Zenande watched from her window again.
It had become a quiet ritual, her way of engaging with the world without ever stepping into it. From behind the gold-lined curtains of her bedroom, she observed the estate come to life each morning — the gardeners trimming hedges, the maids running around with trays and brooms, the gates opening and closing to deliver packages, groceries, or wealthy guests. But today, her gaze was drawn to one person alone.
Nokwanda.
She moved with purpose and grace, her uniform clinging tightly to her body in the humid morning sun, her headscarf wrapped neatly, her hands quick and steady. Zenande's eyes narrowed, then softened. This woman didn't walk like she belonged in servitude. There was strength in her steps, pride in the way she held her shoulders — as if she was meant to be seen, not ignored.
Zenande hated that she noticed.
She leaned back into her wheelchair and scowled. "She's just another employee," she whispered to herself. "Nothing more."
Yet her heart betrayed her. It fluttered when Nokwanda entered the main house and exchanged a brief conversation with MaBhengu, Zenande's mother. She didn't know what they were saying — nor did she care to ask — but she watched as Nokwanda's smile lit up the room. A tiny ember of jealousy flickered inside her.
Why did this woman smile so easily around others?
Later that afternoon, MaBhengu entered Zenande's room. She carried a small bouquet of flowers.
"From Nokwanda," she said simply, setting them on the window ledge.
Zenande's eyebrows rose. "She gives flowers now?"
"She said the garden reminded her of home," MaBhengu replied, brushing imaginary dust off the dresser. "She thought you'd appreciate some color."
Zenande gave a cold laugh. "What do I care about flowers?"
Her mother didn't respond. She had long grown tired of Zenande's emotional barricades. Instead, she glanced at her daughter's legs — unused and idle for months — and said softly, "Sometimes a little light doesn't hurt, Zenande. Even when you think you prefer the dark."
As soon as she left, Zenande rolled her chair closer to the flowers and stared at them. She wouldn't admit it, but they did brighten the room.
That evening, Zenande demanded Nokwanda bring her dinner instead of the usual helper. It was a power move, she told herself. Nothing more. She needed to evaluate this girl for herself.
When Nokwanda arrived, carrying a covered silver tray, she paused at the threshold of the room. "You called for me, Miss Mthembu?"
Zenande hated how formal she sounded. "Come in. I hope the food's still warm."
"Yes, ma'am." Nokwanda set the tray on the bedside table and uncovered it. Her hands were swift but graceful.
Zenande watched her like a hawk.
"You're not like the others," she said suddenly.
Nokwanda looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"
"You walk like a soldier, not a servant. And you're always smiling. Why?"
Nokwanda stood tall. "Because it's better than crying, ma'am."
Zenande didn't respond. She liked that answer too much.
"You're cheeky," she muttered, stabbing at the food with her fork. "Someone will break that spirit one day."
"Maybe," Nokwanda replied, folding her hands in front of her apron. "But not today."
A silence fell between them. Zenande didn't know what she was doing — why she had called her, why she was engaging. This woman unnerved her. She made her feel things she thought had died in the accident — curiosity, attraction, vulnerability.
She didn't like it. So she lashed out.
"Leave. I've lost my appetite."
Nokwanda didn't flinch. "As you wish."
She turned to leave, but just before exiting, she paused and glanced back.
"I think you called me here because you needed company. Not food."
Zenande froze.
And just like that, Nokwanda was gone.
That night, Zenande dreamt of falling. Not the sharp, painful fall of her accident — but something softer, something warm. She woke up breathless, heart pounding.
And in the morning, the flowers Nokwanda had brought were blooming.