So I get Bali after one night with him? This can only be a positive, and highly promising, development.
Maybe I will end up getting my News Café after all.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Gladys.
Bontle, come home immediately.
That does not sound like my mom. She’s never been an alarmist. Getting her to care about anything is usually a nightmare.
I call her. ‘Mama – what’s wrong?’
‘Bontle, just come home. Now, please. I can’t discuss it over the phone.’
Now I’m worried.
‘What is it? Is it Golokile?
‘Nana … Please, just come home.’
Oh my gosh! I can’t take anything bad happening to my brother. Panic-stricken, I grab my car keys and rush to Mamelodi.
How It Feels to Have your Heart Shattered
I get onto the N1 Pretoria in a flash, thinking up different scenarios that may be the source of my mother’s urgency. I’m going at 180km/h; I hope the traffic cops don’t stop me.
My heart is beating fast as I imagine different awful scenarios. Loki is only fourteen years old. I pray he hasn’t been in some sort of accident.
I have to calm myself down. Maybe it’s not something serious. Today is Saturday. Maybe he’s gone somewhere without telling my mother and now she’s just panicking. But she’s always kept a cool head, even in the worst crisis.
Home feels further than ever today. I put my foot on the accelerator, then realise I’m now going at 190km/h. That is not good. I try to slow down and soon I’m taking the Solomon Mahlangu off-ramp, which is just a few kilometres from Mamelodi. The roads are quieter than usual at five-thirty in the afternoon so I speed along them. When I get to my mother’s house I can see her standing outside talking to Uncle Stan and another man.
She’s saying, ‘We have to go to Soshanguve right now.’
Soshanguve?
‘Mom, what’s Golokile doing in Soshanguve?’ I ask, getting out of the car. ‘And so late in the evening?’
She looks at me, hands on her hips, shaking her head.
‘Bontle, Golokile has started hanging around with some trashy, good-for-nothing kids in the neighbourhood. Lately, I’m always missing something – money, jewellery. I don’t know what he’s got himself mixed up with.’
‘What makes you think he’s in Soshanguve? What would he be doing there?’
She shrugs in exasperation.
‘We’ve heard from one of his friends that there’s a house in Soshanguve where all these little misfits hang around, doing God knows what. I went to the boy’s parents and pleaded with them to allow him to take us there. The mother finally agreed so we’re waiting for them to come with us. It’s that boy Tshepo, from house 5056.’
‘The dark, skinny one? He’s about eighteen, Ma. Why would Golokile be hanging around with someone that old?’
She shakes her head and says, ‘Yho, my child. I really don’t know what’s going on with him. It’s like he’s become a stranger overnight.’
I don’t like this one bit. This reminds me of all the things that were wrong in my own childhood.
I feel so angry, I can barely contain myself. ‘But, Ma, if he’s become a stranger, as you say, it’s because you let him. You’re supposed to be looking out for him. With your house crawling with drunkards, is it any wonder he’s fallen in with the wrong crowd?’
‘Oh, so what are you suggesting? Do you think you could do a better job of raising him? Don’t get my blood pressure going here with your nonsense, Bontle. I didn’t call you here to give me a stroke. There’s Mma Motsepe with Tshepo. Stan, please go and get my bag, it’s in the living room!’
I see two dark shadows drifting towards us. It’s Mrs Motsepe and her son.
Everyone gets into the car. I squeeze in next to the Motsepes in the back seat.
Uncle Stan drives silently while my mother fires questions at Tshepo.
‘Whose house is this that we’re going to exactly?’
Tshepo answers softly, ‘I don’t know, Mma Olifant.’
‘You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know if you’ve been there before?’
Tshepo sits quietly without responding.
A blanket of awkwardness drapes the car.
After a while Mrs Motsepe breaks it by complaining about the youth in our township and how wayward they have become. When she mentions nyaope, the street drug that has turned most of the young boys into lying, thieving zombies, my heart skips a beat.
‘Mma Motsepe … you don’t think …? You’re not saying Golokile is part of that life? He’s only fourteen years old!’
‘My dear, these days there’s no innocence left amongst these youngsters. My own Tshepo here – I’ve seen and experienced things with this boy that I never thought I would experience. They’re all the same. They just do whatever they want to do and don’t care how it affects other people around them. I wish my husband were still alive, I tell you. None of this would be happening. That man … he would have beaten the drugs out of all these stupid little thugs.’
Now I’m really fearful. My prince. How could he possibly be mixed up with drugs?
We drive silently for most of the hour it takes to get to Soshanguve. How did Loki get to this house? Who drove him there? Why is my little brother going around with addicts?
Tshepo takes us to the wrong house twice before we finally land at a rundown, four-roomed house with a gate that has fallen off its hinges, an overgrown lawn and a few broken windows.
My mother gets out of the car carrying her handbag. She’s walking ahead, with Uncle Stan trailing behind her. Mrs Motsepe, Tshepo and I shadow them, our footsteps not half as determined as my mother’s.
Gladys knocks on the front door and turns the handle without waiting for a response. I am gripped by fear. I realise my mother is accustomed to situations like these, but that she usually confronts them on home ground. None of us has a clue what kind of people we’ll find behind the door of this dark and uninviting house.
A lanky man wearing a dirty white T-shirt and oversized jeans appears on the threshold.
He’s smoking something. A spliff.
As the Motsepes and I get close enough to the door for a clearer view, I see that his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is scruffy. He looks like he’s in his early- to mid-twenties.
‘Yes, mamza. Ga le sa knocka mo dintlong tsa batho, ganthe?’ (Yes, old lady. Don’t people knock before entering other’s homes anymore?)
My mother folds her arms. ‘I’m looking for a young boy by the name of Golokile. I’m his mother and I’m here to pick him up.’
The man slowly drags on his spliff, and also folds his arms.
‘Mamza, I’m not the keeper of young boys. I don’t think we have anyone by that name here.’
‘Well, I’d like to come in and see for myself. He is only fourteen. I’m sure when you were that age you were not hanging around with old men, so you can understand my concern,’ my mother says, pushing her way into the house.
The man pushes her back and says, ‘Hey, hey, mamza! I don’t want any trouble here in my house. I told you, we don’t have anyone by that name here, so please, fuck off and leave us in peace, will you?’
In a split second my mother takes a gun from her handbag and points it at the man.
‘Hey, you little hoodlum! I demand to see if my son is here. If he is, I just want to take him home.’
Mrs Motsepe screams, and I tell her to calm down. The last thing we need is for other people to come racing over and see this. How could my mother be so stupid, taking out a gun in a house full of druggies? It’ll be a wonder if any of us comes out of this alive. I have to admit, it’s a little brave of her too.
‘Gladys! Put the gun down,’ says Uncle Stan, but instead my mother marches into the house, poking the gun at the small of the druggie’s back, all the while calling out Golokile’s name.
The man, who is now being forced to mar
ch into the house with his hands up, says, ‘Ma’am … we don’t want any violence here. We’re just chilling. We’re good guys here.’
She presses the gun into his back. ‘Well, if it’s peace you’re after, you’re going to take me to my son.’
We are all now following behind her and her hostage, praying nothing goes wrong.
The guy keeps on walking until he leads us to a closed door that must be one of the bedrooms. My palms are sweaty and my heart is thumping so loud I am certain the others around me can hear each beat. The lanky man opens the door, and we see a group of men, some on the floor, some on a large dirty mattress, passing around pipes, and looking dazed. They seem to range from about sixteen to twenty-eight, and among them, in a corner, is my little brother, looking completely spaced out.
My heart shatters. I immediately go over to him and grab him roughly by the denim shirt he’s wearing.
‘Golokile! Golokile! What the fuck is wrong with you! What the hell are you doing in this hellhole?’
He just looks at me, as if he doesn’t recognise me, then starts laughing like a fool.
I can see my mother handing the gun to Uncle Stan and coming over to my sweet little boy … my angel, my prince … Where did we go so wrong? How could he have ended up like this?
Gladys grabs him by the arm, yanking until he is on his feet. ‘You little punk! I’m going to kill you when we get home! What possessed you to do this? Gareye! Let’s go! Right now!’
One of the men grabs the handbag that Uncle Stan is carrying in one hand. He still has the gun in the other.
‘Bro … five rand, please?’
Uncle Stan kicks him roughly in the chest. ‘Fuck off! I’ll shoot all of you! Leave my family in peace, otherwise there’ll be real trouble.’
Never thought I’d hear Uncle Stan sounding so tough.
We walk out of the house, stepping gingerly, with some of the drug addicts trying to reach out and touch us. They are all so out of their minds, I don’t even know why they even bother.
When we get to the car, my mother pushes Loki roughly into the back seat, yelling obscenities at him.
The drive home is the longest I have ever taken in my life.
BOOK 2
Real Life
Pardon my long absence.
I haven’t been able to reflect on my life and have our usual beautiful chats for some time now. I’ve not been in the mood for much after that hellish episode with my brother.
I spent a few days at home, calling around and trying to find ways to help Golokile. My mother and I were so dumbfounded that we practically held Tshepo Motsepe hostage, demanding answers about his drug use.
Teenagers are the most secretive and manipulative people on the planet. It turns out the angelic image of Golokile that I have carried in my heart since he was a baby has been inaccurate for a while now.
According to Tshepo, Loki started smoking weed two years ago. Can you believe it? He was only twelve years old! I always wondered why he preferred the company of older boys. He apparently graduated from weed to crack cocaine, then eventually switched to nyaope because it was cheaper and more accessible.
I was infuriated to learn from Tshepo that part of Loki’s popularity stemmed from the fact that he always had excess cash to splash around.
I feel so guilty. Aside from the money my mother gives him, I also give my brother a monthly clothing allowance. I thought it was an incentive for him to do well at school and … I don’t know. I just wanted him to be happy. I didn’t want him to feel as inadequate as I felt when I was there. I wanted him to be able to afford the material comforts enjoyed by his schoolmates.
As it turns out, all the money ever did was to turn my sweet little boy into a magnet for dealers and users.
I’m so scared I don’t even know how to feel. I thought I was a good elder sister but I didn’t see any of this. If anything, I was part of the problem.
I felt so helpless that I had to turn to the only person I can trust with something like this.
Ntokozo was, as always, very helpful and supportive. He knew just what to say, especially given his own brief period of substance abuse. He helped us find the right rehab facility for my brother, one that took his young age into consideration.
We have been told that the rehabilitation process may be a long and difficult one. The counsellor said there was a void in Loki’s life that my brother was replacing with drugs. I had never seen any sign of this. Clearly it was something he felt he could not talk to me or Mom about. I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that he has never really known who his father is. Boys seem to feel the lack of a father figure more than girls do.
The counsellor was concerned that with Loki being drawn to drugs so young, he may be predisposed to them. He may grow up into a person who chooses ways of escaping their problems rather than dealing with them, and a prolonged treatment program has been recommended for him. Personally, I don’t think the counsellor understands the boy. How could he make such a diagnosis when Loki is still trying to find himself?
But what if this is my family’s lot in life? Are we just ill-equipped to deal with its problems the way that others do? Is it in our DNA? I mean, I feel well-adjusted most of the time, but what if my drive for success is some sort of escapism? I do now feel quite bad about stealing Iris’s man.
I stayed in Mamelodi for a while.
When I felt a bit better, I went back to my penthouse but found I couldn’t sleep. Ten days passed. I was like a zombie by the end of them.
I called Ntokozo and he insisted I go back to seeing my old psychologist.
It wasn’t my favourite activity but I felt like I was being swallowed up in guilt and anxiety. I should have been more present in Golokile’s life. I should have worked harder not to let him be raised in that environment by my mother. Why did I throw money at him instead of spending more time with him? I’d seen him with those older boys before. I’d even caught him once or twice this year, smoking a joint. I’d admonished him but had pegged it down to just boys experimenting. Now we are talking about nyaope.
Nyaope? It’s like a swear word.
Talking to Dr Mabena calmed me down a little bit. She put me on anti-depressants and told me to stick to the sessions this time.
I managed to force myself to continue communicating with Teddy and Mama Sophia. There was so much chaos going on with the tender, I simply could not keep up. Apparently, Sophia and the bloody engineers decided to build the foundation for the first round of the RDP houses during what ended up being a rainy two weeks so we lost a fair chunk of money as a result. Now we have to rebuild the foundation. Don’t they check the weather report? What kind of engineers are they? Anyway, they blamed global warning because the rain happened in winter and it hardly ever rains in Limpopo in winter. Whatever.
As a result of the unholy mess that they’d unleashed on the project, someone in the municipality was questioning why we had been awarded the tender and now we’re smack in the middle of a nightmarish internal audit.
Hmphh. I want nothing more to do with that tender. I just want whatever little share of my profit there is, and by now I’m certain it’s just peanuts. Gosh. Excuse me while I go and throw up. This lack of money is going to drive me to the ICU.
Maybe I should just forget about this project. Surely there are easier ways to make money.
What’s the worst that could happen to me anyway?
My company was not the main contractor and I was just a young woman trying to grab one of the opportunities promised to us by the ANC government. I was not about to lose my already fragile mind over that murky business.
Alive Again
By the sixth week of my contact with the real world, I felt I was ready to give myself a beauty boost so that I could really return to action and kick up my hustling game a notch or two.
Before attending to aesthetics, I had to take care of business.
First, I emailed one of my trusted Chinese suppliers, Qingdao Do
ra, and ordered two hundred hair-extension bundles for the Face of the Future salon. They are participating in a Beauty Expo next month and sent me a list of the weaves they’d like to showcase at the event. It’s important for me to support my clients.
Qingdao Dora also has a new range of luscious thick extensions with blonde, auburn and purple highlights. They’re gorgeous. I posted these hairpieces on my Instagram page along with my email address. I know that orders will be rolling in for the summer!
I worried that my Instagram followers might have started thinking I had fallen on hard times, so I found an old picture I took on a trip with Papa Jeff. It was taken two years ago in Los Angeles.
We’d been shopping on Rodeo Drive and he’d given me full access to his credit card. It’s a happy snap of me, carrying tons of bags from all the top designer brands. I’m flushed with joy, sporting Roberto Cavalli jeans, a Gucci top and cap. The look has not dated. After all, that’s what wearing classic brands is about. I put a filter on the photo, though, to give it a fresh look, before posting it with the caption: ‘LA was good to me! See you soon, fellow SAfricans!’
You can’t be posting depressing stuff on your social-media pages. Like I said, it’s part of my patriotic duty to reflect an upbeat lifestyle and outlook. I don’t need the world to know I’m a bit down, I have friends for that.
Tsholo has been to see me several times since I stopped going out. She knows how much Golokile means to me and she’s been even more sensitive and caring than usual. Iris tagged along with her once. She brought me a chocolate cake. I couldn’t help wondering whether that was a ploy to fatten me up. But then I realised that she didn’t know about me and Mr Emmanuel.
When I finally felt like I was ready to re-enter the world, I booked an appointment with Dr Heinz and asked him if he had any credit facilities available at his clinic. I had spent more than R200,000 with him over a period of three years so I expected him to be somewhat accommodating. My finances were on shaky ground again (especially after having to shell out money for my big hair order) but I needed a confidence booster before I could get back in the game.
The Blessed Girl Page 9