The Blessed Girl

by Angela Makholwa

  The delivery man returns with two more bags of luggage.

  Papa Jeff and I are literally speechless as we take in the drama. It’s too much of a shock. His wife – here, in my living room?

  After a few minutes, Papa Jeff manages to say, ‘Motshegwa … what are you doing? This is crazy … Look, I can explain.’

  ‘Sello, there’s nothing to explain. I can’t keep running around town trying to stop you from being with this little bitch of yours. I’m done. Clearly you made your choice long ago. I’m no longer your wife. Let her deal with you and all your problems. Goodbye.’

  Papa Jeff chases after her, still clad only in my towel.

  I look out the window. My apartment is six floors up. In time I see them outside, talking agitatedly to each other. Mrs Papa Jeff still looks furious and won’t stop to listen to the man pleading with her – towel and all. Thankfully, the parking lot is empty at this time of the day, but I imagine there must be some residents peeking out of their windows to witness the drama unfold.

  Jyslik. What am I going to do?

  This woman better come to her senses. How am I going to take care of an ailing fifty-nine-year-old man?

  In a flash, she’s in the courier company’s van, and off she goes.

  What have I just witnessed? How did she convince the courier company to drive her to my house? No, no, no.

  That’s not even important.

  What does this all mean?

  I’m not going to be stuck with Papa Jeff, am I?

  Flipping hell, surely not.

  No. This woman has made her point. Now we just need to gather our thoughts and strategise.

  I pace the floor as I await Papa Jeff’s return.

  He comes back, sweating, red-faced and agitated.

  ‘This woman … my blood pressure. Give me my medication bag,’ he says, pointing.

  Yho. There’s a whole medicine bag!

  I hand him the bag as he sits on one of the couches, breathing heavily.

  ‘How could she do this to me? She knows my condition.’

  I don’t know his condition.

  He asks me to get him a glass of water, which I dutifully do, but my mind is busy with a thousand calculations. All of which end with one answer to the sum: me, alone, in my beautiful penthouse, in peace.

  I allow Papa Jeff to take his pills and breathe a bit, but I have questions that need answers.

  ‘So … what are you going to do now, Papa Jeff?’

  He looks up at me from the couch.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I mean … what’s going to happen now?’

  He looks lost and confused, and for a long while he’s quiet. Then he stands up and goes to the bedroom.

  ‘I have to go,’ I hear him say. ‘I have to get to my wife. Shit! Where’re my pants? The grey ones … I thought I put them on the bed.’

  I don’t know what he’s talking about

  ‘Look for them in your suitcase,’ I say.

  I stand in the doorway, watching him. This situation is making me nervous. He fidgets for a while, going up and down, tossing things around, mumbling to himself.

  This is a serious emergency. I go back to the lounge.

  A few minutes later, he’s dressed in a creased shirt and pants, and striding out the door.

  ‘I’m going home,’ he says.

  I nod, trying not to whoop with jubilation. I say a prayer that they work things out. I never planned to ruin anyone’s marriage. And I certainly never planned to stay with another woman’s husband. Not in my apartment, at any rate.

  Two hours later, Papa Jeff is back.

  He comes through the door, chest heaving in exasperation.

  ‘That damn’ woman!’ he says. ‘She’s changed the locks! To my own house!’

  What now?

  This is serious.

  ‘She can’t do that. It’s your house. You need to reason with her,’ I cry, unable to disguise the alarm in my voice.

  He sits on the couch again, covering his face with both hands. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘There must be something … babe, I never meant for any of this to happen. I don’t want to ruin your marriage.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now,’ he mumbles.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s ruined! It’s over!’ he says, gesticulating with his hands.

  ‘No. You know how women are. She’s just trying to prove a point. She’ll come to her senses.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’

  Yho. We can’t afford to think that way.

  I remember something from The Secret. ‘The Secret to Life is The Law of Attraction or The Law of Creation. In other words, Life is not happening to you. You are creating it. You have the power.’ I say the words out loud. ‘It’s from a book I read. By an American writer who—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Whatever is happening in your life is a manifestation of your own thoughts, so think positive,’ I tell him.

  ‘He wena. Don’t bother me with your idiotic bullshit. That’s shit created to dupe small minds like yours. How the fuck did I create this situation? How the fuck did I wish for my company to be investigated, my assets to be seized, and my wife to leave me with a brainless moron who quotes stupid American books at me when my life is falling apart? Hmm? How did I create that?’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Aghh … I need to take a drive. I can’t deal with this.’

  Papa Jeff takes his car keys and bangs out the door.

  Why is this happening to me? Maybe I should change my locks also. What an arsehole!

  More Papa Jeff

  It’s been two weeks of living with Papa Jeff. Every second in the same apartment with him feels like nails scratching a chalkboard.

  I am constantly irritated, and by the looks of it, so is he.

  For one thing, I’m not really a cook, you know. I can make eggs and microwave things. But his flipping meal plans comprise all sorts of stupid little boring ingredients – things I have to boil, steam or grill. Imagine spending an afternoon cooking for the first time in your life and at the end of it you’ve made bland, colourless slop. Aside from the cleaning up I have to do after cutting and chopping his cabbages, carrots and butternuts, the man keeps leaving things on the floor for god knows who to pick up after him! Do you see your butler here, Papa Jeff?

  Then there’s the snoring … gawd, the snoring! I don’t know why I never noticed it before but this man roars like a steam-train all night long. I feel like I haven’t slept in years.

  But all of this is secondary when you consider that I’ve had to keep stalling Mr Emmanuel and praying he doesn’t surprise me at home one of these days. Fortunately, he says he’s been travelling through Europe with his family. His kids are on vacation so the family decided to take a Euro-tour. He’s been texting and calling as often as possible, which is admirable, given his family’s presence. Thank god he doesn’t have the number for the landline because Papa Jeff seems to think this is his flat and answers doors and takes calls without giving it a second thought.

  The last thing I need is him spoiling things. Yet what can I do? I can’t exactly throw the man out of the place that he found for me. Or can I?

  Hmm. I’ve just had one of my brilliant ideas.

  I wait for Papa Jeff to fall into a deep slumber then I creep over to his phone, which he normally leaves to charge by the pedestal.

  I’ve always memorised his phone passcodes. Can you believe I thought I’d be jealous if he started to cheat on me? Now I’d hire and pay the girl myself! Anyway, I stealthily grab the phone and pad softly to the lounge.

  I scroll down till I get to his wife’s number. He’s saved her as The Missus. How sweet. I check the exchanges between them. This pathetic bugger has been texting his wife and asking to be taken back. Hmmph. How dare he cheat on me with his wife! He he. I’m devastated … not.

  I notice the pleas are cold and stilted.

&n
bsp; Think about our family. Our children must miss their dad. Hmmph. As if that’s going to move any scorned woman. Their children are all in their twenties and have long since left the nest.

  Okay. Hold on, Papa Jeff. Here comes Cupid to save the day.

  I decide to write a long, touching missive on his behalf, telling his wife all about ‘that woman’s’ irritating habits and begging her to take him back. My text is the stuff of romantic novels. Tsholo would be proud.

  You are my one true love, my soulmate, the one who’s shadowed every important moment of my life. I can’t eat, I haven’t slept for weeks, baby, I can’t breathe without you. This piece of trash is the worst mistake I’ve ever made. Please take me back! I beg you!

  I replace the phone on the pedestal and connect it to the charger. The next morning, I wake up to find him rushing to work. I’m sure he’ll be getting a text from his wife soon. Don’t you like this Cupid look on me?

  Now for my next move. I take a deep breath and dial his wife’s number. Of course I have it, we used to be friends.

  ‘Mrs Papa Jeff,’ I say, braced for the shit that’s going to come my way. The bloody madwoman is screaming at me.

  ‘The nerve! How dare you call me!’

  ‘Please, calm down. This is actually a courtesy call. Papa Jeff and I are planning to settle down soon, officially. I thought I’d just let you know.’

  ‘Ha! You delusional, desperate cunt,’ she shouts, with a mad laugh.

  ‘No, my dear. There’s nothing delusional about me. All I ask is that you grant us a peaceful divorce. I mean, you’ve been great so far. I actually thought that maybe we could put our differences aside now we’re practically family. Can we be friends again?’

  She bangs down the phone.

  I take a deep breath. I hope this works.

  That night, Papa Jeff doesn’t return to the apartment.

  The Evening After

  I’m still reeling from the events of yesterday, wondering how it might play out. I have not heard from Papa Jeff since he left the house. Around eight o’clock in the evening, I hear someone fussing with the door lock.

  It’s him.

  I’m lying down on my bed, legs crossed while I listen to my favourite local singer, Zonke. I’m reading a book entitled A Woman’s Guide to Happiness: Why Men Are Trash.

  ‘Hi, Bontle. I … um … I’m here to get my things,’ says Papa Jeff as he stands by the bedroom door.

  ‘What? You’re leaving me?’ I ask, as I straighten up and sit on the bed facing him.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, busying himself packing.

  ‘Oh. Why?’ I ask.

  I don’t really know why I’m compelled to continue with this charade. He must have seen the message that I sent his wife last night or at least figured things out from her exchanges with him.

  He continues packing, while whistling nonchalantly.

  I decide to go back to reading my book.

  Eventually, he’s done packing.

  ‘Okay, I’m gone,’ he announces.

  ‘’Bye, Papa Jeff,’ I say.

  He stands by the doorway then laughs, shaking his head.

  ‘You really are something, you know … thank you.’

  I laugh, then stand up to hug him.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I say, and walk him out the door.

  ‘I’m happy, Bontle. Thank god she’s taking me back.’

  I laugh once more. ‘Was I so bad?’

  He rolls his eyes mischievously and just grins at me.

  ‘Stay away from bitches,’ I say, as I wave him out.

  He laughs happily as he makes his way to his car.

  I can’t wait for the Pope to make me a saint.

  Bontle Tau. Mender of Broken Homes.

  Bitter Pill

  Not only is my apartment my own again but I am really enjoying zipping around town in my new wheels. #Sexy! I have another date with Mr Emmanuel today. I’m going to wear the Cavalli jeans that he had delivered to my house. Didn’t I tell you at the very beginning that I was destined for great things? And you thought I was just another bimbo. So, now you see?

  I’m getting ready when my phone buzzes. It’s Iris.

  Can I call you for some sisterly advice? PS: your PhD is needed.

  What the hell?

  Sure, I message, inhaling deeply.

  She calls me within seconds.

  ‘Hey, nana. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Great,’ I say, waiting for us to get through the small talk.

  ‘Good. I think this year’s going to be amazing for all of us. How are your men – Papa Jeff … Teddy?’

  You don’t know me this well, Iris, I think. I try to calm my rising irritation.

  ‘Fine. Everyone’s fine.’

  ‘I read about Papa Jeff’s issues with the Hawks. I hope he’ll come out of it okay.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s got it under control,’ I say. Why should I provide her with any information about Papa Jeff or my relationship with him?

  ‘Okay, sweetie. That’s great. Anyway, the reason I called … gosh!’ She laughs.

  I’m virtually screaming GET ON WITH IT inside my head.

  ‘Okay, so you know how Mr Emmanuel and I have been together for more than a year now? So, he wants to see me. He’s landing tomorrow morning and wants me to meet him at his hotel in the evening. Friend, I’m so confused. On the one hand, I’m really crazy about Selaelo, but on the other hand … Mr Emmanuel is … I’ve never had someone spoil me as much as he does. The man will move heaven and earth for me. How do I let go of someone like that?’

  I feel flames flicker in the pit of my stomach. Why the hell is he still moving heaven and earth for her? He wants to see her tomorrow? My heart plummets.

  ‘So … what do you need me to help with?’ I manage to ask, though it comes out a little curtly.

  ‘What should I do, Bontle? I mean, Selaelo is husband material. He’s the real deal. We have a lot in common. We’re both very driven and ambitious. We complement each other so well. He’s the right age. I love him. I can’t get enough of him …’

  ‘So there’s your answer. You have to choose Selaelo.’

  ‘But Mr Emmanuel can give me a start in life … Hello! He wants to buy me a franchise.’

  ‘When did he last speak to you about the franchise?’

  ‘The last time he was here – late-February. It’s still happening, friend. I mean, you don’t know. This guy is CRAZY about me.’

  What the hell?

  Late-February?

  That was after our ten days together in Bali! That was after he asked me to stop using protection!

  So he had me for ten days, then proceeded to spend time with this cheap little tart? I can feel myself perspiring. This bitch had better be lying.

  ‘You were with him in February? Did he take you somewhere special? You know … to make you feel that he’s still there for you? The way Selaelo does?’

  ‘Phshh! Of course! We spent a weekend in Sun City. He was as sweet and loving as ever. I really feel torn, Bontle. I know it’s unrealistic to pit him against Selaelo, but he’s got me so used to the good life … and the idea of owning a fully paid for business … shoo! I just can’t let go of that.’

  This conversation is blowing my fuse.

  ‘Okay. Listen. This is what you do. Your relationship with Selaelo is going great so you need to push the pedal on Mr Emmanuel and get him to commit to the News Café on paper. Not just with words. This way, even if you do end up with Selaelo, you know you have committed Mr Emmanuel to buying you the business. You’ve earned it,’ I add.

  ‘The last thing you want is to have spent all your time and energy on him and come out with nothing. Look at me. Even though Papa Jeff is going through hard times, I have a roof over my head and—’

  I remember my beautiful Merc. Gone. But at least I have a BMW to replace it … take that, bitch!

  ‘Anyway,’ I carry on, ‘I made sure that, whatever happens, after six years with Papa
Jeff I had to come out with a fixed asset.’

  I’m not about to tell her I’m still paying the mortgage.

  ‘All hail to the uQueen,’ Iris giggles. ‘You really do have a degree in MENcology. Thanks for the advice, my friend. I’m gonna seduce the heck out of that man and get the business I deserve.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Good luck, my dear.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll keep you updated. The advice you just gave me is priceless.’

  ‘I’m here to serve,’ I hear myself say.

  I’m fuming. Hopefully, the minute she pushes Mr Emmanuel into committing to a News Café on paper, he’ll see what a greedy tart she is and shut this thing down.

  Just Desserts

  I feel like going to his hotel room and trashing it. I feel like I should grab a knife and pierce his crooked and treacherous heart. I’ve never felt so betrayed.

  All the hard work I’ve been doing – cooking him dinners, dressing like a film star, having unprotected sex with his gigantic penis – and this is the thanks I get?

  Mxm. He’s messed with the wrong girl.

  I pace up and down my living room, thinking about how to handle this situation.

  What if he’s playing both of us? What if he’s just dangling these carrots with no intention of doing anything? No News Café for Iris. No real commitment to me. It’s a possibility. It’s not like loyalty is his best quality. Enough playing nice. I’ve got to eliminate the competition.

  I go to the fridge and take out a tray of ice cubes. In the bathroom, I dump the ice cubes in the basin and wash my face with the freezing water.

  I need clarity. I need vision. The plan I have in mind can backfire on me if I don’t think through the details of my presentation.

  Dress code: not too sexy. I need to look like a girlfriend today. A sweet, well-intentioned girlfriend. So I stick to my plan of wearing the new Cavalli jeans he bought me with a loose top and the pretty floral-print Roberto Cavalli heels that came with the delivery. Sickly sweet. That’s what I’m going for.