Just then Ozee came up to the window. “All finished, Lady Gorata.” He smiled and his next words took on an entirely new meaning, “Unless you’ve got another task for me?”
Despite her sullen mood, Gorata grinned. How did this man make everything that came out of his mouth sound like a come-on? “No, nothing else.” She dug in her bag, looking for some money.
“So, off on a hot date, I bet,” Ozee said. “A woman like you doesn’t sit at home on a Friday night. You go out to fancy restaurants, the best clubs, foreign films.”
“Maybe,” Gorata answered, handing over the money.
“Well, whoever he is, he’s not good enough for you.” Ozee gave his dimpled smile again.
Gorata looked at him. “How do you know?”
Ozee winked. “Because he’s not me.”
He took the money, spun around acrobatically and waved in the next car. Gorata pulled out of the station, heading home with a big smile.
“He likes you,” Kelebogile said.
“Nonsense,” Gorata said unconvincingly. “He’s just doing his job.”
Chapter 2
2
“Bacon?” Kelebogile asked from the stove where she was dishing up. Both Gorata and Amita said, “Yes!”
Sunday brunch at Gorata and Kelebogile’s house was becoming a tradition for the three women. Today, like most Sundays before it, the brunch became a rehash of their weekend.
Kelebogile set the plates down on the table already crowded with Sunday papers, the chocolate croissants Amita had brought and big mugs of freshly brewed coffee. The plates of cheese omelette and bacon squeezed in among the clutter.
“So of course we beat the crap out of that team from Durban. To be honest, they lost as soon as they walked onto the pitch. One look at the Amazons I have on my team this year and it was over. I’m telling you, though, my girls are fantastic, just a joy to watch. Such smooth, confident skill,” Kelebogile said proudly before taking a sip of her coffee.
“When’s your next game?” Amita asked, crunching her bacon up onto her omelette.
“Next week it’s here, and then . . . then in Rustenburg.”
Gorata’s eyes widened. “So Mr Volunteer won’t be attending that one, I assume?”
“Who’s that?” Amita asked.
“Kele’s keeping her new man on the down-low,” Gorata teased.
Kelebogile pretended to ignore Gorata by paging through The Sunday Voice. “Did you read Bra Kee?”
Bra Kee was the conscience of the young, black Joburg populace. His Sunday column, Batho Ba Mzansi, was stingingly funny and painfully spot-on. Every Monday around the city at coffee machines, in cubicles, on Facebook and around water coolers all talk was about Bra Kee’s words the previous day.
Gorata laughed. She knew Kelebogile’s tactics only too well. She’d give her the point this time, but she would be going back to the conversation her friend was trying to avoid. In the meantime she said, “What’s he saying today?”
Amita and Gorata continued eating while Kelebogile read them the juicy bits from Bra Kee’s column:
What’s up with our home girls? Do they lose their minds once they step into the city limits? Back in the village we are all good enough. But once they’re under the city lights, they suddenly produce a list.
Ya, we all know the listers. Come on, my chinas, we have to admit that list gives us all sleepless nights – right?
We ain’t gonna be getting nothing if we can’t tick off each and every item on that list. Gotta have the right phone, the right car, the right job, the right clothes, a pile of cash . . . That’s just it. They’ve written the law, and we need to hustle to make the grade.
I think our women are blinded by the lights, they become confused and can’t think straight.
I mean, what if me and my brus started making a list? What would they think of that? And what would be on that list? Come on, my chommies, send me our list. Let’s sort these chicks out. Let’s all be listers.
Next week.
Peace out – Bra Kee
“Eish!” Kelebogile exclaimed. “He’s going to get people’s backs up again now.”
Gorata reached for one of the croissants, then dipped it in her coffee. “Do people really get angry at him? I don’t take him that seriously.”
Kelebogile stood up to get the coffee pot and topped up everyone’s mugs. “You’re maybe the only one who doesn’t. The men are going to send him lists, that’s for sure. I wonder what he’ll put in the column. Men can be crude, you know. I can only imagine what they’ll be saying. Women aren’t going to like it.”
“Damn straight to that,” Amita said.
“But in any case he’s telling the truth. Some women do have lists,” Kelebogile said. “That’s it with Bra Kee; he speaks the truth.”
“He’s crazy. Who has a list?” Gorata said. “I don’t know anyone who has a list.”
Kelebogile and Amita looked at each other and laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” Gorata asked.
“You!” Kelebogile said. “Do you even pay attention to yourself? You have a list. You’re a lister.”
“What? You’re crazy! I have no list and I’m not a lister.” Gorata carefully lifted a fork piled high with cheese omelette and bacon to her mouth.
“Admit it,” Amita insisted. “You have at least a mental list of the kind of guys you’ll date.”
Gorata shook her head, her mouth still full. She swallowed. “Of course I have an idea of what my type is like, who doesn’t? But it’s not a list.”
Kelebogile smiled. “I thought you said Bra Kee never makes you angry? You sound a bit irritated.”
Gorata ignored her and took a bite of her croissant. “I’m not irritated. I’m just showing you two how badly you got me wrong.”
Changing the subject to keep the peace, Amita said, “I haven’t told you about Mama’s latest blind date yet.”
Kelebogile pulled her legs up onto the chair, ready to listen. “Oh god, what happened this time?”
“First thing, we’d hardly sat down at the restaurant, he tells me how much he hates TV,” Amita started. “Imagine! Just goes to show how well my mother knows me.”
“What does he hate about TV?” Gorata asked.
“Apparently for him it’s the modern opiate of the masses. He’s some heart surgeon, big intellectual type. But not immune to asking me detailed questions about my sexual past. Said he was only going to marry a virgin. Mama apparently told him all was clear on that front.”
The three women burst out laughing. Since Amita had no intention of marrying, she hadn’t troubled herself with trying to retain the bargaining card of virginity. “Oh well, one less doctor to contend with,” she said and then turned to Gorata. “Now tell us about your date with Mr OCD. How did that go?”
Gorata was hoping they would both forget that she’d had a date with Alfred. It hadn’t gone very well. Actually, it had started off badly as soon as he arrived.
“Are you really wearing that?” he’d asked at the door, even before saying hello or giving her a kiss.