Читать книгу Happiness is a four-letter word - Cynthia Jele - Страница 5

The wedding dress, an ivory silk strapless with a floor-length A-line tulle skirt and a top encrusted with Swarovski crystals, hangs on the wall like the Mona Lisa at the Louvre Museum. The bride, Nandi Hadebe, gazes at it with awe before carefully lifting it from the padded silk hanger. She clasps it to her, twirls around to the approving gasps and ululations of the people in the room. It is her wedding day, and all the women who are important in her life are present – her best friends Zaza, Tumi and Princess, her younger twin sisters, her mother, her aunts and her grandmother.

Tumi, the matron of honour, in a stunning ankle-length magenta chiffon couture dress that hugs her generous curves in all the right places, is standing by to help Nandi put on her wedding gown.

“Enough with the parade,” Tumi says authoritatively to the gyrating bride. “Time to put on the dress.”

“I’m too excited,” Nandi responds before breaking into a round of giggles. “I can’t believe I’m getting married. Hey, everybody, I’m getting married!” It’s unreal to her that before the day is over she and Thomas, her handsome prince and fiancé, will be husband and wife – Mr and Mrs Thomas Phiri. The bride smiles to herself, thinking of the bumpy road she has travelled to get here. A few years back she came so close to walking down the aisle, but in the end it wasn’t to be. Today is a different story, today is her day.

Nandi secures the garter before putting on the dress, stepping into it to prevent her make-up from smudging. Tumi helps to slide the dress up her slender body.

“Your diet worked, big sis,” one of the twins comments. “And the colour of your dress suits your dark skin. You look beautiful.”

Everybody murmurs in agreement.

“Thank you, sis,” the bride says, beaming. She’s satisfied with the overall look – her straightened hair, weaved with hair extensions, is pinned up into a neat bun, the make-up is subtle on her face and accentuates her high cheekbones, and the diamond studs and matching necklace complete the elegant and uncluttered look; she’s exactly how she pictured herself on her big day – a modern princess.

“Suck your tummy in,” Tumi orders. She starts to button the lower back of the dress. She manages the task effortlessly until she reaches the chest area, then her fingers fumble with the buttons. Tumi tugs determinedly but fails to close the gap. She asks for help from Nandi’s mother, who is busy hovering and fussing around her eldest daughter.

“What’s wrong?” Nandi asks, straining to look.

“Nothing, chomi,” Tumi reassures her. “I just need an extra hand buttoning the top.”

“Why am I not surprised? My friend, you know you’re well endowed up there,” Princess shouts from the patio. She’s leaning against the railing, holding a glass of champagne in one hand and hiding a cigarette with the other. She looks a bit uncomfortable in her knee-length cerise bridesmaid’s dress – dresses aren’t her thing.

“Nandi takes after her mothers,” one of the aunts responds, cupping her ample-sized breasts and bouncing them playfully. The others roar with laugher.

“I’m not complaining, these babes have served me well over the years,” Nandi jokes. “By the way, Pri, I think you should start wearing dresses more often. Give the jeans and chinos a break and start showing off your lovely legs, girl. Maybe grow your hair as well.”

“Hell, no!” Princess retorts. “No dresses, and I’m happy with the chizkop. I tortured myself enough in my youth with those scalp-burning chemicals and unbearably itchy weaves. Nandi, remember the time you tried to straighten my hair because we couldn’t find a salon that was still open and I insisted on having my hair done, only to have half of it ending up in the basin?”

Nandi bursts out laughing. “How can I forget? After I’d cut it all off you made me collect it into the relaxer jar and wouldn’t throw it away for weeks!”

“I actually should thank you, because I never straightened my hair again, I was so traumatised,” Princess says, laughing.

“Hold still or we won’t get this done,” Tumi instructs Nandi.

For a few minutes Tumi and Nandi’s mother are involved in a tug of war with the buttons. They yank and squeeze and tuck and nip without success.

“Don’t pull too hard, the stitching will come apart,” Nandi says with mild irritation. “What could be so difficult? It’s only a dress.”

“Chomi, we may have a slight problem,” Tumi announces. Her forehead is covered with tiny beads of sweat. “I think we need to get a seamstress, otherwise we’ll damage the dress.”

“Hhayi, my child, Tumi’s right,” Nandi’s mother adds in a soothing tone. “The dress needs to be extended a little here. It’s minor work, I promise.”

“A seamstress?” Nandi shakes her head. “The dress was fine when I tried it on a few days ago. My breasts couldn’t have magically grown overnight. Are you sure you’re doing up the buttons correctly? I know they’re a bit intricate.”

“The problem isn’t the buttons,” Tumi says. She turns to Zaza. “Zaza, please get off the phone for a second and come here and help.”

Zaza, the self-appointed wedding planner, is in her element. From head to toe she’s in designer wear – the dress, a simple black cocktail number, is by Hugo Boss, the silver sandals are by a Brazilian shoe designer who regularly supplies her shoe boutique, PaMi Shoe Emporium, and the small silver leather clutch bag is by Chanel.

Zaza closes her Blackberry phone. Her face has suddenly turned pale, as if she has seen a ghost. She bites her lower lip before she speaks. “Tumi, please come with me for a second.”

“Why?” the bride asks. “Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not.” Zaza smiles nervously. “I just need to discuss something privately with Tumi. Nothing major.”

Nandi looks at her friend, unconvinced. She has known this woman almost all her life, she can tell when Zaza’s bullshitting her. “Zaza, what is it?”

The room grows silent, all eyes are on Zaza.

“Zaza!” the bride snaps.

Zaza lets out a sigh. “That was the best man on the phone. Thomas is missing.”

“Missing?” Nandi asks, looking puzzled. “How can he be missing? I spoke to him just a little while ago.”

“Apparently he disappeared from their hotel room about an hour ago and he isn’t answering his phone,” Zaza says. “Did he maybe . . . say something to you?”

“No, he was fine. Where’s my phone? Somebody please find my phone!” Nandi frantically searches the area around her. “We’re supposed to walk down the aisle in less than an hour. He can’t just disappear.” There’s a trace of panic in her voice.

Tumi finds Nandi’s phone and hands it to her.

Thomas doesn’t pick up. Nandi leaves a message. Next she calls the best man. He doesn’t pick up.

“No response from his other friends either,” Zaza says. “I’ll see if my husband can find him. Thomas must be around.” Zaza comes around and hugs the bride. “I bet he’s having a private spiritual moment before he says ‘I do’ – you know that’s something your man would do. In the meantime don’t stress, we’ll find him.”

“We’ll help look for him,” the twins speak in unison. They stand up and leave the room with Zaza.

The bride, in a half-buttoned dress, starts pacing the room. She dials Thomas’s number again; it goes straight to voice mail. She leaves another message. She does the same with the best man. She has worked so hard preparing for the wedding to make sure nothing goes wrong. How can he do this to her? Nandi feels the tears collect and spill over, warming her cheeks.

The room is immediately filled with murmurs and exclamations.

“Hhayi bo, umkhwenyana wenzani?” someone says.

“It’s unlike Thomas to act this way. He’s a responsible young man,” Nandi’s mother says. “I hope nothing bad has happened to him.”

“Ingane kasisi bakithi, on her wedding day,” another person adds.

“Nandi, come and sit by me and stop walking around like a headless chicken,” her mother says.

Nandi obeys and takes a seat next to her mother. She keeps her head down and tries to control her breathing. She’s too stunned for words. This isn’t happening, she thinks. This is her worst nightmare come true.

Tumi and Princess come and crouch beside her. Tumi takes Nandi’s hand and says quietly, “Don’t worry, we’ll find him, chomi.”

A few minutes pass, no one is speaking. Nandi is sobbing softly next to her mother.

“My baby, what’s wrong with your face? Are you allergic to something?” Nandi’s mother asks, examining her daughter’s cheeks. She asks Princess to fetch a wet cloth.

“What do you mean, what’s wrong with my face?” Nandi shoots up from her seat and rushes to the mirror. She lets out a cry of horror and touches her swollen face as though it’s a foreign entity, not part of her perfect body. Her lips are the size of the Drakensberg and her eyes have completely disappeared – she’s surprised she can still see. “Mama, what’s going on? Tumi, what’s happening? Why is my face swollen?”

“I . . .” Tumi starts and then stops, unable to explain. The dress was dry-cleaned and Nandi had a trial make-up run, twice, without reacting. The brunch earlier had been the usual affair; she had made sure there were no experimental dishes.

There’s a soft tap at the door, Thomas walks in. Nandi sees him reflected in the mirror. She impulsively runs to him and throws herself in his arms. “You scared me. I didn’t know where you were, I thought you were gone. I called and you wouldn’t answer your phone,” she cries feverishly into his shoulder. “Where were you? Why did you disappear on me like that?”

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. The aunts ululate and break into another wedding song.

“You almost killed us with worry, mkhwenyana,” Nandi’s mother says with a smile.

Abruptly Nandi detaches herself from Thomas’s embrace. She looks at him with a mixture of alarm and confusion. “You’re not supposed to see my dress before the ceremony.” She raises her hands to her head, then brings them down and tries to cover herself up. She backs away from him, whispering in disbelief, “You’ve seen my dress! Oh, my God, this wedding is doomed!”

* * *

In a town house situated in a residential estate in Fourways, a popular cosmopolitan suburb north-west of Joburg, Nandi woke up with a start. She was shuddering violently and her pyjamas were soaked in sweat; dreaming of one’s wedding was a bad omen, a very bad omen.

“Thomas?” Nandi called out in the dark, her voice trembling. “Darling?” she called out again, reaching for him, only to be greeted by an empty space.

Nandi bolted out of bed and searched every room in the house. Finally she went into the garage. His car was gone. Nandi ran back to the bedroom, grabbed the cellphone from the bedside table and with unsteady hands dialled her fiancé’s number. The clock registered 1:05 a.m.

Thomas answered at the first ring.

“Thank God, you’re all right,” Nandi said, gasping for air. “Where are you?”

“Hey, baby, I’m sorry, I had to leave to take care of some business,” Thomas responded. “But everything’s sorted out now. I’m on my way back. Go back to sleep, I’ll be right there.”

Nandi looked at the clock again. “What business? It’s one in the morning.”

“I know, don’t worry, just go back to sleep,” he said, as though in a hurry to end the conversation. “I’ll see you in a moment, okay?”

“Thomas, what’s going on? Where are you?” Her voice rose.

He went quiet, then whispered, “I’m at Lunga’s mother’s place.”

“You’re at Pinky’s?” Pinky was his ex-girlfriend and the mother of his son, Lunga.

“Yes.”

“And why are you there?” she demanded impatiently.

“Lunga was running a temperature. Pinky panicked.”

“Again? It’s the second time this week you’ve had to rush to her place.”

Thomas was silent for a moment. “I know, baby, but I can’t ignore her when she calls and goes berserk,” he said slowly, as if deliberating over each word. “I get edgy if Lunga is involved.”

“I’m not asking you to ignore anyone.” Nandi’s tone was indignant. “I’m tired of you running over to them every second as if you don’t have a life of your own. Right now I need you here.”

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“No, I’m not okay, that’s why I need you here.” Her voice broke.

Thomas drew in a breath of air. “I’m on my way, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, I promise.” He paused. “Nandi?”

“What?”

“I’m trying my best to make the situation work for all of us.”

“Well, it’s really not working for me.” Nandi hung up before Thomas could speak. She returned the cellphone to its place, crawled back into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. Her mind buzzed with thoughts – about the four months that remained before her wedding, the promotion that she had been waiting for since she started her career as an accountant, and, of course, the minor pest in the form of Thomas’s ex-girlfriend. She understood Thomas’s responsibilities towards his child; Lord knows, she wasn’t asking him to disown Lunga. It was the mother of the child who was the problem. Pinky was furious with her for finding love with Thomas. Two years Nandi had known this woman, two years that felt like eternal hell. Life wasn’t fair. All she wanted was a loving man and a peaceful relationship, not a lunatic ex-girlfriend with entitlement issues. Was that too much to ask?

* * *

Zaza Zulu slowly opened her eyes. She was greeted by darkness. She lay still and watched unfamiliar silhouettes take shape and form around her. After a minute or two her eyes adjusted. She became aware of a hand resting comfortably on her waist. Zaza smiled; how could she have forgotten? She turned, careful not to disturb the hand, until she was facing the owner of the protruding limb. In the dark she could see his outline – a small round nose, broad shapely mouth and a strong square jaw that had taken her breath away the first time she saw him. She wanted to run her fingers along its contours. She thought he was the handsomest man she had ever laid her eyes on. Zaza smiled again as she took the hand into hers, resting both on her naked chest. The owner inched closer to her and tightened the grip of his hand. Zaza closed her eyes. Bliss.

Hardly a minute later, her pillow started to vibrate. Zaza cursed, her moment of ecstasy disturbed. With her free hand she took the cellphone from under the pillow and switched off the alarm. Reluctantly she slipped out of bed and felt around for her clothes. She found her bra and panties on the bedroom floor. She picked them up and negotiated her way along the dim hallway, following the trail of her clothes. It was the first time she had come to the flat at night, but she found her way around without difficulty. She liked the place and its shabbiness, the naked walls with their chipping greyish paint and the sparse second-hand furnishings. She found it unexpectedly homely. Her three-million-rand house in exclusive, leafy Bryanston was immaculate, perfect, filled with stylish furniture as if it were a television advertisement home, the type one saw on Top Billing, or a feature in Garden & Home magazine. Yet, here she was in a dilapidated flat in Sunnyside, Pretoria, many kilometres from home.

In the lounge Zaza turned on the lights. She spotted her cardigan lying haphazardly on a tattered brown sofa, her slacks on the kitchen counter, and her shoes – one on the floor by the entrance hallway and the other under a white plastic chair behind the door. She dressed and went to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face and dried it with the back of her sweater. She caught a glimpse of her face in the bathroom’s cracked mirror and quickly ran her fingers through the knotted tangle-free three-thousand-rand weave. She needed to go home before her children woke up and came barging into her empty bedroom demanding toast and Rice Krispies. She fastened the buttons of her cardigan and went back to the bedroom to wake him.

Their first night together had gone well despite her earlier misgivings. She had almost not come, had thought the idea of a nightcap too reckless. She had been cross with him for even suggesting they spend a night together. So what if her husband, Bheki, was in Tanzania on business for a few days? That didn’t give her permission to leave her children and whore around town all night.

“We might as well sit my husband and your wife down and tell them we’re sleeping together,” Zaza had scolded him. She noticed he was getting bolder and increasingly reckless with his ideas. Last time they met he had forgone the obscure and soulless, hourly rated hotels they often stayed in and booked them a deluxe room at the opulent Westcliff Hotel, the same hotel where she and Bheki had celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary earlier in the year. She was incensed; what was he trying to prove? And then a few weeks later he brought up the idea of them spending an entire night away.

“I thought you might like spending more than an hour with me. I wasn’t being disrespectful. I’m sorry,” he had said, sounding genuinely wounded by Zaza’s attack.

As days went by, and with Bheki often out of town, Zaza found herself thinking the idea of their spending a night together wasn’t so preposterous any more. They met at his work in Kempton Park after she had seen her children to bed, and drove in his car to the flat in Pretoria. They made hungry love, ate pizza on the lounge floor and drank expensive red wine in clear plastic glasses he found in one of the kitchen cupboards. Later, full and tipsy, they made love again, smelling the salami and wine on each other’s breath. She couldn’t remember when they had finally drifted off to sleep.

He was awake, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, when Zaza came into the room. The side lamp on the floor emitted a dull orange glow.

“We must go, Bongani.” She sat down and planted a kiss on his cheek. “It’s getting late.”

He didn’t say anything, only turned his head to face her. Their eyes met. There was such intensity and longing – and something else, something endearing – in his stare that she didn’t want to let go of it. They were both intent on capturing the moment, perhaps afraid a blink would take them back to reality – a place where passion and tenderness weren’t far short of mythical. Zaza’s cheeks burned as waves of heat coursed through her body like small volcanic eruptions.

“Do you ever wish things were different for us?” he finally asked, still holding her gaze.

“What do you mean?” Zaza laughed nervously and averted her eyes from his. She had never seen him so intense, so purposeful.

“I mean, don’t you wish we were together?”

“But, baby, we are together.”

“No, not like this. I can’t stand this merry-go-round any more. I can’t stand the lie I’m living. Zaza, I want you. I’m tired of these stolen moments.” He cupped her face in both his hands. “I think about you all the time. Each day that goes by without seeing your beautiful face or hearing your voice is like a wasted day. I live for our next meeting; I count the days, the hours, the minutes, until I see you. I keep telling myself the feeling will disappear, that one day I’ll wake up and not think of you. I go home to my wife and children and think, ‘ This is where I’m supposed to be. This is where I belong.’ Only I’m miserable there.”

Zaza stood up and walked over to the window. She felt the intensity of his gaze bore a hole through her back. The street lights below flickered in despair. With the exception of the occasional car passing by, the street was deserted. If she left now, she could be home in thirty minutes; everyone in her household would still be fast asleep.

She thought of the day ahead. Bheki was coming back from Tanzania that morning; she needed to fetch him from the airport. Then she planned on meeting with her friend Nandi for sundowners before spending some quality time with her family. She would work from home, there was no need to visit eThembeni Home or be at the boutique.

“I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I can take you home now,” Bongani said, coming up behind her.

Zaza was startled; she hadn’t heard him climb out of bed or change into his clothes. She turned to him, arms folded across her chest, and said, “Yes, do take me home.”

* * *

The same morning, fifty kilometres south of Pretoria, in the lounge of her first-floor apartment in Parktown, one of Joburg’s oldest suburbs, Princess Mokoena woke to the blaring sound of gunfire and galloping horses. Except for the flickering light coming from the television, the room was dark and chilly. Without opening her eyes she felt for the television remote control. She found it under the book she had been reading before she dozed off. Swiftly she turned the television off and lay back with her head resting on the armrest of the sofa. A cricket chirped insanely somewhere in the room, but despite straining her neck she couldn’t locate the sound. A chair? bed? scraped in the apartment above. Outside, in the distance, a car hooted and tyres screeched. She held her breath and waited for the impact.

Princess pulled the blanket up to her neck. She had once again fallen asleep on the sofa waiting for Leo. She didn’t have a clue what time it was – probably ungodly early – and her boyfriend hadn’t come home. She considered making off to bed to catch whatever decent sleep was left to her; her body was still aching from taking part in the march against child prostitution organised by her office, the Women’s Rights Law Clinic, a non-profit legal organisation. She had been doing the night vigil for a week now, and the lack of proper sleep was catching up with her. It was her own fault she cared so much for him, she berated herself. Leo never asked her to stay up and wait for him. Of course he was in his studio in town working, this she knew. He preferred to work late in the evenings, when the streets were free of the city’s daytime bustle and the air undisturbed. He said he liked to hear the stroke of his brush making contact with the canvas.

Princess decided against the bed, instead repositioned herself comfortably on the sofa. In a couple of hours her alarm would go off, loud and unforgiving, marking the start of the familiar upheaval of the morning routine. She closed her eyes.

A while later Princess heard a key turn in the front lock of the apartment. She let out a short breath; her lover was finally home. The door squeaked open and closed, followed by shuffling and murmuring.

“Hurry up, man!” a man’s voice whispered.

“Shh!” another hissed.

“Leo? Is that you?” Princess called, but made no attempt to move. Her eyelids were heavy. “I’m in here.”

The silence was swift.

In sleepy irritation Princess tossed aside the blanket and stood up.

“Leo?” she called out again, moving towards the light switch across the room. Her heartbeat, confident and steady a moment ago, drummed with heightened purpose. They lived in a well-secured high-rise with a compound gate, security guards, a twenty-four-hour neighbourhood patrol and a secured main entrance with cameras, she reminded herself. There was no need to panic. She was fine.

Princess reached the switch, turned it on. Two men in black trench coats stood by the door with Leo squashed between them.

A loud scream escaped her mouth.

“Another sound and I’ll blow your boyfriend’s brains out,” one of the men said. The accent was thick, menacing and distinctly West African. Nigeria? “Where is the package?” he directed a question at Leo.

Princess let out another piercing scream, surprising both herself and the men in black trench coats. With one smooth movement the other man, the one who hadn’t spoken, lunged at her. He grabbed her by the neck with one hand and covered her mouth with the other.

“Do you want him to die?” A rancid smell of tobacco, beer and other indistinguishable substances escaped from his mouth.

Vomit formed at the bottom of her stomach and slowly rose up her throat; Princess choked it back.

“Do you?” the man barked. Up close Princess could see a long, deep scar running from the top of his forehead just below the hairline to the base of his chin, as if someone had tried to split his face in half. She looked away.

“Do you?” He twisted her face towards him.

Princess shook her head like an obedient child.

“Keep your filthy hands off her,” Leo bellowed. He lunged forward, but the other man clutched his shoulder and held him back.

“Don’t be stupid.” The man shook his head at Leo contemptuously.

A sinister smile formed on the face of the man holding Princess, revealing a set of surprisingly white and straight teeth, full and healthy, like those of toothpaste models. Princess imagined describing him and his partner to her friends, or the police, perhaps? They are both black, of average weight and on the tall side. Probably in their late thirties or early forties. One of them has a long scar that runs down his face and extremely white teeth.

The man released his grip on her.

Princess held her raw throat and coughed. Her eyes burned. The stench from the man’s breath lingered in her nose.

“Get the package,” the man standing next to Leo said.

He must be the boss, Princess concluded. The Boss and his sidekick, Splitface.

The Boss said something else in his language, followed by a loud click of his tongue. Splitface nodded.

Leo seemed to understand what was being said. “I’ll get it. Man, why did you have to embarrass me in front of my woman like this? I told you I was going to bring the stuff tomorrow. You didn’t need to come to our house and disrespect us.”

“Don’t talk to me about disrespect,” the Boss retorted. “I’m getting impatient, Leonard.” He said his name, Leonard, with familiarity, as though they knew each other well.

“Shit.” Leo crossed the lounge and walked towards their bedroom. His eyes were refusing to meet Princess’s.

Princess remained mute, not daring to move in case she provoked Splitface next to her. She was negotiating silently with her stomach to quieten down. Of late it got agitated at the faintest disturbance.

A few seconds later Leo emerged with a small brown package wedged under his arm. “Let’s go outside.”

The Boss hurried after him. Splitface turned to Princess and grinned, idiotically. “Bye, sister. I hope we meet again.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, sending shivers down her spine, and left, whistling.

Princess stood in the middle of the room, paralysed. She was aware she had to do something – call the security, the police, somebody. She opened her mouth, closed it.

The front door opened and the lock snapped in place.

“Baby, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Leo moved briskly towards her. She looked at him with serene vacancy. “Those bastards had no right to come here and scare you like this. Don’t worry, I’m here now. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He wrapped his arms around her.

The nauseating sensation returned. Princess’s lips parted again and she muttered to Leo, “Call the police.”

Leo held her tight, whispered in her ear, “It’s all right, baby. No need for the cops.”

“Call the police!” Princess insisted. Her vision was blurred, her head light. She couldn’t feel her body or the ground she was standing on. She clutched at Leo. Then her world was transformed into a giant ball of blackness.

* * *

When Tumi Modise woke that Friday morning with an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach instead of the customary cheerful mood that came with the last day of the week, she was alarmed. She wasn’t a superstitious person. She didn’t believe that placing a bed facing north or south brought misfortune. Or that if you say goodbye to a friend on a bridge you’ll never see each other again. Nor did she believe that leaning a broom against a bed brought evil spirits. Tumi Modise was, however, an intuitive person, a woman of the sixth sense. Of course her family and friends teased her whenever she mentioned these troublesome premonitions, said it was the second-grade schoolteacher in her, and that she needed to learn to relax and stop wanting to mother every person under the sun.

With every passing minute Tumi became more convinced the day was headed in the wrong direction. The air outside was disturbingly peaceful for an early September Joburg morning. Not a whisper of wind stirred, and none of the hum or the occasional sirens and hooters of the early-morning traffic through the once sleepy suburb of Kyalami could be heard in her bedroom. The whole place appeared to have come to a standstill, as though someone of significant stature had passed on and a moment of silence was being observed.

Tumi’s first reaction was to call her husband, Tshepo, who had left early for work. When Tshepo answered his phone and assured her he was fine, only missing his woman, Tumi proceeded to call all twelve numbers on her emergency contact list. She feared road accidents the most; they were swift, with fatal results. She had lost a close cousin not too long ago, a soul with a potential for greatness. But robberies and car hijackings were common and just as deadly. And so was AIDS. On a normal day in South Africa anything was possible.

Twenty minutes later, and somewhat relieved – everybody had picked up and no one had reported any maladies – Tumi continued with the routine of getting ready for work. Her only concern was her friend Princess, who hadn’t sounded herself but had insisted she was all right. As it was in her nature not to write off any unusual behaviour, Tumi made a mental note to call Princess again after school to confirm all was indeed well with her.

Tumi had just popped the last piece of toast in her mouth when she heard a soft knock coming from the kitchen door. Her first thoughts were of Mme Rose, their domestic helper, who entered the house through that door. But Mme Rose owned a set of keys and didn’t work for them on Fridays.

Tumi’s stomach knotted involuntarily. “Modimo,” she half muttered, half prayed as she approached the door.

A young woman with a face Tumi didn’t recognise stood outside. The woman took off her large black D&G sunglasses, revealing a set of puffy eyes rimmed with redness and with bruise-like circles beneath them. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“May I help you, ausi?” Tumi asked, eyeing the woeful face in front of her with discomfort. It wasn’t every day that she opened her door to a weeping stranger.

“The gate was open,” the woman said, pointing at the entrance behind her.

Tumi looked past her to the open gate. Again, only Mme Rose used the side gate. “It shouldn’t have been open,” Tumi said, her tone a mixture of agitation and anticipation. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re Tumi Modise, right?” the woman asked, dabbing at her cheeks with her fingers. Tears continued to roll from her eyes as if mocking her efforts to stop them.

“Yes, I am.” The muscles in Tumi’s body stiffened. “How may I help you?”

The woman pulled a white envelope from her bag, looked up at Tumi. “I’m Nomkhosi Buthelezi,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I work with your husband, Tshepo.”

“Oh.” Tumi felt her body come untied; just another one of Tshepo’s people. She wanted to laugh and cry from relief. “I’m afraid Tshepo has already left for work,” she said politely to the stranger. Nomkhosi Buthelezi wasn’t the first person from Tshepo’s work to show up uninvited. Barely a week before a male colleague who happened to be in the neighbourhood had come by to discuss off-the-record matters with him. Could Tshepo put in a favourable word for him concerning such and such a position that recently opened up? To think they had moved to the suburbs for peace and quiet, to disconnect from the township’s disorderliness, and, most importantly, to get away from people showing up on their doorstep unannounced and expecting hospitality.

At thirty-six years of age Tshepo Modise was an influential man, and well respected in the business world. He headed the sales and marketing division of SA TeleCom Inc., an information technology start-up he had co-founded with a university friend. Recently, the Midrand-based SA TeleCom Inc. made business headlines when it entered into a multi-million-rand contract with a Fortune 500 software company in America. Overnight it transformed from being just another IT company to the golden child, instantly turning its owners into multi-millionaires.

“It wasn’t always rosy for us,” Tumi often wanted to shout. She wanted to tell the intruders horror stories of the early days, the years when they had to survive on her grade-schoolteacher’s salary, re-mortgaging their town house when the government funding agencies shut the door in their faces one after the other, and of the strains their relationship was put under, to the point where she had wanted her parents to return the lobola to Tshepo’s family and call it quits. But people weren’t interested in that kind of information.

“I know, I saw him leave,” Nomkhosi said. “I came to talk to you about him.”

Tumi stood transfixed in the doorway, observing Nomkhosi. The woman was striking, not pretty – rather a “mooi van ver”. Nomkhosi was what most black men considered attractive: with a fair complexion, slender, with long, silky hair extensions and patterned acrylic nails – something she, Tumi, found tasteless, tacky. It didn’t help that her nose was a tad too flat and her forehead acutely wide. She, Tumi, with her smooth dark skin, a perfectly sized nose, large liquid eyes and a full smile that revealed two reluctant dimples, was without a doubt more beautiful. Near or far.

“What about Tshepo?” Tumi asked.

“I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.” Nomkhosi spoke softly, as though she were talking to herself. Tumi had to lean forward to hear her. “I don’t know where to start.” She started to sob.

“Ausi, perhaps you can come back another time, later today maybe?” Tumi offered, uncertain of what to do with the distraught young woman.

Nomkhosi swept the back of her hand across her face and stood up straighter. “I’m sorry. If I don’t do this today, I may not have the courage to come again. I could have called you, but I thought it best to tell you in person. I promise I won’t take too much of your time.”

“You may come in,” Tumi said and gestured Nomkhosi inside towards the lounge. “I wish I could offer you something to drink, but I must be getting to work. I’m afraid you picked an inappropriate time to visit.”

Nomkhosi took a seat on the edge of the sofa nearest the door. With trembling hands she opened the white envelope she was holding and pulled out a fuzzy-looking black-and-white photograph. She started to hand it to Tumi, then hesitated and placed it on the coffee table instead.

Tumi, seated on a chair opposite, eyed the woman and the photograph on the table with intense suspicion. Was she expected to look at it?

Nomkhosi shifted the photograph towards her. Tumi picked it up warily. At first she couldn’t make head or tail of the hazy image, but after going over it a second time she recognised the foetus – the big head, tiny curled feet, the delicate curved spine. Nomkhosi was showing her an ultrasound.

“Is the baby yours?” Tumi asked, eyeing Nomkhosi’s stomach for signs of a bulge. She didn’t see any; she couldn’t, not under the heavy coat Nomkhosi was wearing.

Nomkhosi nodded.

“Your first?” Tumi tried to guess Nomkhosi’s age; she put the young woman in her early twenties. Some people are lucky, she thought.

“Yes,” Nomkhosi replied.

“Congratulations, children are a precious gift from God.” Tumi smiled at Nomkhosi. “So, ausi Nomkhosi, what is it you wanted to discuss about my husband?” Clearly there was a mix-up, Tumi thought. Why else would someone from her husband’s work feel obliged to come all the way to her home to share her pregnancy? Unless Nomkhosi wanted a favour from him. But what? Longer maternity leave with pay? Or maybe Nomkhosi was still on probation and wanted to secure her job for after she’d had the baby; SA TeleCom Inc. was one of those hip companies that everyone wanted to work for.

For a brief moment Nomkhosi’s eyes met Tumi’s. Tumi could swear she saw fear in them. She couldn’t help feeling compassion for Nomkhosi.

“This is awkward.” Nomkhosi brought her hands together, lacing them tightly into a knot. “Sisi, the baby I’m carrying is Tshepo’s. Our relationship was a huge mistake. He told me you were separated. He said you left him. He said many things that I later found out weren’t true.” She spoke fast, gasping for air here and there. “I believed you were divorcing him. Now I know I was stupid to take his word.”

Nomkhosi swallowed hard, continued, “What I’ve done is inexcusable, coming between what God has created. My parents raised me better than that.”

Tumi watched Nomkhosi, but no longer with sympathy. She shifted in her seat and sized up the woman once more.

“I’m ashamed to even look at myself.” Nomkhosi raised her eyes to Tumi’s. “I wish I could turn back the time. I wish I had a chance to make another decision, a better decision. But it’s too late now. I –” She stopped when Tumi lifted her hand, palm turned outward, signalling a halt.

“Ausi, I’m sorry but I must stop you before you go further,” Tumi said. “You’ve made a mistake. Tshepo couldn’t possibly be the father of your unborn child. I know my husband; I’ve been married to him for nearly seven years.”

“No, I’m not making a mistake,” Nomkhosi said, shaking her head. “Tshepo is the father. The affair with him was a mistake, and I’m deeply sorry it ever happened.” For a moment Nomkhosi looked as if she was about to cry again. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, trying to keep the collecting tears from spilling over.

The temperature inside the house seemed to have dropped a few degrees. Everything seemed suspended, dangerously, as though a sneeze, the twitch of a finger, the blink of an eye would trigger a crash.

“Like I said, Tshepo is not your baby’s father.” Tumi’s words were sharp and deliberate; she stared at Nomkhosi challengingly. “My husband is a good man who is committed to our marriage. The man you’re referring to isn’t Tshepo, and that’s all I have to say about the issue. Now if you don’t mind, I should be getting to work.” Tumi stood up, walked over to the door and held it open.

Nomkhosi opened her mouth but struggled to form words. She awkwardly collected her bag, hoisted herself up and approached the opened door. She hesitated for a second when she reached Tumi.

“Sisi, please believe me, I’m telling the truth.”

“Ausi, I honestly don’t want to hear any more,” Tumi stated firmly.

“In June we went to Cape Town for a week. He said you had left, moved out and gone back to your parents in Soweto. You called only twice during that time and both conversations were short. I was convinced it was over between you,” Nomkhosi said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, sisi Tumi. Please forgive me for the trouble I have caused.”

Tumi watched as Nomkhosi got into a white Toyota Yaris parked in the street and drove off. She closed the door behind her and let out a deep breath. There wasn’t time to piece together and make sense of what had just happened; she was already thirty minutes late for work and the principal at Kyalami Preparatory School didn’t take kindly to staff being tardy. She grabbed her handbag, a set of car keys and a pile of unmarked exercise books and headed for the door.

From the corner of her eye something caught her attention. She stopped; Nomkhosi’s ultrasound lay on the table. Tumi went over, picked it up and held it uncertainly between her fingers. She thought of running after Nomkhosi but decided against it. Nomkhosi was probably miles away. After a moment of deliberation, Tumi stuffed the ultrasound in her handbag and left.

As she was navigating the morning traffic to work Tumi had time to replay the morning’s scene in her mind, in slow motion. The accusation was rubbish, of course. What nonsense. She and Tshepo had a good thing going, and she believed God would one day bless them with a child. Tshepo was all she needed in life. For almost seven years she had worked hard for her marriage, weathered many storms in the beginning; she wasn’t about to let a random woman and her unfounded allegations come between her and her husband now. Tshepo was her husband, hers alone, and their marriage was solid and meant everything to her.

The sound of the cellphone ringing jolted Tumi out of her deep thoughts.

“Just checking if everything is still okay, sweetheart.” It was Tshepo. “You got me worried with that call.”

“Actually something strange has happened . . .” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “But it’s probably nothing. I mean, I know it’s nothing.”

Tumi started to tell Tshepo about Nomkhosi’s visit but stopped; Nomkhosi’s words flooded her mind: “In June we went to Cape Town for a week. He said you had left, moved out and gone back to your parents in Soweto. You called only twice during that time and both conversations were short . . .” Tumi tried to think back to that time in June. Tshepo may have gone to Cape Town around that time, but Tumi couldn’t prove he’d said those things about her moving out of the house.

“You still there?” Tshepo asked. “You were saying . . .”

Tumi stalled; somehow she no longer wanted to continue telling him about the visitor, though she was convinced in her heart the matter was a simple case of mistaken identity or something. “You know what, my love, this doesn’t matter.”

“No, no, my wife, you can’t start a story and then decide it doesn’t matter. Come on, tell me,” Tshepo protested. “So you open the door to be greeted by a crazy sobbing woman, then what? Did she tell you her name?” His tone was curious; Tumi thought she detected a little apprehension. Or was she imagining it?

“I didn’t say she was crazy. She was sad,” she said. “Anyway, turns out she was lost. She came to the wrong house.” She wasn’t sure why she was lying to him about this woman and her allegations; she never kept secrets from her husband.

“Oh? Which house was she looking for?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask her. Why all the questions?”

“She was lost, wasn’t she? And I know for a fact Mrs Modise knows everyone in our neighbourhood.”

“She came to the wrong estate, she mentioned a name I didn’t recognise,” Tumi said quickly.

“Are you sure?”

Tumi heard a shuffling sound in Tshepo’s background and him muttering, “I’m on the phone with my wife, what do you want?”

There was a brief pause. “Listen, baby, I would love to continue chatting, but something urgent has come up,” he said with agitation. “Do we have plans for this evening?”

“No, I’m hoping to get together with the girls. I haven’t seen them in ages. Is that all right with you? We can do something tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll stay here for an extra hour or two. We’re starting to lag behind. We can’t afford to, not with this baby. I love you.”

Tumi hung up. Her eyes involuntarily landed on her handbag lying on the floor on the passenger’s side. She hadn’t looked in that direction since throwing the bag into the car. The sight of it brought a pang to her stomach.

Tumi laughed. She was being crazy, there was nothing to worry about. The ultrasound had nothing to do with her husband, with them.