28/12/2025
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THE GUEST AT OUR TABLE
CHAPTER 28
NDABEZIMNANDI
He opens his arms with a huge grin, and I walk to him smiling. The moment I reach him, we embrace. I put my head on his chest, and he holds me tightly. I hold him back just as tight. He smells nice, clean and warm, and for a second my chest feels lighter. He kisses my head gently. I pull away slowly, and we just look at each other, smiling like two people who are glad to be in the same space.
“I am glad you are here,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply softly.
He looks at me carefully, like he is checking if I am really okay. “How did you get here?”
I take a breath before answering. “My dad and Bab’Nkosi were going to Nongoma for a funeral. After you left, I kept thinking about what you said. I told my parents everything. They agreed that I should come here. I will work while staying here and study. I want to prove to the court that I can take care of my baby.”
Saying it out loud makes my throat tight, but I keep my voice steady. I cannot afford to fall apart now.
He smiles, and I smile back. His dimples show, and his icy blue eyes soften. “I am happy to hear that,” he says. “I also spoke to my brother.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He walks toward me and takes my bags. He looks at me and asks, “Have you ever used your room?”
“No,” I answer.
“Come, I will show you,” he says. “You can unpack while I go back and cook rice. I am done with the relish.”
I nod, and we walk upstairs together. My steps feel heavy, but his presence makes it easier to move forward. He opens a door and steps aside.
When we walk in, I stop. The room is big. Bigger than anything I am used to. He puts my bags down and looks at me.
“This is your private space,” he says. “I will see you later.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He walks out, closing the door gently behind him. I walk further into the room, taking it all in. There is a walk-in closet. There is an ensuite bathroom. For a moment, I just stand there, overwhelmed. I remind myself that I deserve peace too, even if my heart is still heavy.
I take my luggage and start unpacking. I place my clothes neatly in the closet. I move slowly, like I am afraid this moment will disappear if I rush. When I am done, I take my cosmetic bag and walk into the bathroom. I stand in front of the sink and try to open the taps. They do not move. I try again. Nothing. I feel embarrassed.
I walk out of the room and go downstairs to the kitchen. Khanya is stirring the pot, focused, his sleeves slightly rolled up.
“Umm, Khanya?” I say quietly.
He looks up, turns off the stove, and comes closer. “What is wrong?”
I look down. “I cannot open the taps.”
He smiles softly. “It is okay. Let me help you.”
“I am sorry,” I say.
“It is fine,” he replies.
We go upstairs to my room and into the bathroom. He opens the taps with ease and shows me how to close them.
“Do you want to shower or use the bathtub?” he asks.
“Any,” I say.
He exhales softly and opens the shower door. He turns on the water and looks at me. “You close it by pushing it forward.”
I nod. “Thank you very much.”
He smiles and walks out. I take my toothbrush and toothpaste, open the taps, and brush my teeth. When I am done, I undress and step into the shower with my soap and waslap. The moment the water touches my skin, it is too hot. It burns badly. A sharp scream tears out of my mouth before I can stop it. The heat bites into my skin, and my heart jumps with panic. I gasp, my hands shaking as I stumble back. I step out quickly, breathing hard, my chest rising fast as the pain lingers on my skin.
My skin stings. I wrap a towel around myself and walk downstairs. In the kitchen, Khanya is sitting at the island, his back to me, on the phone.
“Okay, I love you so much,” he says.
My heart sinks. He has a girlfriend. I look down, reminding myself to stay calm.
“Okay baby, goodnight,” he says, then chuckles and ends the call.
“Ndabe?”
I look up. He is standing close to me now. “Can you please tell me how to adjust the temperature?”
He frowns slightly. “Did you burn yourself?”
“A bit,” I say.
“I am sorry,” he says. “Let me get you vaseline.”
“No, I am okay. I have it. Just show me how to lower the temperature.”
He nods. “Okay.”
We go upstairs again. He opens the shower, adjusts a switch, and turns it off. He then fills the bathtub, mixing hot and cold water.
“Come and feel it,” he says.
I place my hand in the water, stirring it gently. After a while, I nod. “It is okay now.”
He nods and walks out. I remove my towel, step into the bathtub, then realize I left my soap at the sink. I step out, grab it, and return to the bath.
*
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*
I am finally done bathing. I lotion my skin carefully, still feeling a slight sting from earlier, then dress in clean clothes. I plug in my laptop and phone to charge. It takes me a while to figure it out. The plugs are stiff, and the extension is hidden behind the table. I struggle quietly, feeling silly. I am too embarrassed to go and ask Khanya again. This place still feels too new, too unfamiliar, and I do not want to look helpless.
When everything is charging, I take a deep breath and walk downstairs.
The kitchen is empty when I arrive. It is clean, neat, not a single pot or plate in sight. That alone tells me how thoughtful Khanya is. He does not leave messes behind. I hear the sound of a television coming from the lounge, so I follow it.
Khanya is sitting on the couch, leaning back, eyes fixed on the screen. Soccer is playing. I realize it immediately.
Oh. AFCON.
South Africa is playing against Egypt.
On the coffee table, there are two covered plates and two glasses of juice. My chest tightens a little. He cooked, plated the food, and waited.
I clear my throat softly.
He looks up. “You are done?”
“Yes,” I say.
I sit next to him, leaving a small space between us. He gestures toward the table. “Please eat. That is your food and juice.”
“Thank you very much,” I say.
I lift the lid off one plate and place it on the table carefully. Steam rises from the food. It smells good, like proper home food. I pick up my spoon and take a small bite. I chew slowly, nodding to myself as if to say it is good. I shift on the couch to get comfortable and place the plate on my lap.
He keeps his eyes on the TV. I can tell by the tension in his shoulders that the game is not going well.
South Africa is losing by one goal.
He clicks his tongue. “These refs are biased.”
“What is wrong? I ask, taking another bite. I chew, then swallow, wiping my fingers on a napkin before looking at him.” I ask.
“We were supposed to get a penalty,” he says, frustration clear in his voice.
“Oh,” I reply. I chew and swallow. “I do not even know what a penalty is.”
He glances at me, then back at the screen. “Check, check. Here comes the replay.”
He leans forward, pointing at the TV. “You see that cross? Boom. It hits the guy on the arm inside the box. At first, it looks like a straight penalty. Even I jumped up shouting, ‘Ref! Penalty!’”
I watch the screen, pretending I understand.
“But wait,” he continues. “Look again.”
He shifts slightly, his tone turning calm, almost like a teacher explaining something simple. “He turns his body to block the shot. His arm is close to his side. He is not stretching it out. He is not trying to stop the ball with his hand. The ball just clips him as he turns.”
I nod slowly, chewing as I watch the screen. I swallow and take another bite, my eyes moving between him and the TV.
“That is why the ref did not give it,” he says. “VAR even called him over. They checked properly. The ref watched the screen, took his time, then said the arm was in a natural position.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means if the arm is not making the player bigger on purpose, and he is not using it to block the ball, they usually do not give a penalty,” he explains.
He sighs. “If that was a Bafana player, we would be angry too. Sometimes it does get given in other games. The rules are not always consistent.”
I smile slightly. “So it is unfair.”
“Yes,” he says. “Very unfair.”
“I am sorry,” I say, trying not to laugh.
He exhales deeply, reaches for his plate, and rests it on his knee. He stirs the food with his spoon before taking a bite, still watching the screen. “Life,” he mutters.
“Unfair,” I repeat.
“Yep,” he replies.
We eat quietly for a few moments. I take small bites, pausing now and then to sip my juice. He leans forward slightly, chewing, then shaking his head at the screen as the commentators talk. I feel strange sitting here like this. Safe. Fed. Warm. Yet my heart still aches. I think of my child. I think of everything I am trying to fix. I remind myself that I am holding on. I have to.
After a while, he speaks again. “Oh, my mom said hi. She tried to call you earlier, but your phone was off.”
My stomach tightens slightly.
“Please understand,” he continues gently. “I did not tell her about your situation. Only me and Khanyi know. My brother does not know either. Not yet. I only asked him general questions.”
“Thank you,” I say softly.
I hesitate, then ask, “Was she the one you were talking to earlier?”
“When?” he asks.
“When I came to ask you about the water temperature,” I say.
“Yes,” he nods. “That was my mom. She was saying goodnight. I am going home tomorrow.”
I nod. I do not know what to say to that.
“You can cook,” I say instead.
He smiles faintly. “Thank you. I try.”
We continue eating in silence, both of us watching the game.
The food is so good that I do not even realize how fast I am eating. When I finally look down at my plate, it is empty. Not even a grain of rice is left. I pause, surprised, then glance at Khanya. He is still eating, slowly, calmly, his eyes fixed on the TV. He chews, swallows, then scoops another spoonful like he has all the time in the world.
Khanya is quiet. Very quiet. The kind of quiet that is not awkward, just deep. It makes me notice my own thoughts more.
I pick up my empty plate and my glass.
“Are you full?” he asks, turning his head to look at me.
“Yes,” I say quickly.
I am not. Not really. I could eat more. But the words leave my mouth anyway. I feel shy asking for seconds in someone else’s home.
He studies my face for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I repeat, forcing a small smile.
He nods and turns back to the TV.
I stand up and walk to the kitchen. I rinse my plate, then wash it properly. The water is warm. The sound of it running is steady and calming. A moment later, Khanya comes in with his own plate. He stands next to me at the sink, close but not touching, and starts washing his plate while I dry mine.
We move around each other easily, like people who know how to share space without bumping into one another. When I am done, I place the plate on its rightful place in the cupboard. I turn and watch him for a second as he finishes washing. He rinses carefully, then sets the plate aside.
He really is neat. Even in small things.
I look down, then out through the window. Rain is falling now, heavy drops tapping against the glass. The sky is dark. I know thunderstorms are coming. My chest tightens.
“Umm… goodnight,” I say softly.
“Goodnight,” he replies.
I walk upstairs to my room. I get into bed without changing, pulling the covers over myself. I sigh deeply. Tomorrow, I will call my mom. I will call the rest of my family and tell them I arrived safely. Not tonight.
Sleep does not come.
Thunder cracks through the sky, loud and sharp. Another follows. Then another. I turn from side to side, pulling the blanket tighter around me. My heart races. I hate thunderstorms. I always have.
I sit up, then stand. The house is dark as I walk downstairs. The lights are off. Khanya is not in the kitchen. He is not in the lounge either. Panic creeps up my spine.
I rush back upstairs. At the top of the stairs, my voice comes out louder than I expect.
“Khanya!”
I stop, embarrassed. I do not even know which room is his. I was told not to touch their rooms. I swallow.
“Khanya!” I call again.
He appears from the corner, wearing boxers, his hair slightly messy. He walks toward me as I walk toward him.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.
“I am scared of thunder,” I say, my voice small.
“Oh,” he says softly. “I am sorry. Come to my room.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He takes my hand, warm and steady, and leads me to his room. When we get inside, he pulls the covers back.
“Get inside,” he says.
I climb into the bed. The sheets are cool, the room quiet. He takes his phone, then steps back.
“Goodnight,” he says.
“Umm… I am scared of thunder,” I say again.
“This room is soundproof,” he says. “You will not hear it much.”
“Okay,” I reply, then hesitate. “Where are you going?”
“I will sleep in my parents’ room,” he says.
“Isn’t it locked?” I ask.
He smiles slightly. “I know how to open it. Actually, the rooms are not locked. Mom was just telling you not to go inside. The fact that you thought they were locked means you did not even try.”
I nod.
“Which is good,” he adds.
I take a breath. My heart beats fast. “Can’t you sleep with me?”
He shakes his head gently. “No.”
“I won’t be uncomfortable,” I say quickly.
“I will,” he replies softly. “Goodnight.”
I nod, heat rising to my face. He walks out and closes the door behind him. I exhale slowly and pull the covers over my head, feeling embarrassed.
*
*
*
“Ndabe.”
I open my eyes to the sound of my name.
“Ndabe.”
I sit up straight and find Khanya standing next to the bed. He looks fresh, like he has already started his day. He's wearing a clean white T-shirt under a big cream button-up, left open. Light blue jeans sit easily on his hips, fresh white sneakers on his feet, and a black beanie pulled low on his head. He looks calm. Put together. Mad chill.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” I reply.
My eyes drop to the blanket. Heat creeps into my face as last night rushes back to me. I feel small all over again.
“Look,” he says gently. “I am heading back home. I do not know when I will be back, but I will check up on you once in a while.”
I nod, still looking down. Part of me wants to say something more, but the words stay stuck in my throat.
“Umm… what time is it?” I ask.
“Just 5am,” he answers.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
There is a short silence.
“Okay… umm… bye,” he says.
“Bye,” I reply.
He walks out of the room. The door clicks softly behind him.
I let out a long breath I did not know I was holding. Damn.
I get off the bed and fix it neatly. I walk into the ensuite and brush my teeth. My reflection looks tired, but I straighten my shoulders anyway. I am fine. I have to be.
I run the bath and check the temperature before stepping in. The warm water wraps around me and for a moment I just stand there, breathing. When I am done, I drain the tub, clean it, and step out. I carry my clothes to the walk-in closet, drop them into the basket, then lotion my body slowly.
I put on panties, a long dress, and flip flops. I tie my braids back and pick up my laptop and phone.
Downstairs, I place them on the coffee table in the lounge. I switch my phone on. As soon as the apps load, I open WhatsApp and go straight to my mom’s chat. I send a voice note, telling her I arrived safely. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
I put the phone down and head back upstairs to fetch the cleaning materials.
Cleaning is still my job, I tell myself.
*
*
*
I am busy with my schoolwork on the UNISA app while writing a bit, page by page, on my book. I cleaned earlier, ate, and spoke to my parents hours ago. By the time I check the clock again, it is just after 10 am.
My head feels heavy, so I decide to take a short break.
I sit back on the couch, pull my phone closer, and scroll through TikTok. A few videos make me laugh. I shake my head, smiling for the first time in hours. For a moment, I almost forget everything.
Then I log out and open WhatsApp.
I click on Status without thinking.
Phupho.
My chest tightens before the video even finishes loading.
It is him, Sello, and MaZwane. Her belly is visible now, round and proud. My fingers tremble around the phone. My throat burns. Tears rush to my eyes before I can stop them.
I wipe them quickly, annoyed at myself. I tell myself to breathe. I tell myself I am okay.
But my mind does not listen.
I see my babies instead. Two of them. Both gone. Taken from me by him and his family. By stress. By cruelty. By words that cut deeper than fists ever could.
I exhale sharply.
Then I swipe again.
Another status.
Zinhle.
She is holding an ice cream. Her face is red. She looks like she has been crying. Something about the image breaks what little strength I have left.
My baby.
The tears fall faster now. I press my lips together, but it does nothing. I do not even know why Phupho has not blocked me. Maybe he wants me to see this. Maybe he wants me to hurt.
I close the app.
The crying comes out loud this time. Ugly. Heavy. My chest tightens until breathing feels hard. My hands shake. I gasp, trying to pull air in, but it feels stuck.
I grab my phone and dial Khanya’s number.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hey,” I manage to say.
There is a pause.
“What is going on?” he asks softly. “Why does it sound like you are crying?”
“I am,” I say, my voice breaking.
“What is wrong?”
I cannot speak. I just cry.
“Shhh,” he says gently. “Okay. Try breathing, okay?”
I nod even though he cannot see me. I pull in a shaky breath.
“There we go,” he says calmly. “Slowly. Again.”
I breathe in. Then out. Again. Slowly. My chest still hurts, but the panic starts to ease.
“Good,” he says. “Please go upstairs and lie down.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Manje,” he adds, firm but kind.
“Okay,” I say again.
I stand up and walk upstairs, my legs weak. I go straight to his room and slide into the bed. The sheets smell clean and calm.
“I am inside your bedroom,” I say softly. “Inside the bed covers.”
“Okay,” he replies. “Try sleeping.”
“Okay.”
The call ends.
I place my phone on the nightstand and pull the covers over my head. My head is pounding now. My eyes burn. My heart still aches, but I hold myself together.
I am tired of crying.
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
*
*
*
I feel someone holding me from behind.
My body stiffens instantly. My heart jumps. For a second, fear rushes through me and I turn my head quickly.
It is Khanya.
He is right there, close, warm, one arm wrapped around my waist, careful and gentle. I try to speak. A hundred questions rush to my mouth. When did he arrive? Why is he here? Did I call him back without knowing?
Before any sound comes out, he leans closer.
“Shhh,” he whispers softly. “Just rest.”
His voice is low, steady. The kind of voice that does not ask for anything.
I nod slowly.
He pulls me a little closer, not tight, not demanding. Just enough for me to feel that I am not alone. His hand rests lightly on my arm, thumb moving in a small, absent circle, like he is reminding me to breathe.
“Shhh,” he says again, almost teasing this time, a soft joke hidden in his tone. “I am not going anywhere. You sleep like this house is yours.”
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