Behind Every Successful Man Page 6

  They arrived at the warehouse. Nobantu had to admit to herself that it could have been better looking – the paint looked like it was peeling and there was a Pikitup dumpsite not too far away – but when Tsholo opened the door and gave her a tour, Nobantu knew it was just what she wanted. She would have to put up, somehow, with the smell from the dumpsite, but if she splashed a bit of paint around, and brought in Dave to do some décor, it could really be quite a charming place. She knew she could never have found something like this in the northern suburbs at the price Tsholo’s friend was asking.

  “So when can I take it?” she enquired.

  “Yesterday, if you want. The place has been available to rent for over five months. I think it’s the dumpster that does it, but then again it’s not big enough for a real factory, so there you have it,” Tsholo answered.

  “Alright, I’ll take it. How does it work?” Nobantu asked.

  In her thirty-five years of life, she had never rented a place. When she had first come to university, she had lived in the residence. Later she had moved into the cottage that Andile had rented. And thereafter he had been the one who took care of all the paperwork for their house and the monthly payments on the bond, merely asking her to sign something every now and then. Now she had to become fully responsible for a premise all by herself. Sure, she could balance a cheque book and paid all the household bills, but she had never taken care of something so huge in her life.

  Tsholo drove to Southdale, where they grabbed some food in a coffee shop. While they ate, she explained the process to Nobantu.

  After eating, Nobantu offered to pay. “After all,” she said, “you’re doing a favour for your friend, you’re not going to get commission for it.”

  Tsholo smiled. “That’s alright, he always turns business my way and I think, if we had to compare commission, I’m easily ahead.”

  But Nobantu insisted and, eventually, Tsholo let her pay for the meal. With the casualness of the rich, Nobantu threw her credit card on the plate when the bill came, only to have the waiter bring it back moments later and say, “Sorry, ma’am, your card has been rejected.”

  Nobantu scrunched up her face. This was embarrassing. It felt like all the poor white pensioners in the place were looking at her. “Well, it shouldn’t be,” she said quickly. “Try again.”

  “I did, ma’am. Three times. Maybe there’s something wrong at the bank?”

  Conversation had dropped and all eyes seemed to be on her. They probably thought she was guilty of credit card fraud. She hoped not. Could they not see that she was carrying a Dior briefcase?

  Tsholo, probably equally embarrassed, said, “Don’t worry. I’ll get it.”

  But Nobantu was adamant. “Here, try my debit card,” she said, walking deliberately to the till so she could key in her pin. They would see that she was alright. It was probably the machine.

  “Card declined, ma’am.”

  Nobantu wished that the ground would open up and swallow her. Fortunately for her, Tsholo rushed to her rescue.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re using cards from your joint account?” Tsholo said as soon as they were back in the car.

  “Yes, I was. Why?” she enquired innocently.

  Tsholo hugged her. “I love your naiveté, you poor darling you, but it looks like your hubby is none too happy and has just frozen the account. You might have to go back home, dear girl. Your independence didn’t even last forty-eight hours,” she said sadly.

  “Uh-uh, no way, Tsholo, my husband would never do that. I told him in my note that I would need access to that account . . .” Nobantu began.

  “Precisely,” Tsholo said, jumping in before Nobantu could finish. “But remember, he wants to be in control. Do you remember how you had to bail me out when Oupa had frozen everything? BEE South Africa’s a man’s world, honey. We women just live in it. So what are you going to do? Go back home?”

  Nobantu smiled as the tears of humiliation slid down her cheeks. Then she shook her head. “No, I’m not going home. I’m going to call Andile and have a chat with him about this and if he won’t budge, well, then I am going to have to start using some of the money I wanted to use for the business to pay for the hotel.”

  Tsholo looked at her and laughed a mirthless laugh. “Child, get a grip, no matter how much you have in that emergency account, it will never sustain the type of business you want to start if you begin using the money now.” She paused to think. Then she said, “Why don’t you go and check out at the hotel. I will pay whatever is necessary and then you can come and stay at my place until we figure out what to do next.”

  Nobantu tried to refuse, but Tsholo insisted that she owed her for all the assistance that Nobantu had given her during her divorce from Oupa. “Besides,” she said, “it gets lonely, just Mxolisi and me, by ourselves. Sometimes I need conversation with another woman.”

  Nobantu was surprised. “You mean Mxolisi is staying with you?” she asked.

  Tsholo smiled. “Duh, ja. You think I would allow the twenty-somethings to get hold of something I am not done with yet? So will you come?”

  Staying with Tsholo and her young lover was not ideal, to be sure, but after all these years in Johannesburg – with a life that revolved around her husband and children – she really had nowhere else to go. She could ask Dave if she could stay with him, but his impromptu gay parties were hardly conducive to setting up her business. Ntsiki’s girlfriend was jealous of their friendship and being there would just make things uncomfortable. Her brothers? She had never got along well with her older brother, and her younger brother, staying in a flat in Yeoville, was out of the question. Tsholo’s it would have to be.

  Nobantu thanked her and, with tears in her eyes, stretched across the passenger seat to hug her friend. “I will come. Thank you.”

  With sisterhood like this, she thought, maybe she might just be able to make it after all.

  Chapter 10

  10

  After the meeting, Andile was all but bushed. Khanyi, who had been in the meeting with him, asked concernedly, “Uright, Mr Makana?”

  He needed someone to talk to.

  But it was not his personal assistant.

  A methodical and tireless worker, he knew she meant well, but she was also the most “sociable” of the lot and he wasn’t ready for his private life to be aired in public.

  “Ndigrand, ntombi. Just a little tired. Can you bring me a cup of coffee?”

  He thought about the South African workplace and smiled. He had seen an episode of one of those American law shows where a male character had made a reference to a colleague, calling her “girl”, as he always did with Khanyi. This had constituted sexual harassment. He shook his head. He had never really understood women. They buy creams, or – like Oupa’s young wife, Penny – go to Brazil for a “holiday” during the winter to get surgery done. They lie that they are younger than they are and yet they do not want to be referred to as “girls”.

  He understood the feminist types even less – although he was certain he wasn’t meant to understand them as they were all probably lesbians. Look at Ntsiki, many a man’s dream girl – beautiful, intelligent, witty, nice house, great job – and yet she was a lesbian . . . He understood ugly women being lesbians, but she wasn’t ugly. Thinking of Ntsiki, he had to call her. He pulled out his phone and dialled.

  She answered at the first ring. “Andile? This is a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

  “Coping, Ntsiks, how are you?”

  “Just fine, love. That was a kick-ass do you threw the other day, by the way, not quite your wife’s thing, but kick-ass nevertheless, I was just telling her yesterday . . .”

  “Yesterday? You were together?” he asked, interrupting her. He should have called Ntsiki in the first place. She would have convinced his wife to come home. They were, after all, best friends.

  “As a matter of fact, no,” she replied.

  He felt deflated, but hope being the ever-eternal flame, he a
sked, “So, you don’t know that she has left home without so much as a by-your-leave to me and the children?”

  “I didn’t say that, Andile, I just said I didn’t see her yesterday,” Ntsiki answered.

  Then an idea came into Andile’s head. “Are you the one who put her up to this?” he asked, his voice a few decibels higher than it had been before. “Why the fuck can’t you mind your own business? Did you even think of the children before you decided to do your silly girl power thing?”

  Ntsiki just laughed. “Careful, Andile, you are about to destroy our wonderful friendship with ill-chosen words.” She paused as if considering what to say to him. Finally, she said, “Your wife is an adult and doesn’t need me or anyone else to tell her what to do. As for the children, they have their father, don’t they? Now, I have some work to do, so this chat, pleasant as it is, will have to continue later.” Then she hung up on him.

  Andile was annoyed. Maybe that’s why she was a lesbian. No man could put up with her attitude. How dare she hang up on him?

  Why had he thought that he would get help from Ntsiki? He felt worse than he had before he had called her.

  It felt like womankind was conspiring against him. First his wife’s unannounced departure to wherever, then his daughter this morning, Ntsiki on the phone with the girl power routine and now Khanyisile with this bitter coffee. “Is the sweetener finished, Khanyi?” he asked.

  “Oh! Sorry, sir. I knew I had forgotten something, just couldn’t remember what it was.”

  Andile sighed.

  When she returned with the sugar, they went through their morning routine – the emails that had to be sent, the more official letters that had to be printed and signed.

  As she walked out he suddenly remembered his daughter. “Oh, and could you call one of the drivers and tell them to pick up my daughter from school at two? Here,” he said, handing her a hundred rand, “get her some colours and colouring books too, or whatever it is that eleven-year-old girls like to do.”

  “UNqobisa uyeza?” Khanyi answered enthusiastically. “That’s nice. I haven’t seen . . .”

  “That will be all, Khanyi, thank you,” he said dismissively, before she could continue further.

  As she walked out, his partners walked in.

  He sighed. No power nap for him.

  “What’s going on with you, man? You haven’t been late for a meeting since we started this business,” Anant said, sitting down.

  Oh, boy! The Work Ethics Committee was here. He nodded to Oupa to close the door.

  As Oupa sat down, a questioning “So?” escaped from his lips.

  “What’s going on,” Andile began defensively, “is that there’s a first time for everything, including being late for a meeting. If you two were anyone else, I would tell you it’s none of your business, but since this will probably affect you as well, I might as well tell you.”

  They both looked at him with “WHAT?” written on their faces.

  “It looks as though my wife has decided,” he continued, with a smile he did not feel, “that she needs space to pursue her ambitions. She left me yesterday for an undisclosed period and now I am playing daddy and mommy and will have to do some kind of a balancing act.”

  “What?” Anant asked. “That doesn’t sound like Nobantu. She is always so considerate sometimes you think you can even see the halo.”

  “Gentlemen,” Oupa said, breaking into their conversation, “I know it’s early, but I think we all need this.”

  In spite of his problems Andile shook his head in amusement. The old geezer was forever making an excuse for a drink, Andile thought as Oupa poured all three of them two fingers of single malt from Andile’s liquor cabinet.

  “Yes, but that’s women,” Oupa continued as he handed around the drinks. “Akiri, they lull you into a false sense of security, into believing all is forgotten and forgiven, and then when you are comfortable, they strike, talk divorce, and want to take you to the cleaners. Then, when you least expect it, they leak some pictures, taken by some hired dick, to the tabloids as proof of your infidelity. Ah, Modimo! Women!” Oupa spoke with the wisdom of a man who had been around the block one too many times.

  Andile and Anant exchanged glances and for the first time since he had received the phone call from his daughter’s school the day before, Andile laughed. “Um, bra, are we still talking about my wife or are we now talking about your ex-wife?” he asked.

  “Ag, man. As the Zulus would say, Abafazi bayafana. These women are all the same. They all do it. And I still can’t believe she had the audacity to bring that young man, must be twenty-six at most, to your party. Her first-born is only six years younger than that.”

  Anant shook his head. “Bra, I’m not sure you are in a position to judge. After all, she caught you with a twenty-year-old three years ago.”

  “I’m with bra Oupa,” Andile said, putting his tuppenceworth in. “Men have been marrying younger women for aeons, but the other way around seems like a violation of some sacred rule. I mean, do you think the young men really love the older women, or are they just in it for the money?”

  Anant laughed. “Come now, Andile, do you think the young women are only in it for love?”

  “Hhayi, man, Anant. It’s the man’s role to provide, so if he takes care of the younger woman . . .” Oupa jumped in.

  “Talking from experience?” Anant said, interrupting him.

  Oupa shook his head and laughed. “You know, I didn’t believe it when I heard that Indians were masters at muti, but it looks like that doctor wife of yours really did one on you. You sound more of a feminist than those POWA women. What, do you wash her underwear too?”

  Anant laughed. “Okay, guys, let’s be serious for a bit. So, Andy, what are you going to do and what do you want us to do?”

  “I am going to have to work regular hours, if that’s alright with both of you. Eight to five. I will talk to Khanyi and make sure that all my meetings are scheduled between those times. And if you both can help out anywhere you can, I would appreciate it,” Andile answered.

  Ever the joker, Oupa answered, “I am sure Dr Singh’s husband over here can help out with the laundry.” Then he added, seriously, “That’s fine, bring out your diary and let’s see which meetings we can take over.”

  “Ja, and why don’t you call Nqo’s school and see whether they have an after-school programme?” Anant asked. “I can’t imagine anyone here will be able to get much work done with that raucous voice around.”

  “Hey! That’s your future president you’re talking about. A little respect, please!” Andile replied. “I’ll ask Khanyi to call and check about the after-school programme. Thanks so much, guys.”

  “Ag, it’s nothing, man. For the record, I think you’ll make a better housewife than Penny,” Oupa said as they stood up to leave.

  * * *

  After a long day at the office and yet another takeaway meal with the children – he would have to get one of the maids to start cooking (he hoped that they could make at least passable meals) – he was on the verge of watching the news with the children, when the phone rang.

  Stretched out as he was, on the couch in the children’s living room, he instructed his son to pick up the extension.

  “Hey, Mom,” he heard Xolani say from the next room. “How is Granny? How come you never said bye to me when I left in the morning? You want to talk to Dad?” Andile became alert. “Alright. I’ll tell her to wait for you, let me just get her from her room.” And with that his son handed the receiver to him saying, as though he hadn’t already got it, “Here, Dad. It’s Mom.”

  As he took the receiver and walked towards the privacy of his study, he wondered just how she would excuse herself, but only when he sat down did he say, “Yes? What’s your excuse?”

  “You bastard,” she yelled at him, sounding as though she was in tears. “How the hell did you think I was going to survive if you cancelled the cards? Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?”
<
br />   He was shocked at her language. In all their fifteen years of marriage, Nobantu had never once raised her voice to him. When they disagreed, she would normally pull back and sulk.

  He forgave her even as he hit back. “Don’t ask me stupid questions. I worked for that money and I can very well cancel what cards I want or freeze any account I want. Now . . .” he said, trying to placate her. “Now, listen, sweetie, stop being silly and just come back home. You don’t need to go to these lengths. Come home. The kids need you and I need you. Everything will be all right once you get these stupid ideas out of your head. We can go on as before.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” she replied, a little calmer this time. “I am tired of things as they were before. I don’t want to come back to that.” Then, sounding resigned, she said, “I don’t want to say anything that I will regret, Andile, so please let me talk to the children. I need to explain my decision to them as it appears that you haven’t explained anything.”

  Andile walked out of the study and handed the phone to Nqobisa. She talked briefly to her mother, looked accusingly at him when she had finished, and then handed the phone to her brother.

  He felt exhausted. He tried to figure out what had just happened. That woman yelling at him wasn’t the woman he had married.

  He went back to his study and poured himself a whisky – his second drink on a weekday. “Damn,” he cursed as he hit the desk with the palm of his hand. Today was his first day as businessman and parent and already he was losing it. How could his wife be so unreasonable? Did he not give her everything? What more did she want?

  PART II

  Ever since she left home, they had avoided each other. Sure, they would talk on the phone, or even email each other concerning the kids or to pass on a message from the old folks about who had died, who was getting married, who had been robbed or who was leaving the country, but they had been successful in not seeing each other. Whenever Nobantu went to pick up the children for the weekend, Andile would be conveniently closeted in his study, hoping that she would come in and say hello, but never wanting to be the one to make the first move. After all, she had left the marital home. And what had been her response when he had told her to come back home like a good wife should? She had refused to see reason. So he missed her, but he wasn’t going to be the one to beg.