ON THE HOUSE

About this story

Mbali has a podcast, a growing audience of single women who hang on her every word about self-love and waiting for the right man, and a first speaking engagement in a few weeks. What she does not have is a man who shows up. Tonight Thulani has stood her up for the second time, her last message sitting on two blue ticks, and she is done. Number deleted. Number blocked. Heels still tapping on the café tiles. Then the waiter brings her the usual — a tiramisu cake pop — and won't let her pay for it. Then he says her name. Then he sits down. She has come into this coffee shop every morning for a year. She has never once read his nametag. He has been paying attention the whole time — to her order, to the dates who didn't deserve her, to the way she always leaves in a hurry. Two weeks from thirty, Mbali has spent her twenties choosing men for what they could give her: the German car, the house in the golf estate, the lobola her aunts could brag about. The man across the table has an apron and a question. Is saying yes to him settling — or the first honest thing she has done?