NURSE THEMBENI
CHAPTER 2
My stomach drops so hard it feels like it might hit the floor of Golide’s car.
Chief Hlongwane does not bluff. When he says he’s coming, he’s already halfway there, probably in full authority mode, ready to remind everyone who he is and who I supposedly belong to. I stare at the message, praying it rearranges itself into something less disastrous.
This is bad. No, this is worse than bad. This is public humiliation waiting to happen.
Golide changes lanes smoothly, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, completely unaware that I’m caught in a storm. Or maybe he is aware. With Golide, you can never tell. He doesn’t ask questions he already knows the answers to.
My phone buzzes again, and my heart stutters. I don’t open it this time. I already know it’s the chief and he’s said something that assumes I will fall in line.
I glance at Golide from the corner of my eye. His jaw is set, his focus fixed on the road, his silence is too loud . This man did not come all this way to be told plans have changed. Golide does not do changes, he decides, then the world adjusts.
If I answer the chief’s call, Golide will hear my tone change.
If I explain, he’ll ask questions. If I lie, he’ll know.
And if I ask him to take me back? Sigh! He is not the kind of man you negotiate with. He doesn’t shout, threaten, or beg. He simply removes things from his life when they inconvenience him, people, women, access.
I look down at my phone again, there’s another missed call from the chief. Does he want a public announcement or what?
Okay… Fine.
We’re doing this. I open WhatsApp instead, my fingers moving fast before my courage can evaporate.
I type. “Sister Dlamini, please help me. If Chief Hlongwane comes to the hospital tonight asking for me, tell him I’m stuck on night duty. Please. I owe you my soul.”
She’s on line and typing.
‘What kind of trouble is this now, Thembeni?’
I can hear her irritation in my head.
‘It’s a long story. I will tell you about it.’
I will not be telling her anything.
There’s a pause long enough for my pulse to start pounding in my ears.
‘Hai. You young people will kill me. Okay, I’ll cover. But you owe me lunch for a month.’
Relief crashes through me so hard I almost laugh out loud.
‘Deal. You’re an angel. I’ll explain later. Maybe.’
I lock my phone immediately after, my thumb hovers over the power button. This is the point of no return. If I switch it off, the chief will panic. My brothers will panic and the village will know by morning. I press the button and watch the screen go black.
At this point, I’m stepping off a cliff and hoping I grow wings on the way down. I slide the phone into my bag, then lift my head to find Golide watching me now, his eyes unreadable. He studies me for a moment, like he’s weighing something, then nods once and turns his attention back to the road.
“You’re tense,” he says eventually.
I force a small laugh. “Long shift.”
“Your body reacts differently when you’re lying.” He tells me something I don’t know.
I turn to look at him, but he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. Golide doesn’t accuse, he states facts.
“I told you the truth,” I say, choosing confidence over panic, weakness invites questions.
He hums.
The car turns onto the main road, each kilometre puts more distance between me and Manzana, and somehow closer to trouble.
“You know, I don’t mind competition.” He says.
Competition? What is he talking about?
“What I don’t tolerate is disrespect.”
I suddenly want to go home, because, what is going on with him? He never questions me, ever. He lets his expressions speak for him and they are usually loud.
“I don’t disrespect you, Mehlo.”
He finally glances at me, his eyes are unreadable, dark pools that don’t ripple even when something is thrown in.
“Then you won’t lie to me again.”
That’s not a request, it’s an order. I don’t admit to ever lying to him, but I assure him that it would never happen.
The car stops, I’m thinking he ran out of gas, but the tank is full. It’s almost dark out, we should not be parked on the side of the road like this.
He looks at me.
“I don’t go through your things, but patterns interest me.” He says.
I say nothing, I would if I knew what is going on in his head.
“A man called you, more than once.”
I told him it was my brother, he should believe that.
“You want to tell me who he is?” he asks, there’s a way he raises his brow that makes me nervous and want to tell him all my secrets.
“He’s… someone my family wants me to marry.”
I just dug my own grave. If he dumps me, it’s back to poverty and begging for money when my salary runs out.
Golide smiles but it’s not a nice smile, his teeth are not even showing.
“So you belong to someone else.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I snap before I can stop myself.
I will deny the colour of the sky if I have to. This is a war between money and livestock. Shops don’t accept goats. His fingers lift my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his.
“Then don’t embarrass me, Thembeni.”
That’s when I understand something dangerous, Golide doesn’t see this as an arrangement, he sees it as ownership.
.
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The rain has stopped completely by the time we pull into the Champagne Valley, this place looks like a screensaver. I thought we were going to our usual place, the lodge.
Why has he brought me here?
Golide parks and gets out without saying a word. I follow, because what else am I supposed to do? Ask questions? That’s not our relationship.
The door opens into a beautiful house with high ceilings, big windows showing off the Khahlamba mountains that know poverty exists on the other side of these estates.
So this is how the other half lives. I have never been to his house before, it’s my first time. I stand on the hallway, unsure if this is his house or just another place he uses.
I know he lives around here, Cathkin Estates. I just didn’t think I’d ever see it with my own two eyes.
He drops his keys on the kitchen counter, then heads upstairs without looking back. He did not give me permission to make myself comfortable. I follow him like a lost puppy because standing alone in a rich man’s house feels like a crime.
He opens a door and walks in. I walk in too, hoping he’s aware of my existence. He throws himself on the bed and sighs. I stop near the door.
This is already strange. Normally, when we meet, things are simple. We do what we came to do, he takes me shopping and drops me off. Our arrangement has never gone beyond that, beyond entering his house. Hell, he has never kissed me, not once. I assumed it was his way of avoiding feelings. I was fine with that, still am, feelings complicate payments.
He looks at me for a long time.
“Bathroom is there,” he says, pointing.
That’s it? I would like a brief meeting, why am I here? I’m still damp from the rain anyway, so I nod and head inside.
.
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The bathroom makes me stop in the doorway, it’s beautiful in a way that makes you feel underdressed. Everything is black and grey, this bathroom has never witnessed nonsense in its life. Even the towels look like they were raised properly. This is not a bathroom where people sing, cry, or argue with God. This is a bathroom where men wash and move on.
The tub is right in the middle, if it could talk, it would tell you it expects respect before you step into it. There’s a shower too, all glass and chrome, and the whole room smells like him.
I decide to bath, because after the day I’ve had, standing under water feels like punishment. I pick up the foam bath.
It pours out fast, too fast, as if it’s happy to be free. Before I can even say “yoh”, almost half the bottle is gone. This thing probably costs more than my groceries, and here I am pouring it like Sunlight liquid.
I turn to the tap, ready to fill the tub.
That’s a complicated looking tap, no clear instruction. Just a smooth, shiny thing sitting there like decoration. I twist, pull, even pause to look at it again, in case I missed something obvious, because sometimes rich people hide things in plain sight.
Does this one open with manners? Maybe you have to ask politely, or you need a degree. At home, taps are honest. You turn them and water comes out. Here, taps play mind games.
I give up on the tub and move to the shower, confident for exactly three seconds. There is no tap, just a flat metal thing on the wall that looks like it belongs in an art gallery, not a place where water is supposed to come from. I stare at it, waiting for inspiration.
At this point, I am tired, and losing a silent argument with plumbing. I think of calling Golide but my eyes go back to the tub, now full of expensive foam liquid, as proof of my foolishness. I cannot let him see that. I have standards.
I strip off my clothes, climb into the tub and sit on top of the foam, folding myself in half. The liquid clings to my thighs.
“Golide.” I call and wait for him to come running, this is an emergency.
I used the wrong name.
“Mehlokazulu.” I call again.
There’s a knock at the door. Why is he knocking? He’s seen me n-aked before.
“Come in.”
No one opens.
“Mehlokazulu, please. I can’t open the water.”
The door opens slowly, he steps inside and stops when he sees me sitting in an empty tub surrounded by foam bath as if I’m marinating myself. His eyebrows pull together slightly.
“The tap won’t open.” I say.
He walks closer and doesn’t look down at my body as he reaches over. I don’t check where he touches, my eyes are on his face. Warm water gushes out from the fancy tap and the bubbles react instantly. They explode upward, multipling like crazy. The tub is not even full yet, but the foam is rising fast, spilling onto the floor in thick white waves.
The tub overflows with bubbles in seconds, his eyebrows keep climbing as the bubbles rise. This is embarrassing, I want to bury myself inside these bubbles. I sink deeper into the water, but he grabs my shoulder just as my face lowers.
“It… slipped… the bottle. I didn’t mean…” I try to explain.
“Take your time,” he says before walking out.
What is happening tonight?
.
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I step out of the bathroom, the towel wrapped tight around me. Golide is sitting on the bed, he’s changed into a black t-shirt, and jeans. I kneel beside him, my knees sinking into the soft bed, and I start massaging his shoulders. It’s a routine we’ve had a dozen times, and this is what I’m here for. To help him release some steam.
He usually melts under my hands, but today, he’s stiff. I lean closer, planting light pecks on his cheek, even the tip of his ear. Usually, he would take over, his hands roaming my back, pulling me close. But now he is giving me nothing.
“Can you cook?” he asks.
“Eh… I try.”
“I’m hungry, make something.”
Since when does he expect me to slave in the kitchen? Our arrangement is simple. No cooking, no feelings, no drama. And now this man is complicating things. My brain starts doing acrobatics.
Does he want stew? Pap? Salad? Or is this one of those rich people moments where the food needs to be arranged like a work of art?
I don’t have the energy to protest, I feed him and he feeds my bank account. My clothes are in the bathroom, scheduled to be washed and dried before I leave. So yeah, I will be galivanting around his house in a bath towel.
He stops me before I can step away and hands me his shirt. My eyes widen so big I swear they could pop out of my head. His shirt? Him giving me his shirt? That has never happened. Ever, not once. I have never even touched his clothes, let alone wear them. He always undresses himself. I’m not allowed to undress him, or touch any of his clothing. This man does not even kiss me during the deed, come on.
“What do I do with it?” I ask.
“Put it on, you can’t walk around the house n’aked.”
Is he joking? Why is he acting different today?
I take the shirt, let the towel slip from my chest, and slide the shirt on. It’s huge on me, the sleeves swallowing my arms, the hem hits halfway down my thighs. I feel ridiculous, but at the same time, something strange stirs in me, his smell, the fit, the warmth.
He has not, even once looked away. The same man who has never taken time to admire my body, I would stand n’aked in front of him and he would only look into my eyes, ignoring my body.
Something is beating the waters.
He’s still staring, blank expression, not doing anything normal men would do and that makes me feel weird and confused. He’s acting differently, and it’s unsettling.
I decide not to overthink it, I leave the bedroom, walking carefully in the too-large shirt, and head for the kitchen.
.
.
I stop at the entrance and just stare.
Where do I even start?
At my house, this would be simple. Pap with chicken feet. Pap with meat and cabbage. Pap with spinach. Maybe rice and chicken with tomato sauce if I’m feeling fancy. That’s it, done. We eat to survive, not for our taste buds.
Here? Everything is different, the cupboards are full, every row lined with boxes, bottles, jars, all unlabelled in ways that make no sense to me.
The double door fridge is enormous, every shelf is packed with things I don’t even recognize. There are vegetables I’ve never seen in my life. Meats I can’t name and sauces that smell like perfume.
I lean against the counter, forehead pressed to my palm, and breathe. Okay, Thembeni. It can’t be that hard, you cannot fail. But which thing do you even touch first?
I have no idea what to cook, it’s like cooking for a royal summit, and I am nowhere near qualified.
The door suddenly opens. Two old people walk in, I’m ready to ask questions but the pitch black man gives me a clue of who he is. He’s the same shade as Golide, it’s like God ran out of soil and His only option was charcoal. So far, he is the second darkest man I have ever seen.
My brain is already connecting dots, this must be Golide’s father. The woman is caramel-skinned, her expression is of confusion. I bet she’s trying to figure out who I am.
“Who is this?” the woman asks.
I grab a dish cloth, and start wiping my hands, in case they believe in hand shakes.
“Uh… hello. I’m a friend of Golide’s.” I say.
She frowns. “Golide?”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“I mean… Mehlokazulu. I’m Mehlokazulu’s friend,” I correct myself.
“Where is he?” the woman asks.
The shortness of this shirt is making her uncomfortable, her eyes keep trailing the length. As long as my thighs are covered, I have nothing to worry about.
I open my mouth to answer, but the first darkest man I have ever seen appears carrying a robe. His expression is different, he looks softer, more human. My stomach betrays me with a strange little flutter.
“Ma, baba?” Golide says.
That’s his way of greeting, I guess. He walks over and drapes the robe over my shoulders. My hands fumble inside the sleeves. He stands beside me, facing the old couple.
“Mthunzi oMkhulu,” he says to the father.
Then he turns to the mother.
“KaMavika,” he says softly, and somehow, hearing it makes my brain go mushy.
“You’re early. Umalukazana is not done cooking.” Golide says.
Umalukazana?! Daughter-in-law? My heart nearly jumps out my throat. Why is he introducing me as his wife… fiance, or whatever it is he told his parents.
I did not sign up for this, my entire mental checklist of “How to survive Golide without complications” has just exploded.
The mother studies me, and then smiles.
“So… this is her?”
I glance at Golide, hoping for him to say he’s joking, but no. He’s smiling too, this is my first time seeing his smile. Those are the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen in my life, flashing against that pitch-black skin. God did art with this man, gave him the darkest skin and perfect white teeth. My gums are still traumatized from that one time I mouthwashed with bleach, just to whiten my teeth.
“Yebo, Ma. This is her, the lady of this house.” Golide says.
There must be another lady here, because he can’t be talking about me. I came here to fill my wallet, not family introductions!
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I will introduce a new schedule, so we know when to expect chapters.