“My husband hasn’t been perfect, but show me one

relationship that is? Just one?”

Nandi, Zaza, Tumi and Princess are best friends. And

yet, there are secrets even they don’t share. Nandi’s
final wedding arrangements are nearly in place so why
is she suddenly feeling on edge? Zaza, the “trophy wife”,
waits for the day her affair comes to light and her hus-
band gives her a one-way ticket back to the township;
Tumi has only one wish to complete her perfect life – a
child. But when her wish is granted, it’s not exactly how
she pictured it. And Princess? For the first time ever,
she has fallen in love – with Leo, a painter who seems to
press all the right buttons. But soon she discovers –
like her friends already have – that life is not a bed of
roses, and happiness never comes with a manual . . .
Cynthia Jele

Happiness is a Four-Letter Word

Kwela Books
Kwela Books,
an imprint of NB Publishers,
40 Heerengracht, Cape Town, South Africa
PO Box 6525, Roggebaai, 8012, South Africa
www.kwela.com

Copyright © DC Jele 2010

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying and recording, or by any other
information storage or retrieval system,
without written permission from the publisher

Author photograph by Lisa Skinner

Cover image by Great Stock/Corbis
Cover design by Hanneke du Toit
Typography by Nazli Jacobs
Set in Bookman
Printed and bound by Interpak Books,
Pietermaritzburg, South Africa

First edition, first impression 2010

ISBN: 978-0-7957-0295-2
To my family for supporting me without conditions.
And to Bongi, my number-one fan.
This is for you, little sis.
A Very Bad Day
•
 Nightcap

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 gy-
rating 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

9
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 exten-
sions, 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 but-
tons. 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 en-
dowed 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, cup-

10
ping 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, remem-
ber 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.”

11
 “Hhayi, my child, Tumi’s right,” Nandi’s mother adds in a sooth-
ing 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 magi-
cally 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 Bra-
zilian 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 dis-
cuss 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.

12
 Zaza lets out a sigh. “That was the best man on the phone. Tho-
mas is missing.”
“Missing?” Nandi asks, looking puzzled. “How can he be miss-
ing? 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 noth-
ing goes wrong. How can he do this to her? Nandi feels the tears
collect and spill over, warming her cheeks.

13
 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 head-
less 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 night-
mare 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 some-
thing?” 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 Drakens­
berg and her eyes have completely disappeared – she’s surprised
she can still see. “Mama, what’s going on? Tumi, what’s happen-
ing? Why is my face swollen?”

14
 “I . . .” Tumi starts and then stops, unable to explain. The dress
was dry-cleaned and Nandi had a trial make-up run, twice, with-
out 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 her-
self 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.

15
 “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 regis-
tered 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 busi-
ness,” 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.”

16
 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 indig-
nant. “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 Tho-
mas 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 wed-
ding, 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 respon-
sibilities 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 re-
lationship, not a lunatic ex-girlfriend with entitlement issues. Was
that too much to ask?

17
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 be-
came 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. Re-
luctantly 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 chip-
ping greyish paint and the sparse second-hand furnishings. She
found it unexpectedly homely. Her three-million-rand house in ex-
clusive, leafy Bryanston was immaculate, perfect, filled with stylish
furniture as if it were a television advertisement home, the type

18
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 cardi-
gan 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 mis-
givings. She had almost not come, had thought the idea of a night-
cap 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 permis-
sion 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

19
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 gen-
uinely 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 pas-
sion and tenderness weren’t far short of mythical. Zaza’s cheeks

20
burned as waves of heat coursed through her body like small vol-
canic 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 in-
tensity 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

21
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 dis-
tance, 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 what-

22
ever 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 organi-
sation. 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 eve-
nings, 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 up-
heaval 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

23
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 ques-
tion at Leo.
Princess let out another piercing scream, surprising both her-
self and the men in black trench coats. With one smooth move-
ment 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 hair-
line 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.

24
 Princess shook her head like an obedient child.
“Keep your filthy hands off her,” Leo bellowed. He lunged for-
ward, but the other man clutched his shoulder and held him back.
“Don’t be stupid.” The man shook his head at Leo contemptu-
ously.
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 describ-
ing 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 side-
kick, 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 get-
ting impatient, Leonard.” He said his name, Leonard, with famili-
arity, as though they knew each other well.

25
 “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 pro-
voked 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, some-
body. 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 stand-

26
ing 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 disturb-
ingly peaceful for an early September Joburg morning. Not a whis-
per 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 sig-
nificant stature had passed on and a moment of silence was being
observed.
Tumi’s first reaction was to call her husband, Tshepo, who had

27
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 great-
ness. But robberies and car hijackings were common and just as
deadly. And so was AIDS. On a normal day in South Africa any-
thing was possible.
Twenty minutes later, and somewhat relieved – everybody had
picked up and no one had reported any maladies – Tumi contin-
ued with the routine of getting ready for work. Her only concern
was her friend Princess, who hadn’t sounded herself but had in-
sisted 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 mut-
tered, 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

28
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 Tshe­
po’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.

29
 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 soft-
ware 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 sal-
ary, re-mortgaging their town house when the government fund-
ing 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 fam-
ily 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”. Nomkho-
si was what most black men considered attractive: with a fair com-
plexion, 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

30
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.” Nomkho­
si 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 inappro-
priate 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 hold-
ing 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 pho-
tograph on the table with intense suspicion. Was she expected to
look at it?

31
 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 proba-
tion 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

32
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 sepa-
rated. 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 inex-
cusable, 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 fa-
ther 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

33
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

34
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. Nom-
khosi 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

35
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 allega-
tions; 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?”

36
 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 agita-
tion. “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.

37