Back at the house the church women were drinking tea, and chattering on the front stoep. “Have a sandwich,” called Mrs Mthembu, as Thabi came through the gate. Thabi tried to smile.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mrs Mthembu, handing her a cup of tea.

“No…nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m just a bit sad, that’s all.”

Mrs Mthembu watched Warren’s car driving off down the road. “Did he upset you? Who is that man?”

“He’s the real owner of the house. He’s got cancer…”

“I thought the house was yours?”

“It is. But the old man made a mistake. He didn’t know his son was sick.”

“Hau!” cried Mrs Mthembu. “You’re giving him the house?” The other women stopped chattering and listened in. Thabi realised that the gossip had got around. Everyone knew her story.

“You can’t give him your house,” shouted Mrs Thafeni, banging her broom on the step. “It’s yours. You’ll never get a chance like this again. He fought with his father, and this is what happens if you disrespect your elders. You get punished.”

“But if he doesn’t get the treatment he will die. I have to give it to him.”

The women were angry. They muttered among themselves, clattering their mugs on the stoep wall as they finished their tea.

“Do you still want us to work?” asked Mrs Mthembu.

Thabi sighed. She couldn’t hand over a filthy house to a man with cancer. “Please,” she said. She felt like crying. She’d lost everything. The house and money she had inherited, her job – and she owed Motso’s mother R900. She sank down on the step in despair. It seemed like she took one step forward, to a new, better life, and then slid two steps back into a place where everything was a struggle. She SMSed Motso:

Can u come over? Hv 2 tell u sumthng

I can’t leave empty-handed, she decided, as she drank the last of her tea. I’m going to find a photo of Mr Katz. I want something to remember him by.

She walked down the passage to the room that must have been his bedroom, once upon a time. Beneath the window, half hidden in piles of rubbish, stood a wooden desk. She pulled open the top two drawers. They were packed with old letters, bills and receipts. There were a few photos, but nothing that showed her old friend clearly. There was just one drawer left. It was locked. She scratched her head. Where would he keep the key? She pulled the top drawer right out, and felt at the very back. “Ha,” she muttered, pulling out an old-fashioned brass key. She slipped it into the lock, wiggled it a bit, and it opened.

There was nothing in the drawer except an old cigar box. She lifted the lid. What could be so precious that it was locked away all on its own? It contained nothing but old, yellowed newspaper clippings. She unfolded one and read:

Perth, May 23 1999
Mr Warren Katz was today found guilty of fraud, and sentenced to six years imprisonment. The court heard how he befriended wealthy women and convinced them that he was suffering from a terminal disease. He persuaded them to give him money for medical treatments.

He is believed to have defrauded one Perth woman to the tune of $500 000. “He was so convincing,” Ms Margo Moore, one of his victims, said today. “It never occurred to me that he was lying. I just wanted to help him. But after he had the money he stopped taking my calls.”

Thabi gasped. She scrabbled through the rest of the cuttings. More convictions, more court cases. He’d been playing this trick for years. And to think she’d almost fallen for it.

“Thabi? I’m so sorry. The women have told me everything.” Motso was standing in the doorway, with tears rolling down her cheeks. “You’re such a good person, Thabi. I’m sorry it didn’t turn out OK for you… but you’re doing the right thing.”

Thabi shoved the pile of clippings into her friend’s hand. “Read these. The bastard. He was trying to trick me. No wonder his father cut him out of his will. He’s not stepping foot in my house again. He’s not getting a cent of my money.”

Motso grabbed her. “So you’re not giving away your house?”

“No way. Mr Katz left it to me, fair and square, and Warren can go play in the traffic.”

“That is just awesome,” squealed Motso. And behind her, in the doorway, the crowd of women burst into applause.

Thabi thought she’d never stop grinning. She grabbed the nearest pile of rubbish. “Come on, Mots,” she said, shoving it down the passage to the front door. “Let’s get to work. We’ve got a whole house to fix up. My house of dreams.”

***

Tell us what you think: If you inherited a house, who would you invite to live in it with you, and why?