The Blessed Girl

by Angela Makholwa

  For once my plan was simple. I would make myself look fabulous again and then get in touch with my lovers one by one and tell them I had family problems I had to deal with. I’m not going to lie about being worried about Golokile. I know that my men may not feel True Love for me in the boring and unrealistic sense of the word, but deep down, each one of them has reserved a space for me in their tough little hearts. My inbox is full of messages from Mr Emmanuel but I just haven’t been able to summon the energy to write him back. I hope he hasn’t given up on me. I need that trip to Bali, and my heart is still holding out for a News Café. You have to stay positive in this game!

  Dr Heinz referred me to his assistant, who sent me a hideous credit application form. I mean, they were treating me like I was some poor labourer after I’d spent a small fortune at their crummy little clinic! Anyway, they say if wishes were Porsches, beggars would drive, so at that point I had no option but to fill in the form.

  When I got to the line asking me about my source of income, I was tempted just to write MEN (Masculine Economic Necessities), but then sense prevailed and I stated that I was a self-employed businesswoman.

  A few days later, while sitting around in my penthouse, not feeling up to meeting my men without a bit of a touch up, I got an email stating that I was approved for R30,000 worth of credit. I jumped up with glee and went to my bathroom mirror to scrutinise the glory Mother Nature had created. I saw some new frown lines from all the stress brought on by Golokile’s drama, and dark circles under my eyes.

  Of course, I need more skin bleaching. The yellower the better is what I always say. And I haven’t taken care of my lady parts in a while, so I will need anal and vulval bleaching as well.

  Although I’ve been out of sheet action for some weeks, I think I need also to invest in Kegel balls. Mr Emmanuel’s impact on my lady parts cannot simply be brushed aside. I need to get into a maintenance program if I’m to keep all my lovers happy.

  I write down the list of treatments, and cross-check the costs on Dr Heinz’s website to ensure that I will stay within budget. My combined treatments, plus the Kegel balls, will cost me in the region of R28,000. I’ll get a massage with the rest of the credit, I guess.

  My Coming Out Party

  For my reintroduction to society, I called Tsholo and Iris, who were both in festive spirits. We all agreed to make the best of the little time left in Johannesburg before the city sinks like a flat tyre, as it often does at the end of the year. Joburg is a city of migrants so all the losers who aren’t native to it fly back to suckle at their mothers’ bosoms in the villages that they call their true homes. Of course, by losers I mean 90 per cent of the city’s population.

  Anyway, do you remember the guy Iris was eyeing the first day we hung out with my Uncle Chino at the beginning of my not-so-fairy tale?

  You don’t?

  That’s fine. I’ll refresh your memory.

  Amongst my nerdy Uncle Chino’s friends was a gentleman by the name of Selaelo Maboa, a big-time corporate lawyer, who instantly had Iris’s heart a-flutter.

  All along, you’ve been thinking I’m the one putting the ‘whore’ into horrible amongst my friends, but little did you know that Iris is not some innocent little girl. No, no, no.

  Iris and the lawyer man hit it off from that very day and she’s been cosying up to him whenever Mr Emmanuel is out of town, which as you know is most of the time.

  Tonight we’re meeting up with Lawyer Man Selaelo, some of his partners and his clients. Two more of Iris’s girlfriends will also be joining us. I’m really looking forward to it. Apparently, Selaelo has booked a table at SanDeck in Sandton, one of my favourite locales. I simply cannot wait to rock my best micro-mini, my Miu Miu stilettos and my new weave! It’s been too long!

  Iris and Tsholo have arrived early, as per usual. They are both done up to the nines, and Iris has her arm draped possessively around Selaelo. I wonder if he’s not married. He certainly does not seem to have any qualms about Iris’s PDAs.

  The table is full of men who are dressed in a very corporate fashion. I’m sometimes wary of corporate types because they like to talk shop. If they start talking politics or world affairs, I will weep. I did not get dressed up like this to crack my skull trying to impress men.

  There are seven of them in total and three of us girls so far. I wonder when Iris’s girlfriends are going to join us. These men look completely outside my fishing pond. Firstly, they look really ordinary, the kind of men who are looking for ‘real’ relationships, the kind of men who would want to date someone like Tsholo. In other words, the kind of men who draw a monthly salary. I stifle a yawn as the one sitting next to me asks me what I will be drinking. I cannot even order champagne with this crowd so I decide to join the girls, who are drinking a bottle of Chardonnay.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  As I try to follow the conversation amongst the large group, the usual complaints about the president and his many wives, two statuesque creatures wearing tailored business suits stride over to our table to join us.

  These must be Iris’s friends.

  They look like models.

  Iris leaves her man for a second and goes over to give them exaggerated hugs and kisses. They come to sit on the two empty chairs next to me. I recognise one of them from Instagram. I think she’s a Miss-Something-You-Can-Only-View-Using-A-Telescope. Like Miss Earth, or Miss Globe, or Miss Milky Way. Yaaaawwwnnnn.

  I cannot believe this is how my first night out in Johannesburg in ages is turning out.

  Of course, the conversation turns to the beauty queen and her friend points out that she is, indeed, a Miss Galaxy.

  The boring lawyers eat it up. What is it with men, and women who’ve won beauty pageants? Especially this one, who reigns over the entire galaxy. No matter how intelligent a man purports to be, he instantly turns to mush at the sight of a beauty queen.

  I decide I will drink as much as possible, say as little as possible and get my cute arse out of here before midnight.

  By the time I am ready to head home, I am shocked to realise that none of the men asked for my number.

  Downgrade

  Any girl who lives my lifestyle will tell you the worst season of the year for mistresses is the so-called Festive Season. Men go off to be with their wives and offspring; the world dissolves into a fog of merriment and cheer for all but the likes of Yours Truly.

  Where will I be at Christmas? How will I spend my New Year’s Eve?

  It’s two weeks before Christmas so my men are all probably still wrapping up business matters for the year. It’s time I got in touch.

  I start with Papa Jeff. I send him a long text about missing him and apologise for keeping silent for so long. I ask him to call me when he has time. I do the same with Teddy, whom I’ve only been communicating with regarding business. Lastly, I send Mr Emmanuel a text, more or less in the same vein.

  They all respond fairly quickly.

  Papa Jeff wants to meet me for lunch tomorrow; Teddy says he will be in town early in the New Year, adding that we have a lot to talk about; and Mr Emmanuel wants a Skype chat.

  This is all very good.

  I play catch-up with Teddy and Mr Emmanuel over texts and phone calls. I tell them what happened. They’re touched by my concern for my younger brother and each says that I should come to him if I need any help.

  However, my meeting with Papa Jeff makes me a little nervous. Other than the one text asking me to meet him, he hasn’t communicated with me at all.

  The next day, we meet at the Saxon Hotel, our favourite place. I am dressed in a body-hugging white Karen Millen dress, emerald green stilettos and a matching handbag.

  I find him sitting down, reading the menu. He does not even look up when I walk over to join him at his table.

  I kiss him on the cheek by way of greeting.

  ‘Mmmm … I love your perfume. What is it that you’re wearing?’

  ‘Valentino. It’s luscious, isn’t i
t?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ he comments, ‘glad to know that I’m still keeping you in top form. Give me a proper kiss.’

  I take his face in both my hands, crouching a bit uncomfortably as I give him a passionate smooch.

  ‘I love that,’ he whispers.

  I sit opposite him and take his hands in mine. ‘I have missed you so, so much. How’ve you been keeping?’

  Papa Jeff shakes his head solemnly. ‘Still tough.’ He shrugs. ‘But I have to be a man about it. I’ll find a way out of this mess, one way or the other.’

  Oh, my! I was hoping he’d already worked his way out of the mess. I can’t stand talking about his issues with the Hawks Investigating Unit. It makes me nervous. After all, it’s going to impact my life and my finances too.

  ‘Babe, I tell you what, let me get you a drink. Shall I order you a double Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks?’

  ‘On you?’ he asks, smiling.

  I nod. In spite of my dwindling resources, I want him to feel that I’m on his side. ‘Of course. My treat. You deserve it,’ I say as I call the waiter to take our orders.

  I ask for a glass of Chardonnay. I have a feeling I’m going to need it. I’m making a mental calculation of how much it’ll cost and am already stressed out. The thought of my bank balance is making me feel queasy. I have to consider this an investment. Papa Jeff’s wealth is not going to be completely drained by some tinpot investigation by the Hawks. I know he has some money offshore that they cannot touch.

  ‘Baby girl, this is a big mess. You won’t believe the number of sleepless nights I’ve had to endure. I have to downsize everything in my lifestyle,’ he says, pointedly.

  I try to breathe evenly and not think about the amount of trouble I’ll be in if Papa Jeff cuts my monthly allowance by even a cent.

  He drinks his whisky. ‘So, tell me all about your leave of absence,’ he says. ‘Why did you desert me for so long, knowing what I’ve been going through?’

  I lay out the whole story – my mom’s frantic call, driving to Mamelodi, finding Golokile in the drug den in Soshanguve, the rehab, the psychiatrist. Everything. I find myself tearing up a little during my narration. I need as much sympathy as I can get.

  Papa Jeff holds my hand and squeezes it. ‘My poor baby girl. I hate to see you like this.’

  I take a packet of tissues from my bag and wipe my nose.

  ‘My heart has never been broken like it was that day. That boy means the world to me.’

  ‘Maybe you should get him to come and live with you? Take him away from that environment?’

  I’ve thought about this many times, but you know what my lifestyle is like. Hardly the kind of environment you would want to raise an adolescent in.

  But, of course, I cannot tell Papa Jeff that.

  ‘I would love to, Papa Jeff, but a young boy needs stability and my finances are not in good shape. That tender I told you about? It’s being audited. We’re not sure if we’ll be able to complete the job. It’s another huge mess.’

  He makes a steeple shape with his hands and places his fingers on his forehead. That’s a sign he’s really in distress.

  ‘It’s tough these days. The government has been corrupt for so long that nobody trusts anyone anymore. But your deal – was everything above board?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes. Mama … I mean, Aunty Sophia, has always been professional. She gets other jobs as well so I don’t think there’s anything shady going on there.’

  ‘For your sake, I hope not, baby girl. I have … ahem … some not so good news … eh … that I need to share with you.’

  Oh-oh. I knew this was coming.

  ‘Baby girl … the Mercedes … there’s … ahem … an issue there.’

  ‘What? The Merc? What issue?’

  ‘Erm … you see … the Merc is … um … currently behind by two instalments.’

  I shake my head disbelievingly. He’s lying! He told me he bought it outright! He probably wants to cash it in. ‘But, babe, you paid for it,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘How could it be owing anything?’

  Now he looks embarrassed. Eyes downcast, he says: ‘Er … you know, at the time, it just seemed to make more economic sense to pay for it monthly. I didn’t want to trouble you with all the details. The worst part is that my wife found out about the Merc. We were going through all the bank statements and financials, trying to see where we could downsize. She wants it with us as soon as possible and sold back to the dealer.’

  The last part he says quickly, like a nervous child confessing to an indiscretion.

  This is bullshit! I thought this man would be sympathetic to my misfortune but instead he wants to turn my life into a complete nightmare. He wants the car back? No way! Over my dead body.

  ‘Babe … but … wha-what are you asking me?’

  ‘Bontle, you have to return the car.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s my car. I’ve been driving it since we drove it out of the dealership. You can’t just take it away from me! That’s just not fair!’

  I knew I sounded like a child but I couldn’t believe that his bitch of a wife was doing this to me.

  ‘Babe … I have a paid-up Toyota Corolla at the Pretoria office. You can drive that in the meantime. Just until things die down …’

  Toyota what?

  ‘But when, or how, is that going to happen? When are things ever going to die down? It’s the Hawks we’re dealing with here!’

  He opens both his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  I’ve never known Papa Jeff to be like this. He’s always so assured, so confident, always there with all the answers.

  Okay, now I actually need to throw up.

  I excuse myself to go to the ladies where I empty all that morning’s breakfast into the toilet bowl. Afterwards, I get up and make sure that I didn’t mess my dress. I have a small bottle of mouthwash in my bag for occasions like this so I gargle for a good while.

  I reapply my make-up and fix my hair and give myself a pep talk. It will all be okay. Things will work out for the best. I keep repeating this mantra until some of my confidence returns.

  I go back to face Papa Jeff.

  I feel sad for him now. I wish there was anything I could say to make him feel better. Just one thought comes to mind.

  ‘Babe, there must be a way. Do you still see uBaba Shongwane?’ (Mr Shongwane)

  There are three kinds of black people … at least in my experience.

  There are the ones who cast their eyes upwards when seeking help, hoping for salvation from the heavens through the intervention of priests and pastors. Then there are the ones who plead for help by looking down to the ground; begging for the intervention of their ancestors through the intercession of sangomas. Then, lastly, there’re the ones who do a bit of both; looking upwards and downwards, hoping for aid from all quarters.

  I know Papa Jeff to be in the last category.

  He frowns. ‘Nah … I don’t believe in that stuff anymore.’

  ‘Why not? uBaba Shongwane used to help you out a lot. Remember with that deal … the big army supply deal you told me about? You were going up against two international companies with more credentials than you had, and he helped you get it.’

  In our earlier days, right after I started divorce proceedings against Ntokozo, Papa Jeff used to involve me in every aspect of his life. I’m not really sure what changed. Either I did or he did, but neither of us really complains about it. Maybe it’s just life, that we’re not as excited about each other as we were before. There’s the crazy chemistry of New Love or infatuation, where you can’t bear to be without each other, but over time it mellows out. I don’t think he cares about me any less, but life has just become busier, more complicated.

  I once watched a documentary on TV where they were talking about how chickens have such good eyesight that when they view a rainbow, the spectrum of colours that they see is more fantastical and wondrous than any colours visible to the human eye. I think love is a bit like t
hat. When it’s new, it’s beautiful and spectacular, something like the glorious mosaic that those birds see. But in time, it loses some of its wonder. It’s still something glorious but it’s a tamped down marvel. Not as dizzying as in its first glow.

  Anyway, I don’t know why my mind just meandered like that, maybe it’s because of the wine I ordered. Now I’m telling you about chickens. Hayi. Maybe you should also grab yourself a drink. It’s rough in these parts.

  Anyway, in those days, Papa Jeff, with his Harvard education and expensive suits, occasionally used to visit a sangoma by the name of uBaba Shongwane. Whenever he had a big deal coming or had bought a new house or car, uBaba Shongwane was always there to offer Papa Jeff good fortune in his dealings. He even ‘blessed’ my Merc … hmmm, I’m not so sure about his prowess now. Anyway, this isn’t about me, it’s about Papa Jeff and his bigger troubles.

  I’m surprised to hear that he has not been to see uBaba Shongwane about the recent bad turn in his fortunes.

  ‘But you always said you don’t make a major move without him. I’m sure he can make this whole Hawks saga go away.’

  Papa Jeff shrugs again. ‘My wife … we’ve joined a new church. We’ve become more … spiritual.’

  I roll my eyes as discreetly as I can manage. So this is why he’s been drifting away from me. He’s become some kind of born-again Christian. Oh, Jere.

  ‘But, baby, you have to be practical at a time like this. Prayer is good, but you need help from all quarters right now. You need to fight back on all fronts.’

  Again the shrug. ‘I don’t know … I’ll sleep on it. Can you promise me something?’

  ‘Anything for you, baby,’ I say.

  Except handing over the keys to the Merc.

  ‘If I do go to Shongwane … will you come with me?’

  I smile. This is all I need. A role to play, the chance to be someone he can turn to in his struggle. At least I can stall the handover of the Merc while I think up a plan. Maybe Teddy or someone can continue the instalments.