GUEST POST: HECTOR SIBISI PLACES FIRST IN THE FOUR HUNDRED CLUB CAMPAIGN

 

Hector Sibisi, winner of the Four Hundred Club co-authoring campaign

 

Introduction by Keli H

Creative projects can be some of the hardest things to collaborate harmoniously on. I know this from a berth of experiences in my last 5 years of publishing - the failed partnership with a small press from Indonesia to create a two-way translated novel, the halfway abandoned movie script whose writing team I was hired on, the workshopped manuscripts that never made it to completion. But when these collaborations happen just right, they're a force of talent to be reckoned with. 

 

In 2024 I started a co-authoring journey with the bestselling ghostwriter Theresa Bhowan. Together we created a non-fiction guide called Creating Literary Art: How to Weave a Tapestry of Words into a Perfectly Publishable Book. I did the research, she the writing; me the editing, and Theresa the formatting before it went into the publishing process with The KREST House, the Durban-based publishing company of which I'm a co-owner. When artists with the same ambition, drive, and discipline work together, it's magic.  

 

When the Axone Universe, a collaborative writing platform formed by the University of Cape Town's Innovation Hub, approached The KREST House earlier this year to work together, it was a bold move in creative partnership. Together, we embarked on a campaign to find a co-author to write the next books in the 400 series (of which The Four Hundred Club is the first book) with me. The campaign ran for over 6 months - it was a lot of work for the entrants to read The Four Hundred Club, pick characters from the novel, and write their own short story with these original characters, set within the 400 universe. The campaign was not just a test of writing ability - but a test of commitment to a creative project, artistic endurance to write through the ups and downs of life, and the skill to play in another author's universe.

 

The Axone team and I deliberated for a while on second place for the campaign winners (you can read the second place entry here.) But first place - Hector's story was unanimous among all who voted. Hector Sibisi is a writer who exceeded all hopes for what this campaign could achieve. Hector's short story stayed true to the glamorous, opulent world of The Four Hundred Club, while putting his own dark spin on idea of reality TV. I was surprised at how well this worked. If you, too, are eager for Hector to turn this story into a full novel with a publishing agreement, as the next installment of the 400 series, leave a comment! This is easily a writer with whom I hope to make that elusive collaborative magic.

 

You can read Hector's story entry below. To honour what he has created, I've not change anything. 

 

About Hector Sibisi

Hector Sibisi, professionally known as H.B. Sibisi, is an author and ghostwriter who loves crafting immersive worlds with epic scope, sharp political intrigue, and unforgettable characters. Known for blending grand-scale storytelling with grounded human motivations, he brings depth, clarity, and imagination to every project. Highly intuitive and intensely introverted, he's also a media critic who creates video essays and other non-descript content on YouTube that have amassed nearly 55 000 views. When not writing, Hector can be found sketching maps, plotting empires, and dreaming up stories that feel larger than life.

A Dance With Devils by H. B. Sibisi 

 “Behind every sin, is a divine law.”  

 

 The road spiralled like a snake in slither, as the ramshackle clunker grumbled through a mummer of coveralls and fleeting taxicabs thronging the town square. The frigid cold was venom against her skin, and when the stench of cigarettes had dissipated, Linda thumbed a button, letting the rear passenger window close shut beside her. The morning had dawned with a biting chill that hinted at another long winter. With a horde of minibuses and station wagons trailing behind them, hooting and hollering, her driver said something in a tongue vaguely sounding like Zulu, but she could faintly discern his words. It was clearly not his first language, but Linda appreciated the effort. She replied in English, hoping it would dispel his anxiety and remove the language barrier.

 

“Are you one of those rich girls?” The man asked in English when the noise of the city had faded.

 

“Only in spirit,” Linda murmured, quite amused at the question.

 

He laughed, the sound rattling the car. “To be this rich,” he commented with a gesture at the opulent cluster of estates and mansions surrounding them as they approached affluent suburbia.

 

Linda hesitated and then nodded slowly. “Wealthy is how I’d describe it.”

 

“What’s the difference?” Her driver smiled.

 

“Rich is—I shop at the Mall without any concern for the price tag. Wealthy is—I own the Mall.”

 

Half an hour later, she found herself close to the Eckman manor. Nestled in the landscaped enclave of Sandhurst, the Eckman home seemed as if it manifested from hallowed ground. The car trundled along the imprinted driveway, winding through flourishing greenwoods. Once they reached the entrance to the equestrian castle, her driver remarked in awe at the polished stone fountain adorned by a jewel-eyed water siren enwreathed by dolphins in a sensuous serenade of aquatic glitter.

 

“Who lives here?” The driver had to ask, and a part of her understood the curiosity.

 

“Thank you,” was all she said before stepping out of the car and into a world as alien to her as the stars in a distant galaxy.

 

She watched the car drive away and resisted the urge to hail the driver back. Her fear was bitter bile against her tongue, and it wouldn’t be easily swallowed down. She patted her pocket for her inhaler and took a puff, allowing herself to breathe anew. The stone steps rose toward the doors, made from polished oak, and surrounding them was an infinity castle of unsullied white, a manor conjured from the exaggerated tales and dreams of the underclass and declared as true.

 

Before she could knock, the locks unlatched, and the oak-woven doors opened. Standing at the threshold was an old woman in a helper’s uniform. Natalie—she read the name on the tunic.

 

“You must be Miss Dlamini,” Natalie said with a whisper of a smile. “Please come in—he’s expecting you.” She was overcome by relief knowing she would not be the only Black woman in the house. A sudden flush of shame clung to her like old perfume at the thought.

 

Just as she was about to speak, she gaped in shock at the girth of obscene affluence adorning the ceiling. The golden chandelier was crafted from lustrous jewels, the gleaming sparkles pouring like electric rain. She stopped with rousing anger at an ornate painting on the wall. It was less the artist’s soul upon the canvas, and more a shrine to the spirit of the Eckman patriarch. Whatever that was worth. And then… There he was—Irving Eckman. She balled her hands into fists in a fruitless effort to suppress her disdain.

 

“Will Mister Eckman be home?” Linda asked softly.

 

“Possibly,” Natalie said, poised with rigid grace. “Is that a dream of yours? To meet the Irving Eckman?”

 

Linda forced a hint of a smile. “Something like that.”

 

Natalie chuckled softly. “You might just get your wish.” She signalled for them to keep moving. There was a hush to the labyrinth of the inner sanctum, and upon being led into the private study, the faint smell of books was masked by the potent stench of burned cigars. Heavy curtains of burgundy were draped over the panoramic view of the daylight sky, barely shutting out the spill of it. Splayed upon the carpet underfoot was the pelt of a dead animal, the hide still soft as a cloud.

 

“Miss Dlamini,” Hugh Eckman emerged from beneath his desk, an unlit cigar in hand. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

 

She uncomfortably watched as he signalled Natalie off, with barely a second glance in her direction. “Please sit.”

 

Then she did, all the while studying him, weighing him, trying to discern his intentions. Hugh Eckman was a wayward scion of the Eckman estate, a black sheep clad in a wolf’s silk pyjamas. His silken smile was freshly whitened, his teeth distractingly perfect. He was thin, with red-brown hair, and unlike the rest of his siblings, his eyes were blue as clear skies.

 

“Would you like a drink?” He asked, already pouring whiskey into a used glass.

 

“I’m still working,” Linda said, retrieving a notebook and a pen from her bag.

 

“Would you really let me drink alone?” He grinned, sure of himself.

 

Linda smiled thinly. “Why am I here, Mister Eckman?”

 

“Call me Hugh.”

 

She cocked her head, her eyes searching for the answer to the question.

 

Hugh acquiesced. “Fine,” he gulped down his drink and then said, “I think we can help each other.”

 

“The email said you knew what happened to my father—that you could help me.”

 

“I read your articles on the Daily Maverick,” said Hugh. “You were a Fashion Blogger. Why such a sharp pivot into Investigative Journalism?”

 

It was a good question. She ruminated silently, picking apart the question and scarcely finding the words with which to answer.

 

“Is it because of your father?” Hugh smiled, unable to help himself.

 

“What do you know about my father?” Linda asked.

 

His smile was cocksure. Hugh rose from his seat and paced toward a velvet cloak draped over what seemed to her like a wooden easel. He pulled the veil to reveal a painting, weaving clouds of dust in the air.

 

“When I was a boy, my siblings and I would summer in Venice—François Pinault had a villa that overlooked the jardin à la française. I remember always thinking—one day, I want to make something so devoid of imperfection that the world would stop in admiration of its beauty.

 

“So, you wanted to be a gardener,” Linda twiddled with the tip of her pencil. “It'd suit you.”

 

Hugh scoffed softly. “François is an art collector—an avid one at that. He opened a museum at The Bourse de Commerce just a few minutes away from the Louvre.” His eyes gazed thoughtfully at the painting. “He acquired the Cour de ferme en Bretagne in 1972,” he gestured toward the painting, almost salivating. “It was his first painting—I guess it ignited something in him. An obsession.

 

“An obsession with the past,” remarked Linda. “History is always nostalgic for the privileged few unaffected by it.”

 

“We’re all affected by it.”

 

She grinned slightly. “History plays favourites, Mister Eckman. It’s only ever been kind to people like you than people like me.”

 

“Don’t let my father hear you say that,” Hugh walked back to his seat. “Let’s just say the entire foundation of his beliefs is a critique of liberalism.”

 

“I know who your father is,” Linda snapped at him.

 

Hugh nodded in silence, reading her. “Let’s put our cards on the table. You’ve been writing articles about my father—our company. You’ve been making very serious allegations.”

 

“Are any of them true?”

 

“I’m no longer involved in my father’s business.”

 

“Then what good are you to me?” Linda prodded.

 

His smile was gentle. “What do you think my father did?”

 

It took everything for her to maintain her silence; to not indulge his curiosities. But if she wanted anything out of him, she needed to give something in return. With great reluctance, she confessed, “My father was—is a plumber. My earliest memories were of him leaving us every morning to take a taxi in the CBD—sometimes early enough that I would stay long past my bedtime… waiting and listening for his alarm. Just so I could see him off. Sometimes that was the last time I would see him that day. Years later, he started his own company—he became his own boss. Things were better… for a while. I got my dad back. A few months ago, he received an offer. Some suit representing Waymond Holding Group—actually, representing your father specifically. He couldn’t wait to name-drop. My dad was smart; when he built his company, he built it on land that he owned. That’s why he was away so much… why he worked so much. He was saving money to purchase his own land so he could build a future that was not beholden to anybody.”

 

“If my dad made an offer, I’m sure it would’ve been worth his while,” said Hugh. “Why didn’t he just take it?”

 

“Because he had people to answer to—men and women who had families that relied on a stable and reliable income. That money—it may have been something to my father, but it was nothing to the people that mattered to him.”

 

“Do you believe that’s who your father was?” Hugh asked. “By your admission, he was never home, so you never really knew him until you were a grown woman, and by then, you didn’t need him. How do you know he was the person you think he was?”

 

Linda scowled, taking offence. “Waymond Holding has interests in consumer goods, banking… and property. One of their three property subsidiaries is Newmarket Housing, which is currently building a rental estate in Pinetown. This estate is being built on land that was recently purchased through an offshore LLC parented by Wayland Co, another subsidiary of Waymond. I always asked myself why your father was so persistent—so insistent. And then I saw it. Fifty years ago, the land was home to an apartment building that’s since been torn down—an apartment building in which your father lived until he was twelve.”

 

“Just what do you think happened?”

 

“They did something to my dad. They tore down his property, took his land and then made him disappear. For what? Some nostalgic ‘full circle’ moment—some passing fancy? I know what they did, and I’m going to prove it. Now I ask you again—what good are you to me?”

 

For a moment, Hugh looked down in careful thought. “When the Four Hundred Club premiered, it became an instant hit—a little too much high school drama for my taste, but I’m not the target audience. But I did enjoy the love story between Jason and the Indian girl—”

 

“Aishwarya,” anger flashed in her eyes. That’s her name.”

 

“Sure,” said Hugh. “After the initial success of the first season, Ray Productions has greenlit a second season—the Sandton Four Hundred Club. But this time, it will be a little different.”

 

“Different how?”

 

“The contestants would be handpicked by some of Joburg society’s elite—think of them as silent sponsors. But that’s not what they call themselves.”

 

Linda listened.

 

“Unofficially, they’re called the Players, and the contestants would be their Pawns. The next season’s participants will not be rich kids finding love and friendship among strangers. This time, the Players will select men and women from low-income homes and pit them against each other for a chance to escape poverty. This will be broadcast live, and every week, South Africa will vote on who leaves and who stays. That’s why the Players will be very careful about who they choose to represent them.”

 

“Stop,” said Linda. “Treven would never let—”

 

“Your friend is EP, but he’s no longer in charge,” said Hugh. “The role is just a courtesy. The truth is, the Four Hundred Club has become something… more.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” Linda was almost afraid to ask.

 

“I want you to be my Pawn.”

 

Without a second thought, Linda stood up and stormed toward the door.

 

“If you do, I’ll help you take down my father,” Hugh blurted out.

 

She stopped mid-step. “What?”

 

“You’re right about him, you know,” said Hugh. “But it doesn’t matter. As you are now, you’re nothing but a fly around his head—something to be swatted or ignored until it buzzes away. If you walk away, you’ll never get justice, and you’ll never find out what happened to your father.”

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

Hugh lowered his eyes and then sighed. “All I know about my father is what’s written in articles, newspapers and tabloids. In person, there was always a security guy or assistant or some other middleperson standing between him and our family.” He met her gaze once more and then remarked, “I need your eye, and you need my influence. It shouldn’t matter more than that.”

 

His words rang so true that they made Linda ache with anxiety. She looked at the deep blue of his eyes with assuaging distaste. For a moment, it moved her, his silver tongue like a tune of silk song. “I’m not getting involved in your family feud,” Linda resisted. “Today, you hate your dad—sure. But that will change—he’ll say something kind or reassuring that will make you think that maybe… just maybe… he’s not so bad after all. You’ll think that finally, he sees you… and that he loves you in his own unique way. And then, I’ll be the monster for trying to tell you different. Your desperate need for his approval will be the death of me, and I want no part of it.”

 

Hugh looked irritated. “Do you want the truth about your dad or not?”

 

“You have nothing to offer me—just games.”

 

“You said Waymond purchased your father’s land, but there was no money, was there? Someone was paid, but it wasn’t your dad.” Hugh remarked. “After he disappeared, your mom fell ill—the hospital bills keep piling up, and it looks like your sister will run out of money before she finishes high school. Your salary is barely enough to cover your own expenses, let alone your family’s. Without me, you can’t reclaim your birthright.”

 

Linda scoffed. “You looked into me.”

 

“You need me more than I need you, but I won’t lie—I do need you. It has to be you,” Hugh moved closer, so close the musk of his cologne was poison in her throat. His fingers twined with hers.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Linda cringed and shoved him away. “I’m not some toy for your amusement or an object for your use. Find another Black girl to satisfy your fetish!”

 

“Fetish?” Hugh sounded mildly amused.

 

“I know what you are,” she remarked. “For boys like you, Black women are a curiosity—a mere experience. A theme park ride for your bucket list. We’re a placeholder until your family can find you a suitable Blonde who tells you what you want to hear and doesn’t ask questions.”

 

He smiled. “Do you always see the world through the lens of politics?”

 

“The world is politics,” said Linda. “Everything about who I am, who I’m not and who I’ll one day become—is political. A world filtered through white privilege won’t allow you to see it for what it truly is.”

 

He nodded in silence and looked wistfully at the painting. “You asked me why I’m doing this… I guess I’m looking for my Cour de ferme en Bretagne. My trigger—my obsession. Somewhere along the way, I lost something, and I’ve yet to find it. I will never be able to tell you everything, but I will never lie to you—that’s my promise.”

 

“What is your father looking for?” Linda asked.

 

“It’s not just him,” said Hugh. “The most powerful families in the country are the Eckmans, the Oppenhimmels, the Motsebes, the Besters and the Khans. Each family representative will select a Pawn to participate in the reality show.”

 

“Why the farce?”

 

“Because they’re bored,” admitted Hugh. “But also—it beats a bidding war. After the President signed the Land Expropriation Act into law, 2.5 million hectares of farmland were purchased by the government and are being held in the State Land Holding Account. But the country is in a crisis—we’re in debt. So, the government is reselling the land to cover the cost of business. But the Families are not interested in a bidding war, so they’re using this show to determine which one of them will earn the right to purchase it uncontested.”

 

“They can’t do that,” Linda said with bitter disgust.

 

“They can do anything and everything they want,” said Hugh. “Officially, the winning contestant will receive one million rand. At least that’s how it will be marketed. But behind the scenes, rest assured, a Pawn’s desire runs deeper than anything money can buy.”

 

Linda was appalled at what she was hearing. “I—I can’t—”

 

“I won’t lie to you,” said Hugh. “This is a dark, dangerous place we find ourselves in, and we’ll be dancing with devils at the edge of the universe. All I ask for is a dance partner I can trust with my life.”

 

“What if I lose?”

 

“If you lose, you might not get close enough to my father to learn the truth, but I’ll still pay you one hundred thousand rand for your trouble, and for your family.” With a smile on his face, he remarked, “What do you have to lose?”

 

Linda scoffed. “Only everything I thought I knew about myself.”

 

Finally, she looked down, acquiescing. She wrapped her arms around herself in silent despair and then glanced at the painting. Her father was her trigger—her obsession, and she was going to see it through until the very end.

 

More from Hector Sibisi

 

If you've enjoyed this story and want to see it play out in a full length novel, don't forget to drop that comment. To see more about Hector's perspective on storytelling nuance, watch his video essays on YouTube, or follow him on Instagram.  

 

For more articles written by Keli H, the author, visit this blog's home page on keli-h.com

Keli H is the award winning author of the 400 series, which includes The Four Hundred Club and Splitting an Empire. The 400 series is high brow contemporary fiction revolving around the lives of wealthy circles. Keli's other works include Creating Literary Art. She is also the founder of The KREST House, a storytelling empire.