Chapter 1 - The 7am Call

PART 1: THE 7AM CALL

I should've known my life was about to get stupid the moment my cousin Peaches called me at 7:12 in the morning whispering like the Hawks had tapped her phone.

"Girl," she said, breathing hard. "Don't panic."

Now see, that right there is how you make somebody panic.

I was standing in my bathroom with one eyebrow done and the other one still looking like it had trust issues. My doek was sitting sideways on top of my head, my coffee was going cold on the sink, and I had exactly twenty-two minutes before I needed to leave for Sandton and pretend I cared about spreadsheets, customer complaints, and my manager's emotional support cardigan.

"Peaches," I said, holding my eyebrow pencil in midair, "what did you do?"

"Why do you always think I did something?"

"Because you only call me before eight in the morning for emergencies, gossip, or because you done used somebody's debit card on Mr D again."

She sucked her teeth so hard I could feel the breeze through the phone. "First of all, that was one time."

"It was three."

"And second of all, this isn't about me. It's about your man."

My hand froze.

At that exact moment in my life, I did not have a man.

I had a situationship with a gym membership and anger issues named Mandla "Kane" Ndlovu, but calling him my man was like calling a stray cat a house pet just because it knew where the dustbin was.

Kane was fine.

Disrespectfully fine.

The kind of fine that made responsible women start saying irresponsible things like, "He just misunderstood," and "Maybe he doesn't text back because he's healing." He was two metres of trouble, tattooed from his neck down to his wrists, with a beard lined up so sharp it looked like it had a university degree. His waves were deep enough to baptise somebody in. His shoulders looked like they had been built by God during overtime. And his eyes? Yoh. Those eyes could make a woman forget her standards, her rent, and the fact that this man had once told her, "I don't really do labels," while standing barefoot in her kitchen eating her leftovers out of the good Tupperware.

Kane was kasi, but not dusty kasi.

He was luxury kasi.

The kind of man who owned businesses, smelled expensive, had enemies he didn't discuss, and wore enough gold around his neck to make a pawn shop owner start sweating. He owned a car wash, a detail shop on the Soweto strip, two kota trailers, and probably three secrets that were none of my business but still affecting my blood pressure.

"What about Kane?" I asked.

Peaches got quiet.

That was bad.

Peaches quiet was like seeing a cockroach pause in the middle of the floor. Something was wrong, and everybody needed to prepare themselves.

"You haven't seen Facebook?" she asked.

"Peaches, I'm thirty-two years old. I don't check Facebook before I brush my teeth. That's how aunties get high blood pressure and start posting, 'I see who really loves me.'"

"Well, you need to check it."

My stomach tightened.

I opened Facebook, already feeling my soul put on house shoes and prepare for foolishness.

And there it was.

A live video from a woman named Zinhle Mkhize, who called herself Starla, because apparently one name wasn't enough for all that drama.

I knew Starla.

Everybody knew Starla.

Starla was one of those women who wore body glitter to court, lashes to the laundromat, and had a voice that sounded like she smoked Stuyvesant ash and chased it with Hennessy. She sold waist trainers, braids, seafood plates, raffle tickets, and chaos. If drama had a loyalty card, Starla would've earned a free smoothie and a trip to Durban.

The video had over six hundred views.

In the thumbnail, Starla was standing outside Kane's detail shop in pink biker shorts and a crop top that said SPOILED, even though her spirit looked repossessed.

The caption said:

WHEN A MAN PLAYS WITH THE WRONG ONE. I'M OUTSIDE.

I pressed play.

Starla's face filled my screen.

"All of you tell Kane to come outside!" she yelled, pacing back and forth in front of the shop like she was hosting a protest for broken promises. "Since he wants to have women thinking they special, let's be special in public!"

I blinked.

My done eyebrow rose.

My undone eyebrow stayed humble.

Behind her, two women stood with phones out. One was eating NikNaks. The other had a baby on her hip, and the baby looked disappointed in every adult involved.

Starla kept yelling. "I know you're in there, Kane! Bring your big tattooed self outside! And tell that little church secretary-looking woman you been sneaking with that I said hey!"

I gasped so hard I almost swallowed my tongue.

"Church secretary?" I said. "Who is she calling church secretary?"

Peaches whispered, "Girl, she's talking about you."

"Me? I don't even own a cardigan."

"You do wear those little flats sometimes."

"Because I have arches, Peaches. That doesn't make me Sister Barbara from Usher Number Two."

On the video, Kane came outside.

Shirtless.

Of course.

Because apparently men like Kane couldn't have drama in a simple vest like regular people. No, he had to walk out with all those tattoos shining in the morning sun, gold chains swinging, looking like a felony with good cologne.

He looked calm.

Too calm.

That bothered me.

"Starla," he said, voice low. "Take your self home."

"Oh, now I must go home?" she shouted. "But last night I was good enough to—"

I paused the video.

My stomach dropped into my fluffy slippers.

Peaches made a noise. "You still there?"

"Peaches."

"Yes?"

"Did she say last night?"

"She started to."

"Peaches."

"Yes?"

"I'm about to go to jail."

"Put on both eyebrows first."

That's the problem with family. They know how to support you and enable you at the exact same time.

I hung up, finished my other eyebrow with the precision of a woman preparing for spiritual warfare, and got dressed like I had somewhere important to be, because I did.

I had a man to confront.

Or not my man.

Or whatever the hell Kane thought he was.

I threw on dark jeans, a black fitted top, hoop earrings big enough to pick up satellite signals, and lip gloss with a slight shimmer. Not because I was trying to look good for Kane. Absolutely not. I was trying to look good for the mugshot in case Starla forced me into ministry.