I am a man killer, not because of the way I dress that makes them drool and lose their minds, but I’m really a man killer. How stupid these beings are, show them a little bit of cleavage and they’ll follow you around like a lost puppy.

So my name is Simangele Ndaba. I’m 24 years old and all my life I’ve never known kindness.

I was born to a drug addict mother, needless to say, she sold me for a quick fix to a wrinkled old man who slept with me in exchange for food and shelter. I escaped him; took him for all he had. All his jewellery, I cleaned out his safe, and I took his brand new car. It’s been two years since I last saw Bra Fingers, he’s a loan shark, they call him Bra Fingers because he cuts off people’s fingers when they don’t pay him back.

I live in an abandoned house; nobody knows I even exist. As old as I am, I have no ID. I’m street-smart, not education smart.

Oh, and, I killed my mother, that woman didn’t deserve to breathe. I don’t regret it, in fact I wish I could go and wake her up, then kill her again. I looked her in the eyes before I took her life, she was too high to even recognise her own daughter. I stabbed her 16 times, because that’s how old I was when she sold me to Bra Fingers.

I lost my childhood because of her and because of Bra Fingers; I lost my humanity. That man made me despise men, he and all his male friends who would take turns with me.

“Young meat, bra Fingers. She’s a feisty one,” his business associates would say.

“I paid good money for that child.” Bra Fingers would boast, smoking his expensive cigar. Bra Fingers had a daughter and three sons. I wondered how he’d feel when someone treated his daughter like that. His daughter was his princess; I wonder how he’d feel when someone violated his pride and joy.

I fix myself, smearing some lipstick on my lips. I wonder where I got my good looks from, because my mother was some ugly duckling.

I see a car coming, and I step out of my car. I’m wearing a classy short skirt and a white vest, it shows all the cleavage. I open the bonnet, bend over and pretend I’m having trouble with my car.

The bastard that’s coming my way, takes the bait. He stops his luxurious Range Rover and steps out. He’s handsome, tall and has a beautiful walk.

“Car troubles?” he asks, looking.

“Yes, this thing is trash,” I say, helplessly.

“It looks brand new. What seems to be the problem?” he asks.

“I was hoping you could tell me that,” I intentionally touch him with my breasts.

“Let me have a look,” he smiles.

He has a look and soon the car is ready to go, it never had a problem. The man didn’t even know what he was doing, he just wanted some of this booty. I thank him.

“My place isn’t far from here, why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee?” I say. He smiles.

“I’d like some coffee,” he replies.

He drives behind me, how stupid is he? I drive to my home. Deserted. I step out. He looks around.

“It’s a little spooky,” he says, smiling.

“You chicken?” I ask. He shakes his head. We walk in.

“Big fan of sharp items, hey?” he asks.

“I try,” I sit down. He sits.

“So? Coffee?” he says. I stand up and make coffee. I slip some sleeping tablets in his coffee.

We drink up, I flirt, he starts touching me, I hate it, hate it! Soon, he’s babbling about his riches and success, as if I care. Typical man behaviour, all they ever do is talk about themselves; all I had to do was nod and pretend as if I was interested in what he has to say.

***

Tell us: Do you think she will really kill him? Why/Why not