The house was spotlessly clean, almost unnervingly so. The wooden floors gleamed with a fresh polish, reflecting the late morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows. The walls, recently coated in a warm peach, exuded a fresh scent that mingled with the sharp, sterile smell of cleaning chemicals. The sprawling lawn outside had been meticulously mowed, with the hedges and shrubbery neatly manicured. The air outside carried a faint hint of flowers, but inside, it felt almost clinical, like a hospital or a mental institution. The house was too big, too empty, devoid of warmth and comfort. The only furnishings were the bare necessities in the bedroom and kitchen.
Tim had always hated fully furnished houses or apartments; they felt too lived-in, too full of someone else's history. This place, though, was a blank slate, a fresh start, which was exactly what he needed. He had dismissed the house help and gardener, a young couple who had lived in the cottage at the back. They had lost their source of income after the house's previous owner had immigrated to Australia, but they had stayed on, hoping to be employed by the new owner. The realtor had been only too happy to let them stay while the house was still vacant, a common practice in her line of work. It meant she didn't have to worry about the house being vandalized or falling into disrepair, and it saved on security costs.
When Tim's car pulled up in front of the massive steel gates, a young woman was waiting to open them. Her presence was unexpected.
"Good morning, sir," she greeted him as soon as he stepped out of the car.
"Hi, Tim is the name, not sir," he responded, stretching out his hand. "I haven't been knighted, at least not yet."
"You haven't what, sir?" she replied, her handshake firm and her palms calloused—the hands of a working woman.
"Never mind," he said, smiling slightly as they walked toward the house. "You didn't have to wait for me… eh…"
"Rumbidzai. It means praise," she enthused, then quickly added, "You can call me Rumbi."
"Well, Rumbi, you didn't have to wait for me."
"I stay here, sir…Tim," she hesitated, clearly unsure of how to address him.
"I mean, you can go home and rest or do whatever you do. And thanks for looking after the place, but I won't be needing your services."
"About that, I have a… favor to ask." They were now standing on the wide veranda. Tim leaned on the balustrade, needing support after a momentary loss of balance. Who asks for favors from strangers?
"Favor? I don't think I'm in a position to grant any favors. But go ahead, ask."
"I'm asking that you let us stay here until the end of the month. We haven't found a place to go yet," she blurted out, the words rushing out in a torrent.
"We? How many of you are staying here?"
"Just me and my husband."
"You have a husband? You look young," he said, giving her a once-over. "Where is he, your husband?"
"He goes to the robots every day to look for work. If he's lucky, he might find something for a day or two."
"So who takes care of the garden?" he asked, glancing around at the immaculate greenery. He smiled, remembering how Charlotte would often tease him for his overuse—rather, his "abuse"—of the word.
"He did, yesterday, when we heard you were moving in."
"Oh… so how much do I owe him?"
"Nothing. We just like to help."
"That's not how it works," he said, pulling out his wallet and handing her a crisp R200 note. "Here, give him this."
"No, Tim, he did it as a favor."
"Speaking of favors, you can stay until the end of December. But on the first of January, you're off my property. Understood?"
"Thank you so, so much," she said, curtsying in a manner that struck Tim as both exotic and endearing. "I understand, sir. Thank you. God bless you."
With her anxiety now pacified, Rumbi confidently showed him around the house with a natural efficiency that came from experience. She was easy to talk to, but her effusiveness prevented her from noticing that Tim wanted to be alone. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she bid him goodbye, not before reminding him to get in touch if he needed anything—anything at all.
Left to his own devices, Tim took out his laptop. He might as well make some progress on his new anthology of poetry. The events of the past week had drained him of any motivation, and he found it difficult to concentrate or focus on any train of thought long enough to make headway. No wonder his publisher was getting nasty. After a couple of false starts, he decided to clear his mind with some caffeine. He recalled seeing a coffee maker somewhere in the kitchen.
As he walked down the stairs, he admired the architecture—the high ceilings, the ornate moldings, the way the light filtered through the stained-glass windows. The house, though empty, was undeniably beautiful. When he reached the kitchen, he found the coffee maker sitting on the counter, just as he remembered. But when he plugged it in, there was a spark from the socket, and the power went out. He searched for the DB box but couldn't find it. Not wanting to disturb anyone, he returned the coffee maker to its place. That's when he noticed a small, open notebook on the counter. He picked it up and began to read the bulleted list written in bold, round, feminine handwriting:
Colgate ×2Toilet paper – 2 rollsAir freshener ×2Floor polish – smallWashing powder - 500g
Flipping to the previous page, he found a list of names, dates, phone numbers, and various amounts of money, totaling R1150. On the next page was a list of needs:
Grocery R1000Medication R350School fees R720Transport R800Passport R600
The total of these expenses ran into several thousand rands. What did it all mean? On the next page, in a masculine, slanting, and flowing cursive handwriting, someone had written: "For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end." Jeremiah 29:11.
Without thinking, Tim pocketed the small notebook. He climbed back up the stairs to his bedroom, where his laptop screen glared back at him, the two stanzas he had written seeming to mock his efforts. The battery wouldn't even last an hour. Without the energizing caffeine coursing through his veins, it was pointless to try to write anything. He slapped the laptop shut with unwarranted violence and pulled out the notebook. Whenever writer's block hit, he always turned to poetry—and a glass of whiskey, which usually escalated to a bottle or, lately, bottles of whiskey. On a new page, he wrote:
Still walking
Tiptoeing as if walking around broken glass
or shards of something exotic and glossy
Walking stealthily as if walking on eggshells
Denying and shelving our true selves
He had no idea where that had come from. Maybe it was true what they said about poetry: that it was the product of a troubled mind. He walked into the ensuite bathroom, opened the glass-faced medicine cabinet, and was greeted by an empty space, save for an aerosol can of air freshener and a fresh tube of toothpaste. He had forgotten that he was in a new place; there would be no miniature bottles of whiskey hidden inside boxes of paracetamol. Disappointed, he glanced around and noticed a fresh roll of toilet paper in the receptacle.
It hit him then. He dashed down the stairs, and panting from the brief exercise, he wasn't shocked to find the same items in the kitchen—a fresh roll of toilet paper, an unused tube of toothpaste, and a can of air freshener. Was it possible that the very people he wanted off his premises had gone out of their way to make his first day comfortable? He hadn't brought any toiletries with him, and this small gesture touched something deep inside him. Feeling guilty, he tore the page with his poem from the notebook and replaced it exactly where he had found it.
The quiet house, once too big and empty, now felt different. It was still devoid of furniture, still too clean, but it was no longer just a house—it was a place where someone had shown him a simple, yet profound kindness. And for the first time since arriving, Tim felt something other than anger and bitterness. It was a small, almost imperceptible warmth, but it was there.
As he stood in the silent kitchen, the faint smell of flowers wafting in from the garden, Tim realized that maybe, just maybe, this could be a fresh start. Not just for the house, but for him too.