The grand gates of the Mthembu mansion slowly creaked open, revealing a driveway paved with white marble stones and lined with imported flowers no township girl like Nokwanda could name. She walked in, her worn takkies quiet against the polished concrete, her heart pounding loud in her ears.
Late. She was late.
The cab had dropped her off two streets away — the driver too afraid to enter the estate. "Rich people don't like surprises," he muttered before driving off.
She clutched the faded handbag tighter. Inside it were her last R23, an old ID, and a crumpled reference letter from a madam in Musgrave who'd once told her she was too smart to be a maid. But today? Smart wasn't going to feed her.
Today she needed this job.
The house loomed ahead like a palace. White pillars, glass balconies, and silver statues. Everything screamed money. And then there was the silence — a suffocating, expensive silence.
She knocked.
Nothing.
Before she could knock again, the door swung open. A tall, graceful woman in her late fifties stood there in a silk robe and high heels. Not a wrinkle out of place. Her face was sharp, her presence sharper.
"Yes?"
"Ngiyaxolisa, Mama," Nokwanda stammered. "I'm here for the domestic position. The helper—"
"I know who you are. You're late," the woman snapped, looking her up and down with subtle distaste. "Come."
Nokwanda followed her inside. The marble floors glistened beneath her shoes. Chandeliers hung above like frozen stars, and expensive art filled every wall. She felt like dirt on white linen.
"I'm Mrs. Mthembu," the woman finally said. "You'll be reporting to me directly. My daughter… doesn't do well with strangers."
Nokwanda swallowed. Rumors had spread like wildfire — that Zenande Mthembu, the heiress, had been in a terrible car accident, lost the use of her legs, and hadn't been seen in public since. Some said her husband divorced her. Some said she'd lost her mind. All Nokwanda knew was that the woman upstairs was once the queen of Durban society… and now, she was a ghost behind velvet curtains.
"Yes, Madam," Nokwanda said quietly.
The interview began.
"Where are you from?"
"Lamontville."
"Parents?"
"My mother passed away. I never knew my father."
"Experience?"
"I've worked for two families before. One in Umhlanga, another in Glenwood."
"Why did you leave?"
"First family relocated to Cape Town. Second family's mother passed on."
Mrs. Mthembu eyed her. "You're educated."
"Only up to Grade 11."
"You speak well."
"Thank you."
There was a pause. A long one. Then the older woman folded her hands.
"My daughter is… different now. Difficult. She was once very strong, proud. The accident broke something in her. You'll clean her room, serve her meals, help with light duties. No gossip. No funny business. No friends visiting."
"I understand."
"And if you ever—ever—step out of line, you'll be out before your tea gets cold."
"Yes, Madam."
Another pause.
Mrs. Mthembu studied her. Then finally nodded. "You'll start tomorrow. We'll trial you for a week. You'll sleep in the back room. Uniforms provided. Breakfast at six."
"Ngiyabonga, Mama."
As she was led down the hall toward the servant quarters, Nokwanda glanced up at the wide stairs. At the very top, in the shadows, was a figure in a wheelchair. Watching. Silent. Like a painting that had learned how to breathe.
Their eyes met for one second.
One long, electric second.
Zenande Mthembu.
Even in darkness, she looked regal. Like a warrior goddess who'd lost her sword but not her pride. Her hair was braided to the back, her skin the color of roasted honey, her posture stiff — not because of weakness, but rage.
And she was watching Nokwanda.
But then, like a queen tired of the peasantry, Zenande rolled her wheelchair back into her room and slammed the door.
Nokwanda's heart was thundering.
Later that evening, as the sky turned the color of bruised peaches, Nokwanda stood by the kitchen window, drying the last plate. She couldn't stop thinking about her. That woman. That stare. That… sadness beneath all the rage.
She had seen it.
And maybe she shouldn't have, but she wanted to see her again.
To thank her.
To tell her she wasn't afraid.
She climbed the stairs slowly, heart in her throat. Her first day hadn't even started, and already she was risking her neck. But she had to.
She knocked gently on the door.
No answer.
"Uhm… excuse me, Miss Zenande," she said softly. "I just wanted to greet you properly. And… and say thank you for letting me work here."
Silence.
Then — click. The door opened halfway.
Zenande sat in her wheelchair, her face unreadable.
"Who said you could come up here?"
"I—I'm sorry. I thought—"
"You thought what? That you're special?"
Nokwanda swallowed. "No. I just… I wanted to greet you."
Zenande scoffed. "I'm not looking for greetings. I'm not looking for friends. Do your job. Stay out of my way."
Her voice was like ice — smooth but cutting.
But her eyes…
Her eyes betrayed her.
Something flickered there. Curiosity? Pain? Need?
Nokwanda saw it. Just for a moment.
"I will. Do my job, I mean," Nokwanda whispered. "Good night, Miss Zenande."
She turned to leave.
"Wait."
Nokwanda stopped.
Zenande looked at her, long and slow.
"Your name?"
"Nokwanda."
Zenande's mouth twitched — almost a smile. Almost.
"Fine. Good night… Nokwanda."
Then the door shut.
But it wasn't slammed this time.