Did I hear right?

Why was Jabu calling this Mr Majola ‘sir’? It didn’t make sense. Jabu owned a house in Clifton; he was a businessman flying to meetings in New York and London; he drove a luxury car. So why did he allow this Mr Majola to be so rude to him?

On the runway outside, a huge jet was taking off. The ground shuddered under my feet. I had to grab the pillar. It seemed any minute I might fall over. But maybe that was because my head felt so dizzy and confused.

I watched Jabu push the trolley-load through the outside door. That’s when he put on the cap.

And that’s when I realised the truth. It all made sense now. I knew all about that cap. It was the same cap that the chauffeurs wore as they sat waiting outside Top-Knot – while their wealthy bosses’ wives got weaves and tints and Indian head massages!

Let me tell you, I was angry. What a liar Jabu was! What a con-artist! What a scumbag! Imagine! I was going to tell him exactly what I thought of him!

I stood near the parking bay while he loaded the designer luggage into the Jaguar boot. He saw me at last. A look of horror showed on his face. Like his worst nightmare had just come true.

“Zonke! Oh, no! Oh Zonke, I am so sorry. I’m so ashamed. Can you ever forgive me?”

How could I forgive him? He had just destroyed all my hopes and dreams and plans.

“Zonke, please. Try and understand. I saw you at the exhibition and you were so lovely. I just fell in love. I had to do what I could to win your heart.”

“Even lie? Even pretend?”

“Yes, even lie. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I don’t want to lose you.” He looked down at me under his cap. His beautiful eyes were clouded with sadness.

Well, I felt sad too! This was not a fairy tale of Cinderella and her Prince Charming. No! This was a story about a Cleaner-chick and a Chauffeur-dude. But hey! Maybe we could make our own fairy tale? Maybe we could still have a happily-ever-after ending? Jabu was really handsome, even if he wasn’t rich.

I wanted him to put his arms around. I wanted him to hold me like he had on the balcony of the Clifton house. Even if it wasn’t his house.

But Mr and Mrs Majola were waiting on the pavement. “Jili! Chop chop, man!” yelled Mr Majola. “I don’t pay you to chat up some dolly-bird you find on the street.”

Poor Jabu, having such a rude, unpleasant employer! At least Madame Le Champs always treated me with respect.

“I think I can forgive you,” I said.

“I’ll phone you, Zonke,” Jabu promised. He drove off quickly to where the rich boss waited with his beautiful young wife with her amazing clothes and her stunning designer bag.

For a second I felt jealous of Mrs Majola. Very jealous.


What do you think? Will Zonke give up her plan to marry for money?