Читать книгу Happiness is a four-letter word - Cynthia Jele - Страница 6

The hot water pelting Princess’s bare skin brought a welcome relief to her numb body. At last sensation was returning to her lower limbs, and only traces of queasiness remained. She upped the shower heat until the water was almost scalding. The bathroom filled up with steam, resembling a sauna. For a long time she stood in the shower, taking long, deliberate breaths, filling her lungs with hot, wet air and slowly collapsing them as though performing a cleansing ritual. She felt dirty and violated. When the water turned lukewarm, she lathered a bath sponge with soap and scrubbed her body furiously.

The early-morning events weighed heavily on her mind. After the two men in trench coats had left, after she had regained consciousness, she found that even the familiar warmth of Leo’s body next to hers, which she normally sought out and counted on to relieve any unhappiness, yielded no comfort. She had lain under the covers, scared and tense, her mind a chaotic whirl of thoughts and speculations. She had wondered about many things; her life, it seemed, was one big round of wondering. She had wondered about Leo and his well-being, things he kept concealed from her and which revealed themselves by accident, like the two men. Who were they? How did they know Leo? And what did they want from him? She had wondered about their relationship, where it was headed, where it wasn’t. She preferred not to dwell on the relationship much, afraid of the anomalies her clever brain might point out. She had wondered about the sensitivity of her stomach and the nausea that wouldn’t go away. She had wondered about her late mother, bless her soul, and wished she could talk to her. She had dozed off still wondering.

Princess dried off and stepped out of the shower. In the bedroom Leo was sleeping soundly. She stood by the bed watching his bare chest rise up and down in a composed rhythm. Her first impulse was to run her hands over his smooth dark skin as she normally did every morning. She liked to make love to him in the morning, loved the way his taste and smell stayed with her all day. As her fingers touched his skin, Princess recoiled; this was no time for loving.

“Leo, wake up.”

Leo didn’t stir. He was a sound sleeper, could sleep through a heavy metal rock concert. And of late he did nothing but sleep his days away.

“Get up!” she said, more loudly, shaking his arms with unnecessary force. “Leo!”

“What, baby?” he grunted and reluctantly opened his eyes. A surprised, mischievous smile formed around his mouth. He eyed her up and down and started to lean towards her. “Have I ever told you how sexy you are, my own Jada Pinkett-Smith?”

Princess wasn’t impressed by his compliment. She realised she was only wrapped in a bath towel, took a step back, out of Leo’s reach, and folded her arms. “The men from this morning, who are they?” The shock had worn off. She was focused.

“What men?” he asked, his smile dissipating.

Princess glared down at him with her piercing brown eyes.

“Oh, them?” He sank his head into the pillow and feigned a dry cough. “They’re nobody.”

“Don’t play games with me. I want to know who those men are and what they wanted from you.”

“Baby, don’t worry about those jerks.” He was trying hard to keep it together. “Why don’t you come here and give me some love?” He patted the empty side of the bed and looked at her with hopeful eyes.

Princess furrowed her brow, angled a suspicious look at him. Her mind was racing. “What was in the brown package you gave them?”

Leo let out an exasperated sigh and averted his eyes. “I’ve already told you not to worry. This morning was a big misunderstanding. Please don’t turn what happened into a big issue.”

“Foreign men come into my house, scare me shitless and threaten to blow your brains out, and I’m supposed to dismiss everything as a misunderstanding? I’m not a fool, you know.” Anger was swelling inside her. She hated being lied to.

“I know, baby, and I’m not suggesting you are. Let’s put this incident behind us, forget it happened, okay?”

“Leonard, are you taking drugs?” She was using his full name, saying it sharply and reproachfully, knowing he hated hearing her say it that way, knowing it made him feel uneasy. “Are you selling drugs? Are you in any way involved with drugs?”

“Baby, no! How could you even think that? I don’t have anything to do with drugs, I swear.”

“Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not,” he yelled. “Enough of this talk, Pri. It’s six-thirty in the bloody morning. Do you mind?” He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

Princess followed him. “Leo, I need to know if you’re into drugs, because honestly, I can’t deal with that.”

“Jesus! Would you stop treating me like one of your clients? I’m not a criminal and you’re not my lawyer.” He slammed the door shut and locked it.

Princess stood outside the door drumming her fingers on the wall.

“If you don’t want to tell me the truth, fine; maybe you would like to explain to the police. I don’t want any shady business going on in my house.” Her head started to spin. The nausea was coming back. Carefully, she moved towards the chaise longue and lowered herself onto it.

A minute passed and the sick feeling vanished. The toilet flushed. Leo came out of the bathroom and leaned in the doorway.

“Look, I know those guys from home. They helped me when I first moved here – set me up with a room and a small place where I could paint. They gave me a start.” He was having difficulty speaking, like someone with a minor speech impediment. “Of course you won’t understand these things. You’ve never been in my situation. You don’t know what the life of a refugee is like. You have no flipping clue how it is to be displaced from your country, to wander hopelessly in a country you don’t know, not knowing where your next meal will come from or whether the next step you take is your last, to sleep on the pavement. You can’t possibly know. You South Africans have no idea how privileged you are to have the freedom and –”

“Leo, please, spare me the bullshit,” Princess said dryly. “I’m the last person to give the ‘Poor me, I’m an immigrant’ sermon.”

“Okay, baby. I haven’t heard from those guys since I moved out last year, and then out of nowhere they show up at the studio demanding money for helping me. It’s blackmail, I know, but I don’t want any trouble, you see. So I gave it to them. It was money in that package.”

Princess said nothing.

“I’m sorry for putting your life in danger. And I’m sorry I yelled at you. The most important thing is they’re out of my life for good. I promise.”

Princess didn’t speak. She kept her frozen stare on him.

“Baby, please talk to me.”

Finally she said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Leo Moyo, but let me make it clear to you now – I don’t want to be part of it. I will not tolerate drugs or other criminal activities in my house, you hear?” Her tone was icy and uncompromising, one reserved for uncooperative spouses, partners, fathers, brothers.

Leo was looking at her with a combination of hurt and contempt. It was a look she sometimes received from men who, out of shock or ignorance, couldn’t believe that a woman could be so vicious; the same men who sometimes called her a family breaker and a tight-ass feminist.

Princess opened the closet and pulled out a pair of khaki chinos and a white shirt. She was thankful for her low-maintenance, ready-to-go look because she couldn’t spend another minute with Leo. She left without saying another word.

Twenty minutes later she arrived at her office in Braamfontein, downtown Joburg. She was the only person there and was glad to have some time to reflect on the events shaping her life. Her eyes landed on a framed photograph next to her computer. It was her favourite photo of Leo, taken on the day they first met at a gallery in arty Melville.

Nandi, an art enthusiast and a collector, had read in the newspaper about the opening exhibition of Leonard Moyo, a twenty-something progressive Zimbabwean painter, and had suggested they attend. Princess was shamelessly clueless about art, and tagged along because her date, Juan, a super-sexy Spanish bartender she was dating – sleeping with, really – for nearly three weeks had cancelled on her at the last minute.

At the gallery, bored and listless, Princess had detached herself from her friends, who were engrossed in the paintings – caucusing, pointing, and nodding in unison as if uncovering the answers to life’s biggest mysteries – and had wandered around the room sipping the tepid champagne provided.

At that moment she couldn’t have been less concerned about Zimbabwe and its daily struggles. Her mind was on Juan. All week long she’d been busy, and she’d been looking forward to a relaxing Friday night with him, especially as it was his night off. He hardly ever got weekends off. She had made an extra effort to make their night memorable, a sizzler. She had bought a sexy red mesh camisole with ruffled feather trim and matching thong, and almond-scented massage oils. An hour before he was supposed to arrive, Juan had called and in his broken English told her he couldn’t make it. She had screamed at him, calling him all sorts of names under the sun, and told him never to call her again. A wasted night; what a fool!

Her thoughts were disturbed by clapping and shouting. “Yes, comrade!” The noise was coming from a crowd gathered in the far right-hand corner of the room. Someone, the comrade, was addressing the audience. Princess stopped and could hear bits of the speech.

“. . . confronts reality. I see my work as the voice of the silenced fellow countrymen . . . issues of involvement . . . issues not everyone is keen to talk about . . .” The voice was melodic and the words poetic. Out of curiosity, to match the face with the voice, she made her way towards the crowd. And there, in shoulder-length dreadlocks, snugly fitting jeans and a black T-shirt with UHURU printed across it in white, stood her lean, long-limbed saviour – the answer to her troubles. Freedom indeed, she thought. Without wasting time she pushed through the crowd, causing a small disturbance, until she got to the front. She watched the artist from up close, mesmerised. Such beauty, and at arm’s length!

“Excuse me, comrade,” Princess said, waving her hand. She was aware of the sudden silence, perhaps even disapproval, and could feel the audience’s eyes burrowing through her back. She smiled unapologetically; she was a lawyer.

The comrade artist stopped midway through his sentence and turned to face her.

“Yes, ma’am?” He wore a lovely expectant smile on his face.

“I just want to say I’m deeply moved by the intensity of your work.” She held his gaze with her expressive brown eyes. “I feel the pain and the suffering of your subjects. You’ve done a wonderful job. That’s all. Thank you.”

The comrade artist nodded politely and said thank you. Then he continued with his talk, but it wasn’t with the same oomph. He seemed to have lost the thread of what he was saying. Satisfied, Princess squeezed her way out of the crowd and went to find her friends, whistling. She made a mental note to thank Nandi for bringing her to the gallery. She knew it was merely a matter of time before the artist came looking for her. And he did, half an hour later.

Princess returned the photograph to its place and stared at the busy street three floors below. The pavements were clogged with wares of every description; a fruit-and-vegetable hawker harassed rushing passers-by by shoving her bright red apples into their faces, a man in a business suit was buying a cup of tea or coffee from a makeshift coffee stand close by. The city was coming to life and she was standing by watching, confused.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed Leo’s change in behaviour in recent weeks. He was staying out late – sometimes, as had been the case that morning, not coming home until the crack of dawn. She suspected he wasn’t painting as much; she no longer smelled the nutty smell of oil paint on his clothes or saw its traces under his nails, and his studio looked as if it hadn’t been used for weeks. And his mood swings! He was like a premenstrual female. Had he always been so easily irritated and defensive? Princess wondered. She had decided not to interfere; perhaps he was experiencing a case of painter’s block. Yet she couldn’t brush aside the thought that Leo was possibly involved in something illegal and dangerous that could affect the lives of both of them.

* * *

Nandi arrived at the accounting and auditing firm of Le Roux, Mathaba and Associates in Randburg and entered her office inconspicuously. The years of hard labour had paid off. She was no longer an inexperienced newcomer, the reluctant tenant of cubicle 0054, but instead had advanced high enough within the firm to be afforded the luxury of a matchbox-sized private office that came with spectacular views of the taxi rank below. A qualified chartered accountant and senior manager, Nandi couldn’t wait to be made junior partner and to move upstairs with the big boys. She was particularly proud to know that when she got appointed – something that was to happen before the month was over – it would be due to dedication and hard work and not merely the result of a political balancing act, all that right skin colour and gender drivel. She would deserve every bit of the recognition she’d get.

Nandi’s plan that morning was to get as much administrative work out of the way as possible and leave the office early; a visit to the hair-and-nail salon was overdue. She was also meeting with Zaza in the afternoon for drinks and to discuss the progress of her upcoming wedding in January. They were having a small ceremony, hundred and sixty guests, but the details of the event were starting to take their toll on her, not to mention the enemies she had created in the process of trimming down the guest list. Though the wedding venue was confirmed (a charming farm on KZN’s north coast with acres of rolling sugar cane fields and breathtaking views of the Indian Ocean), the bridesmaids’ dresses nearly complete, the wedding bands picked, a week-long honeymoon in Phuket, Thailand, confirmed and paid for, and the invitations sent out, the list of things requiring her attention was growing longer with each passing day. Her wedding gown, bought at a bridal trunk show while she attended a conference in New York City, needed minor alterations. The menu for the reception dinner was under heavy debate between herself and her mother. And they hadn’t chosen the cake yet. She enjoyed the full support of family and friends, but she couldn’t help wondering how brides managed to come through the experience poised and smiling. To her, preparing for the wedding was proving to be harder than writing an accounting board exam.

Thinking about the wedding reminded Nandi of the nightmare she’d had earlier that morning. She felt a chill run down her spine. It was only a bad dream, nothing to agonise about, she told herself. The wedding plans were on track and her beloved Thomas was at her side.

Thomas.

She was still pissed off at him and that cow called Pinky and the whole state of affairs. One thing was certain, it was time to put diplomacy aside and tackle the problem with the ex-girlfriend head-on. She was no coward. She could play dirty too. Pinky brought out something evil in her. She had always thought that should she find herself in the unfortunate position of becoming involved with someone who had a child from a previous relationship, she would rise to the challenge and make the best of the situation and create a happy atmosphere for the extended family. Being the professional that she was, she had attempted to forge an acceptable relationship with Pinky, bent over backwards trying to make things smooth between them for Thomas’s sake. But the woman was impossible. Her and Thomas’s engagement had inflamed an already dire situation. Even the polite pleasantries she and Pinky occasionally shared had vanished completely. Pinky was waging a war against her.

There was a tap on the door and Sonja stepped inside. She walked over to Nandi and stood by the desk, her hands on her hips. Nandi winced at the body language. She knew it only too well; it was a sure sign of trouble.

“Are you giving me a cold shoulder?” Sonja demanded.

“Morning, Sonja,” Nandi said. She stood up and hugged Sonja. “No, I’m not snubbing you, my dear friend. I just want to deal with this paperwork; it’s been piling up for some time now and I’m starting to lose things. How is this Friday morning treating you, Mrs Wort? I must say you look absolutely stunning. Who do you have on, girl?”

Of the forty or so female employees at Le Roux, Mathaba and Associates, Sonja Wort, Nandi’s team secretary, was one of the handful of people she regarded as a friend. They had known each other since Nandi started with the firm five years previously. They were among the veterans who remembered the time when the female head count was less than six and middle-aged white males ruled the office, when every woman’s name was Tjerrie.

Sonja was in her late thirties, with a razor-sharp tongue, and coloured, a label she deeply despised. A few years back she had visited New York City and amid the energy and buzz of Times Square had crossed one of the streets without looking. A black guy in a Hummer had shouted, “Stop parading your fat black ass and get off the fuckin’ road!” Anybody else would have been offended by the statement, but not Sonja. She was elated. It had taken twenty hours on the plane, disorienting jet lag and a five-dollar trip on the downtown subway for her to temporarily lose the offensive label that had followed her all her life.

“Sonja W Creations, dear, it’s my latest range.” Sonja pivoted like a runway model, strutted a few steps and made an elaborate bow. Nandi clapped dutifully. “Isn’t it gorgeous? I’m expecting compliments from every person who sees me in this dress. Flip, it took me three months and the fabric set me back a couple of thousand rands. But what can I say? It’s the price of beauty.”

“The price of beauty indeed, and so worth it,” Nandi said. “I’m impressed. I think you’re ready to take the South African fashion industry by storm. Move over, David Tlale, here come Sonja W Creations.”

“You think so?”

“If you want it enough, I don’t see why it can’t happen,” Nandi said. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you design a dress for me to wear when I go over to Thomas’s family in Polokwane after the wedding?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“I guess I can do that.”

“Good, work out the costs and let me know when you want to take my measurements,” Nandi said.

“Costs? Who said anything about money? You’re my friend. I’ll make the dress for free.”

“Sonja, rule number one of becoming a successful businesswoman: do away with giveaways and discounts to friends and family. Treat everyone as a normal paying customer. You work for an accounting firm, darling, you should know nothing is free.”

“Got it, madam advisor,” Sonja said.

“Good, because I’ll be watching you.”

Sonja was quiet for a moment. She took a long look at Nandi, and the expression on her face was one of apprehension. Then she spoke quietly. “I have something to tell you.”

“What?” Nandi asked, unfazed by Sonja’s change of mood. There was only one word to describe Sonja Wort: melodramatic. She reacted to everything with the exaggerated expressions and gestures normally reserved for stage actors.

Sonja cleared her throat several times before she spoke. “Someone called for you a few minutes ago. You weren’t here.”

“Did that someone leave a message?”

“Yes.” Sonja fidgeted with the pen and piece of paper in her hand, grimaced. “I’m not sure if I should tell you this. It’s kind of bad news.”

“Someone I know is dead?”

Sonja shook her head.

“In the hospital?”

“No, I don’t mean bad in that way.”

Nandi squeezed a smile. “What could possibly be worse than death?”

Sonja hesitated for a moment. “Chris Phakathi is around. He left these contact numbers. He said he tried your cellphone, but the number isn’t working. I told him you changed the number after he left. I refused to give him your new number.” Sonja reluctantly handed the piece of paper she was holding to Nandi. She furrowed her brow anxiously, watched her.

Nandi took the paper and studied it. The news was worse than death. A surge of heat shot up her face. Her heart was pumping so fast she began to feel light-headed; thousands of tiny stars flared up and floated by in dreamy patterns. She grasped the arms of her chair for support and lowered herself before her knees gave in. She squeezed her eyes shut. Chris Phakathi’s image flashed in her face.

“Nandi?”

Nandi pushed her eyes open. “Are you sure it is him?” She would have given anything for Sonja to say, “Relax, I’m pulling your leg. Let’s go get breakfast.” But Sonja was nodding and looking at her with a mixture of worry and grief.

“Well, that is some news,” Nandi said.

Noting the stricken look on her friend’s face, Sonja said remorsefully, “I shouldn’t have passed the message on. A part of me said not to, but I knew you were going to find out sooner or later anyway. Ek is jammer.”

“It’s not your fault. I just wasn’t expecting to hear from him,” Nandi said, attempting to compose herself. Her throat constricted, she swallowed hard. “What else did he say? Is he on holiday? How long has he been back for?”

“I didn’t ask. He caught me off guard. I couldn’t believe it was him on the phone.” Sonja stopped, gave Nandi a long, considerate look. “This must be hard for you.”

Nandi parted her lips but found words were refusing to surface. She read the number on the piece of paper again. Yep, it was definitely a South African telephone number.

“Chris has no business calling you after the way he left you, spitting you out like sour grapes and leaving you in all that mess. He . . .”

Nandi strained to hear the words coming out of Sonja’s mouth. She could tell by the dramatic gestures Sonja was making – hands flying in the air, face twisting, lips quivering, nostrils flaring – that she was angry.

“. . . shame on him, really shame on that man,” Sonja ended her diatribe.

“Can you give me a minute, please?”

“Why? Are you thinking of calling him?” Sonja’s eyes were wide, incredulous.

“No, I’m not going to call him. I just need a moment to digest this news, if you don’t mind,” Nandi said, averting her eyes from Sonja’s scrutiny. A mixture of emotions swept violently through her. She wanted to burst out, screaming, “Why now?”

Sonja made a whining sound of protest, but Nandi refused to look at her. Her gaze fixed vacantly on the cluttered mahogany desk.

“Fine, I’ll leave. Buzz me as soon as you’re ready to discuss this. We must talk about this, Nandi.”

Half an hour later Nandi’s mind was still refusing to calm down. She hadn’t touched the paperwork on her desk. She stood up, walked around in circles, sat down and read the number on the piece of paper for the umpteenth time. She could call Chris, there and then, and get it over and done with. After all, she had waited for the moment for nearly three years.

Nandi rose from her chair again and approached the window. At the taxi rank below scores of taxis lined up in neat straight lines in their respective lots, an unlikely little enclave of order in a world synonymous with pandemonium. She imagined taxi drivers lounging lazily to the sound of Mfaz’Omnyama and Ihashi Elimhlophe, waiting for the taxis to fill up, while others debated the escalating fuel prices and the cold drink money demanded by the metro police.

So Christopher Phakathi was back in the country. Why now? Nandi asked herself again. Why not? she answered herself. He never said he was leaving the country forever.

Nandi moved back to her desk, picked up the phone and punched in Zaza’s number determinedly.

“Please don’t tell me you’re still in bed – it’s almost nine,” Nandi said. “You won’t believe what I’m about to tell you . . .” She paused. “Chris is back in town.”

“That son of a bitch!” Zaza spewed out the words as though they had been sitting on the tip of her tongue waiting patiently all along. “I had a nasty suspicion he was going to show up one of these days. What does he want?”

“I don’t know. He called the office and left his contact number with Sonja. I’m staring at it as we speak,” Nandi said. “It’s strange. I’ve been waiting all these years for Chris to show up so I can give him a piece of my mind, but now he’s here, I’m terrified. Do you think I should call him?”

“Are you out of your mind? What do you want to call him for?”

“Chris and I have unfinished business. You know many things were left unsaid and undone. We need closure over what has happened.”

Zaza sucked air through her teeth. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t mention the word ‘closure’. It’s hyped. Anyway, you’ve had closure. You’ve moved on. What more do you want?”

“I haven’t moved on completely,” Nandi stated.

“Really, tell me what’s missing.”

“Zaza, if you were in my position, wouldn’t you want to get an explanation, an apology, something from him?”

“Assuming you get an explanation or whatever you’re looking for from Chris, then what? Nothing he says is going to change what happened.”

“I thought you of all people would understand that Chris and I need to talk about the past and why our relationship ended the way it did,” Nandi said curtly. “He was mean to me.”

“A year or two ago I would have said go for it, find that bastard and make him apologise on his knees. Now I don’t see the relevance of his explanation. Things have changed. You have Thomas. You’re getting married in a few months. Chris isn’t important in your life any more. Or aren’t you happy with Thomas?”

Nandi bit her lower lip and nodded at the receiver. “You know I’m happy, but . . .”

“That man screwed up your life! Or need I remind you of what he put you through? Your memory seems to be failing you.” Zaza’s voice was raised slightly.

Did she need Zaza to remind her of what Chris had done to her? No, she didn’t need her to. Everything was still fresh in her mind, as though the whole thing had happened the day before. They were supposed to get married, she and Chris. All the preparations were in place – the lobola had been paid, other traditional ceremonies had taken place, and the wedding date had been set for the following year. Then bloody London happened.

Chris came home one evening beaming with excitement. He waved his work permit, shouted, “We’re off to London, baby! Two months and we’re out of here!”

They had talked about living abroad for a few years. Chris’s company transfer made things easier. He left first, and she was to follow after sorting out her work permit.

Chris called every day, always animated and in awe of his new environment. “This place is fantastic, baby! I can’t wait for you to get here and be with me!”

Two months came and went, but Chris said the time wasn’t right for her to join him yet. Perhaps it was best for her to come after the wedding. He said he was putting in long hours at work to gain credibility with his new bosses, plus he wanted to have everything in place for her so she wouldn’t have to work hard. Nandi was beyond herself with affection for him.

Then suddenly the frequency of his calls dropped. The excuses escalated. He was looking for a bigger apartment, or he was in bad shape financially – did Nandi have any idea how expensive London was?

One night, exactly three months after he had left, Chris called, demanding to talk. What Nandi heard came through a haze, as if she was in a state of hallucination – an out-of-body experience. He wanted the wedding called off. He said it wasn’t that he didn’t love her – she was his best friend, he could never love another woman the way he loved her. But they were at a crossroads in their life. They wanted different things, and he felt love alone wasn’t enough to sustain their relationship. He needed to use the time away to think where he wanted to be, to sort himself out, that kind of thing. He said it was hard to explain. Though who was to say how things might work out in the future? They could still end up together, one, five, ten or twenty years later, have a laugh and think how stupid they’d been to let each other go. But for now he wasn’t in a position to take things further. She was a good person, he had no doubt she would find somebody to make her happy. He just didn’t think he was that person.

After that dreadful phone call Nandi waited, hoping Chris would call to tell her he had made a mistake, he still loved her and the wedding was definitely on. She prayed, too, harder than she ever had in her life. He never did call.

Like many young people in love and under its delusion, they had been foolish and certain about their future together. They had combined their assets soon after the engagement. Without Chris, Nandi couldn’t afford the mortgage on their house and was forced to sell. She was ready to die. She had fallen in love with the quaint Victorian house in Douglasdale the moment she had laid eyes on it. It was charming, so fine and perfectly itself. She and Chris were driving around late one Sunday afternoon looking at beautiful and expensive houses, as they often did whenever they got too frustrated with their box-sized apartment in gridlocked Northriding. They weren’t looking to buy anything that day, let alone a house with a proper garden. But there was something about the old-fashioned, quiet house in the cul-de-sac that made them take down the agent’s number listed on the For Sale signpost in the garden and enquire about it the following morning. The house was their first big-item purchase as committed partners, and a sure sign of stability in their relationship.

They also lived an extravagant lifestyle filled with local weekend getaways, annual overseas vacations and visits to upmarket restaurants, and in the process accumulated large credit card debts. All the profits from the sale of their house went into settling those debts. In the end Nandi had to start piecing her life together from scratch. She moved in with Princess for a while and downgraded her lifestyle; a broke CA, it wasn’t pretty. It was in fact quite embarrassing.

Nandi sniffled into the phone, holding back the tears.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to evoke forgotten feelings,” Zaza said. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“You’re right, my friend,” Nandi murmured. “It’s so damn hard to let go. I hate it that after all these years I still hurt.”

“Who said getting over someone you loved is easy? Life is hard, sweetheart, but you’re pulling through.”

“Chris and I often joked we would grow old and get fitted with false teeth together. You know what’s funny: that a part of me believes Chris ending our relationship was my fault. Maybe I didn’t do enough to save it, maybe I gave up too soon.”

“You’re doing it again, blaming yourself for his cruel actions. You had nothing to do with him leaving. He wanted out of the relationship. You couldn’t have stopped him from doing what he wanted,” Zaza said. “Listen to me for a second. I may not be the best person to dish out advice, given my own not so clean state of affairs, but one thing I know for sure is that you are phenomenal. You’re beautiful. You’re strong. You’re smart and successful. You have a loving partner. You have everything going for you. You don’t need to allow the stress called Chris into your life.”

“I know,” Nandi said quietly.

“Good. Unfortunately I have to end this conversation now. I’m picking up Bheki from the airport. We’ll continue this discussion at Soya this afternoon.”

Nandi replaced the receiver, closed her eyes and pictured Chris’s face to herself. He was nearly thirty-four, three years older than her. His birthday was coming up the following month. She wondered if he was still so good-looking and if he would still find her attractive. She wondered what their conversation would be like, if they met. She wasn’t as angry with him any more as she had been; over time her fury and humiliation had subsided. She only wanted answers from him. And an apology. That much he owed her.

The office phone rang, snapping Nandi back to reality. It was Tumi.

“Chomi, I need to see you. Can we meet up after work?”

Nandi noted the distress in her friend’s voice. But then, there was always something Tumi was concerned about, her phone call earlier that morning being a case in point. “Sure. You still feeling uneasy?”

Tumi drew a deep breath, looked at the ultrasound in her hand. “I don’t know, maybe my uneasiness isn’t baseless.” She told Nandi of Nomkhosi’s visit and the ultrasound the young woman had left behind.

Nandi was silent for a long time. “Iyadelela bo lentombazana, why did she come to you?”

“To apologise in person. She says she’s ashamed of what she has done.”

“Tumi, you can’t go sympathising with her. You don’t know anything about this woman,” Nandi cautioned, adding, “Don’t tell me you buy her story. Do you?”

“No,” Tumi said with some hesitation. “You know I . . . I trust my husband.”

“But?”

Tumi breathed heavily into the phone. “I don’t know what to believe. I’m confused. I’m not thinking straight. This woman said things that are still stuck in my mind.”

“Don’t allow yourself to be confused by this woman,” Nandi stated firmly. “Have you spoken to Tshepo?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to,” Tumi confessed. “Something held me back.”

“Chomi, your husband is implicated. He needs to know about this incident.”

“I know,” Tumi said. “So do you think we can get together this afternoon?”

“On condition that you have a chat with Tshepo.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Tumi said. “By the way, have you spoken to Pri today?”

“No. Is she all right?”

“I wish I knew. She sounded odd when I called her but insisted she was fine. Now her phone is going straight to voice mail.”

“Must be work,” Nandi said. “The other day she and a group of women were on the news. They were barricading the court or something hectic like that. I applaud her for the work she does for humanity, our little Princess, the feisty tigress. I’ll call and tell her we’re meeting.”

“Where are we meeting?”

“I’ve agreed on Soya with Zaza.”

“Chomi, is it a good idea to get Zaza and Princess together in the same space?” Tumi asked. “I don’t want to have to witness their squabbling in public again. Those two are like children; one would think they’re thirteen going on fourteen instead of thirty-one going on thirty-two. When are they going to grow up?”

Nandi thought back to when Zaza and Princess were first introduced, many years ago, after Zaza had moved to Joburg with her husband. The two women had taken an instant and irrefutable dislike to each other, as if the matter had been decided long before they even met. Neither woman could hide her dismay at how a delightful person like Nandi could be acquainted with the other. How can you choose her for a friend? their eyes questioned.

Zaza’s claim was that she knew Nandi back when they used to catch and dissect grasshoppers and play naked in mud puddles in the streets of Lamontville township, south of Durban. She said they were blood friends.

Nandi met Princess later, while serving her articles with a large accounting firm in town. Princess, who was in the middle of studying towards a law degree with the University of Johannesburg, had ditched life in a campus residence for a somewhat more permanent place to stay. The decision to move out was necessitated by the fact that she didn’t exactly have a home to go to during university holidays. She had fallen out with her father following her mother’s death while she was completing her matriculation, and hadn’t returned home since. Princess had posted an advertisement for a roommate on the internet and Nandi responded; she was looking for a place closer to town. Princess contended that it was the quality, and not length, of the friendship that mattered. “Friendships aren’t like wine that you shove in the cellar for years and expect to come out tasting divine,” she said. “You have to work at maintaining good friends.”

Initially Nandi disregarded the friction between her two friends, figured they would warm up to each other with time. She didn’t imagine that they would become best friends and remain that forever – their personalities, and the core nature of the friendship each girl had with her, were simply too different. Nevertheless she expected them to tolerate each other for her sake.

“You’re right, Tumi,” Nandi said on the phone. “I’ll mention to Princess that Zaza will be joining us as well. She can then choose to come or not.”

Nandi felt grateful towards Tumi. She was mature and got along fantastically with everyone. Dubbed the mother of the group, Tumi had practical advice for every situation.

Nandi had met Tumi through Chris, just after they’d started dating. Tshepo and Chris had been great pals once upon a time. They used to double date as young couples, and even holidayed together. Abruptly the men had lost interest in each other. To Nandi and Tumi’s disappointment neither man was keen to talk about the reason for their falling out. When pressed, each shrugged and cited “growing apart”, as if their companionship was a marriage coming to an end. In any case Nandi and Tumi had kept their friendship.

“One day Zaza and Princess will laugh at themselves for being so silly,” Tumi said.

“That will be the happiest day of my life,” Nandi responded.

Tumi and Nandi said their goodbyes and hung up. Nandi turned to the clock on the wall – two hours had passed and she had done nothing. She turned to the paperwork on her desk and forced herself to concentrate, but the figures in front of her seemed to have their own agenda.

* * *

After talking to Nandi, Zaza put down the phone and hauled herself up and out of bed. Her head was heavy, as if she were balancing a bucketful of water on it; a dull headache lingered. Too much wine and sex did that to her.

Zaza’s mind drifted to the previous night. It had truly been an amazing evening. Sex was always good between them, but last night was extra special and spectacular. They reached another level, and she wanted to stay there for a long time. But the things Bongani had said that morning disturbed her. Suppose he did something stupid like – heaven forbid – leave his family. Where would that leave her? Would he expect her to do the same with Bheki and her family?

When they started seeing each other they had made a formal pact to stay committed to their families, no matter what the circumstances they found themselves under. They had made a promise to protect their families. Bongani was aware he was crossing the line. Was he putting her to some kind of test? Zaza realised she had to promptly call him to order before he screwed things up for her.

Zaza put on her terry cloth robe and went downstairs. The house was spotless, as usual. Zaza never ceased to be amazed at how Thembi, the family’s live-in help and her children’s nanny, managed to deal with the morning madness of getting the children – Zaza’s four-and-a-half-year-old son Pascal and Thembi’s seven-year-old daughter Khaselihle, who also stayed with them – ready for school and get the house cleaned before nine. She herself hadn’t mastered the domestic domain and struggled terribly when Thembi wasn’t around. Zaza had come to the conclusion many years ago that domesticity was an art of sorts, a talent of which she clearly had none. She was perfectly fine with the realisation.

As Zaza stepped into the kitchen her youngest son, two-year-old Milan, spotted her. The boy shrieked with excitement and ran towards his mother.

“My baby!” Zaza scooped up the toddler and bounced him in the air several times before plastering kisses all over him. “Did you sleep well?”

“He’s been asking for you since he woke up at seven,” Thembi said. “I told him you were very tired and needed to sleep. I ended up taking him to the park after the others left. I’m glad you’re finally up. I was getting worried, thinking you may have forgotten that mzala’s plane is landing this morning.”

Thembi was Bheki’s cousin thrice removed. She was suggested to them by Bheki’s mother after it became apparent they weren’t going to find anyone in Joburg they could completely trust with their precious first-born, Pascal. Thembi was thirty-six, a mere five years older than Zaza, though she conducted herself in the manner of someone approaching fifty-four.

“I didn’t forget,” Zaza said, pulling up a chair next to Thembi and sitting down with Milan snuggled on her lap. She felt a flush of embarrassment for having spent an entire night out with her lover, as if Thembi could see through her. “You should have let him see me, I don’t mind. My work can be demanding, especially the boutique this time of the year stocking up for Christmas holidays, but the boys take priority. I can never be too tired for them. Right, baby?” She kissed Milan.

“I will never understand why you insist on working. Mzala provides for you and the children,” Thembi commented.

“We’re not having that conversation again. Staying at home is a bore. I’ve tried it before, remember?” Zaza motioned at the newspaper on the kitchen counter. “Anything interesting?”

“Mzala, you know the news doesn’t change in South Africa. It’s always the same things – fiasco leadership, crime, corruption, service delivery protests and Zimbabwe. Izindaba zemihla ngemihla.”

“I have a headache. Do we have aspirin?”

“Pills won’t cure your headache. What you need is wholesome food. You don’t eat, mzala. When was your last meal? You modern women are always worried about your figures.” Thembi pushed a plate with two pieces of buttered toast towards Zaza. She rose, took a cup from the cabinet and made rooibos tea – milky and extra sweet. “This will take care of your headache.” She gave Zaza the tea.

“Thanks, mzala.” Zaza took a few sips of her tea. “How are they at home?” she asked.

“They are well. They want more money, but that’s not new,” Thembi said, rolling her eyes. “For five years I’ve been singing the same song: money doesn’t grow on trees here. Nobody wants to listen. They probably think I’m hogging it.” Thembi’s husband, Sakhi, had refused to move with his wife and child and remained in Nongoma with the rest of her family. Thembi was the family’s breadwinner, as Sakhi was often out of work.

Zaza laughed. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“And then this thing Sakhi got himself into.” Thembi’s face clouded with rage. Zaza worried she would explode, as she had the last time Sakhi’s name had come up in their conversation, but Thembi merely made a click of annoyance with her tongue and shook her head.

“It’s a difficult one, mzala,” Zaza offered.

“I’m waiting to see his actions when the child gets here. Where is he going to get the money for child support? He can’t even buy himself a bottle of beer,” Thembi hissed. “Anyway, the latest is induna wants more than inhlawulo; he’s demanding Sakhi take her as a second wife. He says his daughter is damaged and no other man will want to marry her.”

“No, please say you’re joking. They still do that?”

“The not so funny part is my husband is keen on the idea of two wives and marrying into royalty. Of course he hasn’t mentioned this news to me, it’s my sister who told me. He knows I’ll chase him out. I’m not sharing my house with a seventeen-year-old uneducated farm girl. In all fairness, I built that house.”

“Men can be irresponsible and insensitive sometimes.”

“If it wasn’t for my daughter I would leave him. Sakhi is useless to me, but what can I say – Khaselihle adores her father. My parents also like him; they say he’s helpful around the house. They’ve turned a blind eye to this whole mess with the chief’s daughter.”

“Maybe you should take time off, go home and sort things out. I can take care of the children.”

“Maybe,” Thembi said with a tone as blunt as plastic scissors. “You’re lucky to have Bheki. He’s a good man.”

Zaza smiled and turned to her food. She finished nibbling on her toast, returned the child to Thembi and went upstairs to shower. She slipped into a sexy strapless dress that fitted snugly around her slender body – it could have been made for her. She knew Bheki would go berserk; he always did whenever she had the dress on. Next Zaza put on a pair of silver Prada sandals and double-checked her make-up, and when she was satisfied, donned her oversized Fendi sunglasses and left for the airport. She was expected to look good. She was, after all, a trophy wife, as they said.

An hour later Zaza pulled up at O.R. Tambo’s international arrivals terminal. She had grossly underestimated the traffic on the way to the airport. She spotted her husband peeking at his watch and walking in small circles around his luggage, cellphone in one hand. He had called her three times in a space of thirty minutes – where are you now?

As usual Bheki appeared businesslike, a true symbol of the black economic empowerment beneficiary, in a black Carducci suit and black silk shirt. He was one of those well-groomed men, with a clean-shaven face and neatly combed hair, and carried himself in a way that projected a particular lustre common to affluent men. Fifteen years Zaza’s senior, Bheki was a small man with a plain and unmemorable face, but what he lacked in looks and stature he made up for in other ways – power was one, affluence was another.

“You look lovely,” Bheki said, leaning over to kiss his wife. “I missed you.”

On her way to the airport Zaza had rehearsed a scene in her mind – she’s a loving wife eager to see her husband after a week away. She approaches him joyfully and throws herself into his open arms. She giggles and giggles as he twirls her around as if they are newlyweds. But when she saw Bheki pacing the sidewalk, she knew she was kidding herself.

“We’ve missed you too. The boys will be happy to have you back.” She noticed she was doing it again, using “we”, lumping the children’s genuine feelings with her adulterated ones. She couldn’t remember the last time she had uttered the words “I love you” to her husband. Bheki didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he didn’t say anything.

“I missed the little rascals too,” Bheki said. His face beamed with pride at the mention of the boys. “We have a whole weekend to catch up. It’s good to be home.”

“Did everything go well?” Zaza asked. They were driving back home. Bheki was behind the steering wheel, his hand resting on Zaza’s lap.

“We’re making progress slowly, but we’re getting there,” he said. Bheki’s company, BZ Property Group, were in the final stages of negotiations with a local consortium to construct a shopping centre, a five-star hotel and an office and residential complex somewhere in Dar es Salaam. The complex was going to be the first of its kind in the country. “It’s a massive endeavour, with high local and government interest. We need to exercise extra diligence as we’re dealing with a foreign entity, hence the approach of entering into strategic relationships with local players. All parties have something to gain from the partnership.”

Zaza listened conscientiously as Bheki went on about the project, the opportunities and the millions of rands that could be made. She smiled to herself, thinking of the Zulu saying, “Imali iya emalini”. It was so true of Bhekumuzi Zulu Jr. Money was never an issue for him. For many years his family operated a taxi empire in KwaMashu township north of Durban. His father was well connected, businesswise and politically, and everybody in the township knew of Bheki’s family. It is said if one got lost trying to find the Zulu household, one just had to say “u-Zulu wamatekisi” and one got directed to the biggest, most beautiful house in the area. It was indeed a swell life.

An unfortunate event one winter day in July changed everything for the Zulu family. Bheki’s uncle, also a high-profile member of the taxi industry, and two other taxi owners were gunned down outside their homes in broad daylight. Several months later the case went cold. Aggrieved and furious at the failure of the justice system, Bhekumuzi Zulu Sr. quit the industry. He sold all his vehicles, moved his family to Westville suburb, and invested the proceeds in a block of flats in Berea.

“It was one of the smartest moves the old man ever made. It changed the lives of all of us for the better,” Bheki said each time he told the story.

Years later, when his father passed away, Bheki inherited the family’s business and, with the help of a few BEE deals, turned it into an empire and one of the country’s top black-owned commercial property development companies.

Zaza squeezed Bheki’s hand. “Let’s cross our fingers and hope all goes as planned.”

“It will,” Bheki said, then added, “You’re beautiful, you know. Every day I count my blessings and thank God for bringing you into my life. I love you very much.”

“Where is that coming from?”

“My heart,” he said. “What? You don’t believe me?”

Zaza smiled.

“You know, when I’m away I meet men from all walks of life. We try to fill the void of being separated from our loved ones by talking. We chat generally, about anything from politics to the stock markets.”

“I’ve always wondered what men talk about when they’re together. Now I know, not much.”

“You will be surprised,” Bheki said. “Occasionally the conversations get personal, especially when we’ve had a beer or whisky too many. Yesterday this guy, a nice chap from Bloemfontein whom I’ve gotten to know over the last few weeks, opened up about the things that he fears are happening at home in his absence, disgraceful things.”

Zaza turned to Bheki. “Such as?”

“He suspects his wife is messing around. I felt sorry for the guy – he loves this woman. But his story made me realise how lucky I am with you. I never have to worry about such things.”

“And how did he find out?” She was glad she had her shades on. Bheki couldn’t see her bewildered eyes.

“I forgot what he said. I guess someone is always looking. Anyway, I wanted to let you know how much you mean to me.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Time flies, can you believe we’ve been married for more than five years? It seems like yesterday when I first saw your beautiful face above the counter behind the glass. You were like an angel – for a moment I thought I had died and gone to heaven.”

“There you go again.” Zaza laughed dismissively.

“I only speak the truth,” Bheki protested. “I hope we don’t have plans this weekend; I want to stay home and just enjoy my family.”

“We’re all yours,” Zaza said.

It wasn’t love at first sight when she met Bheki. There were no sparks between them, no butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She was working at one of the banks in Durban. She was used to men ogling her behind the teller’s window, and she was paying no particular attention to the small, undistinguished man in the queue who was gazing so intensely at her. She wasn’t impressed when the man came to the window and slipped her a business card with a note inviting her to lunch. She was still uninterested when Bheki came back the following week with another invitation for lunch. But Bheki Zulu was patient with her, showing up at the bank at least once a week until she agreed to go on a date with him. She intended the date as a joke to humour her friends, who had dared her.

The date was neither a banger nor a complete waste of time for Zaza, which is why she agreed to Bheki’s request for a second date. After courting her for five months, three days, sixteen hours and approximately twenty-nine minutes, Bheki asked for her hand in marriage. He wanted to send his people to her people to start the lobola negotiations.

At twenty-five years of age – pretty, clever and sexually overcharged – Zaza wasn’t sure. She had fantasised about her dream man – he was tall and handsome and their relationship was packed with fireworks, name screaming and nights of endless passion. What she got from Bheki was a dutiful lover, mildly satisfying sex and an abundance of money and luxuries.

There were other things to consider – the decaying extended four-roomed house she shared with her parents and four younger siblings. Thuli, the one after her, was matriculating. She was a bright child with great potential. It pained Zaza to think of her sister ending up like her, with only a matriculation certificate, a two-year diploma in secretarial studies, a bleak modelling career and an unsatisfying job at the bank. And then there was her alcoholic father, someone best forgotten.

Zaza deliberated, stalled.

Love?

Comfort?

Poverty?

Sex?

Boredom?

Remaining a teller?

Big house?

Big car?

A few days after the proposal Bheki bought her the biggest diamond ring she had ever seen, which she would later find out was very, very expensive.

I don’t know, is this love? Zaza thought. Is this what I want?

She said yes. She figured passion is overrated anyway.