“Mr Mbele!” a soft voice called.
“Ah, Mother Anastacia… what can I do for you? I hope you’re not asking for leave—HAHA!” Collins said, sliding his phone into his trouser pocket.
“I hope the party is up to your standards, Mr Mbele. It’s been a long time since we had such a colourful event in the house after your divorce from your first wife,” Anastacia replied.
“Indeed, Mother Anastacia. I wanted to do something nice for Thapelo. Anything else? I want to go take a shower.”
“Mr Mbele… the airport called.”
“What was the call about? And why didn’t you redirect it to me? It might be a major business deal, don’t you think?”
“You were busy with the planning of Thapelo’s birthday, so I told them you were occupied,” Anastacia replied.
“What was the call about, Mother Anastacia?” Collins asked again.
“Menzi is on his way here. He’s on the plane from Paris to Johannesburg, Mr Mbele!” Anastacia said, dropping a subtle bomb.
As evening slowly settled into the buzzing event, Thapelo gripped his mother’s hand tightly, pulling her away from the birthday crowd.
“Thapelo… jou muskond! You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me, THAPELO!” Martha complained.
With all his strength, Thapelo continued to pull his mother, his expression unreadable.
“Thapelo, I’m your mother, and I say leave me at once! Where are we even going?” Martha continued to protest.
“What is wrong with you? I could slap you right now!” Martha said, frustrated.
Soon, she realised they were standing in one of the darkest rooms in the mansion—a room shrouded in ominous shadows.
Thapelo finally let go of her hand.
Martha looked around nervously.
“Re yetsang mo? What are we doing here, Thapelo?” she asked, as curiosity and bad assumptions fed on her mind.
“I told you—your husband is a liar, a cheat, AND A MURDERER!”
“I will pretend as if I didn’t hear this whole thing. My son, it’s your birthday. We never got this kind of luxury before. Now that we do, we should do absolutely nothing but enjoy. Stop digging and digging!” Martha said, pulling on a cunning smile.
“Five years ago, I lost my father on this day, Mum… Instead of maybe visiting his grave, you and your rich husband decide to buy me a gigantic, massive cake!”
“WOW! WOW, THAPELO. EXCEPTIONAL MONOLOGUE. So intriguing!” Martha clapped her hands sarcastically.
“My child, do you know what I did to get you here? Be grateful. We no longer live in a shack—no cold winters with corrugated iron!” Martha harshly answered.
“Mum, when did we get here? All you had to do was take me to my father’s grave, not buy cakes for fun. NO, MUM!” Thapelo said, pain tinging his voice.
“Ungrateful dog! Your father doesn’t deserve anything. You can go visit his grave—I’m not holding your feet!” Martha shot back.
“Mum, you don’t mean that!”
“I mean it with every fibre of my being. Look at me, Thapelo. I’m wearing Gucci, Versace, and Louis Vuitton in one outfit at the same time.”
“The only time I’ll visit Thabang’s grave is when I go to piss on it! For now, I’m still living the soft life,” Martha said angrily as she stormed out of the dark room.
Thapelo interrupted her before she could leave.
“Mum, we’re talking about someone you cared for, someone you loved. He was your everything!”
“WAS. Yes, he WAS my everything. Not anymore. AND HE’S DEAD!” Martha yelled. “Next time, don’t pull me. Never pull me the way you DID!” she added, walking away in a fury.