[There is a crash of thunder outside.]
Mantwa (sneers at Lerumo): Watch your words, boy. Your Uncle Jacob won’t be this gracious and tolerant.
Lerumo: I am serious Aunty. I want out. I don’t think I can play this game anymore. I don’t want to hurt Ivey. I love her.
Mantwa: Dear boy. Those last three words are no better than cheap chewing gum meant to be spat out after losing its flavour. This is just another wave of emotions that will soon subside and be forgotten. I have been down a similar road myself with Ivey’s father. It got me nowhere. He used me and stole what was then my inheritance. He crushed my dreams. I don’t want to see history repeat itself. I don’t trust her. All the Zwanes cannot be trusted.
Lerumo: You don’t know her like I do. Ivey is a strong, smart, focu—
Mantwa: Can you tell me what’s really going on here, Lerumo? What did she say or do to make you change your mind?
[The waiter comes back with the bottle Lerumo ordered.]
Lerumo: Ivey is pregnant, Aunty. She broke the news by accident when she called me this morning. I am going to have another child.
Mantwa (resigned): Of course. I should have known. But why are you having me peel the same potato over and over? This will be your second child after that bast … (Mantwa catches the rest of the word before it leaves her lips. She takes a moment to breathe and regroup) Look, young man. We must proceed as planned. That is final. Jacob’s orders.
Lerumo: If you harm her, you will also be hurting one of your own. And this is different. I have these strong feelings that I have been trying to ignore because of my mission. I really tried not to get emotionally attached by having other women on the side, but now I realise that what started out as a strategy to sabotage her family gave me a chance to be with a good man. We share something special.
Mantwa: Oh, would you just grow up for goodness’ sake! I can’t believe what I’m seeing in front of me right now! Another spoilt ingrate born with a silver spoon that he dips into every pot and plate then waits for the maids to come around and wash the dishes.
[The waiter opens the bottle and pours the wine. Mantwa waits for him to go away.]
Mantwa: You’re overwhelmed. I get that. But I need you to think straight for a moment. You need to find a way to make the mother reconsider having that child or else the little angel will find themselves walking in a world filled with a lot of landmines.
Lerumo (shaking his head): She won’t go for it. And I don’t think that we can convince her to abort without raising suspicion. Even without my support, Ivey will insist on raising this child. She will, however, use the kid to make my life difficult. Trust me on this one. It would be better to stand on the same side of the fence than oppose her.
[Mantwa goes quiet again, staring at her nephew with piercing and judgemental eyes.]
Mantwa: So once again, your stupid urges have compromised our ambitions. You just keep growing taller, but not wiser. However, I do see your point. Ivey could prove troublesome if you play the distant, deadbeat dad. We stand a better chance of manipulating that girl if we reel her in. Besides, the Phamolas are the last of a dying breed. It wouldn’t be right to abandon one of our own. That child must be part of this family. As for the mother … (Mantwa sighs) I will talk to your uncle. I’m sure he’ll demand to see you soon, so be ready.
Lerumo: Uncle Jacob might be a little disappointed, but I’m sure he can find it in his heart to forgive me. After all, I’m more his son than I was my father’s. We’re very close.
Mantwa: We’ll see if that counts for anything when he hears that you want to pull the plug on his plans.
[A waiter passes by their table.]
Mantwa: Can we get the bill please?
[As the waiter walks away, Mantwa sets her purse on the table.]
Lerumo (referring to the bill): I’ll get it.
[Thunder crashes. The lights in the restaurant flicker. Mantwa stands up.]
Mantwa: From now on, you should save every cent you have. Jacob might want to cut you off. I’ll speak to him about this situation and try to make him understand how you feel, but I can’t promise anything. Be prepared for the worst. You’ll be hearing from us soon. Goodbye for now.
[Mantwa walks away, leaving Lerumo sitting all alone. He goes into deep thought.]
Fade out
Fade in
INT. – CHURCH – THE NEXT DAY
[Lerumo makes his way down the aisle. When he arrives at the altar he looks up and sees a painting of the merciful Messiah, Jesus.]
Lerumo (to the painting): It’s been a while, huh? Bet you know why I am here. I’m a mess. In desperate need of a way forward. I’m tired of being a pawn in my uncle’s pointless game of power. Caught up in a plastic relationship with Ivey. There’s also the budding feelings for her friend. I’m raising a child with a woman I barely even know. Running around with random options on weekends. I’ve had enough of all of that. So now I’m changing up my whole lifestyle, and that’s where you come in. I need your guidance. Please …
Fade to black
Twelve
The End
THE END.
Those two words were usually a joyous sight to Bandile. Getting to the conclusion of a story normally felt like reaching the summit of a mountain. But not today. This was the last day of his week with Molly. The script was finished. But so was his life.
He’d completed it early that morning and spent the day reviewing the final scenes: Lerumo’s death after double-crossing his aunt, marrying Ivey and living off her father’s fortune. But not before Ivey’s secret is revealed about the true paternity of their son. Dineo also dies, Vincent loses his wife and Jabulani gets a second chance at love. Just what he promised. A story that shows life in its all unfairness. He was sure Molly would love it. He was still thinking of ways to convince her to spare him. He was an accomplice, alright. That he could admit. But oblivious. Maybe that could appease her. He really had no idea that someone had paid the price for his prosperity.
The secret gnawing at the back of his mind, one that he dared not access, was that he thought it was worth it. Sure, he was no brain surgeon saving lives. But surely he must have touched many people’s hearts with his stories. Artists out there must have been inspired by his humble beginnings to pursue their dreams no matter where they came from. Content producers certainly created more jobs from his projects. Award winners got recognition from performing in some of his productions. Viewership stats were always off the charts. His stories often had “that thing” which kept his audiences coming back for more. They filled a void, entertained, distracted, inspired, sparked conversation and debate.
He buried that thought deep beneath layers of fear for his own life, which was real. Deep enough for Molly not to find.
His watch said it was 10:03pm. His final hour had begun. He had checked into the Cariba Inn at 11pm almost seven days ago. Bandile took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, whispering a short prayer. He picked up the laptop, on which the script was open. He walked over to the kitchenette and placed the laptop on the counter. Molly was at the sink chopping something, her back turned to him.
“Have a seat,” she said.
Bandile obeyed her cold, dispassionate words.
“I hope you are finished,” she said.
A pun. She was toying with him again.
“Completely,” he said. He played along to disguise how uneasy he felt.
When she turned to face him, Bandile saw what was in her hand. A cleaver. His eyes widened. Despite his racing heart and every instinct in him telling him to run, he sat perfectly still. He knew what Molly was capable of. There would be no escape for him if she decided to make his terrifying dream come true.
Molly looked at him. Bandile looked back at her. They were both silent. He had grown quite fond of her in their time together. He hoped that she had too and was feeling an attack of conscience about what she intended to do.
“Care for a roast beef sandwich?” she said. “I k
now it’s your favourite.”
Her tone was breezy, but it did nothing to ease Bandile’s anxiety. He knew how good an actress she was. He had visions of taking a bite of the sandwich only to find it was poisoned. His imagination raged like a veldfire. How fitting would it be for her and her high-minded sense of justice to trick him into eating a sandwich made not of roast beef but human parts. He gagged. His imagination raged on. Made of Kulani, Zoleka, the twins, or someone else he cared about.
“Oh, thank you,” he said, as politely as he could muster. “But I’m not hungry.”
“Bandi,” she said, “it’s our last supper. The least we could do is both enjoy it.”
Resignation to his fate sealed his mouth shut as Molly went about placing lettuce, tomato, mustard and thin slices of roast beef between two slices of lightly buttered brown bread. She garnished the meal with a small rocket and avocado salad, and placed it before him. She also placed a tall glass of guava juice next to him.
It was perfect, just the way he liked it. And he’d lied earlier. He was hungry. He’d had nothing to eat since lunchtime, as he rushed to put the tops and tails on the script before his time was up. Salivating at the sight of the meal before him, he noticed that Molly didn’t have a plate.
“Aren’t you eating?” he said.
She laughed, like he’d told the funniest joke in the world. Her laugh was infectious. He caught himself laughing too, without knowing why.
“Hello?” she said. “I am a ghost. The dead don’t need nourishment from food.”
Though fear had tightened Bandile’s stomach, he forced his intestines to open by starting with a small bite. The next chomp made his taste buds sing for more and lead to another big bite. Soon the plate was clean and the glass empty.
“You bought this,” he said, licking his fingers, “and are passing it off as your own.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Molly said.
Her smile was frigid, making Bandile uneasy again. It was all too much for him.
“So, are you still planning on killing me?” he blurted out.
“Of course,” Molly said. “But a small change of plan.”
“What?” He hoped the change was something that’d give him longer to live.
“In the will you are about to write,” she said, “I don’t want you to leave the intellectual property rights to my script to my family. They don’t deserve it. I don’t think anyone deserves it.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll die a true artist, having created something that your last will and testament will insist be buried with you, without anyone being allowed to read it,” she said.
Of course. She was in his mind. She knew how he felt about the makings of a true artist. Art for art’s sake and all.
“Molly please,” he pleaded. “If you really think about it, this isn’t what you really want. Your work belongs in the galaxy of literary stars, lighting the way for future generations. It must be shared with the world. Benefit your family.”
“You don’t know my family,” she replied. “uBaba wanted me to be become a lawyer and follow in my late mother’s footsteps. But I defied him and followed my heart. I worked really hard to impress him and earn his respect, but my best wasn’t good enough. Not even once did he bother to come see one of my plays or a show I was taking part in. To him and my older sister, my passion was just a phase they wanted to wait out until I started doing something ‘serious’ with my life. So, I see no point in taking this thing further.”
“But this could be bigger than just proving a point,” he said. He tried to change tack. “This is a story conceptualised by a phenomenal young woman who had so much to offer. It’s a tragedy inspired by true events. The world deserves to see it.”
She seemed to be thinking it over. He didn’t know whether to press on or let his words sink in.
“My life is a mess, Molly,” he said, choosing to press on. “My wife is divorcing me and sueing for full custody of the kids. My reputation is in tatters. Give me a second chance. I know you want justice. But sometimes mercy is justice.”
He pulled the words from deep in the crevices of his mind, a sermon based on Isaiah 30 verse 18. The memory must have lodged itself there from the days when he was more devout.
“The wages of sin is death,” Molly snarled. “Romans 6 verse 23.”
Bandile regretted immediately going biblical in his final plea to live. The book has as many tales of sinners being offered forgiveness and others being smote that he could go back and forth forever with Molly, exchanging bible verses. He lowered his head and began to speak.
“I am not a good person,” he began. “I’m a bad husband and father. I use people, like I used you. My role in what happened to you was not intentional, but use you I did.”
“Are you making your final confession? Shall I administer last rites?” she said, mockingly.
Bandile ignored her and carried on. “I have regrets. So many regrets,” he said. “Being here with you, stuck in this room for a week, has opened my eyes to all of this. I knew it, but I chose to ignore it.” His voice began to break. “All I am asking is for another chance – a chance to use my talent for telling stories to make people want to be better. They won’t just be happy stories. They’ll be real and make people interrogate themselves like you’ve made me do.”
Molly was listening attentively. She looked away and said nothing.
With her back to him, Bandile noticed something, a darkened, tar-like substance, causing some of the braids at the back of her head to stick together. He’d seen it before but was scared to ask. Now that his life was ending he thought nothing of it. He stood up and moved closer to her.
“May I?” he said.
Molly nodded.
He touched the back of her head tenderly. No doubt about it. The substance was dried blood.
“Was it from the night they …” he asked, letting her guess the rest of the sentence.
Molly nodded again, back turned to him.
He asked what happened and she painfully relayed the story to him. Her kidnappers came out of nowhere. They moved like shadows. Behaved like predators bringing down their prey.
She heaved and sobbed as she spoke, blaming herself for not being more careful that night.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. The words were genuine. “It was Thobejane’s. It was those four thugs. And it was mine.”
The words caused Molly to spin around to face him. Her eyes were red and cheeks soaked in tears.
“I’d like to be alone now,” she said.
This was it. His ending. Bandile felt relief that, before he was to die, he’d at least owned up to how his raw ambition created a market for people like Thobejane. Without him, without people like him, Thobejane would have no one for whom to kidnap and murder young women like Molly.
He watched as Molly reached once more for the cleaver. She stretched out her free hand to him and moved it in a circular motion. Bandile’s body began to jerk unnaturally again. An invisible tide rose once more within him, drowning him. His veins bulged and his bones felt like they were on the verge of breaking. His feet pedalled backwards, reversing until he fell onto the bed, pinned and unable to command his body to move.
Molly’s eyes were closed and her face was calm like she was taking in the warmth of the sun on a cold day.
He began to cry.
Molly stood over him. She raised the cleaver above her head with both hands and brought it down in a single motion. Bandile saw blood spurt in the air before everything went black.
Thirteen
Interlude
CANDICE NCUBE HAD worked as housekeeper at the Cariba Inn for more than a decade. She’d seen, heard and had to clean up more than she cared to think about. Check-in time was strictly 11am and on a typical day she had at least 12 rooms to clean before the next scheduled check-ins at 2am. And that was only the guests that stayed longer than a day. The guests that rented per hour had taught her to be efficient, to
take short cuts if need be. The hotel was not the kind of place where guests displeased with the condition of their rooms would ask to speak to the manager.
She moved quickly and quietly from room to room, knocking politely and announcing herself, even though she was working from a rooms list that the check-in desk said were supposed to be vacant.
If she was unsure if the guests were still there she’d put an ear against the door and listen. Only then, assured that the room was vacant, would she unlock and let herself in.
On this particular day while making her way systematically through the list of recently vacated rooms, she heard a strange noise coming from room 28, just up the hall. It was on her list. She put down hear cleaning kit and checked the list again, to be sure. There it was. Room 28. It was supposed to be vacant. There were not supposed to be noises coming from it.
The noise was just too weird, loud and not easy to ignore. It sounded like rodents scurrying across a wooden floor, hundreds, maybe thousands of them.
Candice was sturdily built. She knew how to defend herself. She wasn’t as much scared as she was puzzled. If there was a rat infestation she’d have to act quickly. Alert management and have them bring the exterminators. The risk that it would spread to other rooms and cause the hotel to shut down to sort it out, putting Candice out of a job, was too high for her not to investigate.
The carpet as she made her way up the corridor silenced her footsteps, allowing the unholy racket to fill the silence. The dull lights that lined the corridor illuminated and darkened Candice’s face as she walked. Room 22, 24, 26. Eventually she was standing outside room 28. Loud whispers had replaced the scurrying, then the room fell silent.
The housekeeper felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Something told her to leave, to return to working systematically through the room list. But the imagined possibility of the hotel shutting down as the whole building was fumigated told her to ignore the temptation to turn away.
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