It took me six months to speak to his mother, who was instantly alarmed. The drama! You should have been there. His parents called a family meeting and interrogated us about our daily routine. Naturally they somehow found a way to blame his addiction on me by implying that it would never have happened if I was a more supportive person, if I could manage things better, if I paid more attention to him. They booked him into a rehab centre and continued to treat me like I was the guilty party in all the mess.
He came out clean a few months later but by then I’d checked out of the madness; I was tired of being in the wrong all the bloody time. Luckily my hair business was carrying on in spite of my messed-up private life. Plus, I’ve always been chic, even before I could afford Prada bags and LV heels. So your girl, in spite of her marital troubles, was always dressed as best as she could afford, running her fledgling hair business.
Everywhere I went, heads turned.
Anyway, I’ll tell you more about all that later. For now, I have to get ready for my meeting with my husband.
Ntokozo
We’ve decided to meet at a cute little pizza place we used to go to in Hurlingham once upon a time.
I usually have mixed feelings about meeting with Ntokozo. To me, he’s like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Don’t tell me you haven’t read Charles Dickens? Mxm! And you call me a bimbo?
Anyway, there’s this thing about him – he represents a part of my old life, when I was different. I don’t know how to explain it but it always makes me a little sad and nostalgic to meet with him because he’s still the same. Ntokozo has always been noble, kind, pure and ready to save the world. On the other hand – fuck!
The idiot just doesn’t want to grant me my friggin’ divorce.
When I get to the little pizzeria he’s already sitting down. While he has his faults, it must be said he looks more and more handsome with age.
As you know by now, I am looking spectacular myself.
I’m wearing a Khosi Nkosi form-fitting African print dress with a red Prada bag and vertiginous Christian Louboutin heels. I’m of average height and Ntokozo is quite tall and has an athletic build. I used to love how we looked together.
He stands up to greet me.
‘Ma Khathide, awusemuhle,’ he says.
I can’t help smiling.
In spite of our now twenty-four-month long separation, he still calls me ‘Ma Khathide’ (‘Mrs Khathide’ to you Neanderthals who can’t understand simple Zulu) and he always tells me I look good.
‘Hey, dear husband,’ I say teasingly as I kiss him on the cheek.
We meet every six months or so.
After exchanging pleasantries, we move onto gossip about old friends.
‘So … are you dating? Have you met someone interesting?’ I eventually ask.
He shakes his head and looks at me with those soulful brown eyes.
In spite of myself, my tummy does a little flip-flop. He really is a good-looking man.
‘Babe, I’ve brought the papers. Let’s just sign and get this thing out of the way,’ I tell him, whisking them out of my handbag.
I even wave them playfully so that he doesn’t feel like this is a major decision he’ll be making. I mean, we’ve been apart for two years so this is just about scribbling a few lines on the page to seal the deal.
He gives me that smile again.
‘Bontle, wait. Come on, babe … what’s the rush? Honestly?’ he says, spreading his hands.
‘But what are we waiting for, Ntokozo? We’ve been through this a thousand times. Don’t you want to go on with your life? Sometimes I feel like … like you’re trapping me. Why don’t you just let me go?’
He looks at me. Stung. I can literally see him flinch with pain, but I’ve tried everything to persuade him, I’ve been diplomatic all this time.
‘What are you in a rush for? Have you met someone? And don’t tell me about some pathetic old man, Bontle. That’s not you.’
Typical man. Who is he to tell me who I am?
‘It doesn’t matter! Don’t you get it? I just want to be free. I want to plan the next phase of my life. I can’t be married and unmarried. It’s one or the other, and quite frankly, unmarried is what I prefer at this point!’
He blinks, then shrugs in resignation.
‘Okay, Okay. Please … one last deal, though, and I promise it will go ahead. Let’s give each other a little time … if you meet someone special or if I meet someone special, then I promise, I’ll sign. I promise! If you tell me: “This is it, Ntokozo, I’ve met the one,” then I won’t stand in your way. You know I always have your best interests at heart. You know you can trust me. Please, Bontle. That’s all I ask of you.’
I sigh, exasperated.
‘Why? Why don’t you want to let me go? I just don’t get it.’
‘I think you know the answer to that,’ he says, looking so soulful, my heart almost melts.
‘Gosh. You’re like the Michelin Man. Don’t you ever quit?’
He laughs uncertainly.
After a pause, he gives me a serious look and says, ‘So … is that a yes?’
I shake my head. ‘Order me a glass of wine. You have six more months. After that, I’ll drug you, tie you to the bed and …’
‘And molest me?’ he says with a naughty grin.
‘And force you to sign the bloody papers … idiot!’ I add with a smile.
Both of us look at the menu though we already know it by heart.
Papa Jeff
By now you’ve decided I’m a whore anyway, so let me introduce you to Papa Jeff.
I’m so scared of talking about Papa Jeff because I’m kind of superstitious about him. He’s like my lucky charm. The guy who made all these things possible – my new life, my very first sip of the champagne lifestyle.
Papa Jeff is a bit of a legend in the business world. He owns various BEE companies that are invested in the mining, media and property sectors. He’s the guy you see on the front pages of the country’s financial pages. Papa Jeff is also pretty old. I mean, the first time I saw him, I thought he was at least a hundred, but I was twenty-one then so anyone with a few grey hairs seemed ancient, and also he always looked so much younger, fitter and more glamorous in his pictures in the business pages. I wasn’t familiar with photo editing then and this was before social media so there was nowhere else to find images of him.
I met Papa Jeff’s wife at Chimamanda’s salon. She was very elegant and outgoing, and I instantly gravitated towards her. After I’d formed something of a friendship with her, we started going out independently of the salon. She loved hair extensions and always wanted first dibs on any trendy new pieces I had in stock.
I first met Papa Jeff on a sunny Joburg afternoon; the kind of day that’s so bright it feels like the world is basking in an oasis of possibilities. I was in great spirits. My business was going well, my phone was constantly buzzing, and I’d started this new gym program that was toning muscles I didn’t even know I had. I was enjoying my friendship with Mrs Papa Jeff (I will leave her name out of this in case of possible lawsuits), who mentioned him in just about every conversation: ‘When Jeff and I went to the Maldives’, ‘It matches this bracelet Jeff bought me’, so I’d grown quite fascinated with this man I had heard and read so much about. I hoped I’d bump into him at the house one of these days. I didn’t know what exactly I wanted to speak to him about. I guess it was a vague sense of wanting to mingle with someone who was successful and larger than life. The most affluent people I had ever interacted with at close quarters so far had been Ntokozo’s parents, and they never bothered to make me feel like I could belong to their world.
I was driving a second-hand Toyota Yaris back then, and I remember pulling into Papa Jeff’s swanky estate in Hyde Park and feeling like some kind of kasi-version Cinderella. I was dressed in a sporty white tennis skirt, a tight-fitting top and Puma sneakers. I wanted to look young, fresh and fit. Pure and innocent for Mrs Papa Jeff, and sexy and sultry in ca
se I caught a glimpse of her husband.
The security guard at the gate asked me where I was going and I gave them Mrs Papa Jeff’s house number. They gave me the security-access code and opened the boom gates to the residential estate. I had never been to a place like that before. I wanted to pinch myself.
When I reached the house, I buzzed the doorbell. The door was promptly opened by a man in a black suit, white shirt and black bow-tie.
‘Good afternoon, Miss. Mrs X (I told you, I will never reveal his wife’s identity. She scares the living daylights out of me!) is expecting you.’
They had a butler?
Yho. Who the hell has a butler?
Like, who were they expecting? King Mswati?
The gentleman spoke with some kind of Malawian or Zimbabwean accent. He ushered me to the visitors’ lounge, where I waited patiently, feeling like I was waiting for royalty. The lounge was a cavernous room with two long chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, gilded upholstered lounge chairs and a chaise-longue that would have looked at home in any upmarket hotel.
Mrs Papa Jeff descended the winding staircase looking relaxed in jeans, casual sneakers and absolutely zero make-up. I was a bit taken aback. I thought people who lived in such houses always looked glamorous and dressed up; which was a bit dumb of me, I guess. Who wants to eat breakfast in a ballgown?
For an older lady, Mrs Papa Jeff was actually very attractive. She had a fantastic figure and must have done something to her face because she looked years younger than her husband – even the Photoshopped version of him, which was all I’d seen so far.
She asked me if I’d like some tea, and ordered Jeffrey, the Zim–Malawian butler, to get Earl Grey for me and Chai for her. I didn’t know what either of these things were but I was much too intimidated to ask.
I was so mesmerised by the entire performance I had almost forgotten that I was there to sell hair. It seemed like such a dubious commodity to bring to this grand home. I wished I could at least have presented it in better packaging. I had it in cheap, black, no name plastic bags, which I emptied onto the table. She picked at the four hair samples and settled on the straight Brazilian twenty-one-inch bundle. I charged her a fortune for it because it was a lengthier hairpiece than usual. She went up the stairs and returned with the full amount. I was so happy I almost hugged her. We chatted freely, with me feeding her some gossip from the salon and her giggling like a schoolgirl; I could tell she really enjoyed my company. I would tell her the most outrageous things – I even shared some titbits about my love life with Ntokozo with her. All good fun, of course, but I wanted her to be at ease with me and not view me as a threat.
I lingered for a while, hoping that her husband would find us there, giggling like old friends. After about an hour of chatting, I realised she was ready to release me. I was very disappointed but I made a mental note to see if I could find out her husband’s working hours so that his arrival home would coincide with my next visit.
As the butler led me out of the door, I straightened my short skirt and strode to my car, only to see a white Range Rover drive up to the garage.
It was him! Jeff! The real Papa Jeff!
I walked, no, glided, slowly towards my car, hoping that he would make time to get out and greet me.
My skirt was short enough to give full exposure to my yellow, toned legs, and my bum stuck out to amplify my earthy, genuine, African assets.
He’d have had to be blind not to notice – or at least I hoped so.
Lucky for me, Papa Jeff proved to be a full-blooded black man.
He almost jumped out of his car as he came to greet me.
That’s when I registered all his grey hair, the beer belly, and the wrinkled forehead.
But why, Photoshop?
‘Hello, hello, hello, young lady,’ he said.
I smiled coyly at him, flicking my weave. He might not have been handsome but he was still one of the richest black men in South Africa.
‘Hello,’ I responded, casting my eyes down like the virgin I wasn’t.
‘It’s not often we have such beautiful company visiting our home. Are you a friend of X?’
‘Yes, Sir. I sell hair extensions and your wife is one of my clients.’
‘Did she buy any today?’ he asked.
‘Yes … yes, she did. She will look stunning, that I can promise,’ I said, offering him a wide smile.
Papa Jeff looked at me contemplatively. He skipped a beat then said: ‘I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give me your number and then I can meet with you so we can surprise her with another one of those … what did you call them?’
‘Hair extensions, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. And you can call me Jeff.’
So I gave him my number. A few weeks later, Papa Jeff and I were a firm item.
The Golden Life with Papa Jeff
Let me share a secret with you. Most young women think that dating an older man, especially one who’s not in the best shape, is a nightmare, but the opposite can be true. Older men, given half a chance, can turn out to be some of the best lovers you will ever have in your life.
I’m not really a crazy sex maniac, money has always been my turn-on, but I do see the value of some fun times in the bedroom every now and then.
My relationship with Papa Jeff was, and still is, what I would describe as romantic … in the Hollywood sense of the word.
You see, Papa Jeff may be older but he is a very worldly man. He was briefly involved in the liberation struggle. He went into exile and all that, but I still do not know the extent of his activism, save to say that he ended up in the United States where he studied at Harvard University. Even I know that Harvard is a pretty big deal, so please respect The Papa Jeff!
On our first date, Papa Jeff reserved a table at the upscale Saxon Hotel and ordered us a seven-course meal, which we washed down with champagne. He had a violinist come over to our table and serenade us with classical tunes. Our second date was in Cape Town at the Mount Nelson Hotel, and our third date was a weekend getaway in Zimbali in KwaZulu–Natal.
I was taking so much time out from my marriage that I worried Ntokozo would start asking questions about all the girls’ getaways I was having with my ‘clients’. It was a bit of a stressful time for me. My affair with Papa Jeff started while my husband was in rehab. I’d not see Ntokozo all the time, but I’d still see him, and even though he hadn’t stood up for me to his parents, I felt bad about lying to him.
To be honest, Papa Jeff had felt like a breath of fresh air after the stress of Ntokozo’s absences, his exhaustion, and all the family dramas that had come with his addiction. I even managed to convince myself I was half in love with Papa Jeff.
Within three months of our relationship beginning, he had bought me an entry-level BMW. When Ntokozo started asking me questions about it, I told him it belonged to my mom.
I realised that this was the perfect set-up because a while later I told him that my mom had agreed to exchange the BMW for my Toyota Yaris because she thought the German car was too flashy for her. At first Ntokozo was sceptical, but given my mom’s history with alcohol, he finally agreed that it was probably for the best that I drive the flashy new car because she would dent it to oblivion. He still didn’t understand how my mom could afford such a car but I scolded him and asked whether he thought it was only his parents who could afford nice things.
I gave Papa Jeff all the carnal pleasures I could imagine; it was easy enough with Ntokozo at work all the time. And when he got home, he didn’t have enough energy to perform his conjugal duties. I stretched and flexed myself into positions and places that Papa Jeff had never been before. Each session in bed led to wilder and more extravagant gifts. In a word, he was whipped.
When he decided that my apartment in Hurlingham did not measure up to his standards, he told me he had put down the deposit for a bigger penthouse on Grayston Drive in Sandton, closer to his office.
While I was of course thrilled – me with a place in
Sandton, a penthouse – I knew this would be really hard to explain to Ntokozo. He was trusting but he wasn’t dumb. What was the source of my sudden financial windfall?
Papa Jeff had it all covered. He bought a containerful of hair extensions from China for me by depositing money in my name that was presented in my accounts as proceeds from hair sales. With that money, we ‘bought’ the large shipment of hair and I made ‘a sizeable profit’ from the sales. The proceeds of this profitable venture were then transferred into my personal account.
It was this money that allowed me to put down a deposit for larger business storage space and it was this money with which I convinced Ntokozo that we could afford the new place on Grayston.
For a while, the whole scheme worked perfectly.
Ntokozo was proud of his over-achieving wife; bragging to his parents about the type of revenue we were making from the hair business and speaking glowingly about my business acumen.
Papa Jeff was happy because he could sneak into my apartment at lunchtime for a walk on the wild side. And the rest of the time, I had this amazing penthouse to myself!
In other words, life was good.
Back to the Present Tense
Teddy’s in town this weekend and I’m in a bit of a conundrum.
Remember the R2 million that was deposited in my company account?
R1.5 million was supposed to go to Teddy and his politicians, but I decided that I was going to make an offer to the owners of my apartment to buy the property. Let’s face it: renting is for losers.
I cannot imagine living anywhere else but in Sandton. Many areas in Johannesburg are falling in value so this is my one opportunity to secure a fixed investment.
The Blessed Girl Page 4