Читать книгу Mr not quite good enough - Lauri Kubuitsile - Страница 4

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“Bacon?” Kelebogile asked from the stove where she was dishing up. Both Gorata and Amita said, “Yes!”

Sunday brunch at Gorata and Kelebogile’s house was becoming a tradition for the three women. Today, like most Sundays before it, the brunch became a rehash of their weekend.

Kelebogile set the plates down on the table already crowded with Sunday papers, the chocolate croissants Amita had brought and big mugs of freshly brewed coffee. The plates of cheese omelette and bacon squeezed in among the clutter.

“So of course we beat the crap out of that team from Durban. To be honest, they lost as soon as they walked onto the pitch. One look at the Amazons I have on my team this year and it was over. I’m telling you, though, my girls are fantastic, just a joy to watch. Such smooth, confident skill,” Kelebogile said proudly before taking a sip of her coffee.

“When’s your next game?” Amita asked, crunching her bacon up onto her omelette.

“Next week it’s here, and then . . . then in Rustenburg.”

Gorata’s eyes widened. “So Mr Volunteer won’t be attending that one, I assume?”

“Who’s that?” Amita asked.

“Kele’s keeping her new man on the down-low,” Gorata teased.

Kelebogile pretended to ignore Gorata by paging through The Sunday Voice. “Did you read Bra Kee?”

Bra Kee was the conscience of the young, black Joburg populace. His Sunday column, Batho Ba Mzansi, was stingingly funny and painfully spot-on. Every Monday around the city at coffee machines, in cubicles, on Facebook and around water coolers all talk was about Bra Kee’s words the previous day.

Gorata laughed. She knew Kelebogile’s tactics only too well. She’d give her the point this time, but she would be going back to the conversation her friend was trying to avoid. In the meantime she said, “What’s he saying today?”

Amita and Gorata continued eating while Kelebogile read them the juicy bits from Bra Kee’s column:

What’s up with our home girls? Do they lose their minds once they step into the city limits? Back in the village we are all good enough. But once they’re under the city lights, they suddenly produce a list.

Ya, we all know the listers. Come on, my chinas, we have to admit that list gives us all sleepless nights – right?

We ain’t gonna be getting nothing if we can’t tick off each and every item on that list. Gotta have the right phone, the right car, the right job, the right clothes, a pile of cash . . . That’s just it. They’ve written the law, and we need to hustle to make the grade.

I think our women are blinded by the lights, they become confused and can’t think straight.

I mean, what if me and my brus started making a list? What would they think of that? And what would be on that list? Come on, my chommies, send me our list. Let’s sort these chicks out. Let’s all be listers.

Next week.

Peace out – Bra Kee

“Eish!” Kelebogile exclaimed. “He’s going to get people’s backs up again now.”

Gorata reached for one of the croissants, then dipped it in her coffee. “Do people really get angry at him? I don’t take him that seriously.”

Kelebogile stood up to get the coffee pot and topped up everyone’s mugs. “You’re maybe the only one who doesn’t. The men are going to send him lists, that’s for sure. I wonder what he’ll put in the column. Men can be crude, you know. I can only imagine what they’ll be saying. Women aren’t going to like it.”

“Damn straight to that,” Amita said.

“But in any case he’s telling the truth. Some women do have lists,” Kelebogile said. “That’s it with Bra Kee; he speaks the truth.”

“He’s crazy. Who has a list?” Gorata said. “I don’t know anyone who has a list.”

Kelebogile and Amita looked at each other and laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” Gorata asked.

“You!” Kelebogile said. “Do you even pay attention to yourself? You have a list. You’re a lister.”

“What? You’re crazy! I have no list and I’m not a lister.” Gorata carefully lifted a fork piled high with cheese omelette and bacon to her mouth.

“Admit it,” Amita insisted. “You have at least a mental list of the kind of guys you’ll date.”

Gorata shook her head, her mouth still full. She swallowed. “Of course I have an idea of what my type is like, who doesn’t? But it’s not a list.”

Kelebogile smiled. “I thought you said Bra Kee never makes you angry? You sound a bit irritated.”

Gorata ignored her and took a bite of her croissant. “I’m not irritated. I’m just showing you two how badly you got me wrong.”

Changing the subject to keep the peace, Amita said, “I haven’t told you about Mama’s latest blind date yet.”

Kelebogile pulled her legs up onto the chair, ready to listen. “Oh god, what happened this time?”

“First thing, we’d hardly sat down at the restaurant, he tells me how much he hates TV,” Amita started. “Imagine! Just goes to show how well my mother knows me.”

“What does he hate about TV?” Gorata asked.

“Apparently for him it’s the modern opiate of the masses. He’s some heart surgeon, big intellectual type. But not immune to asking me detailed questions about my sexual past. Said he was only going to marry a virgin. Mama apparently told him all was clear on that front.”

The three women burst out laughing. Since Amita had no intention of marrying, she hadn’t troubled herself with trying to retain the bargaining card of virginity. “Oh well, one less doctor to contend with,” she said and then turned to Gorata. “Now tell us about your date with Mr OCD. How did that go?”

Gorata was hoping they would both forget that she’d had a date with Alfred. It hadn’t gone very well. Actually, it had started off badly as soon as he arrived.

“Are you really wearing that?” he’d asked at the door, even before saying hello or giving her a kiss.

She looked down at the cream-coloured Dior dress he had bought her and wondered what the problem could be. “Yes, why?”

“Cream is not for evening this season. Come, my dear, let’s find something more appropriate.” He took her by the hand and led her back to her bedroom.

Alfred went through her wardrobe, complaining the whole time that she really should keep things tidier. In the end, he settled for a black strapless dress he’d bought her in Dubai. But then her hair wasn’t right. Gorata tried to fix it, but in frustration he took over. She’d never had to have her boyfriend dress her and do her hair before a date. She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult, but she was leaning towards the latter.

Things didn’t improve at the restaurant. Everything was in French, and Alfred was less than pleased to find that she couldn’t read the menu. She didn’t mention the fact that she spoke isiXhosa, Sesotho, Setswana, isiZulu, Afrikaans and English fluently and had recently learned enough Tshivenda to conduct a basic conversation. Most of these were not languages he was interested in.

Alfred ordered them something that looked like jelly but had meat embedded in it. Gorata tried her best to eat it, but managed only to shift it around the plate.

The date ended with a vague conversation about the fact that maybe they needed some time apart, and Alfred left after giving her a dry peck on the cheek. If Gorata was honest, it all came as a welcome relief.

“So what happened? What happened on your date with Alfred?” Amita repeated.

“Oh that . . . yeah, well, we decided to take some time off,” Gorata said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Amita and Kelebogile jumped to their feet and applauded.

Feeling embarrassed, Gorata tried to joke and said, “A standing ovation? You girls are so funny.”

“But you’ve got to admit, that guy’s seriously odd,” Amita said, sitting back down.

Gorata put her hands up in front of her as a sign of giving up. “Yeah, okay, you two win. He is weird. When I was out with him, I always had a feeling that both of us might be on the same mission – looking for Mr Right.”

“Ha!” Kelebogile said. “I think you hit a bull’s eye there.”

“I always thought as much too,” Amita added.

“So now, what about you?” Gorata asked, looking at Kelebogile.

“Me? I told you, I had my game and it was great,” Kelebogile replied. She was suddenly very busy with the croissant crumbs on her plate.

“But you left out the man part.” Gorata wasn’t going to let her get away that easily.

“Kelebogile with a man? This is news. Please do tell,” Amita said, pushing her long hair out of her face so she could take a bite of the watermelon slice Gorata had placed in front of her.

“Okay, okay. But listen, before I say anything, I want to say I’m not like you guys. I know it’s not fair, because I always give you two a lot of grief about your dates and men and everything, but don’t do the same to me. I don’t think I can take it, not this time. Okay? We need to agree on that before I speak.”

Amita looked at Gorata and grinned. They both put one hand up in the air and one on their hearts and said together, “We promise.”

“Ah – stop it, you two, I’m really serious,” Kelebogile said.

Gorata felt bad about teasing her housemate. She could see Kelebogile was not amused. “Okay, sorry, we’ll be serious. Right, Amita?”

“Right.”

Kelebogile collected some of the plates and took them to the sink, then came back and sat down. “His name is Mark. Mark Wilson. He’s American, and white. He’s a volunteer at Hope Springs, that Aids hospice near the school. He’s a nurse. I think I really like him.

“We had such a lovely time yesterday after the game. Doing nothing really, just walking around Joburg. All the trees are flowering and it smelled so lovely. And he was so interested in everything . . . in me . . . and what I do at school. It was lovely. I’ve never really met a man like him before.”

Gorata reached out and covered her friend’s hand with hers. She’d never heard Kelebogile speak about a man like that, she knew this was important. “So? What about the game in Rustenburg? Is he going?”

“He wants to. I thought we might pass by my parents’ place. I might as well bite the bullet early,” Kelebogile said.

Amita was confused. “What’s the deal?”

“Her father’s a racist,” Gorata said.

“I wouldn’t call him a racist. He’s a traditionalist,” Kelebogile attempted.

“Give it whatever name you like, but he doesn’t like the races mixing. Actually he doesn’t like anybody mixing. He didn’t even want to accept a Zulu son-in-law. Didn’t he make waves when your sister was getting married to that Zulu guy from Durban?” Gorata asked.

“Yes, he did. But she married him anyway. No – you’re right, he is a problem. But it doesn’t matter. He must just get used to it. It’s my life, anyway.”

“Mark’s white and he’s an American. At least if he were a white South African . . .” Gorata mused.

“My father will just have to get used to it. I like Mark and that’s all there is to it,” Kelebogile said firmly.

Gorata heard the words, but she also knew Kelebogile was her father’s favourite. The last-born of four girls, Kelebogile was closer to her father than her mother. He’d named her himself, thanking God for her. He had been a teacher, and she became a teacher too. He was a local hero on the soccer circuit, and she played soccer as well.

So it was going to be a problem when she pitched up with a white American boyfriend, no matter how tough a stance Kelebogile took.

“Well then, what are you going to do?” Kelebogile turned the tables on Gorata.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re back to being manless. Or have you moved on to Showa?” Kelebogile teased.

Gorata sipped at her coffee. “As a matter of fact, I had a date with him last night.”

“You didn’t even let twenty-four hours pass before moving on to the next candidate?” Kelebogile faked shock, but then smiled. “Oh well, at least Showa fits in with your list a bit better.”

“Ah, Kele! I don’t have a list! I told you already! How many times must I repeat that?” Gorata wondered how the conversation had drifted back to her.

“You may not have it written down, but you have a list in here,” Kelebogile said, tapping a finger against the side of her head. “I wonder if Showa is flashy enough for your list? He tends to do the village thing.”

“But he does have money,” Amita added.

Gorata stood up to run water in the sink for the dishes to soak. “You two aren’t fair. I don’t have a list, I just have goals. I’m no different from you two. Kele, you want to win the national girls’ soccer league. Amita, you want a starring role in a soap opera. And I want to marry a man who fits my needs. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with that is your criteria. They’re blocking you from seeing what’s right in front of you,” Kelebogile said. “If he has no money, you can’t see him. If he doesn’t have the right car, he’s not there.”

Gorata wondered if she was blind to her own ways. “Am I really like that? Am I really one of those women with a list like Bra Kee wrote about?”

She didn’t want to think she was like that. She just wanted a man who was equal to her, so they could start out together and build a life. She knew men, they didn’t like a woman who was doing better professionally, it just caused problems. She enjoyed her career and she was successful, she didn’t want to feel ashamed about that. And why should she? But that didn’t mean she was a materialistic lister.

“Listen,” Amita said, resting her hand on Gorata’s shoulder, “we all have our requirements. The men have theirs too. Believe me, we’ll be reading all about it in next Sunday’s paper. It’s just the way it is.”

The three friends laughed. When their laughter died away, they could hear a cellphone ringing somewhere. Gorata stood up to collect her phone from her handbag in the sitting room and came back to the table. “Hello?”

The other two listened. At times Gorata held the phone away from her ear with a pained look on her face and both Amita and Kelebogile could hear the person on the other end clearly because she spoke as if she was talking through a bullhorn. In the end Gorata said, “Okay, go siame.”

She threw the phone down and let her head fall to the table with a loud thump.

“Who was that?” Kelebogile asked.

Gorata didn’t lift her head but spoke into the table. “Mmandu.”

“Mmandu? What does she want?” Kelebogile asked.

“Who’s Mmandu?” Amita asked.

“Gorata’s eldest sister,” Kelebogile said and turned back to Gorata. “Is everything okay at home?”

Gorata lifted her head as if it weighed a ton. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Why now? She had so many things to deal with. She didn’t need this as well. Finally she said, “She says she’s coming to Joburg.”

“Mmandu’s coming here? Why?” Kelebogile said.

Gorata’s head was back on the table. “For a visit.”

“So what’s the problem?” Amita asked.

Gorata’s head shot up. “The problem? The problem?” Annoyed, she stood up and paced the kitchen. “The problem is Mmandu. Busybody, always in your face, loud-mouthed Mmandu!”

“You’re overreacting,” Kelebogile tried to pacify Gorata. “Your sister isn’t that bad.”

“What? Have you forgotten? Mmandu is bad. She’s very, very bad. She and my Joburg life don’t go together. Mmandu in Rustenburg is bad enough, but a Joburg Mmandu – no, no, no!”

Amita looked confused. “I don’t get it.”

Gorata turned and glared at her. “You will. Don’t worry, you will.”