Beauty and the Broker. Cheryl Ntumy S.

23 on it had yellowed and curled at the edges, but remained firmly attached to the wall above the small TV. Arranged around the television and stereo was an assortment of framed photographs, mostly of Melody and Dumisane.

      Melody’s gaze wandered around the walls until it came to rest on her parents’ wedding picture, positioned right above the dining table. After her father’s death in a bus accident eleven years ago when she was just seventeen, she had taken it upon herself to look after the family. Now she made an effort to come home as often as she could.

      She turned back to face her brother. “Where are you going in such a rush, anyway?” Melody narrowed her eyes at Dumisane as she deposited the bags on the kitchen counter. “You haven’t even asked how I’m doing.”

      “Hawu, you look fine to me. Besides, I saw you last weekend.” Dumisane glanced at his flip-top phone. “Eish, I have to go.”

      “Dumisane.” Connie shot him one of her stern, listen-to-me-I’m-your-mother looks.

      “Mama, I promise I’ll help clean the kitchen when I get back.”

      “When you get back? You mean tomorrow?”

      “Mama, come on. Lolo?”

      Melody stared at her tall, gangly brother, looking smart in his artfully distressed jeans and the sort of designer tackies she could never have afforded at nineteen. Back then she had been in her second year at varsity, working part-time to help her mother, and dreaming of having her own spa.

      The vision had been so vivid: a small, cosy place about the size of an average hair salon, with bright, cheerful colours and the scent of aromatherapy oils in the air. Her name would be painted on the window in bright blue, and the place would be full of the type of women who would feel out of place at Imbali, but would be right at home in her spa. One degree and seven years of work experience later, she could still see the simple pastel robes in her mind.

      She sighed. That dream was on ice, for now. “Dumisane, where did you get those shoes? And is that a new phone?”

      “Ja.” He grinned at her. “Sexy, nè?”

      “Dumisane!” Connie put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Go and get the rest of the things out of the car. Now!”

      This time Melody’s brother obeyed without a word, making his way across the sandy driveway to where she had parked her second-hand Toyota Tazz.

      “If only he would spend less time going out and focus more on school,” said Connie. “He won’t even talk about university. Says he’s taking a gap year. What on earth is that?”

      Melody’s attention shifted from her brother to her mother. “There are still a few months until he’s done with school,” she pointed out, unpacking the shopping bags. “He might change his mind.”

      “Your brother change his mind?” Connie clicked her tongue in annoyance. “He’s even more stubborn than you.”

      Dumisane reappeared, carrying two more bags. “Did you leave anything in the shops, Lolo? These bags are fu- . . . really heavy.” He caught his mother’s eye and gave her a placating smile. After dropping the bags, he turned back to his sister. “Ja, so . . . can I borrow the car, or what?”

      Melody sighed. “Show me your licence.”

      “Lolo!”

      “Show it to me.”

      Dumisane scowled. “It’s far away. In my room.”

      Melody gave him a curt nod. She knew his licence had been suspended after some debacle a month earlier. Her brother would never mention it, but she knew enough people around town to keep abreast of his latest indiscretions. “When you find it, let me know.”

      “Lolo, please! I’ll take good care of the car, I promise!”

      “I still remember the dent from the last time you took such good care of it,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “And I’m not letting you drive my car without a licence. Are you too good to use taxis now?”

      “Yes,” he muttered under his breath.

      “Stop bothering your sister!” called Connie from the other side of the kitchen. “Go and get a job, then you can buy your own car.”

      “Eish,” Dumisane muttered, his shoulders slumped. “Fine. Can I at least borrow some money?”

      Melody shook her head. “Didn’t I give you R200 last week?”

      He raised his eyebrows at her. “Lolo, that isn’t money.”

      “So how much do you want this time? Should I clean out my account?” But she was already reaching into her handbag, fishing out a crisp R200 note. “That’s all you’re getting.”

      “Thanks.” Her brother snatched the money from her hand and was out of the house before anyone could say another word to him.

      Melody sighed and turned to her mother.

      “He’s so ungrateful,” complained Connie, her face marred by a scowl.

      “He’s a teenager,” Melody reminded her. “We were all like that once.” She frowned at the groceries laid out on the counter. “Did I get everything? It looks like I forgot the milk.”

      “Lolo, you don’t have to buy us groceries every month,” her mother said softly. “I’m still working, you know. I can take care of things. And aren’t you supposed to be redoing your flat?”

      “I am, but . . .” Melody caught herself just in time before saying, You can’t support yourself and cater for Dumisane’s lavish tastes on a primary school teacher’s salary. Then she continued out loud, “I don’t want you to struggle. Anyway, I have a good job. I can afford to help out.”

      Connie smiled and gave her a hug. “You’re such a good girl.” She pulled back and fingered Melody’s freshly cut hair. “That’s why I can forgive you for cutting your hair like those American girls. What do your bosses say when you show up at work looking like one of those R&B singers?”

      Melody had to refrain from rolling her eyes. “Mama, don’t start. You know I have no patience with long hair.” She had a brief mental picture of herself with a long weave and the man she had seen in the restaurant running his fingers through it.

      She bit her lip; this wasn’t the most appropriate time to be fantasising. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since the previous night, and her thoughts always involved physical contact. Behave! she chided herself, turning her attention back to her mother.

      “Maybe I’m too old to understand these things,” Connie was saying. “Like your brother. I don’t even try to understand him any more.”

      “Mama . . .” Melody put an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a kid; he’ll grow out of it. He’s just going through a phase, like I did.”

      “You weren’t this much trouble, Lolo. I always knew where you were at night.”

      “Boys are more difficult,” said Melody in a tone that claimed authority she didn’t have. “Let’s not talk about Dumisane for now. I bought lots of eggs and flour, and I don’t have to be back in the city until later. I thought we could bake, just the two of us. How about that?”

      Connie smiled. “As long as we’re following my recipes.”

      Melody held up her hands in surrender, glad to be able to take her mother’s mind off her worries for a few hours. “It’s your kitchen, Mama. You’re the boss.”

      * * *

      By the time Melody drove back into town, it was nearly 9pm. She had a huge Tupperware container of biscuits on the back seat. After all that baking, she knew she would be too tired to cook when she got to her flat in Observatory. As she drove through town, she considered her options. Chicken? No, I had chicken the other day.