Mr Not Quite Good Enough (5 page)

Gorata was still holding Mandisa's phone in her hand. She looked down at the two children. The boy looked about ten and the girl maybe five. She looked up at Showa.

He snatched the phone from her, shoved it back at Mandisa and then grabbed Gorata's hands in his. “You need to believe me. I'm not married to this woman, not legally. Yes, those are my children, but I've moved on from her. We have nothing in common any more. You, you are the woman I want in my life.”

Gorata looked up at Mandisa. “I didn't know any of this. He never told me.”

“We stay together. I knew there was someone else, so I came here to see,” Mandisa explained. She spoke with no anger; more than anything, Gorata heard sadness in her voice – sadness caused by her. And Showa.

Gorata pulled her hands back from Showa. She got up and put her arms around Mandisa. “I'm so sorry for any pain I caused you and your children. I never would have gone out with Showa if I knew.”

“Thank you,” Mandisa said.

Walking out of the dining room, Gorata could hear Showa racing after her. At the door, he grabbed her by the shoulder. She pulled away and he grabbed her again, roughly. When she turned back to speak to him, Gorata saw Henry making for them.

“Leave her alone,” Henry said, now standing next to Showa. He suddenly looked very big and scary, nothing like the wizened journo persona he usually showed the world.

Showa looked at Henry and let go.

“Don't call me again –
ever
,” Gorata told Showa, and then turned to Henry. “Thank you.”

She walked out into the cool spring evening, flagged a passing taxi and rode most of the way home, but decided to stop the driver some blocks from her house. She needed time alone, and with Mmandu and Kelebogile in her small house, that was in short supply. She paid the taxi driver and got out.

Spring in Soweto was a beautiful time. Gorata could smell the sweet syringa in the night air. A tomcat called for his love somewhere in the distance. She could hear an old Boom Shaka song playing on someone's radio set by an open window. The nearly full moon peeked out from behind a bank of clouds.

Gorata was surprised she wasn't as upset as she thought she might be. She liked Showa, but even before all of this she had known that she didn't love him. The question had been – could she grow to love him? Would it be okay to marry him in the hope that eventually he would transform into her Mr Right? That question had been decisively answered tonight.

“Hey, Lady Gorata!”

Gorata was pulled from her thoughts. She had reached the petrol station without realising it. “Hey, Ozee.”

She hadn't seen him since the Cellacom meeting. He'd seemed so different there. He'd mixed her up, and she felt embarrassed about how she'd behaved and what she'd said. But despite this she was happy to see him tonight. He always made her feel happy. And now at least he was back in his uniform, back to the old Ozee she knew, the one she was comfortable with.

He jogged up to her. “That's some fancy gear for walking the mean streets of Soweto,” he said, looking down at her Ghanaian dress. “And where's your fly ride tonight?”

“I was out on a date and it ended sooner than I expected. Got a lift with him, left my car at home – unfortunately.”

“What did the mampara do? Was it the crazy bungee-jumping one?” Ozee asked.

Gorata laughed. “No, not that one . . . Anyway, it doesn't matter.”

“Listen, I can't let a lovely lady like you walk home alone. Anything could happen. Wait here. Let me talk to the boss, I'll walk you home.” Before Gorata could say anything, Ozee was gone. Within a few seconds he was back again. “Okay, no problem. Let's go.”

He held out his arm for her to hold. “Let me escort you, Lady Gorata.”

She took his arm, giggling. They walked for some time without talking.

“So when do you think you're going to give up those bozos?” Ozee asked.

“Which bozos?”

“The long string of guys you keep going out with.”

For some reason Gorata didn't find him presumptuous for saying that, although she would have had it been anyone else. But with him, she felt she could be honest. “It's not that I'm
looking
for bozos. Maybe I'm just a bozo magnet.”

Ozee laughed. “You're
not
a bozo magnet. Look at me, stuck by your side, and I'm no bozo.”

Gorata smiled. He was right, he wasn't a bozo at all. He was kind and sweet and handsome and she wished her house was kilometres away and they could walk all night instead of just a few blocks.

She felt comfortable with Ozee. She hardly knew him, but she trusted him. He was honest. He was who he was, no pretences or games. Ozee, a petrol attendant, a committed flirt. “Yeah, you're right. You're no bozo.”

“But you're looking for Mr Right,” he said. “And I'm Mr Not Quite Good Enough.”

“No! It's not like that!” Gorata protested. “Really, it's not.”

“Isn't it?” Ozee smiled and his dimples showed, but his eyebrows arched, indicating that he didn't believe what she was saying.

Gorata wasn't sure if she even believed what she was saying. She didn't know the truth, or maybe she didn't want to face it. If she hadn't known Ozee as a petrol attendant before the Cellacom meeting, would she have gone out on a date with him? Yes, she knew the answer was yes. She was attracted to him, he was funny and so handsome and his smile – she would do anything for that smile.

But could she have a serious relationship with Ozee? If she was honest with herself, she was pretty sure the answer was no – and that made her sick.

They continued walking in silence until Gorata stopped. “This is my place.”

Ozee looked up at the modest face brick house. “Nice.”

Just then the moon came out completely from behind the clouds and Mmandu's Rustenburg rooster crowed everyone awake for the morning he thought had suddenly arrived.

“I didn't take you for a woman who kept chickens,” Ozee said.

“My sister . . . ” Gorata answered, embarrassed. “It's a long story.”

Ozee smiled. “I've got time.”

“Aren't you working?”

“Yeah, but my boss and I . . . We've got a sort of agreement.”

“That's handy,” Gorata said.

Ozee held out his hand and she took it. He led her to the plastic chairs under a tree in the garden at the side of her house. They sat down. And with the moon making it almost like day and the rooster singing his morning song every few minutes, Gorata found herself telling this man, hardly more than a stranger, all about the death of her mother and the character that was her older sister, Mmandu.

Later, when things were ruined and awful, Gorata always thought back to that silvery, magical night, and it made her heart sing with happiness even when it was crying in pain.

5

Gorata woke up early, went to the gym for a quick workout and then whisked off to breakfast with Amita. So far, she'd managed to avoid Mmandu. She had no interest in discussing Showa and his marriage proposal and what a kak mampara he was, as Ozee had described him at some point the night before after she'd poured out the sorry tale plus a whole lot more to him.

She couldn't believe what a great listener Ozee was. Men were notorious for having no listening skills, but not Ozee. He was genuinely interested in what she said. He was insightful, too, and wise beyond his years with his answers and questions.

Gorata hadn't stopped thinking about him since he left her garden in the wee hours of the morning. She hadn't stopped seeing his smile, feeling her hand in his. He really was a very special man. Any woman would be more than lucky to get him.

She'd showered after her aerobics class and felt fantastic. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she felt different, light and free. She felt as if the world was hers. She'd left her car at the gym and walked the few blocks to the bistro Amita had chosen for breakfast.

Gorata spotted her sitting at a booth in the corner.

“Hey, girl, what happened to you – you swallow a glow bug?” Amita asked.

“What? Why are you saying that?” Gorata threw her bag down on the bench and sat down.

“You're radiant. I guess the date with Mr ANC went smashing. Finally hit the ball out of the park then?” Amita had a thousand euphemisms for having sex.

“No, the opposite actually – Showa and I are over. He's married – well, not legally, it looks like a traditional marriage, but there are kids and . . . Well, I'm not interested.”

Gorata picked up the menu and her eyes focused on a photo of flapjacks dripping with butter and maple syrup. They would neutralise the good effects of the entire one-hour aerobics class she'd just gone through, but so be it. She closed the menu. “And you?”

“No, no ‘and you' . . . Are you okay? How did you find out he was married? It must've been a shock. I thought he might've been the one for you.”

“No, he definitely isn't. And I'm fine. You know what I'm feeling most? Relieved. I didn't want to marry him and he was putting so much pressure on me, but I couldn't find any rational reason to say no, so I just kept putting it off. But I know the reason now: I didn't love him. And on top of that he's a lying cheat. Now I'm free.”

The waitress came up and they gave her their order. Flapjacks and coffee for Gorata, muesli and yogurt for Amita. “So what's making you so happy then?”

“I just feel good. It's spring, I have a good job, I have great friends, I live in the most exciting city in the world. I should be happy. Why not?” Gorata didn't mention that she might be falling in love with a petrol attendant. That was for another day.

Amita's phone rang. She looked at the screen. “Oh, my god!”

“What?” Gorata asked.

“It's them! I need to get this – it's
them
.” She answered the phone. “Hello? Yes . . . Tuesday, of course, no problem. Yes . . . Okay . . . See you then.”

Amita ended the call and sat still, holding the cellphone in front of her and looking at it as if she'd never seen it before. Gorata waited. In a soft voice Amita said, “I got it.”

“What? You got the
Generations
job? Patient Two?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Amita said, bouncing in her seat. People at the other tables looked their way and Amita lowered her voice. “And . . . wait for it . . . They liked me so much that I'm no longer Patient Two, I'm Shawna – and if things go right, Karabo may reveal a secret to me while we're in hospital and I'll get a semi-permanent role. Can you believe it?”

“Oh, my god! That's incredible!” But then Gorata asked, “So what about work?”

“I'll leave, of course. This is my dream! I can't waste time selling stupid stocks when I finally get my big break.”

“Yes, of course.” But Gorata felt sad thinking of Landmark Investments without Amita. “Will you still be friends with us non-famous people?”

“Don't be silly, of course! Fame won't change me.” Amita flagged the waitress down. “Change that muesli and yogurt to another order of flapjacks – it's time to celebrate!”

* * *

Albert Luthuli may have been one of the most illustrious leaders of the ANC and instrumental in bringing democracy to South Africa, but the school built in his memory was not really picking the fruits of the new dispensation. The soccer pitch was bare dirt, and the stands for spectators were few and mostly broken.

Gorata was thankful she had left an old blanket in her car, or she would have been standing. She laid it out on the ground and sat down.

Kelebogile rushed over. “So you made it – great! Here, watch this for me.” She dropped Lekuka on the blanket. “There's water in there, if you want. And some biscuits, if I remember right.”

And quite a few other things by the look of it, Gorata thought. “So where's your man?”

“Shush, not so loud! He's not my man, he's
a
man. He's on his way. Speaking of men, I thought I heard one in our garden last night,” Kelebogile said.

“Maybe,” Gorata answered, but couldn't hide her smile.

“No need to lie, because I looked out of the window. I know it was Ozee. What's going on?”

“I don't know . . . Nothing, really. We're friends,” Gorata said, but she knew that it was something a lot bigger.

“Friends? I don't think he wants to be your friend,” Kelebogile replied. “Come on, Gorata, you know you like him.”

“Okay – yes! I do like him, but Kele, it's going to be a problem. I do like him, maybe a lot.”

Kelebogile sat down on the blanket. “You know what, Gorata, it was only a few years ago you were just a village girl from Rustenburg. Yes, I'd be lying if I said the differences between you two won't matter in a relationship, they will, but there are always differences. I just see something there and I know you do too. You can't discount that for something which in the end isn't going to matter.”

The referee was blowing his whistle and Kelebogile got up. “I've got to go. We'll talk about this later.”

There were a few spectators. Some sat in the wonky stands, some had brought chairs, some stood; a few had blankets like Gorata.

Kelebogile was right, her team looked powerful. Her goalie must have been close to two metres tall. Few balls were going to get past those long arms.

Besides being big and strong, Kelebogile's girls were talented and entertaining. They passed the ball around with such speed and skill that the other team could barely keep up. Time flew by and the game seemed to be over before it had even started. Kelebogile's team won, 4-0.

Gorata stood up and started folding the blanket.

“Hello . . . Are you Gorata, Kele's friend?”

She looked up and saw a tall, red-haired, very white man. She put out her hand. “So you must be Mark. Yes, I'm Gorata.”

Running through in her head the few conversations she and Kelebogile had had about Mark, Gorata tried to find something to fill up the space between them until such time as Kelebogile showed up. “I understand you work at an HIV/Aids NGO,” she started.

“Yes,” Mark said.

One-word answers, Gorata thought, this was going to be tough. “Great team Kelebogile has this year,” she tried again.

“Yes.”

Okay, this was going nowhere. She made folding the blanket almost a full-time occupation in the hope that her friend would finish with her celebrations and save her from this torture. When there was no more folding that could be done, she picked up her handbag and Lekuka and asked, “Should we go find Kelebogile?”

Mark looked as relieved as she felt. “Yes!”

* * *

After the soccer match, they all went out for lunch, and eventually Mark did warm up enough to join in the conversation. Afterwards they dropped him at the flat he shared with one of the workers from the NGO.

“He's nice,” Gorata said as they pulled away.

“Do you think so?” Kelebogile asked uncertainly.

“Shy, but nice. You two are sweet together.”

Kelebogile smiled and looked out of the window. “It's been a good day.”

They drove in silence for a while. “So what's up with Ozee?” Kelebogile asked.

“I don't know,” Gorata said honestly.

“I think you need to talk with him, tell him what you're feeling. You're assuming the difference in your income will be a passion killer, but maybe it won't. People are different.”

“You talk like we're starting a relationship or something,” Gorata countered. “It's not like that.”

“It could be,” Kelebogile said. “I know, despite the dispassionate, systematic way you've been setting about trying to find a husband, I know inside you believe in love. And I also know that you are falling for Ozee. I saw it last night in the garden and today at the soccer match when you spoke about him. You can hide a lot of things from yourself, but I know you, Gorata-girl, and you can't hide anything from me.”

Gorata parked the car in the driveway at the house. She gathered up her stuff but kept quiet. Kelebogile always liked to think she knew things that she didn't. It didn't matter, Gorata thought, her friend could think what she wanted, only she herself knew the truth.

Inside the house Mmandu was waiting. Gorata had forgotten all about her plan to avoid her sister for a while.

Mmandu grabbed both Gorata and Kelebogile by the hands and pulled them out through the back door. Outside, they were surprised to find an old man sitting on a leather mat beside a small fire. It had been a hot day and though the sun had set, the heat was yet to dissipate. Sitting by a fire was not something Gorata was interested in doing.

But Mmandu told the girls to do exactly that.

Obeying the order, Gorata and Kelebogile sat down on the grass and kept quiet. Mmandu sat down next to the old man. He was wearing no shirt, though his shoulders were draped with what looked like a leopard skin. He had some small piles of herbs in front of him and began throwing bits of these in the fire. Each time he did so, the fire burnt more strongly and the old man let out a deep, guttural groan as if it caused him pain. He kept his eyes closed throughout all of this.

Gorata wondered how Mmandu had found a traditional doctor in Joburg this quickly. She seemed to have a special network, no matter where she went. The internet had nothing on her big sister.

“What is this . . . ?” Gorata started, but Mmandu put up a hand to stop her.

The traditional doctor rocked back and forth, continuing with his herb-burning and groaning. Gorata was hungry and wondered how much longer this was going to go on.

Suddenly the old man stopped rocking and opened his eyes. “Gorata Kwadiba!” he shouted and she got a fright. “Badimo! They are speaking to you!”

Gorata kept quiet. The old man shook a leather bag filled with things that clanked and knocked against each other. He spread a small leather mat in front of him and threw the contents of the bag onto it. A collection of things fell onto the mat: some were bones of animals, there was a sea shell, some dice, a gold button and a few blue dominoes.

The old man lifted a flywhisk from his side and flicked it over the objects. Pointing with the whisk at the gold button, he said, “Ngwana wa Kwadiba, you will be successful in life.”

Mmandu smiled. Gorata was still confused and a little scared of what was going on.

The old man pointed at one of the bones, which looked like a bone from the neck of a goat. “You've made the right choice, a man of politics is not the husband for a woman like you. It was going to lead to much sadness for many people.”

Gorata wondered what her sister had told the old man beforehand. Mmandu didn't know what had happened on the date with Showa, so how could the traditional doctor know?

He pointed at the shell. “There is an unknown. He is the one. He will appear wrong, but his heart is pure and he is a great man, a leader of many men. He doesn't know it yet and neither do you. But don't close your heart. No matter what your eyes might see, never close your heart; if you choose that path, he will be lost to you forever.”

The old man rocked and flicked his flywhisk over the bones spread on the mat. He hummed and groaned, but nothing more was said.

Soon he opened his eyes. They were clear and he looked at Gorata. “I'm hungry too,” he said. “Ke kopa nama le bojalwa.”

Mmandu jumped to her feet. “Well now, that's settled, so let's eat!”