There has always been something rehearsed about the way Ndivhuwo Netshidzivhani moved through Johannesburg. She arrived at work before everyone else - coffee in one hand and a laptop balanced under the other arm. By nine o'clock she was already solving problems nobody else had noticed yet. The kind of woman whose inbox was always empty. Her presentations somehow made impossible budgets feel reasonable, her wardrobe looked like every item was years of careful buying compared to every 25 year old’s impulse buying.
Her personality was easily mistaken for discipline. Colleagues assumed to enjoy her order. What they didn't realise was that paying attention had once kept her alive.
Wednesday was client dinner evenings. Her usual spots varied from Marble to Zioux. She preferred Parkhurst. Their restaurants spilled onto pavements and conversations floated between tables. She listened far more than she spoke. People’s secrets started floating after a second bottle of wine.
Who they owed money to.
Who they had betrayed.
Who they still feared.
Ndivhuwo rarely asked questions. She simply remembered.
When dessert menus arrived she apologised politely, blaming it on another early meeting as she disappeared before coffee was poured.
The next morning...
Johannesburg woke to another headline.
A respected businessman had been found dead in an underground parking garage less than an hour after dinner.
News channels called it another targeted killing. The restaurant continued serving breakfast as though nothing had happened.
So did Ndivhuwo.
She arrived at the office at 07:45. Nobody noticed the tiny burn mark on her wrist.
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Loved this, it’s intriguing, can’t wait for what’s next.
Enjoyed this piece