a clue what time it was – probably ungodly early – and her boyfriend hadn’t come home. She considered making off to bed to catch whatever 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 organisation. 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 evenings, 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 upheaval 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 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 question at Leo.
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
