Читать книгу A Prince for Me - Nolo Mothoagae - Страница 5

Chapter 2

2

Odirile Mokgatlha – Odi to his friends – has just stepped out of a cooling bath in the dry and scorching North West heat. He rubs his clean-shaven square jaw and walks from his room shirtless, exposing mocha-coloured skin that stretches over an amazing six-pack, rippling arms and bulging pecs.

The cicadas’ song is oddly comforting; Odirile tilts his head and his dark-brown eyes become pensive as he listens to the sounds of rural Tswenyane. Over the past four years or so he has come to find the slow pace of country living, the gentle drone of insects and the braying, lowing, clucking sounds that mark rural life very soothing. Having arrived home with frazzled nerves brought on by a massive humiliation which became an oppressive force bearing down on him, living in Tswenyane and helping his father has given Odirile a sense of purpose that was about more than just self-serving interests. Here he learnt to care about the future of his people.

Odirile draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly to shake off the ever-present niggling doubt that resides at the back of his mind. He enters the kitchen and reaches into the belly of the deepfreeze, finding the blast of ice-cold air refreshing. He pulls out a bottle of almost frozen water and takes a long swig.

Startled by a gasp, Odirile whirls around to find Sandra staring at him gaga-eyed. She always hangs around here, helping out his mother, and has consequently become a fixture in their home.

Any normal person would have smiled to set her at ease over her undisguised drooling, but not the reserved and down-to-earth Odirile. He is deeply embarrassed by her admiration and just stares at her.

“Dumela, Kgosi,” she greets him respectfully, to which he simply nods. He can see that she is slightly embarrassed by his blank look but regards that as her problem. “There are some men who’d like to speak to you. They’re waiting under the marula tree.”

“Ao, where is Rre Kante?” he asks, a little panicky. With his father getting older and not being very well, people expect him as the next in line to start taking over the running of the village. It makes sense to learn about this from the king while he is still alive. But the thought of having to deal with politicians and businessmen and bureaucracy is just . . . unpleasant is the only word Odirile can think of right now.

He tries not to think of his traumatic past, but still worries that it will rear its ugly head as soon as his former politico “buddies” find out that he has taken over as the ruler of Tswenyane. And the fact that this place is in the process of being declared a World Heritage Site, coupled with the current turf battle between the Bahurutshe of Tswenyane and the last farmer left on their tribal land, means that they could be hitting the news soon.

Odirile is hoping against hope that he won’t be dragged into a shady political situation once more. He walks over to the cupboard by the kitchen door and gets some antacid to calm his nerves. Odirile has begged his father to take care of this process and make sure that he completes the project before his son takes over the reins. But his father’s health isn’t good at all; he often catches the king rubbing his left arm and flexing it.

After his father suffered a mild heart attack last year, Odirile has realised that he may have to step in to save the ageing king the stress of dealing with this complex situation. His elder sisters left home long ago and gave his parents six grandchildren, whom they thoroughly enjoy. But Odirile hopes that he will be able to provide his father and the tribe with a mojaboswa, an heir, before the old man passes on, so that he can die knowing the line is secure. But engaging in politics once again, that’s something he isn’t looking forward to.

Odirile steps over to the lace-covered window and looks out over the dirt yard to the massive marula not far from the main gate where the men are nodding, talking and sometimes laughing. He actually just wants to go back to his room. But his father’s voice echoes in his head, “Cowards die many times before their real death. And as far as I know, no son of mine is a coward.” The king has always encouraged his children to be fearless and face life head-on, believing that it is possible to make a plan whatever the circumstances.

That was what led Odi to go into politics in the first place. That and the woman he considered the love of his life. Gloria Nkadimeng introduced him to politics and the bigwigs who seemed to be impressed with his energy and passion for what they laughingly called the proletariat. Having been too young to vote when South Africa was emancipated, Odirile always had a deep envy of those who were at the forefront of ushering in an age of freedom, and wanted to make his own contribution. So he entered politics to help rebuild this country and shape ideals that would guide the nation away from its sordid past. But as the country grew, so did the new leaders’ potbellies and bank accounts, something that his principles wouldn’t allow him to ignore, so he spoke out against the corruption.

Gloria warned him about being too forthright, but he quoted the constitution, the Freedom Charter and the ideals of the struggle. Odirile began by nullifying contracts that were not being honoured by companies that had got work through fraudulent means. When he discovered that money for a road project throughout the North West Province was being pilfered and that the contract had been awarded to a family member of an influential po­litician, Odirile – as a senior member of provincial staff – approached the said family member and asked him to withdraw from the contract or hire someone who could ensure delivery, otherwise he would cancel the contract.

It was Gloria who set the dogs on him; it was Gloria who produced “intelligence” that linked his family to the beleaguered past president of Bophuthatswana and his alleged money laundering, and who made the strong suggestion that his own father had a hand in this alleged pilfering.

Odirile watched in disbelief as the woman he had thought would be the mother of his children, the woman he had introduced to his parents as his soon-to-be wife, brought his world crashing down with drummed-up charges that she threatened to leak to the media should he not desist. She was also the one they sent to encourage him to become the fall guy when the shit hit the fan and this corruption was exposed.

During this, his darkest hour, Odirile’s father encouraged him to keep his mouth shut and remember who he was. Kgosi told him to remember that if he couldn’t resolve this honestly, then wa bona molato o tla sekwa ke ditshoswane – an old Setswana saying meaning the chickens will eventually come home to roost. It was this that saw the young man through the toughest period of his life – his loss of innocence and idealism.

Laughter from under the marula tree that he has been staring at unseeingly while taking a trip down memory lane brings him sharply back to the present. Odirile decides that after what he has been through, facing a bunch of men from the village won’t be the thing that finally conquers him.

As these thoughts and his father’s advice reverberate through his head, he squares his shoulders and goes to his bedroom, where he grabs a shirt from his bed and pulls on a blue overalls jacket to show respect. Then he walks out to go and talk to the men.

They have brought back news of yet another attempt to reclaim their land. Recently there has been a hiccup with the farmer who was refusing to sell the land back to the government and was actually said to be planning to build a resort. After the World Cup the tourism professionals across the country and especially in the North West have realised what a massive drawing card culture and tradition are. There’s a lot more focus on the region in terms of reclaiming and documenting the culture and history of the Batswana and the Bahurutshe. In addition, historians have realised that there are regions that need to be protected. The men are furious, calling it recolonisation.

“Monna Odirile, you need to go and talk to the powers that be. You’ve got connections. Where is that young woman of yours from the city? I’m sure she can help. The white people can’t just keep our land. How much more are we to lose?” asks Rre Seganka angrily. “You know, we even heard that he was using our history to sell this resort idea, on our land! ”

“Well, you need to understand where he’s coming from. Mr Viljoen and his family have been on this land for decades. Even though they were given the land illegally by the apartheid government, they feel a sense of ownership,” Odi tries to explain rationally, hoping he can get through to the angry men. “They’re suffering the humiliation of being called thieves, with no way to defend themselves because the government they trusted misled them and has placed them in this position.”

“Ja, Monna. We hear what you’re saying, but the situation still needs to be resolved. You spent all those years with the political VIPs. We’re sure you have some clout and you can ask your friends from back then to exert political pressure and get the situation resolved in our favour.”

Odirile’s body goes cold at the thought of having to talk to those people and face Gloria. He wonders whether she has retained any integrity or whether greed has completely consumed her. Considering the state of this province and the recent service delivery protests, it doesn’t seem as if she has worked at delivering on the ruling party’s promises.

When Gloria was appointed deputy director in the office of the MEC, Odirile saw it as the final nail in the coffin in which the North West would eventually be buried. Stories of relatives and friends she helped out with taxpayers’ money have abounded over the years. Odirile looks at the hopeful faces of the men around him, not knowing what to say and remembering the guillotine that hung over his family’s collective head.

It feels as if someone has turned up the soundtrack of the world and his head starts to spin. He feels dizzy and sick and . . . Suddenly Odirile becomes aware of a hand squeezing his shoulder and looks up into the comforting face of his father, who greets everyone. Deflecting their attention from his tensed-up son, the king suggests that they elect representatives and find a lawyer to draw up a document that will act as a memorandum of demand that can be submitted to the MEC. The men agree to call a lekgotla where a committee will be set up.

* * *

File is standing close to her mother in the well-appointed country kitchen, furiously arguing her point.

“This is the only long dresslike item of clothing I have, Mama!” she shrieks, pointing at her blood-red gypsy skirt, highly exasperated. “Everything else is either pants or minis, and I don’t think you’d appreciate me wearing a mini.”

“I understand that, darling, but don’t you have a petticoat or something?” MmaItumeleng asks, trying to remain calm. “I can see the outline of your body through it. You may as well be naked.”

“I don’t own a petticoat! I never have, and I never will, Mama. Maybe you should just tell your guests that I’m ill and won’t be able to attend this impromptu meeting after all,” Orefile threatens, judging by the trapped look on her mother’s face that she is close to convincing her. But just then Sandra walks in.

“I came to see if you needed any help,” Sandra says with a wide, friendly smile. “Jissslaaaik! File . . . Is that you?! You’re absolutely gorgeous! Haikhona, man! What have you been doing to yourself out there in the city? Whatever it is, it’s worked for you, girl.”

“Oh, thanks,” File says, pleased but embarrassed by the effusive praise. “It’s been a long time. When did you come back here? Is it permanent, and what exactly do you do?”

“Well, I come here every weekend, and sometimes I also spend a night here during the week. I’m the principal of a secondary school in Motswedi,” Sandra says and then waits for File to explain why she is back home.

Before File can respond, her mother places a hand on her shoulder. “This is all very nice, catching up and all, but there are people waiting for us,” she says to the two young women, who nod.

“Sandra,” MmaItumeleng continues, “please take the tray of glasses through; we’ll bring the food and drinks.”

Sandra nods, picks up the tray and heads out.

MmaItumeleng turns to her beautiful daughter. “Do you at least have a scarf that you can tie around your waist? The king and his son are out there, for heaven’s sake!”

“Ma! I don’t have a scarf! I don’t have another skirt! And I don’t have a petticoat! Let’s go, please, the people are waiting.” Orefile picks up the tray of juices and heads out to the veranda.

Like the well-raised girl she is, she places the tray on the long plastic table and then walks around the table bobbing before everyone and giving them a warm handshake.

File turns to find her mother with a pleased smile, looking over at a handsome young man who is staring at her daughter as she goes around greeting the people. She clearly remembers Odirile as the heir apparent whom all the young ladies wanted to marry so that they could be bahumagadi of the small village.

Being a bit younger than him, File used to watch Odi from a distance when they were growing up. She found him impassioned and even handsome, but the thought of the responsibility of running a village and dealing with the rules and dictates of being a “proper” woman placed on the king’s wife were too restrictive for her free spirit.

Looking at him now, she is surprised when her stomach lurches with feminine excitement. She bites her lip as she heads towards Odirile, hoping her breathing will even out so that she won’t embarrass herself. She is acutely aware that her father is watching her closely, and she can already hear the wedding bells ringing in her mother’s head.

Everything seems to be happening in super-slow motion and File has a sense of heightened reality. Although she can’t claim to be innocent when it comes to relationships, she has never before felt this way about a man she has never actually met or even talked to.

Odi is still as handsome as she remembers him. She wonders whether her childhood thoughts about him were born out of an instinct of self-preservation as she feels herself go hot and her breathing get even faster. She hopes he will do something to put her off him, and thereby save her, but Odi looks at her like a lion considering a gemsbok for its next meal.

File’s stomach continues to do somersaults as she steps closer to shake his hand. A warm, work-roughened hand closes around hers and she gasps in disbelief. The earth seems to drop away from under her feet as her light-brown eyes meet his dark-brown ones.

Odi feels as if someone has hit him in the solar plexus when their hands finally touch. He has been watching her as she walked around the table, acting for all intents and purposes like any other village girl, but clothed like an exotic butterfly, an enchantress who has fallen from the heavens.

He gapes at her dark-brown skin, glowing with good health. She has large, almond-shaped eyes, framed by the longest eyelashes he has ever seen and lightly outlined by black eyeliner; her luscious berry-black lips shimmer as she nervously bites them. He can hardly believe it; the last time he felt like this, it had led to a humiliating end and terrible heartbreak. This thought makes Odi frown, and File responds with a confused look. He realises that he hasn’t responded to her greeting, nor has he introduced himself, and to top it all, everyone congregated around the table is staring at him.

Quickly he clears his throat and says, “Dumela, Mma, I’m Odirile Mokgatlha. Pleased to meet you.”

His deep baritone voice makes the butterflies in her stomach dance even faster as she stares into his soulful eyes. She nods, because her throat has closed up and she knows she won’t be able to speak. She quickly pours herself some of her mother’s famous granadilla juice and takes a long swallow to calm her nerves, vowing not to look in Odirile’s direction again unless absolutely forced to.

The meeting passes in a blur, with her paying very little attention, until she realises that there seems to be tension at the table all of a sudden, and the prince is sitting with a stormy look on his face.

“My son,” Kgosi Mokgatlha says, “while I understand and appreciate the difficulties associated with this request, we have no choice in this matter and no avenue other than the one we have raised with you. We feel that direct contact with someone in authority is the only way to stop Viljoen.”

Odi releases a frustrated sigh and says through half-clenched teeth, “Yes, but there’s no guarantee that she’ll even see me, or take our request seriously.”

“It’s worth a try,” Sandra says, with everyone around the table concurring. File feels lost and wishes she had listened more carefully.

“Fine, but I’m not going alone,” Odi states testily, at which his father pats him on the shoulder.

“Of course not, son; of course not. But unfortunately none of us is capable of assisting you.”

“Well, File’s here for a while and she’s off work,” MmaItumeleng says to File’s dismay. “I’m sure she can go with the prince,” she adds, looking at her daughter, whose eyes are wide with horror.

It takes a very strict look from her mother before File replies testily, “Okay, fine.”

“Wonderful! Wonderful! Dankie, ngwanake. We’ll win this battle yet with such concerted effort,” exclaims the king.

After some further discussion Sandra gets up and says, “To reiterate the action points: Rre Seganka, Odirile and Orefile will meet to draw up this document to the MEC, and File will type it up and print it. I will ensure that she drops the document off during the week sometime, and Odi is to try his very best to organise a prompt meeting with the MEC regarding the matter of this land claim. Is that all? Did I forget anything?”

Nobody replies and Sandra sits down.

“Well, if that’s it, then this meeting is adjourned. Thank you, everyone, for attending,” Kgosi Mokgatlha concludes.

As the small group disperses, File hastily stacks plates and glasses on trays and takes them into the house, while Sandra shuts down her laptop.

In the kitchen, File leans against the wall, closes her eyes and wonders how it could have happened that the take-it-easy holiday she planned has been turned into a foray into the world of politics. She shakes her head in disbelief and opens her eyes to find Odi in the kitchen door, staring at her with a closed, hard-to-read expression.

Immediately the nervous butterflies start fluttering in her stomach again. File swallows hard as they stand looking at each other, saying nothing. The tension in the room can be sliced with a knife. She bites her lip nervously, drawing Odi’s eyes to her mouth. File draws a deep breath to calm her nerves, raising her chest and drawing his eyes down her graceful neck to her bosom. She tries to fight the urge to fold her arms over her chest, but soon loses the battle. You haven’t acted like this since high school, she thinks to herself in exasperation.

“What can I help you with?” she asks briskly, trying to look Odi in the eye.

He blinks slowly, looking at her like a predator, barely moving. “When shall we meet?”

“Well,” she starts irritably, “you heard my mother. I’m unemployed and I’ll be here for a while. So I guess it’s up to you. As long as it’s after ten-thirty in the morning and before five in the afternoon.”

“Okay . . . Do you have a phone?”

She is about to laugh when she realises that he is serious; there are people in the village who don’t have cellphones. “Yes,” she answers and rattles off her number, and Odi enters the number into his phone.

“I’ll coordinate with Rre Seganka and call before I come to fetch you, to make sure you’re up to it.”

She nods. Odi stands there, looking at her for another second. Then he turns and walks out.

File releases a tense breath that she didn’t even realise she was holding and flops back against the wall. That was strange, and this guy is one hell of a strange prince. She shakes her head and softly says to herself, “This is going to be some ride, girl. So much for an idyllic and uneventful holiday.”