One Saturday morning, just as I was getting ready to clean my section of rooms, I met Sandra in the utility room. Sandra was the girl who cleaned the executive suites. She was bent over and was clutching her abdomen. Sandra had been hired just that month. I didn’t really know her well. She kept to herself most of the time and didn’t mingle with the rest of us.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she mumbled. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

I took my mop bucket and duster and prepared to leave the room when Sandra groaned and clutched her abdomen tighter.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Should I get Mrs Hammond?”

Sandra looked so scared you’d have thought Mrs Hammond was the devil or something (which isn’t exactly far from the truth if you ask me).

“No, please don’t. It’s just cramps. It’ll pass soon.”

“Have you taken something?” In my experience cramps were never ‘just’ and they never ‘passed soon’.

She nodded, “Some paracetamol.”

“Should I get you some ibuprofen? That’s what I use. Para doesn’t work for me.”

She shook her head, “I have an ulcer. I can’t take anything stronger that para.”

“Oww, then why don’t you lie down a bit. I’ll tell Mrs Hammond you don’t feel well.”

“Please don’t. I’m on probation and I’ve asked to be absent from work two times already. I can’t ask a third time. I really need this job,” she had tears in her eyes and though I knew it meant more work for me I found myself saying, “Just lie down, I’ll do your section for you.”

“Really? Oww thank you. Thank you so much. God bless you. Thank you, thank you.

The rains have been late this year and we didn’t have a good harvest, and there’s no money for my younger brother’s and sister’s school fees. So I thought I could help my parents out with money from this job. I can’t afford to be sick. I just can’t.”

She was openly crying as she gave me the pass keys to the rooms she cleaned. I didn’t know if she was crying from relief or from the pain.

I cleaned my section first and went to the executive suites which Sandra cleaned. The executive suites were twice the size of the regular rooms, and that meant double the work. I was beginning to regret my offer until I realised Naadu was in that section. The truth was one of the suites had been reserved for her whether or not she was in town. I picked up my mop and bucket and started my rounds. I saved Naadu’s room for last. No one could call what I was doing snooping. I was doing my job.

I knocked when I got there. No reply. I used my pass key and opened her room. The room was clean. The bed was made. She hadn’t unpacked, she had just dumped her bag into the wardrobe.

I straightened the bed, making sure the pillows faced away from the door like Mrs Hammond insisted on, I tucked in the corners of the sheets properly and then I spotted her phone. It was a Samsung Galaxy Note 4. She was charging it. She didn’t have a password or a screen lock pattern.

I couldn’t help myself. I scrolled through the call log. She and Pope spoke an average of five times a day. Their lengthier conversations were always after 10 p.m. I scrolled quickly to her messages. Every other message was from Pope.

Sure, some of them were related to work like when the next batch of centrepieces would be delivered, but most of them were about him telling her how he missed her, how he couldn’t wait to see her, how he wished she were with him, how he was thinking about her and the shocker: that he loved her! I nearly dropped the phone. When had this happened?