What exactly had they been saying about us?
Andi still refused to answer, his face sour. Ade tried again, his voice softer. “Come on, Mas, don’t be like that. Poor Aden, you know he’s dealing with so much—”
“I don’t care!” Andi snapped, chewing angrily. “So what if youryoung master’sgot problems, debts, instalments—whatever. Doesn’t mean he gets to treat my bestie like that!” His voice climbed into a whine, sharp and grating.
Bestie. He meant Tshabina.
My foot jittered on the car floor, unable to stay still.
This bloody wanker.
Andi started to continue, but his words were cut short by the arrival of a silver McLaren, gliding through the gates. The guards scrambled to their feet, turned their backs to Andi, and bowed as the car passed.
My body went rigid.
I switched cameras, seeking a better angle—Post Two, aimed at the side lane towards the car park. My breath hitched as the car came into view. There he was. He had come early.
Then Andi’s voice came again, “Shit, McLaren 720s?! That’s my dream car! But… who’s that? Some new girl? Holy shit, but why does that old man have the guts to bring her here—”
“Shh, Mas!” Ridwan hissed. “Don’t talk like that! There’s CCTV over us, with sound recording too. You know that!” They glanced up—straight into the camera I watched from. They knew, and still, they kept doing this.
If Zaeem let them, if Dad didn’t care, then their chatter was nothing more than flies buzzing.
Ade added, lowering his voice. “That’s young Aden.”
Andi blinked. “Hah? Young Aden?”
Ridwan nodded, whispering. “Yes. The youngest. Mas Zeraiah, he’s here.”
Andi’s shock was written all over his face. “What?!”
Yes, Andi.
What indeed.
Why the hell had Zeraiah followed me here?
15
Zioh
Past
“Seriously, you look like a psycho every time you do that,” Zeraiah muttered beside me, sipping the Pepsi he’d fished from the cooler box.
This afternoon was stifling hot, and as usual, whenever the chance arose, our family, along with Sophie and Tsabinu, would end up playing golf. It was Mum’s favourite sport; more importantly, Dad always used it to build and strengthen his relationships.
But every time I went to play this sport, something always made me wish I’d stayed at home, mostly because, while playing, Dad would endlessly brag about Zaeem and me to anyone he played with. He would laugh and parade our names around as though we were paintings deliberately carried to an exhibition, displayed to be admired.
I didn’t know about Zaeem. But as for me, I wanted to stab their eyes with my pencil and throw my eraser into their big mouths to stop their grotesque laughter.
I never once conveyed the impression Dad tried so hard to project. I’d usually only join the game briefly to keep Sophie company, then slip away, sit down, and take out my pencil and sketchbook. I would draw until they were done.
Besides Mum’s persuasion, the only real reason I had agreed to come was that Sophie genuinely enjoyed it. We’d invited her and Tsabinu a few years ago, and she’d ended up so enthusiastic that she never wanted to miss it again. I had even decided to buy her a set of golf attire, and she looked absolutely radiant in it.
Sophie. She carried a kind of light with her. Even when it was cloudy, you wouldn’t notice the darkness that surrounded you when she was by your side.
I loved the way she smiled. She had the kind of smile that could eclipse everything else, her chubby cheeks lifting until her dimples shone, like the first ray of the rising sun.
