The Blessed Girl

by Angela Makholwa

  ‘You need to check how you speak to me.’

  ‘You’re not my father! Just go! You don’t know the effort I put into making this night special for you, yet you’ve been nothing but judgmental since you walked in here.’

  He huffs and puffs like he’s about to have an asthma attack. Like, what the fuck? Who is this person? He goes to sit down and starts fidgeting with his phone. I take my champagne glass and go to my bedroom. I shut the door and flop down on the bed. This is all so unbelievable.

  After a few minutes, he walks into the bedroom.

  ‘Bontle … babe. I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. I’ve had a bad week and …’

  ‘What’s your bad week got to do with me? I wanted to show you how I feel about you and all you do is …’ I start tearing up.

  He comes to sit next to me and massages my shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, love,’ he says. ‘I’m falling hard for you. I guess I’m jealous. I can’t bear to imagine you with another man. When I’m away, all I do is think about you. I wonder what you’re doing. Who you’re with. When I can’t get hold of you, I get really worried.’

  ‘Is that why you always Facetime me? You want to check that I’m not with someone else?’

  It’s actually just occurred to me now. Sies. Creep!

  ‘No, no. it’s nothing like that. I just worry about you. A beautiful woman like you … men can easily take advantage, you know. Flaunt you around like a trophy. I want more for you. You’re so vibrant and intelligent. I don’t want you to fall into that trap.’

  I look into his eyes and I see deep intensity and sincerity. This man really loves me. Gosh! This is moving faster than I’d hoped. Of course! That’s why he’s so jealous. He wants to be assured that I’m exclusive with him. Once he has that assurance, I bet he’s going to leave his wife for me. Wow! I’m so lucky!

  I get up and look into his eyes. I take his face in my hands and start kissing him.

  ‘You, Mr Emmanuel, are the only man for me. So stop worrying, and being silly and jealous. You’re going to push me away if you do that.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I want,’ he says quickly.

  ‘So relax. I wouldn’t have invited you to my home if I wasn’t serious about us. You are everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. And much, much more,’ I say as I reach down to the place I know is aching for me. Always.

  Home Again

  After our wobbly start, I had a fantastic evening with Mr Emmanuel. I didn’t realise he could be so insecure and possessive but I guess it just goes to show how quickly he’s become attached to me. The day after he left my house, I had a delivery. It turns out he had another motive for checking out my things. When I opened the door to the delivery man, I was made to sign for three packages. Imagine my surprise when I unzipped the garment covers to find three outfits packed for me; a Valentino dress that I had seen at an international online store, a Gucci pant suit and a pair of Cavalli jeans. I tried them on and they all fitted perfectly! He was snooping around to get my dress size so he could surprise me! Just as I was recovering from this splurge, the delivery man was back again with three pairs of designer shoes, each carefully selected to complement a different outfit. To quote Oprah, ‘I am living my best life.’ Yeah, baby!

  When I woke up on Sunday morning, I took an Uber to collect my rental car. I’ve hired it for the next five days. It’s cheaper than getting constant Ubers, especially all the way to Mamelodi like I’m doing today.

  Surely it’s just a matter of time till Mr Emmanuel buys me a new car anyway.

  I get to my mother’s house at around noon to discover that Golokile and Mom have just come home from attending Mass. I’m happy to hear it. Mom has never been what you would classify as a staunch Christian but there were periods when she would become an avid churchgoer, even going so far as to join one or other church group. Then someone would say something about her (usually related to her shebeen queen status) and she’d quit in a huff, vowing never to go back to church again. Then some life-changing event would occur and send her right back to fellowship and worship. And then the cycle would go around again. I think Golokile’s dalliance with drugs has led her back to Christianity this time. It’s a good thing. She’s usually at her best when she is a God-fearing Christian.

  Even before he says hello, Golokile wants to know what’s happened to the Merc.

  I give him a hug. ‘Hey, wena. So you were always excited to see the Merc and not your sister?’ I add, laughing.

  ‘Where is your car, Bontle?’ Mom asks, joining in. ‘Were you in an accident?’

  Eish!

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A minor accident. The car is at the panel beater’s so they gave me a rental for a few days.’

  ‘Oh. That’s good. They’re organised. So – are you going to take us out for lunch?’

  I shrug. I had only intended to take Golokile, but why not? She did give birth to me, after all. I decide to take them to Menlyn shopping centre, away from the township for a change.

  We end up having an amazing day of movies, dinner, ice-cream and lots of good laughs. Sometimes I wonder if Mom is not so bad after all.

  Love Is in the Air

  Good news! Mr Emmanuel is back in town.

  He called on Monday and invited me to join him at his Sandhurst apartment on Wednesday, the day after he lands in Johannesburg. I didn’t even know he had an apartment here! He’s never mentioned it before, and if he has his own place, why all the meetings in hotels? Hmmph. I wonder if Iris is the one he’s been seeing at his apartment.

  To prepare for our date, I take care to look beautiful and classy. I even put on my pearls.

  I order an Uber to take me to Mr Emmanuel, and then I see a contrite, loving text from Papa Jeff. I’d almost forgotten about him and his crazy wife. She must have given him hell, he he he. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll live.

  As my Uber draws closer to the place, I see it’s actually a hotel apartment, the kind that is fully furnished and has lock-and-go facilities. I feel like I’ve been here before, many lovers ago. I don’t want to be thirty years old and still living like this. I’m turning twenty-nine this year, I need a husband by next year, or at least some commitment.

  I really wouldn’t mind having a child with Mr Emmanuel, you know. He would take good care of us. Now that we are no longer using protection, I can actually start planning around that goal. I just have to make sure he’ll buy into it.

  I get out of the Uber and tip the driver. I walk upstairs to the apartment number he gave over the phone and ring the doorbell. A man dressed in a neat black suit opens the door. So the rich seriously all have butlers? I like it.

  The man greets me politely and asks me to take a seat in the living room. He says Mr Emmanuel will be coming through shortly. (He actually says Mr Adebayo, but to us he’ll always be Mr Emmanuel, right?)

  I take in the interior of the place: lush grey carpeting, modern, minimalist furniture, beautiful chandeliers, mirrors. It looks ‘designed’. You can tell nobody actually lives here permanently. It has that perfect, decorated, hotel feel to it.

  When I become Mr Emmanuel’s second wife, we’re going to have to get our own place in Hyde Park or Athol. None of this hotel living.

  He finally emerges, looking casual in a Valentino shirt and Cavalli jeans. I’ve never seen him wearing casual clothes before, except when we were in Bali. In Johannesburg, he’s always in suits. It’s a welcome change. It has the feeling of familiarity to it. He comes to join me in the lounge and plants a lingering kiss on my mouth. His sex appeal is off the charts.

  But Mr Emmanuel has other plans.

  ‘You surprised me with that exceptional meal,’ he says. ‘Now it’s my turn to treat you to something home-made and sumptuous.’

  Can’t say no to that.

  He leads me to the dining area, which is much bigger than I expected with a long glass table and beautiful antique dining chairs. The table is set for two, with starter, main and desser
t plates.

  I feel like royalty.

  A woman in a French maid’s outfit comes out from the kitchen and asks me what I will have to drink. Mr Emmanuel responds on my behalf. He asks for a bottle of vintage red wine and some sparkling water.

  He asks me whether I will be having the starter – baked camembert cheese in filo pastry. I love camembert, even if it is a bit smelly; luckily I have mints with me. The lady serves our starters and Mr Emmanuel is all pleasant and chatty. I like this side of him. He seems eager to please.

  ‘So, Mr Emmanuel. How exactly did you get to be this giant in the business world?’

  He looks at me and beams. He starts telling me the story that I know only too well. Remember how I trawled the internet before that serendipitous meeting at the Melrose Hotel? I know all about how he started at an oil company in Nigeria, then worked his way up to a management position. He was headhunted to run a start-up oil company and allocated a generous share option. Within a few years, the company was listed on the stock exchange then Mr Emmanuel branched out on his own and started a number of other businesses in different sectors. He goes into a detailed account of his business life, and I see him beaming with pride during the telling of his story but wonder how much detail he’s leaving out of the narrative. He’s clearly very ambitious – it’s quite mesmerising really. I sense that he can be cut-throat too, not only in business but also in his private life.

  ‘So, Mr Emmanuel, what have you got planned for us for the rest of the evening?’ I ask with a naughty look. All this business talk has got me all hot and bothered. I love me a powerful man.

  ‘Baby … I think you can call me Emmanuel now.’

  ‘I know, I know. I just like Mr Emmanuel. It sounds sexy to me. It speaks of the authority you hold, and that’s a huge turn-on for me.’

  He laughs. ‘Okay. Any way you like it then.’

  We enjoy our mains, the wine; and the conversation just flows. He tells me he’s thinking of selling his Lamborghini because he hardly ever gets to drive it when he’s in South Africa (he usually moves around in a Bentley). I decide that this is my opportunity to share my car woes.

  ‘You’re so fortunate to live a life of unlimited options. Did I tell you my car was involved in an accident? I’ve been shuttling around in an Uber for the past few months. It’s an expensive inconvenience, I can tell you that much.’

  ‘Doesn’t your insurance offer you a temp car?’

  Oh, gosh. Rich people. I don’t know what kind of insurance cover was on that car. Papa Jeff took care of all that.

  ‘No. Mr Emmanuel, you forget, I’m only twenty-four (don’t ask, don’t ask). I can’t afford that kind of insurance cover.’

  He’s quiet and thoughtful for a while.

  Then: ‘I tell you what,’ he says. ‘I keep an old BMW lying around in the garage. It’s not brand new, but I hardly ever use it. It’s a model from two years ago but it’s only got a couple of thousand K on the clock. Why don’t I lend it to you while you wait for your car to be fixed?’

  ‘What? You’d do that for me, baby?’

  ‘Sweetheart. You know I’d do anything for you.’

  Happy days!

  Papa Jeff

  Papa Jeff sends me more messages and I totally ignore them to begin with. I mean, he did let that mad bitch take my beloved Merc, but after a while I feel mean and call him back. It’s been years for us after all. He starts with his apologies and how he’s been feeling so bad. I squeeze out some fake tears; after all, that woman could have killed me and she did effectively end a long, once precious relationship, even if bigger and better things were waiting. Some of the tears are real. I can’t believe things ended so badly for us after all those special years.

  ‘Don’t cry, baby,’ he says, ‘I can’t bear it. Listen, I’m going to Cape Town for a few days. Just to cool my head and get away from all the noise here in Johannesburg. Would you mind joining me? You probably need a holiday as much as I do?’

  I say no. There’s no way I can possibly risk messing everything up with Mr Emmanuel at this point. Not that I say this to Papa Jeff. I tell him it’s too painful for me to see him after that ugly scene the other day.

  He’s silent.

  ‘I still love you, baby girl,’ he says.

  And part of me feels touched by that. And also, I could do with a break and Cape Town is beautiful this time of year. What are the chances of Mr Emmanuel finding out? I’m just being paranoid.

  I’m silent for a long time, then I say, ‘When are you planning this getaway, Papa Jeff?’

  You can hear his relief at my question. ‘Well, I’m leaving this Friday. Baby girl … it’ll be just like old times. Do you remember how much fun we used to have?’

  ‘Yeah … I remember,’ I say quietly. I’m still a bit doubtful. But what better plans do I have for the weekend? My diary is literally empty.

  ‘Okay, Papa Jeff. It’s really sweet of you to invite me. Why not? I miss our old times. Do you still have my ID details for the flight booking?’

  ‘Why don’t you send them to me again, baby girl? This is going to be fantastic. Hmmm … I can’t wait to get naughty with you. I certainly need the R&R.’

  ‘Nothing like a bit of travel to clear the mind. We’re both going to forget all about the stress we’ve been going through.’

  ‘I know. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow. I should have your ticket ready by then. Pack lots of sexy swimwear. We’ll swim, we’ll go out on the town. I promise you, you won’t see the frowns you’ve been seeing on this face lately when we hit Cape Town.’

  And he’s right. We spend six wonderful, stress-free days there doing nothing but wine-tasting, swimming, sightseeing, fine dining and as much lovemaking as you can manage when one of you is an overweight fifty-nine year old. It’s a lovely trip. Afterwards Papa Jeff had a day booked in Johannesburg for business so of course I offered him my place to stay at, what do you take me for? He’s stayed over many times before but usually leaves once we’ve enjoyed our time together, this is the first time he’s hung about waiting for his next meeting. It’s 9 a.m. and he’s been sitting in my bedroom going through emails on his laptop. It’s strange having someone here. I leave him be and go to Chimamanda’s salon where I find Lebohang – my favourite stylist – on duty today, which is a bit of luck.

  Lebohang starts undoing my weave and proceeds to shampoo my hair, all the while making small talk.

  A few minutes after we’re done with the hair washing, Chimamanda steps into the salon looking very sleek and professional. She’s a far cry from the woman I first met more than seven years ago. These days she dresses like a real businesswoman, all colour-coded suits and high heels. I don’t know why she bothers. It’s a hair salon, for crying out loud, but each to her own.

  When she sees me, she immediately comes to greet me.

  ‘Hey, Missy! Where have you been hiding?’

  I smile at her.

  ‘Cape Town, baby. I spent six glorious days there – Clifton, Camps Bay, all my favourite haunts.’

  ‘Hmmm … And you went there with whom?’

  I giggle playfully. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. All I can tell you is that I shopped till I dropped and I was spoiled rotten!’

  ‘Wow, you certainly live a glamorous life, young lady. And where are my hairpieces?’

  ‘The new stock will be here in two days. You’re going to love them, Chima. You know the new lace-front wigs with a soft hairline? They’re all the rage overseas and my supplier’s given me first dibs on them. Prepare to be very busy,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘I’m excited. I know you’re always on point when it comes to the latest trends.’

  ‘You’d better believe it!’

  As I leave the salon, I stop at the entrance to take a quick pic of my new look to post on Instagram. I have a big order from Chima and I feel good! I get home and Papa Jeff is still there and still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. His Durban meeting was postponed till the next
day and instead of just cancelling it or flying out and returning for it he’s staying with me. I feel less good. His financial downturn is really cramping my style. I’m sympathetic towards him but I’m also counting the minutes till he leaves. Mr Emmanuel has messaged wanting to Facetime with me. Please imagine his temper when he sees some old dude in pyjamas wandering around in the background. It’s only a matter of one day till Papa Jeff leaves after all, but god, it’s moving slowly. He just took a shower and now he’s sitting in the lounge wearing nothing but one of my bath towels, tied below his big tummy.

  Sheesh. Brother needs to go.

  The intercom buzzes. As I go to answer it I see he’s already picked up the receiver.

  He-eh. Who died and made him king of my castle?

  I walk over to hear what’s going on. I wasn’t expecting anyone. He’s talking to one of the security guards. ‘Apparently there’s a delivery at the gate for you,’ he says.

  ‘Hmm. I’m not expecting a delivery,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe it’s the wine we ordered in Stellenbosch.’

  ‘Here so soon? That’s great. Let them in!’ I say excitedly.

  I had been about to step into the shower but instead I put on my gown and go to the lounge, looking forward to the boxes of red and white wine from one of the estates we visited, one for him and one for me.

  The bell rings and Papa Jeff goes to open the door. In his towel! Hmmph – these men!

  I see his body freeze immediately. I go across to see why he’s suddenly gone as still as a ghost.

  It’s his wife!

  ‘Motshegwa, what are you doing here?’ (Again, not that maniac’s real name.)

  ‘Hey, wena. Move! And what the fuck are you doing with that cheap towel? Sies!’ she says, as she walks into my living room carrying a suitcase.

  A few seconds later, a man wearing a courier company’s uniform marches in with two more large suitcases.

  The wife is standing with her arms on her hips, waving a piece of paper at me.

  ‘Take this, sfebe!’ she proclaims. ‘It’s his list of medications and a meal plan for his diabetes. Make sure you stick to the meal plan if you don’t want him dying on you. Also, tell him to go easy on the Viagra. Now that you’re staying together, he can’t afford to hide things from you … otherwise he’ll drop dead.’