Amara sinks into the passenger seat and takes in the smell of leather as Zolani climbs in beside her. She can tell the car is new, everything inside it is pristine. When he turns the key in the ignition, the engine purrs. This is not a taxi, she thinks, but it still jogs a memory from her childhood.

She was in a taxi with her mother. The engine roared and coughed fumes into the spring air. Her mother had told her that they were going to see a man in Haddon. He was someone with a lot of money and would help them live a better life. When they got off, her mother led her down to 104 Cherry Lane, a white-painted house on a quiet street. Her mother pushed open the iron gate, led them up the four steps, and knocked on the door. A broad-shouldered man answered with disbelief plastered on his face. Amara had long forgotten the words exchanged between the two adults. Instead, she remembers him reaching for his wallet. He pulled out a large stack of money and shoved the notes against her mother’s chest. Amara had never seen that much money in her life. A girl emerged from behind the man and waved at Amara. He pushed the girl back into the house and shut the door. That was the last time her mother ever asked anybody for help.

Zolani brushes his hand down her thigh as he drives. It snaps Amara from her thoughts. She pushes the memory aside and focuses on him. She smiles at how serious he looks while driving; his jaw is clenched and he checks twice before he turns into every street. He is the first ‘real’ boyfriend she has had, nothing like the boys in her school. He treats her like a grown woman, his woman. She does not know much about him but the mystery excites her. He was a chance encounter on her way back from the store a few months ago. They had exchanged numbers and spoken every day since then.

Zolani drives them to KFC and orders two spicy twisters and large cold drinks. He stops at the drive-through pay point and taps his hands against his pockets. He fishes out a few crumpled notes.

“Things have been a little slow,” he admits, as he hands the money to the lady. He collects the food and passes it to Amara before he continues, “I haven’t been making much money lately.”

The lady forges a weak smile as she closes the till and hands him a slip.

“How do you make your money?” Amara asks, as they drive off. She had never bothered to ask. All she knew was that he always had money and brought treats when he could.

“Uhmm. You know—” he coughs, “—I do what I can. I juggle a lot of odd jobs, buying and selling things.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Eat your food before it gets cold,” he instructs, cutting the conversation short.

Amara reaches for her cold drink and takes a long swig of it. “I met a rich man once,” she mutters, after a while, “I wish we could be as rich as him. In the next couple of years, we could be a power couple.”

“What man?” Zolani’s ears perk up.

“My mother took me to his house when I was a little girl. She said he would help us. He had sooooo much money, he literally threw it at us,” she explains.

“He gave you money?” Zolani repeats.

“Well, he gave it to my mother. I don’t understand why we continued to strug—”

“Where was this?” he cuts in. “Where was this house?”

“In Haddon.”

“Haddon? Johannesburg?” He slams on the breaks.

The car screeches to a halt in the middle of the intersection. Amara pushes her free arm out to keep from colliding with the dashboard. Zolani’s head swerves from one direction to the next, deciding between the two routes.

“Do you mean Haddon in Johannesburg?” he turns to her.

“Ja.” Amara breathes out.

“How long ago was this? Do you think he still lives there?”

“Uhmm, a c-couple of years back. I think I was 11 or so…so,” Amara stutters. “I don’t know…maybe.”

Zolani looks at her for a long time before choosing to drive in the opposite direction from which they came. He steps on the accelerator, sending the car flying on the road. Amara slides back against the seat, remembers her seatbelt, and clips it into place. She can tell that Zolani has abandoned his plan to take her home.

“How many people live there? Do you think he has a safe? Where do you think he gets all that money from?” he badgers her with questions.

She answers as best as she can. “I only ever saw the man…and a little girl…ehh, he might…I don’t know…um, maybe he won the lottery.”

“Think, Amara. What else do you know about him?” he persists.

“This was years ago, why is it so important?” she asks, irritably.

He does not answer. Instead, he drives like a maniac.

“Where are you taking me?” she whines.

He remains silent, plotting his next move. They are soon speeding down the highway. Amara’s stomach growls and she reaches into the brown paper bag to retrieve her food. She gulps it down, lessening the hunger that gnaws at her insides. As she chews, she tries to ignore Zolani’s fixation with the rich man. Less than an hour later, they pass a sign welcoming them the Haddon, and it dawns on her. Zolani is determined to get to the house.

“You cannot be serious,” Amara mutters, turning back to look at the sign once more.

“Where exactly is this house?” he asks. “What was the house number?”

“Hayibo, why do you want to go to that house so bad?” Amara asks.

“Just direct me to the house,” he says more sternly. “Which way do I go?”

She has to squint to see the street names and features along the road. She hesitates before she begins directing him. They soon find themselves on Cherry Lane and she points at the house, surprised by her own memory.

“That white one,” she declares.

The car slows to a stop across the street. Zolani releases the steering wheel and slumps back into his seat. “That really is a nice house.” Zolani says.

He finally reaches for his food, sits back, and stares at the house. The time on the dashboard reads 23:45. Amara starts fearing that her mother might check in her room and realise that she is gone. However, she is too scared to ask Zolani to take her home. The lights in all the houses along the street are off, there is only a single street light blinking in the distance. If not for the full moon, the street would be pitch black. After he has wolfed down his meal, Zolani dusts off his hands and looks at Amara.

“I’m going to look inside,” he says.

“What do you mean?” she asks, confused.

He ignores her question as he retrieves something beneath the seat. To her horror, he pulls a balaclava over his face. Zolani reaches his hand into the depths beneath the seat once more and it emerges with crowbar. He gets out of the car.

“Zol! Zolani!” She scrambles after him.

“What?”

“What is wrong with you? Do you rob houses now?” Amara asks, rushing to catch up to him.

When she reaches Zolani, she takes hold of his T-shirt and tries to pull him back. He pushes her away and points at the car. “Go back to the car and keep watch,” he instructs. “Press on the hooter if you see anything suspicious.”

Amara looks at the car, then back at him with pleading eyes. He ignores her and continues on his way. The night air bites into her skin and, feeling exposed on the street, she returns to the car. From the passenger seat, she watches as Zolani effortlessly climbs over the low-rise fence and disappear around the back of the house. His speed and agility make her realise that it is not the first time he has broken into a house. That is what he does for a living.

Tell us: How would you feel if you were Amara? Have you ever found yourself in a situation that suddenly spiralled out of control?