Читать книгу Written In The Stars - Mokopi Shale - Страница 4

Chapter 1

1

The voluptuous, well-toned Masedi Gaonabokao sat in a quaint little restaurant in the Gaetsho shopping complex in the middle of Weltevreden Park, waiting for her girlfriends to arrive. The late-afternoon sun glinted off the sloping vista of green trees, spattered with red, grey and black rooftops, straight up to the horizon to the west.

The weather was quite warm for October and Masedi had taken advantage of it early that morning by donning flowery palazzo pants and a spaghetti-strapped chiffon top in a light-green pattern, with red slip-on wedges. She failed to notice the admiring glances of men and women who studied her while she typed a poem into her tablet.

She smiled to herself as the words flowed from her, took a sip of her iced water and lifted her face to savour the end of the week and the beginning of the weekend.

Masedi glanced around the restaurant at the rapidly filling bar area. It was clear that everyone was enjoying the array of sundowners – the joy-filled laughter of the patrons filled the restaurant. Off to the side was a little island for what was clearly DJ decks, and a reasonably sized dance floor.

There was suddenly a flutter from the doorway and Masedi knew that her friends had finally arrived, because they both believed in making an entrance. She couldn’t help but smile to herself as the duo strutted their stuff across the restaurant, acting like runway models.

When they sat down and struck a pose, Masedi asked in amusement, “Are you serious?”

“Always, darling,” Kagiso answered, completely deadpan.

Masedi grimaced in exasperation. “You do know that the entire restaurant is staring at us?”

“Don’t they always?” Tsholo responded.

“It would be nice if you arrived early just once, so that I won’t get stared at like I’ve been stood up.” She closed her tablet.

“Been writing again?” Tsholo asked.

Masedi nodded.

“Can we see?” Kagiso asked.

“Nah,” Masedi replied with a grin.

Tsholo changed the subject. “Nice spot you chose. Hopefully there won’t be any drooling cretins hovering over us.”

“Well, if you hadn’t made a grand entrance, there wouldn’t have been. But you couldn’t resist,” Masedi chided.

A waiter popped over to their table, took drinks and starter orders, and left the trio to enjoy the acid jazz that flowed across the restaurant.

Masedi rolled her eyes. “I hope this isn’t one of those pretentious places. I’m really not in the mood to be challenged out of my complacency. It’s been a tough week.”

“Don’t worry. They have live music,” Kagiso said.

A naughty conspiratorial look flitted between her friends as they shared devious smiles.

“What’s up?” Masedi asked.

“Jislaaik! I’ve never met such a suspicious woman,” Tsholo said.

“Do you blame me? I’m always on the receiving end of your schemes,” Masedi complained.

“Well, if you’d stop having your nose in your work and your writing all the time and try to live a little more, we’d relent. It’s been two years since Brian,” Kagiso reminded her.

Masedi’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach and the light in her world suddenly dimmed. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth as she tried to suppress the emotional anguish that flooded her being.

Her friends stared at her worriedly. Kagiso leaned closer to put her arm around Masedi’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, babe. I just think you deserve so much more than that confused Brian,” she said.

“Even your mother said you were wasting your time,” Tsholo added, not very helpfully.

Masedi released a little half-snort, half-laugh and tried to compose herself.

“Yeah . . . But to know something mentally and to understand it in your soul, to know it in your heart, are such totally different things. I guess I’m still clinging to the promise of the future we dreamed of together.” A film of tears clouded her vision. She took a gulp of water and asked, “Can we talk about something else? O kae Thuto?”

“Ga ke itse? Do you know that mothaka yoo took an assignment travelling all over the country without consulting me?” Kagiso replied. “That’s the problem with these journalist-writer-artist types. They’re good at the emotional stuff, but that also makes them damn flighty!”

“Shame, babe . . .”

“If he doesn’t get his act together he must forget about me, because I don’t have time for all that emotional angst and wallowing. Sorry!”

The three friends laughed. The waiter popped up next to their table and served them their drinks – a mojito for Kagiso, a Johnnie Walker for Tsholo and a daiquiri for Masedi.

“Actually, it was Thuto who introduced me to this place,” Kagiso said when the waiter left. “I’m sure you’ll like it. There’s even a shop that sells the jewellery you make.”

“Oh, really?” Masedi was surprised. “I don’t have that many outlets.”

“Anyway . . .” Kagiso’s voice trailed off. “Actually, we’ve invited you out quite a few times, but . . .”

“Yeah, I was too busy wallowing in my sorrow,” Masedi chuckled self-deprecatingly. “But I’m here now.”

“Yes, you are. To living life fully!” Tsholo lifted her glass in a toast.

They clinked glasses and glanced over the menus, ignoring the admiring glances of the gentlemen at the adjacent table.

By the end of their meal, all the tables were full, right down to the sexy little ottomans that had been assigned to each table. The DJ filled the venue with a mixture of old-school music and popular contemporary music. Masedi was still on daiquiri number one, but her friends were downing their second drinks.

“I hope that is your last,” she warned them. “Because I’m not bailing you guys out of jail for drunken driving.”

“Don’t worry, darling. We took a taxi here. And you’re driving us home,” Kagiso answered flippantly.

“Hee banna!”

“Yep. We figured since you’re basically a teetotaller we’d take advantage. That way we can also compare notes on the way home. Anyway, we all sort of live around here,” Tsholo said.

“What? Me in Weltevreden Park and you in North Riding?!”

Tsholo and Kagiso looked at each other and then at her. “Yep.”

“Waitse! You’re unbelievable!” an exasperated Masedi said.

Suddenly a strumming sound filled the restaurant and a husky baritone voice started singing the old Se-tswana greeting song “Dumelang, re a le dumedisa”.

“He’s here,” Kagiso said, waiting excitedly for the show to begin.

Masedi’s friends watched the intrigued play of emotion on her face as the voice weaved in and out of the crowd while the musician sang the greeting. His voice came closer and closer, and Masedi craned her neck to get a better look at him.

She felt her heart plummet and the muscles in her stomach contract when she finally got a look at the singer. She had never seen a more attractive man in her life. On his head a mass of shoulder-length dreadlocks, framing a square-jawed face with a neatly trimmed beard and shiny mulberry-coloured lips. His brown eyes were soulfully prominent in his mocha face.

The muscles in his arms flexed as he lovingly strummed his guitar. He was wearing a cream muscle vest and white linen pants that provided the enthralled Masedi with tantalising glimpses of muscular thighs in a teasing show-and-tell game. She managed to wrench her gaze away and noticed that all the other women were also staring in desire at the musician.

She watched as he came closer to their table, strumming his greeting, giving each table attention. She became more and more nervous, until her breath caught when he stopped at their table. She ducked her head and refused to look at him, thinking that she didn’t need this torrent of feelings; she simply wasn’t ready for it.

Kagiso and Tsholo tried to poke her as discreetly as possible so that she would look at him, but Masedi refused. Until the man went down on his knee and played especially for her. An exasperated yet amused smile broke out on her face.

The singer frowned in what looked like consternation and then quickly smiled to cover the play of emotion fluttering in his gut. He nodded, got up and headed for the stage, where a waitress had placed a small table with water, while segueing seamlessly into an old Setswana folk song.

“We knew it! We knew it!” Tsholo clapped in excitement.

“O bua ka eng?” Masedi asked, pretending confusion.

“We knew you’d like him. You melted!” Kagiso said with pleasure.

Masedi sighed in defeat, shook her head and looked off into the evening sky, not wanting to admit to the clear attraction she felt.

“How can you say that?”

“The last time you smiled like that was when you were with the bastard Brian,” Kagiso stated.

“You think I like this singer?” Masedi put as much contempt as she could manage in her voice.

“Sure you do, babe. You couldn’t even look at him,” Tsholo challenged.

“Get real. I’m a chartered accountant. He’s a troubadour. So am I going to be driving him around to his gigs? Paying his rent?” Masedi responded.

“We aren’t talking about marriage. We’re talking about someone to hang out with,” Kagiso retorted. “And anyway, Bastard Brian was an investment banker – or should I say investment wanker.”

“Ijooooo wêêê . . . Huh uh . . .” Masedi ran her fingers through her hair in frustrated anxiety.

“Listen, babe. All we are saying is, allow yourself to feel something for someone else, so that you can feel when the right one comes along. That’s all,” Tsholo pleaded.

“I don’t know . . . I just don’t know, okay . . .” Masedi’s voice trailed off.

“And anyway, who says he’ll go for you? Look at all these drooling women. But if he does, all we ask is that you give him a chance,” Kagiso insisted.

“All right – if . . .” Masedi acquiesced.

Her friends clapped their hands in excitement – progress, finally.

After the show an exhausted Masedi checked her watch. It was close to midnight and it didn’t look as if her two friends were anywhere near ready to go home. They were dancing to the DJ’s music. Truth be told, she had waited all evening for the troubadour to come and woo her, but he had been too busy with groupie after groupie, treating each one as if they were special.

Masedi smirked. Any man who did that was most assuredly a player, and she wasn’t in the market for that. She also had to secretly admit that she was disappointed; it was nice to be pursued by a man that everyone wanted. Clearly that flutter in her stomach had been felt only by her, and she wasn’t of the age where she was willing to traumatise herself with unrequited love. A woman only deserved to experience that once in her life. More than that was just cruel and undeserved punishment.

Masedi picked up her bag, stood up and headed for the gyrating forms of her friends.

“Last song, guys. I want to go home.”

“You’re always such a party pooper,” Kagiso complained.

“You mean I’m always the designated driver,” Masedi retorted.

“Designated driver, party pooper . . . Is there a difference?” Tsholo asked.

Masedi laughed. “Nope. Maybe one day you’d like to be the designated driver so that I can have a good time?”

“Hell no,” Tsholo responded.

“Maybe we should take a taxi?” Kagiso suggested.

“Maybe you should,” Masedi agreed. “I’m leaving after this song.”

“Okay, we need a bathroom break, and then we can go,” Kagiso said and they headed off to the restroom.

Masedi made her way through the crowd, focusing on the path, not looking into people’s faces . . . until she came face to face with the troubadour. The two of them tried to get past each other in that awkward dance that strangers do, but just couldn’t get it right.

They smiled at each other, and then frowned again as the same kind of fluttering robbed them both of breath while they stared into each other’s eyes. The air around them seemed to crackle, then the soft breeze that blew through the open-air restaurant stirred his dreadlocks and blew her hair into her eyes.

Masedi’s eyes went wide as she wondered what this meant, and she was shocked when the man lifted his hand and brushed the hair behind her ear. Electricity seemed to shoot from his hand to her ear. They both gasped in astonishment, staring at each other.

One of the gyrating bodies pushed Masedi off balance and she ended up flush against the singer’s chest. She felt desire rush through her body with a force that exceeded even her experience with Brian. He felt his member stir in interest, and was floored because this never happened to him.

“Uhm . . .” was all Masedi could say.

“Yeah . . . Wow,” he said.

“Uhm . . .”

“Yeah, strange, huh?” he replied.

Masedi could only nod as his musky masculine smell enveloped her and the warmth of his palms burned into her shoulders.

“I have to go. Now. Immediately,” she said anxiously.

“Really?” He felt he couldn’t let her leave.

“I don’t do this kind of thing. I’m not a groupie. So . . . Nice singing.”

Masedi pulled herself out of his arms and rushed towards the entrance blindly, feeling strangely bereft but determined not to look back. If she had, she would have noticed the troubadour staring after her, clearly intrigued.