I fall asleep resentful, but in the morning I fight a wave of excitement about having my exotic sister in my room.

“You were calling Mama in your sleep,” I tell her.

She looks awkward for the first time since she arrived.

“Pathetic,” she mutters.

This morning Umakhulu gives Khethiwe a glass of creamy goats’ milk. A full glass. We usually only have a tiny bit in our tea. She wants to know everything about Khethiwe’s life in the city.

“Your mother says you’ve been working since you finished matric. What job was it?”

“Make-up. Marketing and sales for this big pharmacy. We had to walk along the beach front and go up to ladies and say, ‘Hi, you’ve got the most lovely skin. You would look like a beauty queen with a little bit of expertise. Why don’t you come to our pharmacy for a free make-up demo?’ If they came in we got commission.”

“Was it good money?”

“I made a lot of money but I spent a lot, too. You need money for clothes in the city.” She glances kindly at my worn T-shirt and pants with a rip on the knee.

“So your job was actually to be, like, fake. Trick those women into buying the make-up.”

“Um. Selling, really.”

“But it’s not honest.”

“Well, I chose the women who got out of smart cars. They could afford it, so …”

I shake my head, unforgiving. Khethiwe smiles stiffly.

“You steal from your bees. They have more than they need, so you smoke them out, right?”

Umakhulu interrupts: “Don’t worry about Asanda’s tongue. It stings like a bee.”

Everyone laughs, except me. Ubawomkhulu gets my baby picture from the fire place mantel. “Look at this one.”

It is the photograph of me in a black and yellow bee suit from Ackermans, complete with a little hoodie and tiny wings. My baby self stares out with shiny black eyes. Of course, I am not smiling.

***

Tell us what you think: Was Khethiwe doing honest work? Or was she really tricking people with fake promises, as Asanda claims?