Behind Every Successful Man Read online

  Xolani opened his mouth to protest, but his father had already stepped out.

  * * *

  The security guard at Anant’s gate saluted him as he arrived.

  Now this is neocolonialism if ever I saw it, Andile thought as the guard raised the boom. He wondered why he had never thought of asking them not to salute every time he drove in. Maybe it made the guards feel important, like they were part of a branch of law enforcement officers.

  Anant opened the door and took him straight to the bar. It never ceased to amaze Andile how he and Anant never engaged in small talk in the same manner that his wife did with her friends. Their conversation always cut to the chase, while his wife would spend hours on the phone analysing a problem to death and, strangely enough, often not even coming up with a solution.

  “Rocks, no soda, here you go,” Anant said, handing him a glass of whisky. “Now what seems to be the problem?”

  “Who said there’s a problem? Can’t I just drop by because I miss adult company and you are my good friend?” Andile answered defensively.

  Anant shook his forefinger in Andile’s direction. “No, my friend, there’s a problem. Two things tell me there is a problem. One, the way you downed that Scotch. And, two, you haven’t visited me since your wife left and now you turn up on my doorstep – so, out with it.”

  Andile shrugged. “Fine. Guess it’s true that KwaZulu-Natal has the best sangomas after all.”

  Andile told him everything. The problems he had encountered with the children in the last couple of days, his wish that Nobantu would just come back home and his desire not to be the one to back down over the conditions of her return. He wasn’t comfortable with her working before and he wasn’t comfortable with it now. If she came back home, he wanted to have back the wife he used to have before all of this started.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked Anant. “Am I being unreasonable?”

  “Bra, unreasonable doesn’t even begin to describe it . . .” Anant started.

  “Hey! Whose side are you on, man?” Andile said, interrupting his friend.

  Anant looked at him sternly. “Hey, man, do you want me to be honest with you or not?” he asked, sounding for a moment very much like his late father, and not the laid-back, easy-going friend Andile had known for most of his Joburg life.

  Andile put his hands up in surrender by way of apology.

  “Right,” Anant continued. “You married Nobantu in her first year of university when she hadn’t even experienced life as you and I knew it then. You were ready to settle down; she was just starting out. In spite of that, she stuck by you and supported you even when you quit a well-paying job to venture out into something that none of us were really sure about. Nobantu is an intelligent woman. It’s understandable that she would get tired of being nothing more than the woman you want at your beck and call. The wonder is that she didn’t leave your misogynistic ass a long time ago. Would it hurt you so much if you gave her the type of support that she has given you throughout your marriage?”

  “But, Anant,” Andile said, “we could have talked it through before she left so unceremoniously.”

  “I’m not saying that the way she left was kosher. I don’t know what the dynamics were. Hell, if I knew what went on in women’s heads I would have patented it and become richer than Motsepe. Thing is, though, you have been rather set on the idea of her being a housewife. Are you sure she never indicated any interest in wanting to do this?”

  “Well, she had talked about it a couple of times, maybe more than a couple of times, but I always thwarted her,” Andile said, looking sheepish. “I think the last time she mentioned it I may even have threatened her with divorce if she chose to go ahead . . .”

  Anant looked at Andile aghast. “Are you sure you’re not related to Oupa? Divorce? Are you mad?”

  “Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Andile said.

  “Hell, yeah, it was that bad. But you know what, man? You have a chance to redeem yourself. Now is the time to show that you support her. If she succeeds, then you get to share in her success – after all, most of the country already knows her as your wife. If she fails, then you get to be there for her, as she has been there for you through all the ups and downs we’ve had at MAPAMO. Remember when we took that gamble on that new mine, paid top rand for it, and we could no longer afford some of the salaries? She did our bookkeeping and manned the reception for us until the profits started coming in?”

  “Do I ever,” Andile said. “I hear you, man, but letting her do this . . . it will appear as though I cannot take care of her as I should . . . I keep thinking, if she does this thing and becomes her own woman, where do I fit in? What can I give her that she cannot give herself? You see, Anant, my role has always been that of provider. I was the guy in the driver’s seat. Now, suddenly, she doesn’t need me. This business thing has destroyed the fabric of who I thought I was in this relationship. I mean, Anant, have you seen those executive bitches that we have to deal with? What if she becomes one of them?”

  “Are you listening to yourself, man? Andile, my friend, understand this, her venturing out, the whole business thing . . . it’s not about you, bra. This is about Nobantu’s needs. So what if people think you can’t look after her? Both you and she know better, and the past fifteen years are proof of that. Right now, your lack of support means that you might end up with a broken marriage. On the other hand, support will earn you a loyal wife for life.”

  “So, how the hell do I get her back home? I can’t deal with the kids by myself, man, and fuck it, I miss her . . .” Andile said, backing down.

  “Getting her back is the easiest part, my friend. All you need to do is remind her why she fell in love with you in the first place. Remind her of the husband she looked forward to seeing when you were staying in that cottage in Auckland Park, the guy who chose not to have a television because he found his wife so charming that nothing could surpass conversation with her. Show her what a caring father you are, what a supportive husband you are, how, whatever her decisions are, your world revolves around her. If you do that, believe me, she’ll be the one begging you to let her come back home.”

  Andile laughed deliriously. “I see now why the good doctor holds on tight to you, boy. You’re not just a pretty face.”

  Anant smiled. “More whisky?”

  Chapter 16

  16

  As Nobantu and the girls got into the car, she couldn’t help worrying about Lerato. Where had she met that animal? She wondered just what it was that South African mothers were doing to raise such monsters. And were women so scared of being alone that they were prepared to put up with this monstrous behaviour? She promised herself that she would get Xolani arrested herself if he ever raised his hand to a woman.

  After a few wrong turns – Thando didn’t seem to know her left from her right – they finally arrived at Lerato’s house. It was one of those unassuming brick structures that many black families received from the oh-so-benevolent apartheid regime. Around the property someone had constructed a run-down fence that looked like it would collapse with the next thunderstorm to hit Gauteng. However, on the other side of the fence stood a well-kept if poverty-stricken home. The porch gleamed with red Cobra polish. The small patch of land that passed for a garden was well tended and the manicured lawn was bordered with daisies and chrysanthemums.

  Thando and Tshepiso led her to the back of the house. Nobantu had never been sure which entrance you were supposed to use at houses like Lerato’s. Although every one of these houses had a door opposite the gate, a door which led directly into the living room, most people ignored this and instead went round to knock at the kitchen door which faced the outside toilet.

  “Nkqo, nkqo, nkqo,” Thando said, opening the door.

  As they entered the kitchen, Nobantu gasped at what she saw.

  The fair-skinned girl had managed to get herself a real shiner, and not only was her left eye swollen, but the right-hand side of her jaw was also
badly bruised and her left hand was in a sling. In Nobantu’s earlier conversation with Thando and Tshepiso they had failed to paint an adequate picture of Lerato’s injuries. Nobantu’s heart lurched. How could one human being do this to another?

  Thando and Tshepiso guided Lerato into the living room. Once there, Nobantu was shown that there was more to the injuries than had initially met her eye. There was a large bump on Lerato’s forehead, a result, she heard, of getting her head slammed against the wall before she passed out. On top of that, as mentioned earlier by Thando and Tshepiso, her breast had been seared by the hotplate in the kitchen.

  When Nobantu had seen all the injuries, Lerato called out to her younger sister, “Hey, wena, don’t just stand there. Go and make some tea.” And then, giving money to her younger brother – who had stood by as the women examined her, fascinated by the whole thing – she said, “And here. You. Go and buy amakeke.”

  Nobantu bet herself that the “cakes” would turn out to be biscuits. She was proven right when the tea came. She wondered where black South Africans had acquired the habit of referring to most baked confectionary as “cakes”.

  Prior to the arrival of the tea, they had been talking about the rains, which had just started, but now they delved into the issue of the violence suffered by Lerato.

  “The girls told me that you don’t want to press charges against the father of your child, but I suggest you at least go and get a protection order for your own safety. I can take you to do that, but I need to know when you would like to go,” Nobantu said.

  “I want to go as soon as possible, but the police told me that the court only issues protection orders on Wednesdays. I would like to go then. Thank you very much,” Lerato answered bravely.

  It was an awkward situation. It would have been awkward enough if Lerato had been her friend, but she was her employee and in some way Nobantu felt that being there, even though she meant well, made her guilty of encroaching on Lerato’s personal space.

  After finishing her cup of tea, Nobantu said, “I think I’d better go before it gets too dark.”

  * * *

  By the time Nobantu arrived back at Tsholo’s house she was exhausted. All she wanted to do was to soak herself in the bathtub and sleep, but it wasn’t to be. Mxolisi and Tsholo were waiting for her with a million questions about Lerato and her abusive boyfriend.

  Just as she was sitting down with another cup of tea, preparing to tell them all, the gate buzzer rang loudly and insistently. Whoever it was, was keeping their finger on the button.

  “Who can it be at this time of the day?” Nobantu asked.

  “Whoever it is, they’re not going away,” Mxo answered, grabbing the keys to the gate on his way out.

  Two minutes later, Nobantu was surprised to see her daughter walk into the kitchen. Sure, winter was past and – although it was seven o’clock at night – there was still a little bit of light in the sky, but what could possibly have happened to send her daughter to her so late at night? And, more importantly, how had she managed to get across town?

  Nobantu rushed to her daughter and hugged her tightly. “Nqobisa,” she said, with a mixture of surprise and fear in her voice. “What on earth are you doing here so late in the day? Has something happened?”

  Tsholo looked at Nqo. “Yeah, baby, how did you get here?” she asked, equally surprised.

  “I just thought that since I am on holiday . . .” She looked pleadingly at Tsholo. “Aunt Tsholo, can I stay here with you and Mommy for the next two weeks? Please?”

  Tsholo shrugged. “No one stays here without helping out, so as long as you make Aunt Tsholo a cup of coffee in the morning – black, no sugar – and do the dishes every day after supper, you stay in the guest room.”

  “Wait a minute, Tsholo, we still don’t know how you got here, Nqobisa. Did your father drop you?” Nobantu asked.

  “Mom, I’m a big girl, I took two taxis,” Nqobisa answered confidently.

  Nobantu was mortified. “Please tell me you caught a cab, because if you are talking about the other kind of taxi, you will give your mother a heart attack. Do you know how dangerous those things are?”

  Nqo looked at her mother with raised eyebrows. “Oh, Mom, please! It was so much fun. I got to Bree and asked the drivers where to get the Glenanda Hills taxis. They told me and I walked to Faraday. Then I asked the taxi driver to drop me here. Besides, Mom, so many people in South Africa use taxis to travel. They can’t possibly be that dangerous.”

  Kid had a point, Nobantu thought. Maybe she had become overly protective.

  “Tjhoo! So your father and brother don’t know you’re here?” Tsholo asked.

  “Duh, Aunt Tsholo, I took a taxi, that means I ran away. Dad can be such a bore sometimes. He’s always ordering me around.”

  Nobantu pulled back from her daughter, turned her head and hit her daughter’s mouth with her forefinger. “Hey! Wena! Don’t talk about your father like that. Didn’t I teach you to be respectful? Talk like that again and I won’t give you the role of consultant for my label for the two weeks you’re here.”

  “Consultant?” Nqobisa asked, clapping her hands in delight. Then, knowing her mother wouldn’t tolerate insubordination of any kind and may make good her threat, she added, “Sorry, Mom.”

  Later, Nobantu dialled Andile’s number. He didn’t pick up. After dialling and redialling for about ten minutes his phone was finally answered by Nazli.

  Chapter 17

  17

  Andile felt totally wasted. He and Anant had drunk way too much. As he stumbled out of his car, he couldn’t even recall how he had driven home. He really was too old to be drinking like this. It was a good thing that Rivonia was just around the corner from Morningside. It would certainly have been very embarrassing to have been caught by the increasingly vigilant Metro cops.

  He stumbled out of the car and fell on his behind. Then, getting up and wiping his bottom, he started to sing. “Thanayi Thanayi. Thanayi Thanayi. Thanayi Thanayi, woo, Thanayi, woo,” he sang, bastardising Hugh Masekela’s hit as he drunkenly made his way to the front door.

  He wondered when last he had been this sloshed.

  University?

  Once inside, he decided, with the type of stubborn resolve only a drunk can have, to go and say good night to his children despite the lateness of the hour. He went to Xolani’s room first, knocking loudly as he entered.

  “Tata . . .?” the boy, who was already under the covers, said, looking at him in surprise.

  “Shh, shh, my boy,” Andile whispered loudly, putting his forefinger to his lips. “I just came to shay good night. Shorry about your mother. Your father, the great Andile Makana, will short it out with her. Ah, your mother. She eesh a beautiful and wonderful woman. Very intelligent. Good woman, Nobantu. And you, my boy? Have you eaten?”

  “Ndityile, Tata, why don’t you go and sleep?” Xolani asked, trying to curb his annoyance at being woken up by his father.

  Andile patted his head and, almost as though he was reading his son’s mind, said, “Ja, you’re a good boy. But if I catch you with that zol stuff again, my boy, you kish your trush fund bye bye. You hear me?”

  “I’m not touching anything any more, Dad,” Xolani said, shaking his head. “I promise.”

  “Good, good,” Andile said. “You are a good boy. Good night, my boy. I mush shee your shishter now, tell her I’m shorry. Shouldn’t have let your mother leave like that.”

  Xolani, noting that getting his father out of his room might take longer than he hoped, got out of bed and walked his father to the door. “Good night, Dad,” he said, holding the door open.

  Andile chucked his son under the chin with his left hand. “You are tired and you are trying to get your father out of your room. Okay, my boy, you go to shleep. Jush remember. You are my tenant. Thish eesh your father’s housh. Not yours. I can come in any room I want anytime. Good night, my boy. Good night. You are a good boy.”

  Then Andile went to make hi
s second parental visit of the night.

  “Nkqo, nkqo, nkqo, Nqobisa,” he said, opening her bedroom door and switching on the light.

  He thought that he would sit down and talk to his daughter a while. She was probably more in need of a talk, what with her first “whatever” and everything.

  “Nqobisa?” he said, slowly sobering at the sight of her empty bed.

  He quickly looked behind the curtain. Finally, he looked in her closet. Not there.

  “Xolani!” he yelled. “Izapa!”

  A few seconds later Xolani arrived in Nqobisa’s room, looking none too pleased at having been disturbed yet again.

  “What’s wrong, Tata?” Xolani asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Andile yelled, suddenly sober. “Can’t you see that your sister’s bed hasn’t been slept in? What’s wrong? Where is Nqobisa, Xolani?”

  “Andiyazi,” Xolani responded, shrugging his shoulders as only a teenager can.

  “Awuyazi? I go out briefly and leave you in charge of your little sister and when I come back you tell me you don’t know where she is? Boy, are you crazy? When did you last see her?”

  Xolani was getting nervous. “Just after you left. I went to her room to joke with her about, you know, and she slammed the door on me, but we were both laughing . . .”

  Xolani hoped his sister hadn’t run away because of that silly little joke that he had made about her period. Girls could be so sensitive!

  “But what about supper? Didn’t you call your little sister for supper?” Andile asked.

  “But, Tata, you know we never cook on Saturday evenings. Besides, Nqobisa never wants to eat.”

  Andile shook his head in frustration. Were the ancestors punishing him for some wrong he had done? His wife – gone. His daughter – gone. How was he going to tell Nobantu about this? How would he explain his failure as a parent? Nobantu had always known where the children were.