But we all know how Buhle feels about food that’s actually good for you,” Sophie said with a giggle.
“She seemed so serious about the sugar thing,” mused Annelize. “I thought she meant it this time.”
Melody smiled, trying to imagine Buhle sticking to a diet. It was impossible. Buhle was allergic to restrictions.
After perusing the menu for a few minutes, they settled on four chocolate sundaes. Melody took another peek across the room, but the table was now empty and the man was gone. She swallowed her disappointment just as Buhle reappeared.
“Shu!” said Buhle, sinking back into her seat. “Guys, I’m still hungry.”
“Have some salad,” Sophie suggested, kicking Melody’s shin under the table.
“Eh?” Buhle shot her a dirty look. “Do I look like livestock?”
“You said no more sugar, remember?” said Melody.
“What? I would never say something so evil and twisted,” snapped Buhle. “Where’s the menu? I need some ice cream, people. Are you in or out?”
The other three looked at each other. Sophie let out a derisive snort and everyone collapsed into laughter. Annelize was laughing so hard, her face was red, and Sophie could barely speak. Melody was doubled over in her seat.
“What?” asked Buhle, staring at them in astonishment. “Haai, what’s so funny?”
“You,” gasped Melody, wiping her eyes. “You’re classic.”
“I’m sorry, I’m lost,” said Buhle.
“We know,” the others responded in unison, before cracking up all over again.
Chapter 2
2
“Lolo, can I borrow your car?”
“Hello to you too, Dumisane.” Melody paused in the doorway, laden with shopping bags, and squinted up at her brother. “Oh, my God. Have you grown taller?”
“He won’t stop,” said her mother, Connie, drying her hands on her apron and nudging the kitchen door open with her shoulder. “Dumisane, help your sister carry these bags! What kind of child are you?”
“Mama, I’m on my way out!” he groaned, looking at the bags out of the corner of his eye. “So, Lolo, the car?”
Things never seemed to change in the small house in Mandela Park where Melody had grown up. Her mother was always in the sunny, neat kitchen, apron on, hands wet or covered in flour or maize meal. Dumisane was always on his way out and where he went was forever a mystery.
Melody peered into the living room. It still had the same dark red sofas, faded now, but well worn and comfortable. The dining table was covered with a lace cloth that hid the signs of her childhood, like the words she had scratched into the wood, or the place near the corner where Dumisane had chipped at the table.
The old poster with Psalm 23 on it had yellowed and curled at the edges, but remained firmly attached to the wall above the small TV. Arranged around the television and stereo was an assortment of framed photographs, mostly of Melody and Dumisane.
Melody’s gaze wandered around the walls until it came to rest on her parents’ wedding picture, positioned right above the dining table. After her father’s death in a bus accident eleven years ago when she was just seventeen, she had taken it upon herself to look after the family. Now she made an effort to come home as often as she could.
She turned back to face her brother. “Where are you going in such a rush, anyway?” Melody narrowed her eyes at Dumisane as she deposited the bags on the kitchen counter. “You haven’t even asked how I’m doing.”
“Hawu, you look fine to me. Besides, I saw you last weekend.” Dumisane glanced at his flip-top phone. “Eish, I have to go.”
“Dumisane.” Connie shot him one of her stern, listen-to-me-I’m-your-mother looks.
“Mama, I promise I’ll help clean the kitchen when I get back.”
“When you get back? You mean tomorrow?”
“Mama, come on. Lolo?”
Melody stared at her tall, gangly brother, looking smart in his artfully distressed jeans and the sort of designer tackies she could never have afforded at nineteen. Back then she had been in her second year at varsity, working part-time to help her mother, and dreaming of having her own spa.
The vision had been so vivid: a small, cosy place about the size of an average hair salon, with bright, cheerful colours and the scent of aromatherapy oils in the air. Her name would be painted on the window in bright blue, and the place would be full of the type of women who would feel out of place at Imbali, but would be right at home in her spa. One degree and seven years of work experience later, she could still see the simple pastel robes in her mind.
She sighed. That dream was on ice, for now. “Dumisane, where did you get those shoes? And is that a new phone?”
“Ja.” He grinned at her. “Sexy, nè?”
“Dumisane!” Connie put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Go and get the rest of the things out of the car. Now!”
This time Melody’s brother obeyed without a word, making his way across the sandy driveway to where she had parked her second-hand Toyota Tazz.
“If only he would spend less time going out and focus more on school,” said Connie. “He won’t even talk about university. Says he’s taking a gap year. What on earth is that?”
Melody’s attention shifted from her brother to her mother. “There are still a few months until he’s done with school,” she pointed out, unpacking the shopping bags. “He might change his mind.”
“Your brother change his mind?” Connie clicked her tongue in annoyance. “He’s even more stubborn than you.”
Dumisane reappeared, carrying two more bags. “Did you leave anything in the shops, Lolo? These bags are fu- . . . really heavy.” He caught his mother’s eye and gave her a placating smile. After dropping the bags, he turned back to his sister. “Ja, so . . . can I borrow the car, or what?”
Melody sighed. “Show me your licence.”
“Lolo!”
“Show it to me.”
Dumisane scowled. “It’s far away. In my room.”
Melody gave him a curt nod. She knew his licence had been suspended after some debacle a month earlier. Her brother would never mention it, but she knew enough people around town to keep abreast of his latest indiscretions. “When you find it, let me know.”
“Lolo, please! I’ll take good care of the car, I promise!”
“I still remember the dent from the last time you took such good care of it,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “And I’m not letting you drive
