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 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.
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 software 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 salary, re-mortgaging their town house when the government funding 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 family 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”. Nomkhosi was what most black men considered attractive: with a fair complexion, 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 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.” Nomkhosi 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 inappropriate 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 holding 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 photograph on the table with intense suspicion. Was she expected to look at it?
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
