Mr Not Quite Good Enough Page 4

  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.”

  Gorata was still holding Mandisa’s phone in her hand. She looked do
wn 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.

  Chapter 5

  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.”