This thing with Ntokozo not wanting to grant me my divorce is also complicating my life plans because we are married in community of property, so buying the penthouse means that I will have to share it with him.
I decided to take the risk anyway because Ntokozo thinks that the property was purchased by Papa Jeff back when my husband and I were still ‘together’, so I hope he won’t fish around for information about its title deed once our divorce finally goes through. In other words, he’s under the impression that the title deed is held in Papa Jeff’s name.
So basically what I’m trying to say is that I put down an offer for the penthouse; and because my income is not stable and predictable, I had to deposit R800,000 from the R2 million stage payment to secure the bank loan on the property.
Damnit!
Now I have to explain to the Teddy Bear that he will get R1.2 million instead of R1.5, but I figure, what is R300,000 between a man and his woman?
Besides, he took so long to come and collect the money it must mean he has plenty more from other sources. You get my logic?
The hustle is real, baby.
I sit down with the Teddy Bear and compliment him on his suit. You’ll be glad to hear that the compliment is genuine. The Teddy Bear is losing weight. He told me he joined a weight-loss program because he’s been having ‘old people’s problems’. I don’t really need to know the details. It’s bad enough dating old people. I don’t need to be discussing their ailments. Like, seriously. We all have our social responsibilities, but a girl’s gotta draw the line on how much of herself she gives.
So, the evening gets off to a swimming start. Teddy is in high spirits. He’s got a natural gift for making money. I like it, I really do. We talk about all sorts of things – mostly his things. What he’s planning to do with his share of the profits. How he’s building an untraceable empire. How glad he is that Sophia and I are getting along, and how there are many more projects for us to work on.
I’m just going along with everything but dreading the issue of the transfer. Fuck! Part of me wishes we could get on with it already. I’ll give him a blow-job to make him feel better, I decide. Judging by all the deals he’s got going on, the missing R300K should not be a major issue.
We go through starters, then the main course … still no discussion about the shortfall in the transfer. By now, he’s telling me about all the things he’s going to do to me in bed later tonight.
Eish.
My nerves.
I decide I’m being stupid and should focus on the sex talk. That way, I can raise the money issue in bed, post-coitus. Yes. That will work. I will give him the best night of his life, then tell him about the missing R300K. By that time, R300,000 will sound like a mere R30. In fact, I will make it feel like a mere R30. I’ll even highlight the advantage of my owning the penthouse: he can spend weekends there when he’s in town.
And Papa Jeff? Shame. He’s been going through so much with his business lately, he can’t even get it up anymore. By the time he’s back on top form, I’ll have figured something out. I’m not quite ready to give up on my Papa Jeff yet.
Oh, by the way, I see you rolling your eyes about my sex life. I’m not stupid. I condomise.
Home
I haven’t been home in two months. My mom is going to kill me.
Anyway, the main reason I go to ekasi is not to see her, but my sunshine, ride-or-die, everyday charmer boy Loki.
You should meet this young man; he’s the best thing in the world ever.
He’s only fourteen but he’s so smart, you’d think he was a miniature version of me!
When I go to ekasi in my shining Mercedes convertible, all the little kids mill around my car, some taking pictures, others wanting selfies with me like I’m a real celebrity.
I don’t really care about all that except for the expression on Loki’s face when all these kids make a fuss about me! He’s really proud of his big sister and that’s all that matters to me. He’s a real kasi boy, and I’m okay with that for now.
There’re certain things about ekasi that stay in your DNA for life. Like the medley of sounds that greet you the minute you drive into Tsamaya Road, the main strait leading you to Mams. I love the vibe of ekasi. There has never been a moment when I drive onto my street and am greeted by complete silence, like you get in the suburbs sometimes.
Kasi is always in flux, always in motion, always with that air of expectancy, like anything can happen at any moment.
When I visit home, I sometimes enjoy rocking my All Star sneakers, my jeans and a cute Gucci top, just for control. I’m a kasi girl, but I’m a kasi girl who’s made it, so I need to make a statement wherever I go.
That’s how your girl rocks, you know that by now.
When I pull up to my mom’s house, I park the car outside the gate because our yard is very small. There’s no space for another car and my mom is still driving my old Toyota Yaris. Our house is what we call a ‘facebrick’ home, which used to be the standard apartheid government four-roomed house, but my mom has added more rooms outside the main building, which she rents out to generate an income for herself. She stays here with my brother Golokile and whichever latest boyfriend she’s shacking up with. At present, she’s staying with this old man that we call Bra Stan. He’s fifty-six, divorced, and as quiet as a mouse, which means my mom walks all over him like a model on a runway.
She runs a small tavern from the room she built in hopes of having one of the first garages on our street. When it was clear that the driveway leading to the garage was too narrow to take a car, she decided to convert it to a tavern – this was back in my primary school days so it’s been going strong for decades now. My mom is the ultimate shebeen queen cliché.
The men around my neighbourhood have a love-hate relationship with her. A lot of them are her customers, a few are her ex-lovers, and some made the mistake of taking booze on credit with no intention of paying her back. My mom is not shy about whipping out a sjambok at the drop of a hat and beating the living daylights out of anyone who’s dumb enough to face her wrath. She’s notorious in the neighbourhood. She’s been called everything from a whore to a home-wrecker to a gangster. You can just imagine how hellish it was for me during high school. Sure, I had the boys’ attention, but the girls used to call me all sorts of names because they heard rumours about my mother from their friends and relatives in the township. For many years, I was the only girl in class whose parents did not reside in the ’burbs. Why else do you think I’ve got such a thick skin? Those bitches hated my guts and looked down on me so now I take no shit from anyone. When I was younger, I allowed their haughtiness to get to me.
I got really low for the first time when I was fourteen. School was so much pressure; not the work, which didn’t interest me, I mean the other kids’ lives – the luxury cars that came to pick them up, the constant chat about expensive holiday trips with their families … The only ‘holiday trip’ I ever went on was a visit to Hammanskraal to see my grandmother and my hateful aunts. You don’t know how humiliating it was to hear kids rattling off places like Paris, Venice, Knysna, Cape Town and Durban, when all I got to do during the holidays was scrub floors at my grandmother’s house.
Sometimes I’d make up exotic holiday trips but the rich kids would see through my lies and waste no opportunity to mock me.
One day, I felt so bad I took a razor and … anyway, that’s in the past. All I know now is that I’m not going back to the township life. Not for love or money, honey. Sure, it’s good to visit, of course I stay connected to my mom and my brother, but as soon as I can get my life sorted out, I’m taking Loki with me. My plan is that when he turns sixteen, I should have established my businesses so I can accommodate him in a comfortable home with all the modern technology that a young mind needs to thrive. Loki deserves the best. I don’t want him to go through what I went through.
So you want to know how Gladys was as a mother?
Gosh.
When I was in my
teens, her shady customers started taking an unsavoury interest in me and she never really discouraged them. In fact, she was proud. ‘Darling, beauty runs in this family!’ she would say. ‘Every dime I’ve ever made, I’ve made directly or indirectly because of the way I look. If a woman knows how to work her charms, and she is smart enough to use her brains … then that woman rules the world, baby. Watch and learn from your mom, my sweetheart.’
If I complained to her about one of her customers groping me, she’d want to know which part of my body they’d ‘messed around’ with. If I told her that they touched my breasts or squeezed my bum, she’d say something like; ‘Ag, don’t worry too much about that, my baby. That’s just men being men. The only place you mustn’t let them touch you is here—’ And she’d touch herself on her private parts.
Argh! My mom is really vulgar. She has no class whatsoever.
Anyway, the only thing I’m happy about is that she’s raising my little brother much better. She’s stricter with him, and even takes an interest in his studies. Not that she helps him with his books. She’s got this young teacher (whom I suspect she’s secretly sleeping with) coming around some Wednesday evenings to give Loki extra maths and science lessons.
I once suggested that we pay him a set fee so he could be consistent in his tutoring, but she would not hear of it.
‘He’s fine. Believe me, he’s not going anywhere. But if you want to give me a thousand every month, to make sure he stays, then I’ll be more than happy to take it.’
Loki is a very special boy. He’s smart, good-looking, is a ‘cool kid’, but sometimes I worry that he’s running with the wrong crowd. I’ve seen him hanging around much older kids and I’ve tried to dissuade him from pursuing friendships with these elements. Yes, they are indeed elements, and bad elements at that. See, you don’t know ekasi like I do. If you make the wrong choice, it can chew you up and swallow you whole.
He’s waiting for me with that sweet smile. ‘Hola, hola, big sis. What’s this? Still cruising in the Merc?’
I go over to hug him and squeeze him like I’ve been doing since he was little.
‘How’s my main man? Love the Vans you’re sporting. They’re the ones I got you on your birthday, right?’
He begged and stalked me for days, wanting me to buy him the latest trendy sneakers. ‘Yesss! Still the coolest guy in town, sis. You know how I roll.’
Oh, gosh. I swear, this kid is Mini-Me.
I drape my arm over his shoulders as we walk to the main house. On the way we bump into one of my mom’s tenants who, at 12.30 p.m., already seems inebriated. There ought to be a law against being a landlord and also a supplier of liquor to hardened alcoholics. I mean, my mom practically collects some of these people’s entire wages at the end of the month before they can pay the rent and settle on the credit that they take out every month on booze.
‘Where’s Ma?’ I ask Golokile.
‘She’s in the house. She says she’s cooking for you.’
‘What? Ma can’t cook!’
‘I know. Are you going to take me to the shisanyama later … just in case?’
I laugh. ‘Sure, boy. That’s if she doesn’t poison us first with her food.’
We both share a good giggle. When we walk into the kitchen, it’s chaos. Pots are bubbling water on all sides; there’s smoke everywhere. Pieces of chopped cabbage are strewn on the counter alongside half-hacked, abandoned onions. Yho! An intervention is needed here!
‘Ma, what are you doing?’ She looks like she’s crying … and like she’s been drinking. And she is holding a sharp knife in her hand. ‘Ma, what’s wrong? Since when do you drink so early in the day?’
‘I’m not drunk! I’m just … I’m just … I’m so flipping angry! I thought I’d do something special for you kids, but look at this mess. What was I thinking? I don’t know a thing about cooking! It’s like a five year old’s been running around the kitchen.’
‘But why did you decide to cook?’
‘Eish, man! I just told you! I was trying to do something special for you brats. I thought maybe you don’t come here often, Bontle, because I’m not like other moms, so I was watching this reality show yesterday with this mom and all her kids – always in and out of her house. I thought if I cooked more, you people would love me more …’ She drops the knife on the counter and suddenly her shoulders are heaving and she’s all tears and drama.
Oh-oh. Like, I’m really not in the mood for one of my mom’s emotional outbursts. I know the gesture is sweet and everything, but how does she think she can turn into a cook after fifty-four years of barely boiling an egg? Okay, I’m exaggerating a bit, but suffice it to say, I wasn’t raised by Gordon Ramsay.
Argh … poor Mom. I guess I’m going to have to take both of them to the shisanyama after all.
So. That’s my family then.
By the way, we had a really good time at the shisanyama and Loki and I couldn’t stop cracking jokes about the disastrous meal we could have been having instead. I’m making sure my mom stays out of the kitchen from now on. Wait till I tell Ntokozo about it. He won’t believe she even tried.
Iris and Franchising
What a week! The last weekend of the month is peak time for my hair business. I’ve made forty deliveries over the past six days, so you know what that means. Lots of moolah and self-induced orgasms for me! Aren’t you glad I’m driving a Mercedes-Benz? The Joburg sun can be unforgiving so I’m grateful for the great air conditioning in my car. (Psst! Do you think the Merc people could sponsor me with the latest model since I mention their brand so many times here? I hope you’re listening, Germans! I’m just feeling so perky today!)
It’s been a while since I kicked it with my girls so tonight we’re getting together at a new hot spot in Hyde Park. Girrrl … you better hold onto your man!
Ha-ha! I’m just joking, we’re not that thirsty; but it would be false modesty if I said that heads do not turn whenever we step into the room.
You’re not getting used to my sense of humour, are you? Yeah. I get that a lot. Tsholo once said the only way to classify it is ‘bitchy’. I’m sorry if that’s the case, but you know who raised me, right?
Anyway, why am I starting to care whether you like me or not? I don’t really want to jump on that train because if I try to impress you, I’ll start self-censoring, which defeats the purpose. The reason I’m writing this is because I want to be as honest and sincere as possible. My life is quite a ride and, to make sense of it, you need to see the whole damn’ thing just as it is.
Anyway, I’m wearing a glittering gold micro-dress that hugs every part of my body; showing off my round African bum, which is my best asset by far, although with bums getting bigger by the day, I may need to chat to my surgeon about adding some implants to give it more volume.
There’s no pleasing these men, I tell you, but that’s what surgeons are for. What do you mean, it’s un- African to use plastic surgery?
Excuse me, is that Shaka Zulu I hear calling you? While you go and try to get in touch with your ancestors with your Alcatel phone, allow me to pursue physical perfection in the modern world. It pays the bills, boo!
Speaking of paying the bills, you won’t believe what Iris has just told Tsholo and me.
We’re sitting in the VIP lounge – where else? – eating salmon and cream cheese platters and sipping Moët, listening intently to Iris’s tales of Mr Emmanuel.
I’ve heard of all sorts of different levels of Blessers, but this Mr Emmanuel is in a different stratosphere altogether. He is a Nigerian oil baron with an empire that sprawls across Nigeria, South Africa and the US. He is invested in various businesses and owns many food franchises here in South Africa.
Iris has been dating him for nine months and, by the sound of it, it’s been nine months of pure, unmitigated pleasure.
Apparently, he is so besotted with her that in lieu of a diamond ring, which he cannot buy her since he’s married already, Mr Emmanuel has decided to buy Iri
s a News Café franchise. Imagine owning a bar lounge like News Café at such a young age. I mean … levels!
I try not to choke on my smoked salmon.
Iris is so excited, she cannot stop talking.
‘Mr Emmanuel wants me to be his second wife. He says his first one doesn’t want to move from the States, but he’s spending more and more time in South Africa and he gets lonely sometimes. So, he’s asked me to date him exclusively, and in return he is going to give me more of the good life. Yho, choms, I am so excited, I could wet myself.’
Shoo! Wow!
Much as I like Iris, I admit I’m finding it hard to be totally happy for her. I mean, can you imagine if one of my men gave me a solid start like that? Instead of all these hit-or-miss opportunities. I mean, if I ran my own franchise, that would be it, no more hustling. If Mr Emmanuel were to buy me a franchise, I swear I would stop all the sleeping around; I would devote myself to him and him alone. I really cannot believe this girl’s good fortune … Just imagine, your girl, running her own proper business! None of this hair trading with its minimal returns.
‘Helllooo … Bontle, are you still with us … or are you lost in your own dream world?’
‘Huh?’ I said, having totally tuned them out.
‘I asked if you want us to move somewhere closer to Sandton or if you’re still okay here? I can’t stay out too late with you guys tonight. I’ve got a date with Tim tomorrow and he’s picking me up in the morning,’ says Tsholo.
Oh, gosh, Tsholo and her Tim. How can anyone think about Tim when Mr Emmanuel is buying franchises for Iris?
Suddenly I have an idea.
‘It’s okay, choma. We can stay here. I’m not in the mood for a big party tonight. Iris, when are we meeting this Mr Emmanuel of yours? I’m beginning to think he doesn’t exist. You’ve been talking about him forever, but you only show us Instagram pictures of his Rolex and his Louis Vuitton shoes. Nah-ah. I don’t think he’s real.’
The Blessed Girl Page 5