After a few wrong turns, wrong directions and belly aching hunger I have finally arrived. The houses in the high density suburb all look the same. Here and there a nice green lawn and a bunch of flowers break the monotony.
I glanced at the little scrap of paper in my hand to make sure I had the right address this time. Checking to make sure there were no dogs in the yard I unlatched the gate and stepped inside. A concrete path led to a bright green door. The sun is going down in a blaze of colours as I put my hand to the door and knock.
A young twentyish woman opens the door. Her smile drops as she takes in my travelling bag and bedraggled appearance. Her eyes travel over my dusty shoes, wrinkled dress to my tired face. Something about her haughty expression rubs me the wrong way.
“How can I help you?” she asks me.
I notice her hand glide over her rounded belly. Her other hand holds the door handle in a death grip.
“I am here to see Morris Moyo,” I reply carefully. “Is this where he stays?”
Her expression hardens but before she can answer a voice calls from somewhere inside.
“Onicca sweetie, who is that at the door?”
My eyes widen in shock as my numbed mind finally puts two and two together. My anger is like a slow burning pot. It simmers and overflows the pot.
Shoving the now mute Onicca aside I stride into the house. As I march through the house I notice the beautiful and obviously expensive furniture. For months Morris Jnr and I have scrapped by barely surviving day to day.
A small sound to the right leads me into the kitchen. An almost naked Morris is in front of a white stove flipping some juicy steaks in a pan. In spite of my towering anger my stomach growls at the savoury scent.
“Sweetie?” Morris says flipping the last steak.
“Morris!” The lid to my anger has just hit the roof.
His underwear clad body swivels around. His jaw drops to the ground and the skillet falls to the ground with a resounding crash.