Mr Not Quite Good Enough Page 5

  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!”

  Chapter 6

  6

  It wasn’t even 6:30 in the morning, but as Gorata and Kelebogile got into the car to head for work, the sun was already heating up the day.

  “So how much time does Amita have left at the office?” Kelebogile asked.

  “None, she’s supposed to be on set tomorrow. She’ll be telling Mr Pilane she’s leaving today. There’s nothing she can do, it’s how it works, apparently. The boss isn’t going to be happy, that’s for sure.”

  Gorata pulled out of the driveway. She was surprised to find a whole string of cars backed up a little way further. It looked as if there had been an accident on the road they normally took.

  “I might as well get petrol and let some if this traffic clear out,” she said, taking a side road around to the petrol station on the other side of the block. “So what do you think that whole traditional doctor thing was about?”

  “Well, the first part was obvious – you made the right decision concerning Showa,” Kelebogile said.

  “But how did the old man know all that?” Gorata still wasn’t sure Mmandu didn’t tell him something, even though she swore she hadn’t.

  “Who knows? Some of these things are beyond us. Anyway, I wonder who that shell is.”

  Gorata laughed. “Yeah – the shell of my dreams!”

  She pulled up at a petrol pump and an attendant came to the window. “Good morning, how can I help you?”

  Gorata’s heart sank. “Where’s Ozee?”

  “He had to go. A problem. How can I help you this morning?”

  “A problem? Like what?” Gorata asked.

  “Like his brother was shot or something. I don’t know really, that’s just what I heard. So how can I help you this morning?” he asked again like a broken record.

  “Shot?” Gorata wondered what could have happened. “Do you have Ozee’s phone number?”

  “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know, like I’m not supposed to be just giving it out to people.”

  Kelebogile leaned over Gorata and said to the man, “She’s his girlfriend.”

  The petrol attendant smiled and started getting his phone out of his pocket, but then hesitated. “But if you’re his girlfriend, how come you don’t know his number?”

  Gorata didn’t know how to answer, but Kelebogile leaned across her lap again and said, “Her phone was stolen last night. She’s just bought a new one.”

  The petrol attendant nodded his head and then scrolled through his numbers. Gorata got her battered Nokia from her handbag and waited. The man recited the digits and Gorata entered them in her phone. He looked up, saw Gorata’s old phone and scowled.

  Before he could say anything, Gorata said, “Full tank, please.”

  She dialled the number. “Hi . . . Ozee, it’s me, Gorata – I mean Lady Gorata.” She realised once she’d dialled the number that she’d never told him her surname, and Gorata was a pretty common first name. She felt silly calling herself Lady Gorata, but didn’t know what else to say.

  “Gorata, yeah, whassup?” Ozee said.

  “I’m at the petrol station and they said your brother was shot. I just wanted to find out how you’re doing, you and your brother.”

  “He’s in hospital but he’s fine, he was lucky.” Ozee sounded distant and Gorata wondered if this was just how he spoke on the phone.

  “Which hospital? Maybe I could pass by?” she said.

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll see you around, huh?” He hung up and it felt distinctly like a brush-off.

  Anyway, Gorata thought, she was no one to him, just some customer at his job. Why would he want her at the hospital during a family crisis? What had she been thinking? Why had she even offered that?

  “So what does he say?” Kelebogile asked.

  “His brother’s fine, apparently.”

  “So are you going to go and see them?”

  “No, not now, we need to get to work,” Gorata said.

  * * *

  Mr Pilane came out of his office and slammed a cup on his personal assistant’s desk. “I need coffee!” he said and went back inside.

  Gorata assumed Amita had already had her little meeting with their boss and he was less than pleased about her leaving. She struggled to open her office door since she was carrying her laptop, her handbag, a takeaway coffee and a yogurt. When she finally got it open, she was surprised to find Amita there, sitting on the sofa, dipping half a doughnut in her coffee. “I hope you don’t mind. I needed a place to hide until Hurricane Pilane exhausted itself.”

  “Well, you’d better keep hiding. I just passed his office and he’s pretty annoyed. I doubt the situation is going to change in the near future.”

  Amita looked worried. “And I told him almost an hour ago.”

  Gorata put her things on the desk and sat down next to Amita on the sofa with her coffee and yogurt. “If that’s the case, you might be trapped in here all day.”

  Amita sighed, then said, “So today’s my last day. I’m going to miss seeing you any time I want.”

  “Yeah. But you’ll still come for brunch on Sundays. And we’ll do things, and it will be more fun because now I’ll give you the gossip from here and you can give me all of the Generations gossip.”

  The two friends laughed, but it was a sad laugh.

  Gorata suddenly remembered something. “Mmandu mentioned that a friend of hers is turning fifty today and asked if she could throw her a party in the garden tonight. Why don’t you come over? We can make it a double celebration. Just a small thing, it’s a Monday night anyway; we all have to be at work tomorrow. But we need to launch your new acting career properly.”

  Amita smiled. “Okay . . . yeah . . . That sounds great.”

  “I’ll call Kele and tell her to bring that man of hers, then we’ll make it a real celebration. This is a big deal – you’re going big time!”

  * * *

  Though they left work on time it was nearly 7:30 by the time Gorata finally pulled up at the house. They had to pass by Amita’s place so she could change out of her corporate gear into some party clothes. Then Kelebogile said they should meet her at Mark’s place, but somehow Gorata forgot how to get to his place and Kelebogile’s directions over the phone were pathetic. Gorata wondered how her team ever managed to follow her instructions on the field. It took them an hour to find the place.

  A block away from home, Gorata heard very loud music. As she got closer to her house, the source became clear. She could hear the gumba-gumba
speakers pumping away and saw a huge crowd spilling out of her garden into the street.

  “Oh god! What has she done?” Gorata said, parking the car and pushing through the crowd at the side of the house. At least Mmandu had kept the people outside, that was a plus. Amita, Mark and Kelebogile followed as Gorata marched to the back in search of her sister.

  “Gorata! Great party!” She turned to see Quentin, her neighbour, completely drunk, with a plastic cup that smelled suspiciously like traditional beer. Was Mmandu brewing beer? Poor Quentin was going to regret drinking that.

  Gorata spotted her sister at the back, ladling out liquid from the largest of the three-legged iron pots she’d brought from Rustenburg. Next to her sat a woman looking very out of place despite a huge grin plastered on her face and a plastic crown crookedly propped on her blonde hair. She looked as if she had just stepped out of her chauffeured limo in Sandton: red silk blouse, pressed slacks and enough gold accessories to fund a small army.

  “Gorata-wee!” Mmandu shouted when she saw them. “Come! Come, meet the birthday girl!”

  Gorata stood next to Mmandu, her face scowling, though her sister noticed none of it. “Joanne, this is my little sister Gorata, I told you about her, the famous one,” Mmandu said.

  Gorata took the woman’s hand and wondered how Mmandu could think that she was famous. Maybe because sometimes she was interviewed on TV for the company, but that certainly didn’t make her famous. “Nice to meet you, Joanne, and happy birthday.” Then she turned to Mmandu. “You said a small party. It’s Monday.”

  “This is a small party,” Mmandu said, rolling her eyes. She pushed past Gorata to get to Amita, the only one of her companions left. Gorata had no idea where along the way she’d lost Mark and Kelebogile. “Hello, you must be Amita,” Mmandu said, shaking her hand. “I understand you’re going to be a big star on Generations.”

  Amita and Mmandu started talking animatedly. Amita was given a seat next to the birthday girl, a place of honour, and Gorata knew the battle was lost. She had agreed that her sister could have a small party, but she’d forgotten that small and big had different definitions in Mmandu’s world.