Taken By a Mafia King

He wants me

I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead using my arm. I’ve been working from 4 a.m. to 4 p.m. for the past two weeks. Bonga left a week ago. It’s always sad seeing him leave, but he’s coming back early January. I’m under one of my favourite cars, an Audi Q5, when the atmosphere changes — and we all know who that is. I continue fixing the car. Three pairs of expensive shoes walk towards me.

“Why haven’t you changed the cheque?” the deep voice asks. The cheque. OMW, I forgot to change the cheque. Things have been crazy for the past four weeks — my granddad being sick, Nonhle appearing out of the blue, my dad and Bonga telling me to forgive and forget (I still haven’t forgiven my dad), and Bonga visiting. I haven't had time to change the cheque.

“I haven’t had time,” I reply. He pulls me out from under the car using the stretcher. When I look up, I see the most handsome guy ever. Even Maps Maponyane isn’t this handsome. I must’ve been drooling over him.

“Close that mouth,” he commands, and I comply instantly.

“You’re here because I didn’t change the cheque?” I ask him. He doesn’t say anything; instead, he’s staring at me. It feels uncomfortable.

“No,” he replies without explaining.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“You,” he replies. I let out a nervous chuckle. He’s joking, right? Why would he want me? He’s way out of my league, and I have a boyfriend I love very much, thank you. I look back at him, and he’s not laughing.

“I have a boyfriend, and I don’t want you,” I tell him. He says we’ll see, and he walks out. The driver or bodyguard walks towards me. He tells me that what his boss wants, he gets. I got the same impression about him, but he won’t get me. I look at the time — it’s 2 in the afternoon. Two more hours to go. I’m not in the mood to see my dad, but I have to go home. I keep working, and before I know it, it’s 6 p.m. When I close the workshop, I’ll have to walk home. I check my phone, and there are no missed calls or messages. Is Bonga dead? I know I’ve been ignoring my dad, but the fact that I should be home by now and I’m not, and he doesn’t call to check up on me, doesn’t sit well with me. When I turn to the road, he’s waiting for me. Now that he’s waiting, I’m mad at him, and I pass the car and walk home. He drives behind me; I’m grateful. As soon as I get home, I shower and head to bed — not without locking the door. I’ve been sleeping for like 5 seconds when my phone vibrates under my pillow. Who’d text me at 11 p.m.? Maybe it’s Bonga. I have an MMS from an unsaved number. Who’d text me during this time? Because I’m curious, I open the message. There are photos with the following caption: If you say no one more time, your dad is next. And you’ll be watching.

Watching what? I download the two pictures. What I see next has me screaming my lungs out. Bonga is cut into pieces, and his head is placed in his chest. I hear my dad yelling, telling me to open the door. I’m too numb to even walk to the door. This is the first time I’ve heard my dad yelling. I don’t know how long I’ve been screaming. I stop screaming when I see my door on the floor. My dad and some of my neighbours are standing here, looking at me with worry written on their faces. Momo suggests they look at my phone, but I take it before they do.

“What’s wrong?” my dad asks me, looking all worried. I don’t want to tell him — they will want us to go to the police, and the guy probably has the justice system on his payroll. I’m racking my brain, trying to come up with an answer.

“I had a nightmare,” I tell them. I see them sighing. They are relieved, but my dad can see right through me. I apologise for waking them up. They apologise for the door, and they leave with the promise to check up on me the next day. I try to sleep and I can’t. My dad decides to take a chair, and he sits in my room, looking at me with so much worry.

I toss and turn for five hours. At 4 a.m., I eventually fall asleep. My dad left two hours ago; he looked tired. I told him to go sleep — he didn’t want to at first, but he kept falling asleep, so it was pointless. I wake up at 11 a.m. There’s an incoming call — it’s Bonga’s mom.

“Yebo, sawubona Ma,” I answer.

“Zeh, it’s Bonga. His wife found him slaughtered when she came home from work 10 minutes ago,” she tells me, crying.

Bonga had a wife? Surely Bonga’s mom is distraught. I’m too tired and emotional to talk, so I tell her that I’ll come by later, and I hang up. I fall back asleep. My dad wakes me up at 1 in the afternoon. He made me lunch; I thank him and head to the shower. I take a quick shower, wear a red knee-length dress, and walk to Bonga’s house — it’s four streets from my house. There are so many people. His sister tells me that his mom is in her bedroom. I walk there, and she cries when she sees me. I hug her; I can’t help but cry. I’m hurting, and I feel super guilty. If I didn’t say no to that guy, Bonga would’ve lived.

“No, it’s not your fault,” she tells me, wiping my tears.

“Yes, it’s not your fault. You didn’t kill Bonga,” Bonga’s sister tells me.

“What?” I ask them, confused.

“You just said it’s your fault,” his mom tells me. I freeze for a minute. I don’t remember saying that. We don’t say anything else to each other. I sit with his mother for some time. When more neighbours come in, I go to the kitchen to help his sister Thobeka with whatever she’s busy with.

“Bonga had a wife?” I ask her, and she chokes on her drink.

“Yes, he paid lobola for her late last year.”

“And I didn’t know?” I ask her, getting angry.

“It wasn’t my place to tell,” she tells me, looking anywhere but my face.

Bonga’s wife got here while I was still helping his sister in the kitchen. Yesterday was his funeral. Everything went well. I was introduced to his wife as his childhood friend, and she has heard a lot about me. I didn’t want to cause any drama, so I just got along with her, and I was one of the many speakers. It was so hard, but I did talk, and I cried throughout the service. It was very sad. I’m taking a break today; I’ll go to the workshop tomorrow. I took a leave since Bonga died, and I’m glad to say my customers have been very understanding.