In the cool, bustling city of Mbabane, where taxis hooted at every corner and the hills stood guard like quiet giants, friendships formed slowly and deeply.
That was where Alwande Zwane and Enzokuhle Dlamini’s story began.
They grew up in the same neighborhood, just a few houses apart along a narrow street that echoed with children’s laughter every afternoon. They walked the same route to school, shared kota during break, and spent weekends sitting on the curb watching cars pass like they were watching the world go by.
They were inseparable—not because they planned it, but because life simply placed them side by side.
If Alwande got into trouble, Enzokuhle defended him. If Enzokuhle cried, Alwande showed up with jokes and Simba chips to cheer her up.
They were best friends.
That was all anyone ever thought.
Even them.
As they grew older, they watched each other fall in and out of love with other people. Enzokuhle dated boys who made promises they couldn’t keep. Alwande chased girls who loved attention more than affection. And every time one of them returned heartbroken, the other was there—sitting on the low pavement outside Alwande’s home, listening, comforting, healing.
They became each other’s safe place.
But neither of them noticed the way their eyes lingered a little too long. Or how their laughter sounded warmer when they were together. Or how no one else ever truly felt like “home.”
Until Valentine’s Day.
That year, a Valentine’s party was hosted at a popular lounge in Mbabane. Red decorations hung across the ceiling, love songs played too loudly, and the air was filled with perfume, laughter, and the sweet smell of cider.
Alwande almost didn’t go.
Enzokuhle insisted.
“Stop behaving like an old man, Lwande,” she teased, pulling his arm. “You need to socialize before you grow roots in your house.”
He laughed. “You’re the one who scares men away, Enzo.”
She gasped dramatically. “Excuse me!”
They walked in together, like they always did. No one thought anything of it.
They danced with other people. Talked with friends. Drank more than they should have. Cider turned to stronger drinks passed around in plastic cups, and the music grew louder while the world grew softer.
Somewhere between laughter and dizziness, they found themselves outside the lounge, sitting on the pavement away from the noise. The night air of Mbabane was cool, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the road.
Enzokuhle rested her head on Alwande’s shoulder.
They were quiet for a long time.
“Why do people always leave, Lwande?” she asked softly.
Alwande didn’t answer immediately. He could smell her perfume. Feel the warmth of her beside him.
“I don’t know, Enzo,” he finally said. “Maybe they don’t know what they’re looking for.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. Really looked at him.
“You’ve never left,” she whispered.
Something in his chest tightened.
“You’ve never left either,” he replied.
The alcohol did what courage never could.
Enzokuhle laughed nervously. “You know what’s funny?”
“What, Enzo?”
“If we were in a movie, people would say we’re meant for each other.”
Alwande smiled. “Yeah… but this is real life.”
She held his gaze. “Maybe real life is the problem.”
His heart began to race. “What do you mean?”
She swallowed. Her voice dropped. “Lwande… have you ever wondered… what if we were wrong about us?”
The night grew still. Even the music from inside seemed to fade.
He stared at her, trying to understand. Trying not to understand.
“What if,” she continued, “we’ve been looking for love everywhere… except where it’s always been?”
His breath caught.
“Enzo…”
She was trembling now—not from cold, but from fear. “I’m tired of losing people. And the only person who’s never hurt me… is you.”
Silence wrapped around them.
He saw it then. Not the girl he grew up with. Not his best friend. But a woman whose eyes held years of shared memories, laughter, tears, comfort, loyalty.
Love.
It had been there all along.
He gently held her face. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve loved you for a long time, Enzo… I just didn’t know what to call it.”
Tears filled her eyes.
And then, without planning, without thinking, they kissed.
It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t rushed.
It was the kind of kiss that felt like coming home after a long journey.
Inside the lounge, people danced and laughed, unaware that outside, two souls had just changed the course of their lives.
From that night on, they were no longer just Alwande and Enzokuhle.
They were Lwande and Enzo.
Something deeper.
Something inevitable.
One evening, months later, they sat again on the same pavement outside Alwande’s home.
Enzokuhle leaned into him.
“Do you think we would have figured this out without that party, Lwande?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Probably when we were old and grey, Enzo.”
She smiled.
He kissed her forehead.
The city lights of Mbabane shimmered below the hills as night settled in.
Two childhood friends sat in silence, now lovers, now soulmates—proof that sometimes, the greatest love stories don’t begin with strangers.
They begin with the person who never left.
