NOT EVERY GIRL MAKES IT HOME

 ⚠️ NOT EVERY GIRL MAKES IT HOME ⚠️

By: T.W Storom

Some nights don’t end with selfies, hangovers, and “I’m home safe” texts. Some nights end in headlines, morgues, and unanswerable grief. This is one of those nights.

She was the kind of girl who could light up a room just by walking in—but that night, the only thing that lit up was a poster flapping against a street pole: MISSING: Naledi, Last Seen at All-White Party in Nelmapius.

The week was full of hype. Naledi and her best friend, Zama had been buzzing about the weekend. The all-white party. The celebrity DJ. The outfits. The high-end booze. The fantasy.

They had a game plan, and it was simple: look good, flirt smarter, catch the right man’s eye, and go home richer.

Friday came. The night she’d been waiting for.

Naledi woke up with fire in her blood. She couldn’t stop smiling. Her texted her friend: “Tonight’s gonna be wild. I’m ready to SLAY 🔥🔥🔥”

Three hours passed, her bedroom looked messy. Clothes scattered everywhere. But she had the fit—one that screamed “slay queen.”

A white lace crop top kissed her glowing caramel skin, teasing just enough cleavage to leave men wondering. Her short tennis skirt barely covered the flower tattoo inked into her upper thigh. High-top sneakers balanced the sexy with playful touch.

She wasn’t new to the game.

Naledi knew exactly how to move. How to catch eyes. How to drink for free. How to make them want her without giving too much of herself away. Or so she thought.

Zama, just as bold, rocked a white leather mini-skirt reviling thick curves. Her crochet bra-top lifted her full boobs. Together, they weren’t just party-goers—they were the slay of party.

They caught a ride to Nellmapius few kilometres outside Mamelodi.

The club pulsed with heat and music. DJs were already spinning, disco lights bounced through foggy air, people with their dance moves on the dancefloor. 

Naledi and Zama stepped in like queens. Hungry eyes followed their every move. Men tried their luck, tossing compliments and small talk. But they weren’t looking for cheap ones. They wanted men with money. Real money.

And that’s when he walked in.

Sibusiso Mthembu. Aka Sbu.

All muscle and melanin, dripping in designer. His cologne hit like a spell. His watch screamed “money.”

He spotted Naledi and Zama from across the room, cutting through the crowd with the confidence of a man who never hears no.

“Hey ladies,” he said, voice like velvet and sin, “I’m Sbu. Can I buy you a drink?”

He barely looked at Zama. His eyes were locked on Naledi. It was clear his after the top notch.

They drank. Gin. Champagne. Whatever they wanted. He was charming. Smooth. His hand rested lightly on Naledi’s thigh. He whispered things in her ear that made her laugh. That made her blush.

Later that night, Zama ran into her ex. Sparks reignited. One drink turned into five. A familiar kiss became an old rhythm. “I’m going with him,” Zama said, searching Naledi’s eyes. “You okay?”

Naledi nodded, grinning. “I’m good, girl. He’s chill. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But tomorrow never came.

Two days passed. Naledi didn’t come home.

Her phone rang unanswered. Her messages left on read. Her parents began to panic. Her bed was still made. Her closet untouched.

The police were called. A missing person case opened.

Photos of her in that crop top and skirt began circulating on WhatsApp, Facebook, pinned to trees and light poles. “Help us find our daughter.” Her parents’ voices cracked with fear on radio stations.

A week passed. Then two.

Silence.

Then the police called. A decomposing body had been found in a ditch just outside Nellmapius. The smell had drawn a men passing by with his dog.

The remains were barely recognizable. But the outfit...

That white lace crop top. That skirt. That hair.

It was Naledi. Positively identified.

Her mother collapsed at the scene. Screamed until her voice broke. Her father didn’t say a word. He sat in the corner, staring at the remaining of their daughter as the forensics did their job, fists clenched so tight.

Their baby never made it back home.

Her name was Naledi, 23 years of age. She was from Mamelodi.

She wanted fun. A night of music and laughter. She wanted to dance. To flirt.

But she ended up in a shallow grave.

Let This Be a Warning

This story is fictional—but the tragedy is real for too many families. Not every man who buys you drinks wants to see you home safe. Not every night ends the way you plan it.

May Naledi’s story be a remainder before your next party.

Before you leave with someone you just met.

Before you say “I’m good, girl—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Because some girls never come back.

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