Chapter 1 - The Bad Kiss

CHAPTER 1: THE BAD KISS

Zama kept one palm over her mouth while Wanda moved above her, both of them listening for the creak of the stairs below. Her ma was making supper downstairs in their Mbombela home. The smell of fried onion and curry powder travelled through the passage, ordinary as a Sunday, while Wanda's breath broke hot against her cheek.

He had climbed through her window twenty minutes earlier, grinning as if that grin could make the risk romantic. It usually did. Tonight, in the yellow pool of her bedside lamp, it only made Zama remember how often she had waited for him to look at her properly.

She had dressed for him without saying so: a matching lilac bra and panties beneath her soft sleep shirt, her long beaded braids tied back with a satin scarf. She had wanted him to notice. He noticed the moment he wanted something.

Wanda kissed her fast, then faster. When she tried to slow him, to guide his attention back to the places that made her body open and ache, he murmured a sorry that already sounded distracted. A few hurried minutes later he went still, swore softly into her shoulder, and rolled away with his phone in his hand.

Zama lay staring at the ceiling. The warmth between her thighs had changed into a stubborn, lonely pulse. Beside her, Wanda unlocked his screen and smiled at a notification before he remembered she was there.

"Sorry, babe," he said, not looking sorry enough.

Her ma called from downstairs. "Zama, supper is getting cold!"

"Coming, Ma." Zama sat up, snatched her sleep shirt closed and pointed at the window. "Go before she sees you."

Wanda laughed as he pulled on his track shorts. "Relax. We have been doing this since second year."

"That does not make it clever."

He climbed onto the low tiled roof outside her window and dropped into the narrow side passage between their homes. Zama followed him to the curtain. Across the wall of their quiet Mbombela street, Bhekani stood at the braai in a charcoal shirt, smoke lifting around his broad shoulders. He looked up at the sound, caught Zama watching, and gave her a small wave.

She waved back before she noticed the gap in her sleep shirt and the heat rising along her neck. Bhekani's expression did not change. That somehow made it worse.

A week later, the next day's public holiday had promised Zama a proper date night. Wanda had said he would plan something. By seven, he had not answered a single WhatsApp.

She let herself into the Ngcobos' place with the spare key from the little birdhouse near the gate. Everyone had known about that key since they were children. The family sat close enough to hers that old habits had never needed an invitation.

Zama wore a white summer dress and a soft peach cardigan. She had done her edges twice. She hated that she still wanted Wanda to see she had made an effort.

Bhekani came in through the kitchen door instead, his work shirt marked with grease and dust. He stopped when he saw her and smiled as if he had expected her.

"You are early, sisi. Wanda has not come in yet."

"He said we had plans."

"Let me wash up. I will try him for you."

Twenty minutes later, Zama went upstairs looking for an answer. The bathroom door stood partly open. She saw Bhekani in the mirror, towel at his waist, one hand rubbing water from his hair. She should have walked away. Instead, she stood there for one breath too many.

His eyes found hers in the glass.

Zama turned, mortified. "Sorry. I thought maybe you had heard from Wanda."

"I did." Bhekani's voice stayed gentle. "Pick n Pay has a retirement thing in eMalahleni. He says he will catch up later."

The blue ticks beside Zama's messages stayed silent. Then an Instagram story flashed up from an account she did not recognise. Wanda, laughing at a party. Wanda kissing a woman with long dark curls.

Before she could tap it again, it vanished.

"Eish." The word came out thin.

Bhekani did not pretend not to understand. He cooked pasta with peppers and onion while Zama sat on a stool, trying to make her hands stop shaking. At last he put a bowl before her and said, "I have seen him with other women. I hoped you two had spoken about it. I did not want to be the person who hurt you."

The truth was worse because he said it without drama. Zama's eyes burned. She stepped into the kitchen before she could decide against it and pressed herself against him. His arms came around her slowly, not claiming anything, just holding her while sandalwood and clean soap warmed the air between them.

"My son is acting like an idiot," he said into her hair. "You deserve better than that."

Zama lifted her face. His thumb rested near her jaw. He looked concerned, careful, and far too close.

"You are better than him," she whispered.

His eyes darkened, then he looked down at the untouched bowl on the counter. "Zama, eat something."

She shook her head. Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

"I don't want dinner. I want kisses."