Mr Not Quite Good Enough (4 page)

There were two gigantic, overstuffed suitcases, a huge cardboard box wrapped with rolls of packaging tape, a size 30 cast-iron pot with a smaller size 15 next to it, and . . . “And what is that?”

Kelebogile turned her head. “Is that a . . .”

“. . . goat?” Gorata finished.

“Ee, I thought we'd make a small celebration, since this is the first time I'm coming to your new house in Soweto.” Mmandu smiled, proud of her initiative.

“How did you bring a goat on the bus from Rustenburg?” Gorata gasped, still in shock.

“Well, the conductor is a cousin of Mma Moleele, the old cleaner at Daddy's school. He was keen to help. We hid the goat under the bus so the animal people wouldn't take it.”

“You've probably broken a hundred laws already, but how do you think we're going to get all of this stuff
and
your goat to my house?” Gorata asked.

“In your car,” Mmandu said, as if her younger sister had gone crazy. She heaved the size 30 pot onto her head, where it balanced precariously, picked up the two suitcases and led her goat, which bleated non-stop, to Gorata's car.

Gorata looked at Kelebogile. “Didn't I tell you?
Didn't I tell you?
”

Kelebogile put the size 15 pot on top of the box and stood waiting for Gorata to pick up her side, saying nothing. Gorata bent down and picked up the box. She thought she heard a rooster crowing somewhere inside. She sighed heavily and they carried the box to the car. She didn't really want to know what was in it.

4

Gorata decided on a traditional Ghanaian dress for the ANC fundraiser to which Showa was taking her. The dress was royal blue with white lines running through it. It was one of her favourites. At least with Showa she didn't have to be careful what she wore, he hardly ever noticed. She needn't fear he'd make her change her dress or re-do her hair.

Gorata had met Showa through work. He owned a fleet of trucks and invested some of his money in the stock market. There was a lot she liked about him. For one, she admired his drive, his appetite for success. He had been raised by a single mother in a tiny village in the Drakensberg Mountains. From nothing he'd built a successful business. Gorata respected that.

Though they'd only been dating for a few weeks, Showa had already talked about marriage. He told her he'd spotted her straight away as someone who would make him a perfect wife. But she was unsure.

Showa was always polite and kind. He was generous and handsome in his own way. Not very tall, and a bit thick around the waist, but he was thirty-seven, after all, so that was perhaps only to be expected. But none of that was the reason Gorata couldn't commit to him. The main reason was she knew so little about him. She'd never seen his house. He often disappeared for days on end and couldn't be reached by cellphone. He blamed it on trucks that had broken down, but she didn't believe him.

But still, she liked Showa and always enjoyed spending time with him, so she was looking forward to the evening. She sat down at her dressing table and looked through her necklaces. Finally she chose a silver one with a tanzanite teardrop surrounded by tiny quarter-carat diamonds. Alfred had bought it for her; she wouldn't have been able to afford such a necklace. It matched the colour of her dress perfectly. She checked her hair one last time and stood up.

“Oo la la, fancy lady!” Mmandu stood at the door admiring her. “Too bad you're so skinny, though. That dress would have been perfect if you had a proper bum.”

Gorata smiled. She knew Mmandu meant no harm. The skinny city women just didn't measure up in her eyes.

“Where are you off to?” Mmandu asked.

“A date. It's an ANC youth league fundraiser.”

“Ooh, a rich politician too. Why didn't you invite him to our party?”

Gorata hadn't invited anyone to the party except Amita. The goat had been duly slaughtered in Gorata's backyard and hung from the tree to drain the blood. Flies had congregated and her neighbour, a BEE wannabe called Quentin Ndlovu, had complained bitterly over the fence, first about the frantic bleating of the goat when Mmandu ran her sharp knife across its outstretched neck, and then about the terrible smell as the afternoon became evening and still various parts hung from the tree. But when the gumba-gumba speakers arrived and the township jive started pumping out of them, so loudly it could be heard four blocks away, Quentin had given up complaining.

Ever since then he gave Gorata a sorry look in the mornings when they climbed into their cars while the rooster that had been in Mmandu's box crowed its greeting to the sun in the background.

Gorata heard a knock and grabbed her bag.

“Is that your man?” Mmandu asked, trailing after her. “I'd like to meet him.”

Gorata opened the door with her nosy sister standing so close behind her that she could feel her hot breath on the back of her neck.

“Oh, don't you look lovely,” Showa said as he always did and kissed her on the cheek. Gorata attempted to leave quickly, but realised with a feeling of hopelessness that it wasn't going to happen that way.

“Come in for a minute, come on in,” Mmandu said. “Where are you rushing off to?”

Showa, always the gentleman, shook Mmandu's hand and introduced himself. They made their way to the sofas in the sitting room and Gorata rolled her eyes. There was no use fighting it, so she closed the door and followed them.

Mmandu started off slowly, asking Showa what he did for a living, and then went in for the kill. “So are you intending to marry my little sister, or what?”

Gorata looked at Showa and mouthed, “Sorry.”

He smiled. “That's a question you must ask her,” Showa told her sister. “I've already asked her to be my wife.”

Mmandu turned to Gorata in surprise. “Ao! Gorata-we! Why didn't you tell me this was your fiancé? When is he coming to Rustenburg to meet Daddy?”

Gorata was amazed at how quickly things could change from relatively plain sailing to utter disaster. “Mmandu, it's not like that . . .”

“That's true,” Showa said. “She hasn't said yes. I'm not officially her fiancé – yet.”

Mmandu became quiet and glared at her little sister. Gorata looked away. She didn't want to have to deal with this now. What she wanted was a nice dinner and some dancing with Showa. Mmandu could wait.

“I think we should get going, we'll be late,” Gorata said.

Showa stood up, looking confused by the sudden end to the discussion. They walked to the door and said goodbye to Mmandu, who kept quiet.

Gorata knew she was in for it. A quiet Mmandu was a dangerous Mmandu.

* * *

The function was in Sandton's Cedar Park Hotel. There must have been almost four hundred people, all of the who's who of Joburg.

The main conference room was decked out with white silk tablecloths and elegant bouquets of orchids as centrepieces. A stage was set up at the front for the various political speakers, who Gorata hoped would be quick and to the point – not exactly the norm for politicos, but she could only hope.

Gorata spotted a few people she knew. Some of the local journalists had pitched up thanks to complimentary tickets given with the idea that they would cover the speeches in their next issue. Most wouldn't, but were happy for some posh food and an open bar. Gorata talked with them while Showa greeted some of his political friends. She was always friendly with journalists, knowing to what extent they could make or break a PRO.

Gorata picked a glass of pink champagne from a passing silver tray and made her way to the journalists. “So, I see you're here with Rre Matenge,” said Karen, one of the cub reporters from SABC. “He's quite a catch.”

“Yeah,” Gorata replied vaguely.

“Tell me you're not a lister, Gorata,” a journalist called Henry said as he reached for another glass of free champagne from a tray. “Showa is high up on all of the listers' target boards. They'd die to get their grubby hands on him.”

“No, I'm not a lister,” Gorata replied. “He's a friend.”

“Sure you're a lister. I've hardly met a woman who isn't.” Henry was a long-time stalwart at
The Sunday Voice
. He looked around the gang of reporters, all men in the group except for Karen and Gorata, in an attempt to garner support. “Women with their lists – eish! But maybe you don't fit Showa's list – ever thought about that, Gorata? Hey, did you guys see last week's
Batho Ba Mzansi
? I'm telling you, Bra Kee is doing us a serious service, ma-gents.”

The men in the group nodded their heads as one. Karen gave Gorata a disgusted look and said, “I think it's sick. Do men really want women like that? Did you read that, Gorata?”

“No,” Gorata replied, not mentioning she had been otherwise occupied, trying to commit suicide by jumping off bridges, and hadn't had time to read the Sunday paper. “What did he say?”

Karen held up her fingers and ticked off one thing after another. “A woman must have a job so she doesn't nag her man for money for new things. No wigs. Too much make-up means she's hiding something – which means: run! Meet her mother, you'll see your future. If a man pays lobola, the woman shouldn't expect him to cook and wash dishes. Too skinny, too tall, give her a miss because all those bones might wound you. I mean – really! It was crazy.” Karen finished by dropping her hands at her sides in defeat.

“Why is that any different from you women?” Henry asked. “No car, no cash, no date. It's the same thing. Bra Kee is just giving you back what you give us. You ladies want equality – now you got it.”

One of the young men at the back added earnestly, “But the thing about meeting her mother, eish o a itse moos, that is seriously true. You shouldn't make any commitment to a woman until you see the mother. Some look nice, but the mother – yaoza! You need to give that kind of woman a pass or you're going to be stuck le mathata a serious.”

All the men laughed. Karen remained stony-faced. Gorata tried to be neutral. She didn't want to make the reporters angry, but this man, this Bra Kee, was insulting people now. “Who is this Bra Kee, anyway?” she asked Henry. “You work with him. I imagine him as some embittered, scrawny forty-five-year-old man who smokes too much and has been around the block one time too many.”

“Bra Kee? You're off base, my sister,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Way off base.”

“So who is he and what's his name?” Karen asked.

“Oh no, that's a top secret that you will not get from me. Only a few are trusted with that information.”

“He sits up there in his office, in the safety of
The Sunday Voice
. What does he know about what's happening on the ground?” Gorata said. “He's just making things up. Women aren't that mean and materialistic, and I don't think men only care about a woman's looks. What about love?”

The group laughed, and this time even Karen joined in.

“Love?” Henry asked. “Did you just step out of some Hollywood movie? This is the twenty-first century, love has disappeared. Marriage is all about matching people with the same economic goals so they can pool their resources, buy a big house and fill it with a pile of junk they don't need.”

“So is that why you're not married, Henry? An old man like you?” Gorata joked.

“Aikhona! This capitalist definition of marriage has no place in my commie heart,” Henry said, smiling. He was never serious, so you never knew what he thought about anything. The objectivity of a true journalist, Gorata thought. Henry needed to see every side. Maybe he was so used to it that he didn't know his own side any more.

Gorata had had enough.

“You journalists are so jaded. I don't care what you say. I still believe in love,” she said.

She could hear them laughing as she made her way to Showa and their table.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm great,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. He was protective and caring, and that was a good quality for a husband, she thought, but then immediately wondered why she needed to search for reasons to say yes. If it felt right, shouldn't answering yes to a marriage proposal be the easiest thing in the world?

The dinner was scrumptious, the best part being the main course of king prawns. Gorata enjoyed them so much she didn't even mind the speeches before the band started. A slow song played just as they were served their dessert of Black Forest cake.

“May I have this dance, ma'am?” Showa asked.

Gorata hesitated a moment – she really liked Black Forest cake. But then she got up, knowing it would wait for her on the table.

Showa ushered her to the dance floor. Another thing, he was an excellent dancer, Gorata thought. He said he'd taken ballroom dancing at school, he knew how to lead her around the floor as if she were dancing on air. It was lovely and so romantic.

“Your sister certainly seems keen on bringing me into your family,” Showa whispered in her ear.

“Yes, Mmandu is keen on a lot of things,” Gorata said.

“I don't know why you won't agree to be my wife. I'm crazy about you. We'll make a great team. You have all the brains; you know about marketing and public relations and investment. We could do wonders together.”

Gorata tried to ignore his words and concentrate on how nice it was being in his arms and how lovely the music sounded. His words had echoes of what the journalists were saying. Marriage was a business arrangement. A way to increase your economic advantage in a competitive world. Had she also been subconsciously viewing marriage like everyone else? All along she'd thought she was a romantic, but was she also a jaded pragmatist like Henry?

She did like Showa; maybe she could even learn to love him one day. He had so many wonderful traits, she'd be a fool to pass him by. Everyone knew that, everyone except herself.

The music ended and Showa kissed her on the lips. He held her for a moment and she relaxed in his arms. “Please think about my proposal again, darling,” he said before leading her back to their table. Gorata was happy to see her cake was still there.

They'd hardly sat down when a tall woman approached the table. She was dark and beautiful, but her face was hard. Gorata didn't pay her much attention at first since she was busy wondering why more desserts didn't pair cherries and chocolate together when they were such a fantastic duo.

“Good evening,” the woman said to Gorata. “I'm Mandisa.”

Gorata looked up. “Nice to meet you,” she said, shaking the woman's hand.

Mandisa nodded curtly at Showa, making Gorata wonder what was going on.

“Not here.” Showa's face was stern and he turned away to indicate the conversation was over. Gorata was surprised, as she'd never seen him being rude to anyone before, especially in public.

Mandisa spoke to Gorata instead. She held out her cellphone, struggling to speak in English. “These . . . these are the children for Showa . . . Showa and myself.”

Confused, Gorata took the phone. What was this woman talking about? Children? Showa? She'd never been told about any children. She looked at the phone, and two smiling children looked back at her. Mandisa said, “I am Showa's wife.”

Showa's head whipped around. “No, you're not!” he spat at her. Then he turned to Gorata. “She's not telling the truth. She is not my wife. We were never legally married. Ignore her, she just came here to cause trouble.”