It’s just that I like impressing you by sounding formal when I talk about my business interests.
Anyway, he replied a few hours later, saying that he was delighted to have met me and looked forward to more chats. We kept chatting back and forth, and then I decided to flatter him by sharing some of my (real and fake) challenges in the construction project. His texts started taking on a mentor-like tone, giving advice here and there, referring me to books and websites I should read in order to be a sharper businesswoman. Soon, we were texting each other almost daily.
Then, this Wednesday, he sent me a text saying he’d be in town and would I meet him at the Melrose Hotel for dinner?
I took an hour before I responded. I had so many questions in my head. The constant texting had made me a bit doubtful that perhaps he viewed me as a protégée he was mentoring, nothing less and nothing more. So when he finally asked me out for dinner, I was delirious with excitement. But then again, what if he was going to continue with the coaching like he had been doing all along?
I decided to choose my outfit very carefully. I didn’t want to give off ‘fuck me’ vibes only to find that the guy just viewed me as his girlfriend’s friend. But then why would he ask me out to dinner alone and not invite Iris? Well, I guess guys do this sort of thing all the time with the people they do business with, so who knows? It could still be a business meeting.
Yho. I must tell you, trying to hook this guy has taken more homework than I ever did at school.
I’ve been reading all the business books Mr Emmanuel’s been recommending to me, and following up on all the information he’s been sharing. I told you, books and I are not the best of friends, but he’ll actually ask me, ‘Have you read that book by so and so, do you see what I mean when I talk about disruption?’ And this and that and the other. I feel like I’ve earned a degree in the past few weeks. I hope we can just go to bed already so that we can start having lighter conversations.
I’ve been so obsessed with this guy I’m not even giving my other men enough attention.
We finally got our second payment from Teddy’s municipality but we owed so many suppliers that all I managed to scrape together was a mere R250,000 after paying Teddy his obligatory bribe plus the R300,000 that I owed him.
I had accumulated so much personal debt by that point I barely had enough left over to get my butt implants.
They do look hot, but I’m just not as excited with them as I thought I’d be. First of all, they still hurt a little even though I’ve had them for four weeks now. Secondly, they don’t make me feel as good as I’d thought they would. If I get too down about them, I post pictures of myself on Instagram in a two-piece bathing suit and feel a bit better when guys (and sometimes girls) comment on how hot I look.
These things are not easy, I tell you.
You should see my DMs on social media. I get guys offering to have sex with me every single hour of every single day. After the butt implants, I’ve had to block half of my male followers because some of them even send me dick pictures, which is totally uncalled for.
Anyway, I am feeling really nervous about my meeting with Mr Emmanuel tonight. The only affirmation I give myself is that if we end up in bed, then our relationship dynamic will swing drastically in my favour. Once I give him some of my hot sexy loving, then I’ll stop acting like a nervous virgin. He’ll be eating out of the palm of my hand in no time.
I wear a red, form-fitting dress that’s not too revealing but is definitely body-hugging. I went for another skin bleaching session yesterday so I am a proper, yellow sunflower.
My hair is on fleek with a wavy, long Brazilian blow-dry and I’m wearing Chanel No. 5 today. After sipping a glass of wine I step out, feeling confident that this man will be calling me ‘baby’ by tomorrow morning.
When I get to the hotel I find Mr Emmanuel sitting alone in the restaurant and walk over to his table. I love the way he looks up at me. I’ve never had this restaurant all to myself before but I see the way it’s set up – a large bouquet of flowers, one exquisitely decorated table, a piano player performing to an audience of one (now two) – and realise he has had all this laid on just for me. I am entranced by his naked desire for me.
I walk up to him and air-kiss him on both cheeks. He holds my hands and kisses me lightly on the mouth.
Swoon.
This one … I’m having him for dinner. He’s mine. End of story.
The Day After
Argghhh … oh, gosh.
I need help.
I’ve been calling and texting Dr Heinz all morning.
I need an immediate operation.
I need an examination. This is an emergency!
I am so stressed.
Dr Heinz says he can only see me at four o’clock this afternoon. I plead with him to see me earlier since this is a medical emergency, but he says he can refer me to another doctor in that case. I tell him only he can help me with the type of problem I’m experiencing but I refuse to discuss it on the phone.
I pray and I take a sleeping tablet. I set my alarm for 2 p.m. so I can take a shower (if I can manage) and then get dressed and visit my surgeon.
At 2 p.m., the alarm buzzes and I manage to wake up without pressing the snooze button. I wear a plain white linen dress, and my only pair of cotton panties. I feel so vulnerable.
I slowly walk to my car and drive myself to Dr Heinz’s clinic. For the first time in a long time, I am not conscious of the other drivers on the road. My sole focus is on getting to the clinic.
When I get to Dr Heinz’s rooms, his receptionist is chatty as usual, but I only manage to nod and ask if the doctor is ready to see me.
She ushers me into his consulting room and I sit down as slowly and gently as possible.
‘Bontle, my dear. Always good to see you. Why are you allowing that angelic face to look so morose?’
‘Doctor, this is serious.’
‘I gathered as much, based on your frantic phone calls and texts.’
I sigh, feeling equal measures of alarm and embarrassment.
‘Out with it. What’s the problem?’
I sigh again.
‘I think I’ve lost my, um … my vajayjay.’
His Botoxed face tries in vain to express alarm. ‘You’ve lost your virginity?’ he asks, clearly unconvinced.
‘No. No … I’ve lost my vagina.’
He claps his hands in mock shock.
‘Bontle, how does anyone lose a vagina? Were you … were you … mutilated?’ he asks, concern clouding his face.
I nod.
‘Yes. Yes, you could put it that way. I think I was mutilated.’
He looks horrified.
‘This is serious. If you were mutilated, my dear, we need to involve the authorities. We need to call the police. We need to open a case. The last person you should be thinking about calling is your plastic surgeon. We need to be able to show evidence. Whoever this monster … whoever did this to you needs to be reported and sent to jail!’
I shake my head.
‘No, no, doctor, it’s not like that. I … I slept with this man willingly, but he was so big that I don’t think I have a vagina left. Like … I can’t feel my vagina anymore … and I’m scared to look down there … I don’t know what I’ll find.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious. I cannot feel my vagina anymore.’
I see his expression then. In spite of the Botox, I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. But this is not funny to me.
‘Darling, you had consensual sex with this man?’
I nod my head.
‘And you think … You think, because of his size, he may have mutilated your private parts?’
I nod.
Now he actually laughs. Like, a real, rollicking laugh.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, darling. I don’t … This is not very professional of me, but –’ he’s giggling like a schoolgirl ‘ – I doubt there’s anything wrong with your privates. Remember, a fou
r-kilogram baby can come out of there so … so I don’t think any man would be big enough to cause irreparable damage.’
Now I’m getting irritated. ‘But I still think you should check. Things don’t feel normal down there.’
He shrugs. I can see him stifling a laugh.
‘Okay. I don’t know what you looked like before, but I can check. What exactly do you think I could do for you?’
‘I think I want you to tighten it. Take it back to its original position. That man shoved a thirty-centimetre-long penis into me. I will never be normal again.’
‘I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that long.’
‘But it was big. In width as well. There’s no way I’m still normal.’
‘Are you planning on seeing him again?’
I have to think long and hard about this one.
After some rumination, I respond: ‘Yes.’
He takes my hands in his and says, ‘So, darling, if we tighten it, won’t you come back even more traumatised than you are now?’
He has a point. I stand up and grab my car keys.
‘’Bye, Dr Heinz,’ I say.
‘’Bye, Bontle. See you at your next consultation.’
I have new respect for Iris. She’s a soldier; she deserves a medal. I understand now why she calls him Mr Emmanuel.
Ntokozo
When I get a text from Ntokozo to meet him for breakfast in Parkhurst, I am more than happy to oblige, especially after this business with Mr Emmanuel.
I wear Diesel jeans, a plain white T-shirt and sneakers. I want to feel like a girl; just a normal girl meeting up with her boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, childhood sweetheart slash husband.
For the first time since we’ve been separated, I arrive earlier than Ntokozo. This is unusual for him. He’s normally very punctual. I text to let him know that I’m already at Mitzi’s and order myself a cappuccino. I take a picture of it, then ask the waiter to take a snap of me sipping my coffee. I post the pictures on Instagram with the caption ‘Breakfast with the Sweet Ex’.
I suddenly remember that I haven’t updated my clients on the new selection of weaves I have in stock. In fact, I’ve been ignoring my hair business lately, what with tenders and all. I make a mental note to post later in the afternoon when I get home.
Ntokozo walks in, looking fresh and cool.
He’s also wearing a white T-shirt, with denim jeans and sneakers. This boy looks good. If only his parents could see me now. I’m making serious cash, I drive a convertible and I live in a penthouse. Nobody gets away with undermining me because I always come out on top. I’m a fighter. Always was and always will be. No more kasi for me!
Ntokozo gives me a peck on the cheek and apologises for being late.
‘I was on call. It’s been a mad couple of days at the hospital, what with the festive season coming around and all these road accidents. South Africans lose their minds when they’re having fun. Anyway, how’ve you been, Nkosikazi?’
I know I shouldn’t but I love it when he speaks to me as if we’re still a couple.
‘I have nothing much to complain about. Are you going to have a cup of coffee? I’ll call the waiter.’
The waiter comes over and we place our orders for breakfast. Ntokozo still loves his caff è latte. I always know exactly what he is going to order. Scrambled eggs, cream cheese and salmon. Man. Why do I feel so nostalgic for him today? It must be because of my physical trauma after Mr Emmanuel. But I don’t want to think about him right now.
We drink our coffees and play catch-up. I politely ask after my ex’s family and he wants an update on Golokile and my mom.
He despised my mom towards the end of our relationship because he found out that we had lied about the source of the BMW I was driving then and the whole story about her taking my Toyota Yaris and gifting me the more expensive car. The names he called her! I could not believe that gentle Ntokozo could scream such obscenities. It was almost as if he wanted to cast all the blame for my lies on my mother.
His great weakness is that he always wants to see the best in me. I’m in such a soppy mood today. I’m sure I’m about to have my period.
The waiter brings our food. I’m having a greasy breakfast of bacon, eggs and a sausage – another sign that I may be going on my period.
Ntokozo tucks into his breakfast and mid-way through the meal, he beams up at me and says: ‘I have an exciting announcement to make.’
‘Well? Out with it, Mr Khathide. What’s new?’
He’s going to grant me my divorce. He’s met someone and he’s finally ready to let go of me. I’ve wanted this for years but all I feel is panic. I can hardly breathe. I force a smile.
‘I have partnered with two very prominent doctors and a business investor. We’re planning on building a hospital, babe!’
I put down my knife and fork and exhale. ‘What? Wow, Ntokozo! Are you serious?’
‘Yep. I couldn’t wait to tell you. I’ve been keeping it quiet because I wanted to announce it to you once things had picked up momentum. We’re at an advanced stage. We’ve called ourselves the Careway Group. We’ve secured the funding for the first phase of our project. We’ve even identified a site and are busy with architectural plans. It’s so exciting, babe, and to be honest, I don’t think I would have ventured on something this ambitious if I’d not had you in my life.’
This is so touching it has me smiling like it’s Christmas. Oh, god, I’m not going to cry, am I?
‘But I’m barely in your life, babe. You’re giving me too much credit,’ I say, breathing as evenly as I can.
‘Bontle Khathide. You think I wasn’t listening when you were pressuring me to think big and aim high? It wasn’t the right time for me then but your words have been ringing in my ears for the longest time. So when I was approached by Dr Khoza and Dr Adelakun, I knew this was the perfect opportunity for me.’
Wow. I’m so proud of him!
‘So how soon before you go into the business full-time?’
‘Well, I’ve given the hospital notice that I will work for another six months. Right now my schedule is crazy because I have to attend business meetings with my partners, who are already full-time in the business, and still do my rounds. The hospital is terribly short-staffed at the moment so I’m trying to work out a deal with them where I can be available on call until they find a permanent replacement. You know me. I still believe my patients come first, which is why I’m so excited about this opportunity. I have a vision of providing private healthcare with a heart. Too many private hospitals in South Africa are driven purely by greed and profit. We need to bring back love and compassion to caring for our people. So those are the founding principles of the hospital we’re building.’
Listen to him. Doesn’t he sound like Nelson Mandela or Barack Obama?
I’m not so sure about this whole touchy-feely philosophy he wants to bring into this business. Private healthcare is seriously expensive and therefore should bring in ridiculous amounts of cash. He’s still talking about compassion? Yho. I hope his partners are more sober-minded in their approach.
‘This is brilliant, Ntokozo! I’m so happy for you! Come. You deserve a big hug. I always knew you had a great future ahead of you.’
He stands up and I give him a tight squeeze. I feel tears forming in my eyes. I’ve always believed in this man.
When he lets me go, he sees the tears and wipes them away gently.
‘Awww, babe. What’s this now?’ he asks.
I laugh it off and take my seat.
‘Ag. It’s nothing. You know how I get when it’s close to my period. A big soppy mess.’
He laughs. ‘Let me order you some dessert. You still love peppermint crisp tart, right?’
I nod through my tears, getting more emotional because now he’s got me feeling just like old times. The familiarity of it is almost too much for me to handle. I am relieved when the dessert finally arrives. I feel embarrassed by my little meltdown. I must say, it’s the best peppermint
crisp tart I’ve had in years.
Mr Emmanuel
I’m a hot mess after my meeting with Ntokozo. Whenever my phone buzzes, I’m always disappointed when it’s not a message from him, even though we never text each other after our sporadic meetings so why should this time be different? I can’t message him myself for the first time straight after he’s told me he’s going into private enterprise, can I? We all know how that would sound. I must just face up to the fact that I blew it with Ntokozo a while ago. Even if he still has or had feelings for me, the worst thing I could do is start pursuing him at the first sign of him being a potential millionaire. He may be innocent but he’s no fool, and I’d never risk losing his friendship by pulling something like that. Our ship sailed a while ago.
In other news, Mr Emmanuel seems to have been happy with my performance the other night because he’s been texting me all day today. He’s explained that he’s been quiet because he’s been busy since last Wednesday. He’d mentioned that he’d be flying out to Paris when I left his hotel room the morning after The Great Sex Attack. To be honest, I’m relieved that he’s still interested in me. I would not have appreciated the idea of having allowed myself to be split in half for nothing.
He texted me in the evening with pictures of an exquisite island resort and the words: You, me, frolicking naked in the sun.
In spite of myself, I warm to the idea. I wonder how his relationship with Iris is going. I really ought to be feeling guilty, but she hasn’t been in touch since our last soirée because she’s writing her college paper. Maybe I should donate my brain to scientific research when I die because I seem to lack the hormone that produces empathy; especially when it comes to matters of the heart.
I text Mr Emmanuel back, asking him what stamp I should prepare my passport for because I’m not sure where this resort is located.
Bali, sweetheart. I promise you the time of your life, he texts back.
Hmmm. Bali, huh? I don’t remember Iris being taken to Bali. Or any overseas destination. The furthest Mr Emmanuel travelled with her was Bazaruto Island in Mozambique.
The Blessed Girl Page 8