It’s now 11 a.m.
Still no response from Ntokozo.
If he hasn’t called or texted by the time I come out of my shower, I will call him again.
I take a long, warm shower … still thinking about last night. But I mustn’t panic. It’s all under control. When I’m done showering, I look at my butt in my bedroom mirror. My waist is tiny, making my butt look even bigger. I must have lost more weight.
Ntokozo still hasn’t responded. I call him but the phone rings out.
Hmmphh.
I wait a few minutes, then call again.
He picks up the call.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
Silence.
‘Babe … Ntokozo. Please understand … I’d been drinking since early in the afternoon. I’d been with the girls. I know I was acting stupid. I was so arrogant. You know that’s not who I am … Please … please say something.’
He lets out a deep sigh.
‘Bontle, I think you need help,’ he says.
‘But I’m not like that! You’ve never seen me act that way before. It was just a one-off thing, I promise. I’ve been working hard lately, you know. Keeping the hair business going takes so much energy. I don’t have a car anymore. Then there was the drama with Golokile. It’s been a tough couple of months. I think I was buckling under the strain, that’s all. But, believe me, I never meant to disrespect you like that, I swear. You know me better than that.’
He’s still quiet.
After what feels like hours of silence from the other end of the line, I hear him breathe out loud.
‘I didn’t like the way you talked to me last night,’ he says. ‘It’s going to take a long time before I get over that.’
‘I know. I deserve that. But I’m willing to work hard to regain your trust. Your friendship is important to me, Ntokozo.’
A pregnant pause.
‘And yours is important to me too, Bontle. And that’s why I wanted to tell you this in person last night … I’ve signed the divorce papers.’
My heart stops. I feel like my chest has been hit by a hammer. I bite my lips to stifle the whimper I can feel emerging from the pit of my stomach.
Now I’m the one who is silent.
‘Bontle, look, this has nothing to do with last night, okay? I made the decision a while ago. We’re both getting older; moving on with our lives. It’s unfair of me to keep holding us to ransom. We’ve become different people …’
I realise I’m crying.
‘Look, can I come over?’ Ntokozo asks. ‘I never meant to end it this way.’
‘Please … please do,’ I manage to say.
Then I crawl under my duvet and cry like a child who has just lost a parent.
Ntokozo comes over about two hours later. He looks tired. Stressed out. He doesn’t look like he’s had much sleep.
I’m in my gown and pyjamas. My hair’s a mess and I have no make-up on. I feel like an animal that’s been dragged through the mud all day long. All year long.
Ntokozo looks around the penthouse like he’s a stranger. He hates this place. That much I know. Why did I agree to him coming here to see me? He goes to the lounge and sits on the couch. He looks up at me.
‘How’ve you been?’
I shrug. ‘It’s not easy. I don’t know why, it just isn’t.’
He nods.
‘My life … what you saw online … is that what made you give up on us? Is that why you want a divorce?’
He shakes his head, takes my hands in his. ‘You’re so beautiful. You’re still one of the most beautiful women I know. And you know you’ll always mean a lot to me. I mean, why else would a man, after all that has happened between us, still hold on, even though he knows, with each passing day, that the woman he loves is slipping further and further away from him? I love you, Bontle, but you’re out of my league. It’s as simple as that. I can’t offer you the kind of life you want. As usual, you were streets ahead of me in realising it. That’s why you signed the divorce first.’
I look at my Ntokozo and I kiss him. And it’s wonderful. It’s warm, soft, tender. I feel tears running down my face. My eyes are closed. When I open them, I see he’s crying too.
The tears continue to stream down our faces. We hug each other, and we cry and cry, until we laugh. At ourselves. Two stupid kids, who thought they were grown-up enough to do this tough business called marriage.
When grown men like Teddy, Jeff and Emmanuel are floundering, what did we, two little twenty-somethings, think we were doing?
When we’re cried out, we go to bed. And we just lie there, talking, reminiscing. About us, about school, about our old friends. I look at him, those trusting eyes. I see the children we will never have. The fights, the lovemaking, the growing old together; witnesses to each other’s lives. I see all that is not going to happen between us. I cry again. He cradles me. Then we fall asleep. Like that.
The next morning, Ntokozo wakes up, kisses me on the cheek, and leaves. I find the signed divorce papers on my kitchen counter.
He also leaves a note: ‘I will always love you. May God walk with you in this next chapter of your life, my love.’
I kiss the note. And I will myself to let him go.
‘May God bless the next chapter of your life, my love,’ I whisper. And I mean every word.
La Famiglia
I wake up every morning and stare at the signed divorce papers. There it is in black and white. Ntokozo and I are over.
The boy who loved me when no one else would or could has finally seen me as everyone else does. Unworthy of love. Only good for sex.
I’ve kept to myself for the past week because I can’t find the energy to get up and face the world. Sigh. I’ve been acting so pathetic. Listening to our old favourite songs. Watching movies that we used to like and constantly staring at old pictures of us together. I’ve really blown it this time, haven’t I? Worst of all, I deserve it.
After wallowing in misery all week, I decide to face up to the world because I have hair to deliver today. I’ve had countless messages from Papa Jeff but, honestly, I just don’t have the energy to deal with men at this point. I must focus on business.
Lace wigs are all the rage right now and I’d forgotten I’d placed a large order with my supplier two weeks ago.
This business has steadily been gaining momentum. I’ve hardly touched the money from it in my account because I’ve had other ways to pay my bills but now that I’ve been taking an appraisal of things, fact is, Hair By Bontle has grown to reflect a handsome profit. The thought of earning my own money cheers me up so much that I decide to call Loki to see what he’s up to.
‘Hey, sis. ’Sup?’
‘I’m good, Loki. How’re things going at home?’
‘We’re fine. Mom’s signed up for a cookery course.’
‘Hahaha, really? That’s great news. Is it Uncle Stan’s idea?’
‘No. It’s my idea, Bontle. She cooked some fish last week and I almost died from food poisoning.’
‘Oh my gosh! Are you serious? Why didn’t you guys call me?’
He laughs.
‘Okay. I didn’t almost die but it was a really bad dish … like, really, really bad.’
We laugh.
‘Mama must just give up.’
‘No. This cookery class is quite good but it messes up my Saturday schedule because I have soccer practice at nine and her class starts at nine-thirty, so … eish. I don’t know what’s going to happen ’cos she has to drop me off.’
‘I’ll take you,’ I offer.
‘Really? But Sandton’s a long way. Are you going to manage to wake up early enough on Saturdays, wena, with your popping bottles lifestyle?’
This kid. What does he know about my lifestyle?
‘Hey, wena. Don’t talk to your big sis that way. How long is the course going to last?’
‘I signed her up online. It’s for six weeks in Hatfield, a few kilometres from home.’
/> ‘Six weeks? I’m sure I can manage that. I’ll come and sleep over tonight so we’re not late. At least we’re all going to benefit from this course.’
We both laugh and start sharing anecdotes about our horrific childhood culinary experiences. When I hang up, I feel joyful. This is a great way to reconnect with my favourite boy. I’m sure I can manage taking him to soccer practice for six weeks.
Future Prospects
Surprisingly, I’ve enjoyed my man-free time. The soccer practice sessions have been great. They’ve given me time to bond with Golokile. He’s turning out to be such a bright, sweet and funny little man that it just melts my heart being with him. He said that I was a cool big sister and that he couldn’t believe I’d sacrificed my fancy Sandton life to be with him on Saturdays. Even after my mother finished her cookery course, I told them I’d still take Loki to soccer. As for her culinary skills … well. We’ve still to put them to the test. I’m spending the weekend at home next week and she’s promised us a gourmet seven-colour Sunday lunch. I live in hope. I’ve always been envious of families who enjoy that soulful tradition.
Six weeks sounds like a long time for me to have no drama, right? I haven’t had the time for it, to be honest. Now that my money is coming largely from the hair business, I’ve had to really focus on it. I’m going to have a meeting with Aunty Mabel on Tuesday because my bank balance has actually grown enough for me to start entertaining thoughts of setting up my own little boutique. It was always a dream of mine. With the added boost from the last tender payment from Mama Sophia, I might be able to put down money for a lease in the right location.
As always, Aunty Mabel welcomes me with a sunny smile and a warm hug. I smell a whiff of Chanel No. 5 on her. Perfect. I approve. She leads me to her office and asks her assistant to fix us some coffee.
‘So, young Bontle, how is the hair business doing these days?’
‘It’s going really great, Aunty. I was worried for a while that I might have to find a side gig, but lace wigs are big business lately and I’ve got the stuff that’s making all the girls twirl in absolute gorgeousness!’ I stand up to demonstrate exactly what I mean.
She laughs.
‘Well, you haven’t lost your spark. I really wish you’d visit me more often. You always manage to make me laugh. And how’re your mom and Golokile?’
‘They are doing great. My mom’s taken up a cookery course that we’re hoping will save us from years of bad dinners and Loki seems to be doing okay at school. He’s going to high school next year, so lots of changes happening on the home front.’
Just then, the notorious Uncle Chino walks in. Of course he would. Doesn’t he have books to balance? It’s a Tuesday morning, for crying out loud. What’s he doing at the boutique now? I chose this particular time very carefully when making the appointment with my aunt.
‘Hello, hello, hello, ladies!’
I hate this forced cheerful greeting of his.
‘Hello, Malome,’ I respond.
‘So … what brings you here, Bontle?’
The question is, why are you not in your office in Braamfontein, pervert?
‘I’m just visiting Aunty Mabel,’ I respond. Like, obvs.
‘How’s the world of tenders?’
Idiot! He’s blowing the cover on our dark and forgettable past. Loser!
‘Yes. Chino told me you reached out to him about some big construction deal. How’s that going? Wena, you’re a real entrepreneur. You’re making big strides … and you’re still so young.’
This makes me blush. Poor Aunty Mabel. If only she knew just how shady that whole affair was.
‘It was only one deal, Aunty Mabel, and honestly, I think I’m more suited to the beauty business. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I came to see you,’ I say, looking at Uncle Chino in the hope that he’ll take the cue and leave us to chat in peace.
No such luck.
‘Really?’ he says, taking the chair next to mine as he crosses his legs, ready to join in the conversation.
Great. ‘Um … yes. Aunty Mabel, I’ve saved up some money and I’m thinking of setting up a clothing boutique. Nothing on the scale of yours, of course, but I was hoping to get some pointers from you … that’s if you don’t mind?’
Aunty Mabel gives a surprised laugh.
‘Of course I don’t mind. What exactly are you thinking of?’
I give her a detailed account of my vision for my store. Something small at first, but I have a bigger concept that encompasses different aspects of glamour and fashion that immediately resonates with her. Uncle Chino finally takes the hint and leaves us alone to our long, involved chat. Aunty Mabel sounds like she’s really taken with it. By the end of our session, she’s agreed to take me with her on her next trip to Turkey, which is where she sources most of her clothing stock, and maybe she’s just being sweet, but I think she’s hinting that she may want to be a co-investor in my concept! I’m so excited! It’s still early days so I’m not going to fill you in on the finer details in case you go off and run with it … I’m sorry. I know you think we’re becoming close but it’s a cut-throat world out there! I can’t just share my whole vision board with you! I hope you understand.
I spent the weekend at home with Mom and Golokile to experience the much-anticipated seven-colour lunch. Verdict? Not too bad … I’d give it a seven out of ten. Is Gladys ready for Masterchef? Not quite, but can she cook a mean Sunday lunch? You bet, although Uncle Stan played his part in some of the preparation. Jokes aside, though, I really enjoyed the weekend with my family. My mom talked about making plans for Golokile’s schooling next year. We’re leaning towards the idea of finding him a good boarding school. Maybe a Catholic one, if he can get accepted. It’s never too early to apply, so my mom has already started with the search. She’s going to shortlist three, and then we’ll meet and discuss affordability and feasibility.
When she calls me at home the next week, I figure that’s what it’s about.
‘Hey, Mom,’ I say, ‘did you make the shortlist?’
‘Bontle, we need to meet urgently,’ she says.
‘What’s wrong, Mama?’
‘You and I need to meet. It’s urgent.’
My heart sinks.
‘What’s so urgent? Loki’s all right, isn’t he?’ I ask, panicked.
‘He’s fine. Just come and meet with me, Bontle. Tomorrow? At the Ocean Basket at Menlyn Mall – around twelve, okay?’
‘Why Menlyn? Can’t I just come home?’
‘No, no. Let’s meet in Menlyn. It’ll be easier for you as well. I need to be away from this environment in any case.’
‘Okay … but can’t you tell me …?’
‘See you tomorrow.’
That’s all my mother says.
I barely sleep that night.
Mama’s News
I put on my jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt and a cap. I’m not in the mood for looking pretty.
I drive to Menlyn trying to block all negative thoughts. I repeat positive mantras I’ve memorised from The Secret.
When I get to the Ocean Basket, I see my mother sitting down, wearing a grey doek and a dowdy grey cardigan, which isn’t at all like her. For some reason, I’m reminded of the words of the interior designer who styled my apartment. I was leaning towards a thick, grey, elegant silky material for my bedroom curtains.
‘Good choice for the bedroom,’ I remember him saying. ‘Grey is calm and stable; it creates a sense of composure in an otherwise chaotic world.’
Calm in a chaotic world, I say to myself.
I walk up to her and give her a hug.
‘You look like a tomboy today,’ she says.
Well then, I guess we’re both dressed uncharacteristically.
The waiter comes over and my mom orders Five Roses tea for both of us. We sit in silence till the waiter brings it. We’re outside and the sun is unkind. I see lines on her face I’ve never noticed before. My mother is getting old. I think she’s the same age a
s Papa Jeff, but in spite of his various ailments, he seems much younger than my mom.
Maybe I should take her to a spa, get her to relax a bit. She doesn’t smile often.
‘How are you, nana?’ she asks sweetly.
‘Hmmm. Could be better. My life is a bit … I don’t know. Nothing I can’t handle.’ I haven’t told her about Ntokozo. He was so awful to her when we got separated, because of my lies, I still feel guilty.
She looks at me with concern. ‘What’s wrong?’
I take a deep breath, sigh, then force a smile. ‘Ag, Ma. Nothing to worry about. Ke sharp. It’s just life. Ups and downs.’
She’s listening to me but her expression is strange, she almost looks … scared.
‘Ma, what’s wrong?’ It’s my turn to ask.
She looks very tense.
I don’t like this one bit.
Her eyes dart this way and that, and then she folds her hands and says: ‘Bontle, Vusumuzi is back.’
My head starts spinning and my fingertips go numb.
Which Vusumuzi is she talking about?
Surely it can’t be …?
‘Ma … what are you saying?’
‘Vusumuzi Ndaba is back. He’s been calling me for the past few months. In fact, he started calling two years ago, but I told him off and told him never to bother me again. He went quiet for a while but now he’s come back with a vengeance. He calls. He texts. That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you.’
I breathe in and out, close my eyes and tense my wrists.
My mind does quick flashbacks. Me in my school uniform. A man in my life … a man; not a boy. I’m fourteen years old yet I feel the weight of all these expectations. I am expected to know the ways of a woman …
‘We can’t have him back in our lives, Gladys.’
My mom reaches over the table and takes hold of my hands.
‘Baby … maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. I’ve thought about it for a while now. Loki deserves to know who his father is.’
How dare she? Like Vusumuzi’s an angel who just emerged from the shadows?
The Blessed Girl Page 17