by Niq Mhlongo
The woman spat at him but missed. The slimy blob landed on the road. She had flat breasts, wide lips and round, strong thighs. She also had slim ankles, and her black cheeks shone in the light of the streetlight. She put her foot on his neck and expressed her rage with a series of deep and hoarse growls.
“Where are my son’s shoes that you stole a month ago?” asked another.
“I sold them at the jumble sale in Kliptown.”
“You did what?” She slapped her own thighs as if bracing herself for a fight. “Do you know how much I spent to buy those shoes?”
A woman who had initially felt pity for Druza and stopped the crowd from hitting him now pushed him roughly. It seemed as if her patience was exhausted as she moved towards him, fist cocked. A blow landed hard against the nape of his neck. Standing, she was a head taller than everybody, her legs seemingly elongated. The woman was firmly holding his hand and clutching her shoe in the other hand. My heart beat fast as she continued hitting him hard on his crotch with the shoe. His eyes fell on me, in a sort of appeal. His lips were swollen out of all recognition and were embroidered with spittle. Now and then a scream of pain rose sharply, followed by the crack of a stick on his flesh. He opened his eyes for an instant and then closed them again. He covered his face with his hands to rub off the pain inflicted on his face.
“Let’s chop his hand and penis off,” threatened one of the women.
“Enough,” a voice said grimly. “You will end up killing him.”
I caught Mokgadi as she looked at me scornfully. I avoided her eyes, for I had seen a disgusted expression on her face. All my early memories of us as lovers vanished as a salty taste filled my mouth. Druza’s eyes were closed and he was breathing with a grunting noise. Mokgadi tore open his shirt to allow him to breathe. She massaged his chest with one hand while the other tried to keep the growing crowd at bay. Druza looked like he had fainted when she tried to fan him. He had a swollen jaw and cuts on his ears. His fingers were swollen to twice their size. At last he was able to let out a great cry of terror, before falling silent. By the slow up-and-down movement of his hand, I was convinced that he was still alive. As I stood watching, the crowd withdrew and happily dispersed.
PRIVATE DANCER SAUDADE
I have for some time thought about writing to you. In moments of great loneliness and when struck with remorse, like now, I do think of you. You might not remember me. It’s Khabo. I’m your private dancer, your wife. Do you remember now? How we first met on Instagram? You had been following my posts for a while. Then I followed you back. You said your name was Andriano, the son of a billionaire businessman in Portugal. Do you recall how it all started with that flirting message you wrote me?
My eyes are blessed to see your radiant beauty every day.
Your words tickled my pride. I was not surprised that you said it. I’ve seen rich South African men in luxurious cars and young guys in shopping malls all turn into voyeurs when I saunter past. I evoke amorous advances from old men in hotel pools and pubs. As I recall, you were especially mesmerised by the blue blouse that I was wearing in my Instagram profile picture. Well, some jealous friends of mine in Soweto felt it was a bit too tight and showed too much of my breasts. But when you said you liked it, I was overjoyed. Later, when you proposed we meet when you came to Johannesburg, I couldn’t believe my luck. Do you want to know a secret? Even before you suggested this, I was dreaming of going to Portugal to meet you. I even applied for a passport, although I knew I couldn’t afford the trip. With great anticipation, I started counting down the three months until your arrival.
You arrived in South Africa on Wednesday, 10 August, the day after Women’s Day. I was your first contact. You asked me if I could show you around Joburg. That night we drank and dined at Gemelli in Bryanston. You spoke English with a romantic foreign accent. Maybe that’s what attracted me. There was something in your eyes that moved me. Your long white face, with its receding brow emerging from the slicked-down black hair at your temples, charmed me.
“Your voice is musical like a waterfall,” you said to me. “Let’s go back to the hotel and talk some more.”
I smiled with embarrassment at the compliment. I was fascinated by the way your cheeks ballooned when you laughed, like a child blowing a fire into a blaze; I stared at you for a while. I was convinced that you were the one for me and that you were speaking sincerely. I let my eyes move over your magnificent face and chest.
We came back from the restaurant at one in the morning. I was driving your rented Porsche Panamera while you sat watching me with a smile on your face. Your curled lips under the twirled moustache, and your fat cheeks propped on your high collar, freshly shaven. A deliciously warm feeling spread over me. You even took a few pictures of me driving. I was happy that I could – even just for a while – indulge my dream of becoming a rich woman.
We stopped in Sandton City, at The Michelangelo, where you were staying on the thirtieth floor. It was the first time I entered that posh hotel, and probably the last time I ever will.
At reception you told the concierge that I was your wife. You kissed me and stroked my Brazilian hair extensions from the temples, gently, tenderly, as if we were already in love. I remember you smiled over your shoulder as you led me to the lift. Suddenly, with a rush of blood to the head I held your hand and allowed you to kiss mine. I was nervous and happy at the same time. Inside the lift you gave me a passionless kiss on my lips, as if we were just brother and sister. But it still ignited something in me.
You had the luxurious twin rooms with en suite bathroom, the most elaborately equipped I had ever seen. I also remember a hair dryer and a plasma screen with a DStv bouquet. The electronic safe was just by the door, and I saw a big stash of money inside when you tipped the person who brought us two bottles of Moët & Chandon.
In your room, we talked about a lot of things. It felt like you were baring your soul to me. You even told me how you separated from your wife some two years ago. You said she wanted a trial separation, which ended up stretching to a permanent one. As you said this, your hands went over me slowly with a caress of infinite tenderness. I felt a slight dizziness. There was this deadlock of passion between us.
“I’m suffering from vagabond neurosis because I love travelling,” you said. “Maybe we can travel the world together in the future. What do you think?”
To you, life seemed to be the most exciting adventure. It made me feel like walking out of my boredom.
“I’m just a private dancer. But I would also love to travel the world.”
“A private dancer?” You sounded surprised. “You mean, as in selling your body?”
“Hell no, I’m no prostitute. I’m a dancer, an entertainer. I’m an ambitious socialite. That’s different from being a prostitute.”
I didn’t want to disappoint you or miss the opportunity of being with you. Your confusion was understandable. When we chatted on Instagram I had merely said that I was a dancer and left out the “private” part. Too much revealing talk could make one forfeit blessings that would never come your way again.
“How different is it?”
“Soon I will have to dance for you to show you the difference.”
With those words, I could tell that all the unfavourable thoughts running through your head immediately dispersed. They dissolved like piles of rubbish on a wasteland swept by a flood. My future looked brighter.
“I would like that very much.”
“You know, prostitutes exist for men’s pleasure,” I said to you. “They’re to be used sexually whenever a man has money and when he wishes. I’m a private dancer. Yes, I do dance for money, of course. But that’s different from being a prostitute, because I don’t sleep with men for money.”
“I understand.” You didn’t sound convinced. “I’m sorry if I offended you with my silly question.”
“I don’t feel offended at all. It was never my wish to become a private dancer. But my parents died when I was still you
ng, you see. I have a son and siblings who look to me for support.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I dropped out of Wits University because I didn’t receive financial aid this academic year. I could not find affordable accommodation. I was living and sleeping wherever I could in the libraries and computer labs. I washed in the campus toilets and was always anxious about where the next meal was coming from. That’s the reason I became a private dancer. My grandmother helps to look after my son, but she is very old and I have to support her as well.”
“Thanks for sharing all of that with me. But don’t worry. Things will be all right. God makes the sun to shine for all human beings, from the greatest to the most humble. He knows neither rich nor poor, neither black nor white.”
There and then, we planned a trip to Bali, Indonesia. You said it would be a paradise. I had proudly carried my passport in my handbag since I received it from Home Affairs. It felt like a ticket to a different life, even though I could not afford one at that stage. When I took it out to show you, you were delighted. We started booking our trip that night in your room. That was the first time I experienced real joy.
“I never imagined I would meet someone like you,” I confessed.
“Every person in the world is waiting to be met, to be talked to, to be found, to be made a husband, friend, or wife,” you said to me. “I’m also glad I met you.”
Those were kind and beautiful words. You were not judgmental about me. It was as if you knew there was a beautiful soul imprisoned inside me, hammering and bursting to get out. You set that soul free. I could imagine the Bali island dream you sold me as I felt the warmth of my back against your chest and stomach. You unclothed me and turned me towards you. I allowed you to suck my breasts. Warmth and peace came over me. It was my first time sleeping on hypoallergenic duvets and pillows.
Rain fell overnight, and in the morning, from the window of your hotel room, everything looked fresh and new. I approached the mirror in the bathroom with a self-congratulatory smile. Breathless and trembling with emotion, I held my breasts. The dark areolas around the erect nipples accentuated their fairness. I laughed and pulled on my blouse, tucking them away. Why did you choose me? I kept asking myself. I mean, there were many pretty girls who would have been more than willing to fall for your charms.
That morning, you took me to Franco International. You paid with your credit card for my asymmetric haircut. You took me to Verte to do my skin and nails. Afterwards you let me roam boutiques and gave me your credit card to use as I pleased, saying that you needed to attend to some business. When we went back to the hotel, I could not even push through the revolving doors into the lobby because my hands were so full of the clothes I had bought with your card. Later that night we dined at Parc Fermé.
You left me on our fourth day together. We had been out shopping the whole morning. I had helped you pick out expensive suits that fit you so well. You had bought state-of-the-art cellphones and tablets, explaining that they were presents for business clients you had to see. Back at the hotel that afternoon, you received a business call. You promised you were coming back within two hours at most. At least, that’s what you said to me. You suddenly appeared hyper-alert and wary. Your Adam’s apple was unusually sharp-edged. It was like a blade threatening to rip through your throat. I should have analysed the cynical, lopsided grin that hovered on your lips. But sometimes we are blind to the thorns on the path we walk.
You opened the safe and took out a few banknotes. You told me that you didn’t want to walk around with lots of cash on you and that you had reached the daily limit on your credit card. I gave you my debit card with about twenty thousand on it. That was the last money between me and poverty. I had just got paid from my private dancing gigs. I knew you were going to pay me back with the money in the safe. I saw it was still there when you closed the safe. You also left your credit card on the nightstand.
“When I come back we are going to explore Johannesburg some more,” you said, casting a swift smiling glance at me. “Make sure the cleaning people don’t touch the safe because there’s lots of money inside.”
“I will. Do what you have to do, baby.”
“By the way, the guy who just called is also the one who is helping with the planning of our Bali trip. I’m going to give him our passports to do the applications.”
The prospect sounded exciting and wonderful. But somehow, when you opened the door and left, I felt as if my hold on you had slipped.
The waning Johannesburg sunshine pooled through the window. I went to the table and looked disapprovingly at yesterday’s unfinished glass of red wine. I stood by the window, and let my eyes drift across the street. Down below were construction cordons where Rivonia Road was undergoing repair. People passed on their way to and from the nearest taxi rank and the Gautrain station. The traffic buzzed on the M1 freeway as commuters returned home from work. From the direction of the freeway and Alexandra township, dusk was encroaching. Suddenly I felt alone and abandoned.
In the shower, I soaped my body slowly and carefully. After a long while I came out and lay on the bed, undressed. The barely perceptible hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the room.
I went to the bathroom again, turned to the mirror and examined my face. At twenty-six, I was young and pretty, with perfect teeth and big eyes. I looked at my stomach and thighs, toned from dancing, that lustful hands have often grabbed at.
I spent the next two hours in blissful idleness, sleeping, daydreaming and walking about the room. But when the fourth hour of your absence approached, my consciousness also seemed to split. I felt like a seduced and jilted lover. It was already eight o’clock. What if you were not coming back? I asked myself. Maybe you are the type of man who is meant to be loved but who in turn cannot love. I should have learnt from my ex-boyfriend that guys don’t dump you, they simply ignore you until you give up. I concluded that this was exactly what you were doing to me. You were deliberately pushing me away from you by not calling me and updating me about your meeting. But why, I tried to think. I checked my phone again and again.
The laughter from the TV seemed the only thing that could disperse my gloom. I tried to drink some wine, but my dry throat and aching stomach rejected it. I sat on the bed, crossed my legs, drew my knees up to my chest and let myself roll over onto my left side and then onto my right. I took to social media and posted pictures of myself in the hotel and driving the Panamera. That’s when I realised that ambition is a wonderful force, but sometimes it can be blinding. At about twenty to nine you called me.
“Baby, it’s your husband Andriano here. Something came up, I’m not coming tonight.”
“What? I’ve been waiting for about five hours,” I said. “You should be here with me, sitting alongside me.”
“I know. You can use some of the money in the safe to buy yourself a bottle of wine to cheer you up.”
“It’s too late to buy wine inside the mall.”
“Oh, well, just order from the hotel then.”
“Where are you, baby?”
“I’m still busy with some business. The client has organised accommodation for me here. The good news is that I will get our visas for Bali tomorrow. We are going next week Sunday.”
“Wow, so fast. Are you serious? Thank you, my love!”
“I told you I have connections. In the meantime, you can take two grand from the safe and have a party with your friends. The password for the safe is 2051. I will see you tomorrow morning.”
As I thought about my luck, I kept breaking into cries of delight. I called my friend Swazi, in Soweto, from the landline. She immediately took an Uber taxi to come and join me. My other friends Makhosi and Nelisa, from Alex, took less than twenty minutes to arrive. Within an hour there was a party of four in the hotel room. We ordered wine and jumped on the bed, falling down and giggling like schoolgirls. I was unable to hide my hopes and pleasures from them. I showed them my expensive new clothes. They ha
d me model some of the outfits for them to the beat of the music from the TV while they lay on the bed and clapped and cheered. But after a few glasses of Fat Bastard Sauvignon Blanc, I longed for you. I don’t remember having had such an intense feeling for a man ever before.
“Look at you, girl,” Swazi said loudly. “Just three days with this man and your face is already glowing.”
“It’s actually four days, but Andriano and I are going to Bali next week,” I told them cheerfully.
“Just make sure you use this opportunity, girl,” said Nelisa, who was jealous. “I guess you know that there’s a return to the ruins of Soweto if you don’t play your cards right. Only in the womb there is no return.”
My friends left around midnight. I didn’t want them to disturb us in case you came back early in the morning. But I was still awake four hours past midnight. I can’t stand to be alone, especially when I’ve had a glass or two of wine. I wanted you next to me. My hand found my belly and massaged it. It moved downward until my fingers touched my pubic hair. I missed you.
The hungry longing for a man’s caress surged up inside me. I remembered how I had unzipped your trousers with my long fingers and dug out your stiff penis the previous morning.
“Oh, Andriano, my husband,” I said with a mischievous smile in the dark, and touched myself.
I fell asleep sometime after that and had a sweet dream in which I was sailing through many small islands around Bali. Those few days with you, I was living more than a dream. I lived in hope and faith. But then the doubt set in and I couldn’t shake it.
Early in the morning, before breakfast, I went to the window and opened the blinds in an agony of waiting. Every time I heard a man’s voice in the corridor, I straightened up quickly. For a second, I felt as if a clot of blood was stuck in my throat. I sat on the bed again, pretending its warmth could calm me. I closed my eyes and tried to empty myself completely of doubt.
A shaft of sunlight came to rest at an angle next to the window. It slowly spread over the top of the window opposite the table. The heat of the morning sun often had a particular effect on me. It made me feel like I was exuding oil instead of sweat. I rolled around restlessly from one side of the bed to the other. I went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. My eyes were big, the pupils a dark molten core floating on white. I crawled back into bed and the sleepless night finally caught up with me. I slept until midday. When I woke, you were still not there. I picked up the cellphone next to the bedpost and tapped your number. Your phone was off.