Princess let out another piercing scream, surprising both herself and the men in black trench coats. With one smooth movement the other man, the one who hadn’t spoken, lunged at her. He grabbed her by the neck with one hand and covered her mouth with the other.
“Do you want him to die?” A rancid smell of tobacco, beer and other indistinguishable substances escaped from his mouth.
Vomit formed at the bottom of her stomach and slowly rose up her throat; Princess choked it back.
“Do you?” the man barked. Up close Princess could see a long, deep scar running from the top of his forehead just below the hairline to the base of his chin, as if someone had tried to split his face in half. She looked away.
“Do you?” He twisted her face towards him.
Princess shook her head like an obedient child.
“Keep your filthy hands off her,” Leo bellowed. He lunged forward, but the other man clutched his shoulder and held him back.
“Don’t be stupid.” The man shook his head at Leo contemptuously.
A sinister smile formed on the face of the man holding Princess, revealing a set of surprisingly white and straight teeth, full and healthy, like those of toothpaste models. Princess imagined describing him and his partner to her friends, or the police, perhaps? They are both black, of average weight and on the tall side. Probably in their late thirties or early forties. One of them has a long scar that runs down his face and extremely white teeth.
The man released his grip on her.
Princess held her raw throat and coughed. Her eyes burned. The stench from the man’s breath lingered in her nose.
“Get the package,” the man standing next to Leo said.
He must be the boss, Princess concluded. The Boss and his sidekick, Splitface.
The Boss said something else in his language, followed by a loud click of his tongue. Splitface nodded.
Leo seemed to understand what was being said. “I’ll get it. Man, why did you have to embarrass me in front of my woman like this? I told you I was going to bring the stuff tomorrow. You didn’t need to come to our house and disrespect us.”
“Don’t talk to me about disrespect,” the Boss retorted. “I’m getting impatient, Leonard.” He said his name, Leonard, with familiarity, as though they knew each other well.
“Shit.” Leo crossed the lounge and walked towards their bedroom. His eyes were refusing to meet Princess’s.
Princess remained mute, not daring to move in case she provoked Splitface next to her. She was negotiating silently with her stomach to quieten down. Of late it got agitated at the faintest disturbance.
A few seconds later Leo emerged with a small brown package wedged under his arm. “Let’s go outside.”
The Boss hurried after him. Splitface turned to Princess and grinned, idiotically. “Bye, sister. I hope we meet again.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, sending shivers down her spine, and left, whistling.
Princess stood in the middle of the room, paralysed. She was aware she had to do something – call the security, the police, somebody. She opened her mouth, closed it.
The front door opened and the lock snapped in place.
“Baby, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Leo moved briskly towards her. She looked at him with serene vacancy. “Those bastards had no right to come here and scare you like this. Don’t worry, I’m here now. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He wrapped his arms around her.
The nauseating sensation returned. Princess’s lips parted again and she muttered to Leo, “Call the police.”
Leo held her tight, whispered in her ear, “It’s all right, baby. No need for the cops.”
“Call the police!” Princess insisted. Her vision was blurred, her head light. She couldn’t feel her body or the ground she was standing on. She clutched at Leo. Then her world was transformed into a giant ball of blackness.
* * *
When Tumi Modise woke that Friday morning with an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach instead of the customary cheerful mood that came with the last day of the week, she was alarmed. She wasn’t a superstitious person. She didn’t believe that placing a bed facing north or south brought misfortune. Or that if you say goodbye to a friend on a bridge you’ll never see each other again. Nor did she believe that leaning a broom against a bed brought evil spirits. Tumi Modise was, however, an intuitive person, a woman of the sixth sense. Of course her family and friends teased her whenever she mentioned these troublesome premonitions, said it was the second-grade schoolteacher in her, and that she needed to learn to relax and stop wanting to mother every person under the sun.
With every passing minute Tumi became more convinced the day was headed in the wrong direction. The air outside was disturbingly peaceful for an early September Joburg morning. Not a whisper of wind stirred, and none of the hum or the occasional sirens and hooters of the early-morning traffic through the once sleepy suburb of Kyalami could be heard in her bedroom. The whole place appeared to have come to a standstill, as though someone of significant stature had passed on and a moment of silence was being observed.
Tumi’s first reaction was to call her husband, Tshepo, who had left early for work. When Tshepo answered his phone and assured her he was fine, only missing his woman, Tumi proceeded to call all twelve numbers on her emergency contact list. She feared road accidents the most; they were swift, with fatal results. She had lost a close cousin not too long ago, a soul with a potential for greatness. But robberies and car hijackings were common and just as deadly. And so was AIDS. On a normal day in South Africa anything was possible.
Twenty minutes later, and somewhat relieved – everybody had picked up and no one had reported any maladies – Tumi continued with the routine of getting ready for work. Her only concern was her friend Princess, who hadn’t sounded herself but had insisted she was all right. As it was in her nature not to write off any unusual behaviour, Tumi made a mental note to call Princess again after school to confirm all was indeed well with her.
Tumi had just popped the last piece of toast in her mouth when she heard a soft knock coming from the kitchen door. Her first thoughts were of Mme Rose, their domestic helper, who entered the house through that door. But Mme Rose owned a set of keys and didn’t work for them on Fridays.
Tumi’s stomach knotted involuntarily. “Modimo,” she half muttered, half prayed as she approached the door.
A young woman with a face Tumi didn’t recognise stood outside. The woman took off her large black D&G sunglasses, revealing a set of puffy eyes rimmed with redness and with bruise-like circles beneath them. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“May I help you, ausi?” Tumi asked, eyeing the woeful face in front of her with discomfort. It wasn’t every day that she opened her door to a weeping stranger.
“The gate was open,” the woman said, pointing at the entrance behind her.
Tumi looked past her to the open gate. Again, only Mme Rose used the side gate. “It shouldn’t have been open,” Tumi said, her tone a mixture of agitation and anticipation. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re Tumi Modise, right?” the woman asked, dabbing at her cheeks with her fingers. Tears continued to roll from her eyes as if mocking her efforts to stop them.
“Yes, I am.” The muscles in Tumi’s body stiffened. “How may I help you?”
The woman pulled a white envelope from her bag, looked up at Tumi. “I’m Nomkhosi Buthelezi,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I work with your husband, Tshepo.”
“Oh.” Tumi felt her body come untied; just another one of Tshepo’s people. She