I wake up to a clanging noise that sounds like my alarm-clock. “Oh God, it is my alarm-clock! How in the hell did it go off?” I wonder to myself.

I do not remember setting the damn thing. I would not want to disturb myself from a serene mid-morning sleep. Angrily, I grab the tiny clock and send it smashing into the wall.

“Adios sucker!” I think.

I feel dizzy, kind of, and this usually happens when I sleep anywhere between daytime. I yawn and ease my head on one of the fluffy pillows I got as a Christmas gift from my mom. Wearily, I free myself from the sheets, and strongly suggest taking a bath. It is no longer cold now, and I am guessing the sun is finally out.

I slightly pull my curtain open to confirm my unpolished guess, and realise that I could actually do great as a weather reporter. It is indeed sunny out there. As I catch a glimpse of Diana’s car in the driveway, I find myself thinking of her and realise what I had not realised before: the girl really has the keys to my soft spot. Some ALICIA type of KEYS!

After a while, I scowl and head out to my balcony (its spectacular view helps me restore my cool), instead of the bathroom. I then sit there for quite some time, smoking my last cigar, but I never see Diana. I begin to agree that she has ghosted me. Totally. Then, from across the street, I see Ayanda, my co-worker and one of the many female friends I have (but this one is more like a sister from another mother.). She just got out of a taxi with a Pick n Pay plastic bag in hand, and she still has her badge/name tag on her T-shirt, so I know why she is here: Buhlungu has sent her. She then sees me and waves.

“Hey!” I shout happily, swimming in the euphoric pool that emanates from nicotine. “What’s up girl?”

“Nothing much!” she says. “What are you doing up there?”

“Smoking this,” I say, lifting up the brown thing to her after giving off smoke.

“Oh, you!” she says, laughing and nodding her head. “I heard from the boss that you were sick, and is that what a sick person is supposed to be doing?”

“Please don’t judge me. I’m having a shitty day,” I respond.

“Trust me, I’m not,” she says, and then hastily picks up the plastic bag she had put on the ground a while ago. “Go unlock your door, Teekay. I’m coming up!”

“Okay, but I don’t think it’s locked! You can just open it,” I say, and as I call out, she has already disappeared, climbing the stairs or already at my door by now.

I am starting to feel better. It is like my dizziness/drowsiness is wearing off now. It is actually more like Ayanda’s surprise visit has lifted off the heavy weight my head was carrying. I am super excited to have her around, but I am not sure if I am feeling this way only because Diana is out of the picture and Ayanda is the only lady at my disposal. However, that point still ranks lowest because I never had intimacy with Ayanda on any day, even though she enters my place oftentimes. In fact, the thought of it always makes me sick, so why would today be different? She is cute and sexy, yes, but she is more like a sister to me, and I do not have Jamie Lannister instincts in me. I cannot have sex with my sister!

After a while, I watch Ayanda stroll to the balcony from my sitting room, and I put out my cigar. She left her plastic bag somewhere in there. She is dressed casually, but very neat. I had not noticed how neat she looks from afar.

“Well. Well. Well!” I think to myself.

She pops out and falls on my lap with the confidence and bravery of a warrior – that Arya Stark in the season finale of Game of Thrones type of bravery. It is all because she knows that I will never try anything silly on her. It’s a battle she has already won.

I gaze into her eyes serenely, and there is not one string in those deep brown eyes. “Good! Very good!” I think. “The big man has sent you here, right?” I ask as I plat the ends of her extensions.

“Yes, sir. Why bother asking me what you already know?” she responds offhandedly.

“Well … it’s because that is very unlikely of him to do so,” I say.

She stirs. “Are you for real?”

“I’m telling you!” I exclaim, revered by her disbelief. “Believe me, girl, our boss does not do follow ups. If an employee falls ill, he will just wait until they come back to work again. No checking up on the individual or anything like that. He does not do that! It is not his style.”

“Goddamn!” she says, quivering. “That man is a real asshole, shame. I didn’t know.”

“Oh, you’ve never gotten sick whilst working for him, right?” I ask, and she nods in response. “That’s why you are clueless.”

“But why did he sent me to see you then? What changed? He even gave me money to buy you some stuff,” she asks, and I cackle in response. “What?” she asks inquisitively.

“Maybe it’s because he wants to have sex with you!” I respond.

“Oh, he sure won’t be getting any of that from me,” she responds, winking and snapping her fingers.

“Well, he might. The guy once told me he owns all the whores that work for him,” I say, pushing her away and jumping on my feet.

“What,” she screams. “Who’s a whore, bra?”

“You, in particular,” I respond, sticking out my tongue and rolling my eyes.

She then chases me inside, and we play fight for some dazzling minutes. I then leave her in the kitchen while she starts preparing a meal for us. She loves playing in my kitchen, it is just that it has been a while since she has been here.

Tell us: What do you think about men who believe they own the women who work for them?