took me about three and a half [3.5] hours from start to finish.