Lives Between Walls

Nandi first learnt that Thabo had written a book on a Wednesday afternoon, while they were waiting for the printer to finish choking on a stack of invoices.

They had worked together for nearly a year.

But she did not know that he wrote.

“You write?” she asked.

Thabo looked up from the printer.

“Sometimes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I write.”

“No, it means you’re trying to sound mysterious.”

He smiled.

The tired printer coughed out another page.

“I have a blog,” he said. “And one book.”

“You published a book?”

“Yes.”

“And you never told anyone?”

“Some people know.”

“Who?”

“My mother.”

Nandi laughed.

“Of course she knows.”

“She bought four copies.”

“That doesn’t count.”

She leaned against the filing cabinet, studying him.

“What kind of book?”

“Fiction.”

“What genre?”

“It has romance in it.”

“Ah.”

The sound escaped before she could stop it.

Thabo raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said ‘ah’ as if I confessed to writing erotica.”

“I’m just surprised.”

“Why?”

She looked him over.

He wore a pale blue shirt with the sleeves folded to his elbows. His tie had been loosened after lunch. There was nothing particularly romantic about him at that moment.

“I don’t know,” she said. “You don’t look like someone who writes romance.”

“What does someone who writes romance look like?”

“Less… nerdy I guess.”

He laughed.

“So what genre do I look like I’d write about?”

Nandi glances at him up and down, looking at his uncoordinated jersey and pants.

“Horror would be more fitting,” she replied as she burst out giggling.

The printer coughed a laugh till it choked on a sheet of paper.

“Whatever,” Thabo rolled his eyes as he opened the side panel and pulled out a crumpled sheet.

“I’ll bring you a copy tomorrow,” he said.

“You have copies?”

“At home.”

“I’ll pay.”

“You can have it.”

“No. I’ll pay.”

“You don’t even know whether it’s good.”

“I’ll decide after I read it.”

He looked at her for a moment.

“All right.”

The following morning, the book was waiting on her desk.

It had a dark cover and a title that sounded like a promise made too late.

Inside, on the first page, he had written:

For Nandi. I hope you find something worth staying for.

She read the line twice.

Then she closed the book.

Thabo was at his desk across the office, speaking on the phone. He did not look at her.

She slipped the book into her handbag.

That evening, Kabelo her boyfriend found her sitting on the bed with it open across her knees.

He had come from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, water still shining along his shoulders.

“What are you reading?”

Nandi lifted the cover.

“A book.”

“I can see that.”

“Someone at work wrote it.”

Kabelo stopped drying his hair.

“Someone?”

“A colleague.”

“A man?”

She looked at him.

“Yes, Kabelo. A man.”

He held out his hand.

“Let me see.”

She hesitated, then gave him the book.

He turned it over and read the description on the back.

His mouth tightened.

“This is a romance novel.”

“So?”

“So why is another man giving you a romance novel?”

“He wrote it.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“He gave me a copy because I asked for it.”

Kabelo opened the first page.

“You used our conversation.”

He read the inscription.

Nandi watched his face change.

“What does this mean?”

“It means he hopes I enjoy the book.”

“No. It says he hopes you find something worth staying for.”

“It’s probably something from the story.”

“Probably?”

“I haven’t read it yet.”

Kabelo closed the book.

“You’re not reading this.”

She stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“It’s a book.”

“It’s another man putting romantic ideas in your head.”

“You think I’ve never read a romance novel before?”

“That is different.”

“How?”

“You don’t work with those authors.”

Nandi got off the bed.

“Kabelo, you’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being naïve.”

“He gave me a book.”

“A book about love.”

“So?”

“So men don’t just give women books about love for no reason.”

“He is a writer. Writers give people books.”

“He wrote something inside it.”

“He signed it.”

“He wrote something personal.”

“You don’t know whether it is personal.”

“And neither do you.”

The room became quiet.

Kabelo placed the book on the bed between them.

“I don’t want you reading it.”

Nandi looked at him.

At first she wanted to laugh. Then she wanted to argue. Then something inside her became tired.

She had learnt that not every disagreement deserved the full strength of her voice.

“Fine,” she said.

Kabelo’s face softened.

“Thank you.”

She picked up the book and opened the cupboard.

There was a space beneath a pile of winter blankets. She slid it there and closed the door.

Kabelo kissed her forehead.

“I’m not trying to control you.”

“I know.”

“I just know how men think.”

“I know.”

He seemed satisfied with that.

Later, while he slept, Nandi stared at the cupboard, which seemed to sag with the weight of its contents.

Perhaps Kabelo was right, she thought. It might be a conflict of interest reading it.

The book remained behind the door.

For the next two weeks, Thabo did not ask about it.

That made things easier.

He spoke to her as usual. He asked whether she had sent the client schedule. He complained about the office air-conditioning. He offered her half of his muffin one morning because he said it was too sweet.

The office however was not easily appeased. The walls would whisper into her ears when the office was quiet. Even ceiling seemed to press down lower with each passing day, as though even the building kept nudging her curiosity towards the book.

Yet the book stayed in the cupboard.

Sometimes, while getting dressed, Nandi saw the edge of its cover beneath the blankets.

She left it there.

Then, on a Friday night, Kabelo came home after midnight.

He had not answered her calls.

When he entered the bedroom, he smelled of alcohol.

Nandi was sitting upright against the headboard.

“Where were you?”

“With the guys.”

“Which guys?”

“You don’t know them.”

“I called you.”

“My phone was on silent.”

“For five hours?”

Kabelo removed his shoes.

“I don’t want to do this now.”

“Do what?”

“Fight.”

“You come home after midnight smelling like alcohol, and you don’t want to fight?”

He looked at his shirt.

“Nothing happened.”

“How do I know?”

“Because I’m telling you.”

She laughed once.

It was not a pleasant sound.

Kabelo began unbuttoning his shirt.

“You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn everything into a crisis.”

“I asked where you were.”

“And I answered.”

“No. You dismissed me.”

“I’m tired, Nandi.”

“And I am tired of being made to feel unreasonable whenever I ask you a question.”

He looked at her.

“Here we go.”

Something in the way he said it broke her.

Not loudly.

It was a small break, almost tidy.

She got off the bed and walked past him.

“Where are you going?”

“To sleep in the other room.”

Kabelo sighed.

“Alright, I’m sorry Nandi. Happy now?”

Nandi stopped at the door.

She wanted to say something cruel. Something that would land and remain there.

Instead, she left.

The spare room was colder than the bedroom. It had become a place for boxes, ironing, and everything they did not know where to put.

She sat on the edge of the narrow bed.

For a long time, she listened to Kabelo moving around in the next room.

A cupboard opened.

Water ran.

Then silence.

Nandi wiped her face.

She had not realised she was crying.

The book came to her mind without warning.

She returned to the bedroom after Kabelo had fallen asleep.

She opened the cupboard quietly and reached beneath the blankets.

The book was exactly where she had left it.

She carried it back to the spare room.

The room seemed to warm with heat of something forbidden.

At first, she only meant to read a few pages.

Just enough to know what jad made Kabelo uncomfortable.

The house let out a soft creak, as the walls leaned in around her, hungry to catch a glimpse of every word.

The story began with a woman standing at a train station, holding a suitcase she had packed three times.

A man arrived too late to stop her.

Instead of asking her to stay, he bought a ticket and sat beside her.

Nandi read on.

The room disappeared.

The book was not perfect. Some sentences were too careful. Some scenes felt written by a man who had spent more time imagining women than understanding them.

But there were moments that made her chest ache with longing.

Nandi read until the sky outside the window began to pale.

Then she closed the book and held it against her chest.

She felt foolish immediately.

It was fiction.

Only fiction.

But something had moved inside her.

Not toward Thabo.

Not yet.

She thought of Kabelo asleep in the next room.

Then she thought of the inscription.

I hope you find something worth staying for.

She placed the book beside her and lay down.

She did not sleep.

On Monday, she arrived at work before everyone else.

When Thabo entered, she was already at her desk.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

He stopped.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

He nodded and continued to his desk.

Nandi spent the rest of the morning avoiding him.

She went to the bathroom when he walked toward the printer. She waited until he left the kitchenette before making tea. During the team meeting, she kept her eyes on her notebook whenever he spoke.

By Wednesday, the building had noticed.

It cornered them in the kitchenette just before lunch.

Not aggressively.

He simply stood in the doorway while she stirred coffee she had forgotten to add sugar to.

“Have I done something?”

“No.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not.”

“You left the printer when I arrived yesterday.”

“I had somewhere to be.”

“The stationery cupboard?”

She looked at him.

He smiled slightly.

Nandi put down the spoon.

“I’ve just been busy.”

“All right.”

He did not move.

She sighed.

“What?”

“Did you read the book?”

Her face warmed immediately.

Thabo saw it.

“Oh,” he said.

“What?”

“You did.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She looked away.

“It was good.”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds like bad news.”

“No, it was very good.”

He waited.

Nandi stared into her coffee.

“I didn’t expect it to be like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

“I honestly don’t.”

She looked at him.

There was amusement in his face now, but also caution.

“It was romantic,” she said.

“I did mention that.”

“No. I mean—it was…”

She stopped.

“Too much?”

“No.”

“Did something make you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“Because you wrote it.”

“That is usually how books work.”

She laughed despite herself.

Thabo leaned against the counter.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nandi.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

“It made me feel things.”

The smile left his face.

Not entirely.

It became quieter.

“What things?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Fair.”

“And now I know those things came out of your head.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You understand what I mean.”

“I think so.”

She looked at him then.

The kitchenette seemed much smaller than it had before.

Thabo lowered his voice.

“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.”

“I gave you the book because you said you liked reading.”

“I know.”

“And the inscription—”

“I know.”

“It’s a line from the book.”

“I know.”

They stood there for a moment.

Nandi could hear the refrigerator humming behind them.

“I just need time,” she said.

“For what?”

“To put you back where you were.”

Thabo’s eyes held hers.

“And where was I?”

“At the desk across from mine.”

He laughed softly.

“Okay.”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“No.”

She picked up her coffee.

As she passed him, he moved aside.

“Nandi.”

She stopped.

“Thank you for reading it.”

She nodded without turning around.

After that, they behaved normally.

Or attempted to.