Mr Not Quite Good Enough

1

Gorata looked at her watch while pacing across her spacious office.

“The hand hasn't moved since the last time you checked,” Amita said. “Why don't you just go now? No one will notice, it's nearly time to knock off anyway.”

Gorata sat back down at her desk. “It's no use leaving now,” she said. “I need to collect Kelebogile on the way home. If I'm early, I'll just have to sit outside school, waiting. And you know how those Soweto boys are, they'll be touching my car and making it all dirty.”

Gorata pushed her long weave back. “Alfred will be out with a sponge and bucket before we leave for the restaurant. He can spot a fingerprint from fifty metres.”

They both laughed.

“I really don't know why you date that guy. I'm surprised he doesn't go around with that vile hand sanitiser all the Americans can't live without,” Amita said, rolling her eyes at such craziness.

Gorata glanced at her friend lounging on the sofa, then quickly looked away. There was no need to add more facts to the growing pile of evidence her friends were collecting to prove that Alfred Williams might not be the right man for her.

But her silence didn't matter. Detective Amita heard the truth between Gorata's unspoken words. “Oh no! He
does
carry that sanitiser around!” she exclaimed. “He's a number one weirdo. Jeez, you need to dump this guy.”

“Come on, he's not that bad.” Gorata struggled to find something to use in his defence. “He's an accountant. Your mother would love him.”

Even she could hear the desperation in her words.

But it was true: Amita's mother would love Alfred. Although at this point her mother would love just about anyone who fell into the category “male” and didn't have a police record.

Amita's mother was frantic about the fact that an eligible Hindu woman like her daughter couldn't seem to find a husband. What she wasn't aware of was that Amita had no interest in finding one, wasn't even looking and did her best to chase away every man her mother so patiently herded in her direction.

“My mother, my mother! If you have to resort to pulling out my mother as a trump card, you have some serious issues. My mother would accept just about anyone right now, even your mentally disturbed Alfred.” Amita let her head fall back off the side of the sofa, her long, thick hair nearly skimming the floor. “But really, you need to drop this fellow. It's going nowhere and he's just wasting your time.”

“Don't you have some shares to sell or stock prices to analyse?” Gorata asked, getting annoyed. They both worked for Landmark Investments, a stockbroker firm. Gorata was the PRO and Amita a very reluctant though unusually successful stockbroker.

“Arghh! What are you now? Boss man, Mr Pilane? I'm tired and it's Friday. Give me a break. I've more than sold my quota for the week.” Amita sat up on the sofa, suddenly animated. “I have an audition for
Generations
, did I tell you?”

Amita hated being a stockbroker, even though she was one of the best in the firm. She seemed to have a sixth sense for when to pull her clients out of a company just before it headed south and also when to buy up everything at rock-bottom prices from companies that, straight after, took off like rockets.

What she really wanted, though, was to get a permanent role in one of the local soapies. She was a soap opera addict – South African soapies, American soapies, British soapies; she even had a special channel to watch Indian soapies.

“What's the part?” Gorata asked, leafing through a pile of papers with feigned interest. Even if it was Friday, and she desperately wanted to get home and get ready for her date, she was still at work.

“Patient number two. It's non-speaking, but I'm lying in the hospital bed next to Karabo, so that's something. I might get a chance to schmooze up a bit. Maybe we'll become friends. Imagine! Me – friends with Karabo.”

“You'd best learn her real name before you start sharing cell numbers.”

“I know her real name isn't Karabo. But it would be cool if I got the part, huh?”

Gorata looked at her watch again and said distractedly, “Yeah, that would be great . . . You know, he's taking me to Chez Louis tonight? I could never afford that place. I don't know how Alfred got a reservation. I heard it was booked up until like June next year.”

“Look, I'll grant you that – the guy is handsome and he's rich. But Gorata, think of being married to him for fifty years. How could you have kids, with his OCD? Children get dirty all the time. What will he do? Run them through a sterilising machine every day?”

“He's not that bad. I like him. He can be fun.” Gorata stopped. Even she knew applying the word “fun” to Alfred was a stretch.

He'd grown up on the Cape Flats, and somewhere along the way from there to Joburg he'd decided to forget everything he ever knew. He remade himself. Alfred was the neatest, most health-conscious man she'd ever known. On top of that he was severely fashion-conscious and wouldn't be caught dead in anything without a label. Of course, he expected the same of his girlfriend, so Gorata was supplied with clothes she'd only ever dreamed of owning.

But that wasn't the thing that attracted her to him. Alfred was interesting and a pretty good kisser. They'd only gone that far, though, dating on and off for three months. But it was okay with Gorata. She was not ready for anything serious. She was working towards her goal.

She expected to be married to a successful South African man by the time she was thirty, which was two years away. She had a goal, she was implementing her plan, and she expected success. Simple and straightforward. One way or another, she always achieved her goals, so why would finding a husband be any different?

Gorata looked at her watch again. “Okay, time's up. I'm out of here! You still coming to the house for brunch on Sunday?” she asked as she gathered up her handbag and car keys.

“Yes, I'll see you then. Have fun at Chez Louis tonight,” Amita said with a heavy sigh. “I, on the other hand, will not be having fun. I have yet another blind date set up by my mother. I mean, how many Indian doctors are there in Joburg?”

* * *

Gorata rushed from downtown Joburg to Soweto to collect her housemate. Kelebogile taught Biology at Albert Luthuli Memorial Secondary School. She and Gorata had been best friends since Grade One.

Like most schools in the townships it was under-resourced, but Kelebogile would teach nowhere else. She was a dedicated, passionate teacher, even under these tough conditions. Gorata just hoped the administration knew what an asset they had in her.

Kelebogile came towards the car, followed by a group of girls in soccer uniforms. One carried her handbag, the other the huge leather bag which Kelebogile took everywhere and which Gorata jokingly called Lekuka. On any given day Lekuka might contain anything from a laptop to a jar of preserved frogs to be dissected, a tumbler of leftovers from the night before to be eaten hurriedly at lunch, or stacks of papers to be marked.

The diminutive Kelebogile looked dwarfed, surrounded by the secondary school girls.

“Hi!” she shouted through the open window of Gorata's car while opening the back door so the girls could load her stuff in. “Okay, see you ladies tomorrow. Get to bed early. I want you ready to win!”

Kelebogile got in, shutting the door behind her. “Eish – ke lapile!”

“So you have a game tomorrow?” Gorata asked, pulling out into the road. Her friend coached the girls' soccer team at the school.

“Yep. This year I have a good team, we might even win the region. Did you see those girls? They're tough and serious. I'm excited. And I invited Mark for tomorrow.” Kelebogile smiled shyly.

“Mark? The white American guy?”

“Yep, that one.”

“I thought you decided it wasn't worth the headache your father was going to give you?”

“Well, my dad is in Rustenburg, not here. It's not like we're getting married. Mark's coming to watch my team play and we're going out for lunch. No biggie.” Kelebogile crossed her arms over her thin chest, not looking at Gorata.

Gorata knew her friend. She was pretending that it wasn't a big deal but it was just that – pretence. Kelebogile had met this man a few months before and barely a day passed without a Mark story. Kelebogile rarely had boyfriends and nothing was ever casual.

But Gorata decided to leave the issue for now. They both knew inviting Mark to the game tomorrow was a very big deal. A huge deal. “So Alfred's taking me to Chez Louis tonight.”

“Hmmm.” Kelebogile continued looking out of the window.

“What's ‘hmmm'?”

“I'm just wondering how much a meal costs at that place.”

“Please, Kele, not everything is political. Can't we just go out for dinner?”

“Sure, yeah . . . but . . . it's a waste of money. He might spend more than a thousand rand at a place like that. But anyway, let me stay out of it.”

Gorata pulled into the filling station a few blocks from their small house in Soweto. She was the owner of the house, if you discounted the bank which held the mortgage, but she would never have been able to afford it if Kelebogile hadn't moved in with her.

“Oh, there he is,” Kelebogile said, nodding her head towards the man walking up to the driver's window. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a thin, tidy waist that his yellow polyester petrol attendant uniform could not hide, no matter how ugly it was. He was smiling and Gorata could see his deep dimples long before he was near enough to speak. Suddenly everything felt lighter, as if the sun had come out from behind some clouds.

“Dumela, Lady Gorata,” he said when he was at the window, leaning in, speaking just above a whisper. “You look exceptionally beautiful this fine spring afternoon.”

Gorata couldn't stop herself from smiling. “Dumela, Ozee. Full tank, please.”

He bowed and went off to attend to her command. Kelebogile whispered, “He's so cute.”

“Yeah,” Gorata said. No one could deny Ozee was handsome – gorgeous, actually. And Gorata had to admit that she liked the way he flirted with her every time she stopped at the petrol station, which was part of the reason she filled her car nowhere else.

“And he likes you.” Kelebogile looked straight at Gorata the way she did when they had a heart-to-heart.

“He's just doing his job.”

“No, he likes you,” Kelebogile insisted.

“Yeah, maybe. But . . . he's not . . . right.”

Kelebogile's voice changed. “Why? Because he works at a petrol station?”

“No . . . not that exactly . . . It's just . . .” Gorata knew Ozee liked her and she couldn't deny she was happy when she pulled up and found him on duty, but she could never be serious about a man who was a petrol attendant. Kelebogile was making as if she was some uppity woman looking down on him, but it was more complicated than that.

Kelebogile was still looking at her, expecting an explanation.

“Judge me if you want,” Gorata said, “but let's say I start dating Ozee and it gets serious and we get married. How is it going to be when I'm earning probably three times his salary? No man can handle that, no matter how modern he might be. It would put an end to the relationship. I know it and you know it – and he probably knows it too. It's no use starting something when you already know it will end in disaster.”

“Yeah, maybe you have a point – but you don't know him. Maybe this is a stop along the way, maybe he has some bigger plans for his life. Besides, even if he is permanent and pensionable as a petrol attendant, he's way ahead of the guys you've been dating lately.”

“Kele, that's not fair.”

“Isn't it? Let's do a roll call. First we have Alfred. Anal Alfred. Materialistic, clean – freaky Alfred.”

Gorata said nothing. She was just a couple of hours away from a date with the man and everyone was putting him down. He wasn't that bad. She liked him. She really did. She was sure he had many good points that Kelebogile and Amita just couldn't see and that she couldn't elaborate on – at the moment.

“Okay, let's go on to number two.” Kelebogile held up three fingers and hit the middle one with her other index finger. “Showa Matenge. Politics – good. Handsome – a point. But I'm warning you now, I don't trust him. I don't know what he's up to, but I don't trust him. Too slick.”

“I'm not dating him,” Gorata said. “You know I never date more than one man at a time.”

“Maybe you're not dating him yet, but he's in the queue. Getting ready to join the long chain of candidates for the position of Mr Right. You're treating this husband-hunting business like a job interview; if they don't get enough ticks against their name, they get a formal rejection letter.”

“Kele, that's taking it too far, you know.”

“Maybe, but I don't like Showa, he's not right for you at all.”

“What's wrong with Showa? I like him. He's caring and very sincere. I would think he'd be your favourite. He worked himself up from nowhere to being a very successful businessman.”

“Yeah well, I still don't like him. And besides, he's kind of old. What has he been doing all of this time?”

“He's not that old, he's only thirty-seven. And he was sorting out his business, that's why he didn't have time for women. You're really being unfair.”

“Am I? You know him better than me. Do you trust him?” Kelebogile's eyebrows rose in the way that meant she already knew the answer.

“Sure, why not?” Gorata hardly knew Showa at all. They had not dated, but he made it clear that he wanted to, always hanging around her office. She told him she was seeing someone, though that didn't deter him. He was a bit secretive, but she respected his resolve.

Kelebogile moved to the last finger. “Then we have Mr Erasmus. The crazy Wildman who may very well kill you with all his stunts if you don't break up with him soon.”