I leave them giggling and stomp to my honey house, grumbling under my breath. I call it a house, but it’s a zinc shack heated by the sun, perfect for honey harvesting. I keep my beekeeper’s suit and hat in there. Inside is a counter to lay my frames, and my special tools for scraping the double layer of beeswax. The Agricultural Development Unit leased me a special honey spinner to spin the honey from the combs.

I put on my bee suit that covers every inch of my skin. I pull on my gloves and boots and drop my veil over my eyes. I walk down the gravel driveway, looking like an astronaut.

Today the bees are furious with me. They smack and scream against my white suit. They launch at my eyes as if they are as angry as I feel about Khethiwe. I lift the lid of the first hive. The queen is plump and golden and peaceful. But it is not enough to be pretty. She has at least ten rows of eggs to lay, before I can harvest the honey from the comb. My other six queens are also not finished. Perhaps the heat is making them lazy.Grey clouds form in the sky then disappear, as if they were just a vision.

Khethiwe calls to me from a safe distance, “Come Asanda. Let’s go visiting!”

I take off my bee suit and go with her as she moves from house to house, visiting like she’s some kind of royalty.

“Hi,” she smiles at each door. “It’s me, Khethiwe.”

The women embrace her and touch her shining hair. They invite us in and touch her shining skin. Khethiwe charms with her giggle and her voice as smooth as honey.

It is my mother’s love that has given her this magnetism.

Mrs Ntshinga shows Khethiwe cellphone pictures of her daughters’ twins. Khethiwe laughs and learns to tell one from the other. In the next house, the Bambanis give us a plate of spaghetti. Next door Mr and Mrs Hlongwane give us some of their non-alcoholic ginger beer to take home with us. The Hlongwanes never usually give us gifts. At my friend Bonelwa’s house, I’ve got to listen to Khethiwe talk about nail conditioner.

“How do you think they grow so long?”

I try not to growl. What does she do with her nails besides wave while she talks about the swimming pool on the pavilion and the music groups her friends belong to? When Khethiwe waves her nails at Luyola, the ambulance driver, and glides through his gate, I have had enough.

“I’ve got to go and help at home,” I mumble.

I hurry home. Luyola is twenty-three. He’s way too old for me but he’s handsome, and so responsible that they let him keep the ambulance at home in between emergencies. On top of this, Luyola is interested in bees.

Okay, I have a crush on him.

***

Tell us what you think: Will Luyola fall for Khethiwe’s charm?