Zandile knocked on the doorframe.
She was out of options.
She was out of pride.
“Mr. Zaba?” Mandla didn’t look at her.
“The trash can is already empty.
Go away.
” “Sir, please.
I need an advance on my salary or a loan.
I will work for free for the next 5 years.
I will sign whatever you want.
My grandmother Mandla caught the golf ball.
He finally looked at her.
He looked at her faded uniform, her desperate, red-rimmed eyes.
“How much?” he asked.
“350,000 rand.
Uh for her heart.
” Mandla laughed, a short, sharp sound of pure amusement.
“350,000? For an old woman who’s going to die anyway? You people are incredible.
” Zandile fell to her knees, right there on the expensive carpet.
“Please, sir.
She is all I have.
” Mandla took a sip of his whiskey.
The amusement faded from his face, replaced by something much darker, a cruel, twisted idea forming in real time.
He hated his father.
His father, Chief Zaba, thought Mandla was weak, spoiled, and unfit to run the company.
“Get up,” Mandla said.
Zandile stood, her hands shaking.
“I won’t give you the money,” Mandla said, leaning back in his leather chair.
“But I know someone who will.
My father, Chief Zaba.
He’s staying in the penthouse at the Michelangelo Hotel across the square.
He’s a lonely tonight.
” Zandile’s breath hitched.
She didn’t understand.
“Sir?” Mandla smiled, the kind of smile that makes a room feel cold.
“My father likes young, desperate things.
Go to the hotel, room 501.
Tell security Mandla sent you.
Go to his room.
Offer him the only thing you have of any value.
If you please him, he has the power to transfer that money from his phone in 30 seconds.
” Zandile stared at him.
Her stomach turned over.
She felt sick.
“You want me to “I want you to save your grandmother,” Mandla whispered, taking another sip of whiskey.
“The clock is ticking, Zandile.
How much do you really love her?” The walk across Nelson Mandela Square took 10 minutes.
To Zandile, it felt like walking to her own execution.
The Michelangelo Hotel was a palace of marble and gold.
Zandile walked through the revolving doors in her cheap street clothes.
The concierge moved to stop her, but she swallowed her terror and said the words, “Mandla Zaba sent me.
Room 501.
” The concierge’s expression hardened with disgust, but he nodded toward the private elevator.
Zandile rode up to the penthouse.
The numbers ticked higher.
48, 49, 50, 51.
Every floor felt like a weight pressing down on her lungs.
She was 22.
She had never been touched by a man.
She had saved herself, waiting for a life she could be proud of.
And now, she was going to sell it in a hotel room to an old man to buy a heartbeat.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened.
She stood in front of room 501.
Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely lift her fist to knock.
She knocked.
Two soft taps.
A moment later, the heavy wooden door opened.
But standing there was Chief Zaba, the billionaire, the legend.
But he did not look like the magazines.
He was 68, but he looked 80.
His face was gaunt, his skin ashen.
He was wearing a silk robe, leaning heavily on a cane.
He looked at Zandile, his thick, gray eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Who are you?” “Did housekeeping send you?” he asked.
His voice was gravelly, weak.
Zandile’s vision blurred with tears.
She stepped into the room and closed the door She didn’t look at his face.
She couldn’t.
“Mandla sent me,” she whispered.
Chief Zaba stiffened.
“My son sent you? At midnight? For what?” Zandile squeezed her eyes shut.
Her fingers found the top button of her blouse.
Her hands were trembling so badly it took her three tries to undo it.
“He said he said if I came to you if I gave you what you wanted that you would pay for my grandmother’s heart surgery, 350,000 rand.
” She undid the second button.
A tear slipped down her cheek and hit the carpet.
“I will do anything, sir.
Just please save her.
” She reached for the third button.
A heavy, calloused hand grabbed her wrist gently, but with absolute firmness.
Zandile gasped, opening her eyes.
Chief Zaba was staring at her.
He wasn’t looking at her body.
He was looking at her eyes.
His own expression was a mixture of shock, horror, and a deep, agonizing sorrow.
“Button your shirt, child,” he said softly.
Zandile froze.
“But the money.
” “He said I said button your shirt.
” His voice cracked, followed by a wet, rattling cough.
He leaned heavily on his cane, catching his breath.
He pointed to a velvet chair.
“Sit down.
” Zandile sat, terrified, and quickly doing up her buttons.
Chief Zaba walked to the mini bar, poured a glass of water, and handed it to her.
Then he sat on the sofa opposite her.
He looked at this shaking, weeping girl, and then he looked at his own reflection in the window.
“My son told you I was a monster,” Chief Zoba said quietly.
“He sent you here to degrade you, and he sent you here to mock me.
” Zandile gripped the glass of water.
“I don’t understand.
” Chief Zoba unfastened the top of his robe.
Underneath, a medical port was surgically implanted in his chest.
His torso was bruised from needles and treatments.
“I have stage four stomach cancer,” the billionaire said.
“I have 6 months to live.
I can barely digest water, let alone entertain a young woman in a hotel room.
My son knows this.
He sent you here as a sick joke to prove to me that poor people have no dignity and to remind me that my own body is failing.
” Zandile covered her mouth.
The sheer cruelty of it.
Mandla hadn’t just been humiliating her.
He had been playing a game with his dying father.
“What is your name?” the chief asked.
“Zandile.
” “And your grandmother?” “Gogo.
” “She is in Alexandra Hospital.
She has 24 hours left.
” Chief Zoba reached into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone.
He put on his reading glasses.
“What is the name of the private clinic?” he asked.
“Rosebank Cardiac,” Zandile whispered, her heart stopping.
Chief Zoba typed on his phone for 30 seconds.
He hit send.
He placed the phone on the coffee table.
“The deposit is paid in full.
They are sending a private ambulance to transfer her tonight, and the surgery will happen tomorrow morning.
” Zandile stared at the phone.
She stared at the old man.
The air left her lungs.
She slid off the velvet chair onto her knees, pressing her forehead against the hotel room carpet, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Thank you.
Thank you, God.
Thank you, sir.
” “Get off the floor, Zandile,” he commanded gently.
“You bow to no man.
Stand up.
