Behind Every Successful Man Page 8

  Nqobisa opened her mouth. “But, Dad, I didn’t do anything!” she said. “Why am I being punished?”

  “That’s the point, Nqobisa, you didn’t do anything. You kept quiet when you should have told either your mom or myself what your brother was up to. In addition, like a petty criminal, you accepted a bribe to keep quiet, but a bribe so financially insignificant that it couldn’t even buy you two of those silly books you always have your nose in, so shut up and let me continue.”

  He intertwined his hands and placed his forefingers on his nose with his thumbs under his chin. He loved doing that. He thought it made him look introspective.

  Okay, he had looked introspective enough. He turned to his son, ready to mete out his punishment. “Xolani, from now on, I will drop and pick you up from —— College – I figure you do these zol deals of yours when you are on your own. I will also notify your principal to keep an eye on you, without telling him the exact reason for my concern. Finally, you should think about the fact that because of your actions I now have to fire Chimwemwe.”

  “Tata, you can’t fire him! He has a family!” Xolani rushed to say.

  “Yes, indeed, he has a family, but so do I, and when Chimwemwe, good gardener that he is, messes with my family, then he gets fired,” Andile replied with authority. “Now, would the two of you clean the dishes? I am off to bed. Good night.”

  He walked out. The boy need not know right away that he wasn’t going to fire his head gardener.

  * * *

  Before he slept he sent an email to Nobantu.

  Subject: Zol

  Nobantu,

  Caught your son smoking marijuana. If you care about the children, if you care about this family, if you care about our marriage, you would do well to quit playing wannabe businesswoman and realise that you have a more important role.

  Get back to me soon.

  Andile

  * * *

  When he woke up in the morning, it was raining. He knew Nobantu would call, maybe she would even come to the house. She had asked for a weekend without the kids to do some work on her marketing strategy, but he knew there was no way she could ignore his email – it would have made any mother cringe. He smiled too as he thought of the way he had handled the situation, but that was all before he heard a shrill scream coming from his daughter’s room.

  Chapter 12

  12

  It had been three months. Three months of getting her business off the ground and letting everyone know about it. Three months without a manicure or pedicure. Three months of only seeing her children at the weekends, as Andile refused to relent to her running her business while living in the marital home. Three months of waking up at different hours of the night to screams of pleasure from Tsholo and Mxolisi as they had sex, and wondering when next she and Andile would do it – she still thought fondly of Penny’s baby shower, though it was unfortunate that he had had to open his mouth afterwards and remind her what a traditionalist he was.

  That said, the business side of things had been going amazingly well. Penny had now given birth and had been raving like a lunatic to the press about her children wearing only Soweto Uprising. But Nobantu knew it wasn’t enough. There were still those who refused to acknowledge Penny’s presence and they would need to be captured via the international market. To this end, she was having a meeting with Dave, Ntsiki and her employees – who had been pillars of strength in the past three hectic months. She knew now that she wouldn’t make a profit for at least another year, but with the right connections, thanks to Henri and Dave’s Rolodexes, it could just become the children’s label to kill for.

  Yes, everything had come together quite smoothly – too smoothly, she sometimes thought.

  Tsholo had been supportive in spite of the fact that at times she must have wished that her house guest would leave and give her and Mxolisi their space back.

  Recruiting employees hadn’t been, luckily for her, a difficult job either. She had managed to find, on recommendation from Ntsiki, some unemployed women in Pimville who had been trained as seamstresses by one of those unsustainable but well-meaning self-help projects funded by the Western development agency Ntsiki worked for. The agency’s funds for the project had mysteriously dried up when it came time for the trainees to set up their own businesses.

  With some form of experience in sewing, cutting patterns and all that was required, the three girls, together with the fourth employee – who insisted on calling himself an “independent art consultant” – looked set to make her label a hit. Tshepiso, Lerato and Thando – these were the girls’ names – had been pretty impressive.

  Tshepiso was clearly the leader. She had probably been a prefect in school, and Nobantu had co-opted her very early on to ensure she didn’t cause any disruption to the business should problems arise. It was Tshepiso who had gone with her to Oriental Plaza to buy the first batches of fabric, insisting that Nobantu should avoid wearing her labels, casual or not so casual, and instead put on amagerimani and a doek. She had even brought a few worn-out outfits into work for the occasion.

  “You’ll get a better price from the Indians if they think you are poor,” Tshepiso had said, “but you must let me speak because your accent will give you away.”

  Nobantu had been sceptical, believing as she did that wealth oozed from rich people’s pores whatever they wore. However, she had duly donned the somewhat-worn German print dress, a doek and a pair of amapacapaca with socks (her own touch), and what do you know, it had worked. The prices had fallen from twenty-five rand a metre to as low as fifteen rand. She hadn’t cared much for the feeling, though. The Indian salesmen kept grabbing her arm and saying, “Here, mama. Specials. Beautiful clothes at cheap-cheap price. You like?”

  Lerato was the worker bee. She always completed her work on time, but Nobantu had noticed that she was always reserved; even around the other girls she kept her private life to herself. Nobantu often wondered whether there was an abusive man hovering in the background, someone who drank away all Lerato’s pay, or perhaps a sick mother and some nieces and nephews that she had to support. She never had a skafu tin when she came to work, nor did she ever buy anything during her lunch break, which resulted in Nobantu, out of pity for her, suggesting that the other two girls need not worry about bringing food as she would put something in the fridge. She soon regretted what she had said when she found herself buying two loaves of bread and a pack of Russians daily, but she could hardly backtrack. She wondered how three women could eat so much. Did they not care about their figures?

  Thando, the last of the girls, was the shallowest, spending more time talking than working – more often than not about this man or that celebrity. The one thing Thando had going for her was that she knew her labels.

  All in all, though, the girls were a good lot and they were great workers.

  Her fourth employee, or, as he preferred to call himself, the “independent art consultant” (without, fortunately, the hefty pay cheque that is commanded by other consultants), had come as something of a surprise to Nobantu. A surprise because up until the day she saw Tsholo wearing a beautiful spray-painted T-shirt, she had never even thought of adding spray-painting to her designs. She had quickly changed her mind. “I would pay top dollar to get to the person who did that T-shirt for you,” she said to Tsholo. “Where the hell did you get it?”

  Tsholo had smiled. “Mxo did this. I have been trying to convince him to get into it again, but he keeps saying that he wants to concentrate on his art,” she said. “You can talk to him, but make sure you convince him that you like it because Mxo hates it when he thinks that people are doing him favours because they know me.”

  The proud poor, Nobantu had thought. “Leave it all to me,” she said. “I promise that I’ll let him know that I think it’s great work. I’ll go down on my knees and beg.”

  Nobantu had cornered him one evening after he and Tsholo had returned from a weekend away at a game park.

  “So, how was i
t?” she asked no one in particular.

  “Phew! Where to start?” Mxolisi answered with enthusiasm.

  “It gave Mxo so much inspiration,” Tsholo added. “He woke up at dawn on the last two days, took out his paints and did some marvellous pieces. He even did a charcoal drawing of me while I slept. I think it’s a masterpiece. Show her, babes, show her.”

  Embarrassed, Mxo slowly brought out the work and then, like every artist who hasn’t hit the big time, started to make his apologies. “I didn’t quite get it as you can see,” he started, “but I didn’t want to risk waking her up and destroying the spontaneity of the picture.” Then, taking out another painting, he said, “I quite like these Ndebele dancers, though. They performed on our first night there. I sketched a bit as they danced, then filled in the rest in the morning using my imagination.”

  It was at that moment that Nobantu figured she might as well ask him about working for her company; get him now before his guard went up again. “These are really good, Mxo. You are talented,” she said.

  He smiled. “Thanks, but I think there’s still room for improvement.”

  “Aha! Ever the humble artist,” she continued. “But I was wondering. I saw the T-shirts that you did for Tsholo. What if I contracted you to do some work for my label?”

  He had glanced quickly from her to Tsholo. “Did Tsholo ask you to do this?” he asked, completely losing his cool. “Did she ask you to ask me? Because I don’t want any favours and I don’t prostitute my art.”

  “Hhayi, I know nothing about this,” Tsholo replied, standing up to leave the room.

  Nobantu saw the wisdom of Tsholo withdrawing. It would only push Mxo further away if he felt he had both of them breathing down his neck.

  With Tsholo gone, Nobantu turned to Mxo and smiled. “Do you know the reason I left my home?” she asked. “I left because I was scared that I would always be in my husband’s shadow. I wanted to be a success in my own right. Sure, I miss my children and some days I wonder whether it really was worth it. But you know what? I would do it all over again.” He was about to speak, but she put up her hand to stop him. “Now, tell me, we are almost the same age, you and me. Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a starving artist like Vincent van Gogh?”

  He laughed and clapped his hands, but his eyes were cold. “Well done, Mrs Makana,” he said, congratulating her. “Good for you that you got out of your Morningside mansion and pursued your dreams. And good for you too that you took a class in art history. But you know what? I am not like you and Tsholo. I don’t care about money. I just want to be the best artist I can be. I don’t want to work on your little label so people can get to know my name. Can you understand that?”

  Nobantu laughed. Long and hard. Tears started streaming down her face. This guy was quite funny.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, perturbed.

  “Do you know how crazy you sound?” she asked. “ ‘I don’t care about money. I just want to be the best artist I can be . . .’ Listen, Mxo, you make fun of Tsholo and me for caring about money, but money does, in fact, matter. It’s money that pays for the roof over your head. Money that pays for the food that you eat. Money that paid for the ultimate trip you just came home from, the trip that gave you such ‘inspiration’. Money doesn’t matter to you? Oh please! You are just like my younger brother – staying in a flat in Yeoville that my parents are struggling to pay for. I am tired of you starving artists’ resentment of the moneyed. It is only because your basic needs are taken care of that you can afford to scoff at money.” She looked up at him to see how he was taking it, then she said, “Listen, Mxolisi, bhuti, do you want to be celebrated as Tsholo’s cougar forever or are you going to do something on your own? Or maybe you fear that you won’t be able to do work that’s good enough to impress the international audience I want to cater for?”

  He stood up angrily. “How dare you? What do you know about painting?” he said, shaking his finger at her. “Lady, I am the best artist in Johannesburg, in South Africa, maybe even in the whole of southern Africa.”

  “Good, then you’ll do it? I am just going to draw up a contract,” she said, walking out in case he changed his mind.

  And that’s how her team had been formed. Today, this afternoon, with a little help from her friends, they would delve into the marketing strategy for the new international youth brand: Soweto Uprising.

  Chapter 13

  13

  He had gone to the medicine cabinet already knowing what he would find there. Nothing. Nobantu had always complained of intense pains when she menstruated. Eventually her gynaecologist had suggested she have a regular birth control injection, which she adhered to every three months without fail. It meant that she hadn’t had her period in years.

  As he made his way downstairs, he bumped into Xolani.

  “Tata, is Nqobisa alright?” her brother asked over her screams, which by now sounded like the groans of a cow being slaughtered.

  “Everything will be okay, boy, just stay away from Nqobisa’s room,” he answered, pausing only to pick up his car keys.

  He wouldn’t have had to do this if he hadn’t tried to act like a better boss than his wife and insist that both his maids have the weekend off. One of them might even have had some sanitary towels. He sighed.

  When he got to the pharmacy, he was perplexed by the amount of choice he was faced with in the sanitary towels section. He picked the first pack of pads that he thought would do and rushed to the checkout counter.

  The woman at the counter took one look at him and said, “Congratulations, sir, umfana or intombazana?”

  He hated people who wanted to make small talk. Why could she not just scan it and tell him how much it cost?

  “Ubani, ‘umfana or intombazana’?” he asked, trying his utmost to be patient.

  “Ingane yakho, Baba. I see you picked up hospital pads for women who have just given birth,” she answered, smirking, probably knowing only too well that they weren’t what he wanted.

  Aw damn!

  “Um, sorry, my daughter has just . . . um . . . could you be so kind as to tell me the right sanitary towels to get?” he whispered.

  “Oh, you mean your daughter has just had her first PERIOD?” she asked.

  It seemed to Andile that she had said the last word so loudly that the whole shop must have heard her. He wondered why women liked to say that word out loud like that. It sounded really dirty. Khanyi even used it on him when she wanted to take an afternoon off to go shopping. “Mr Makana, sir,” she’d say. “I have period pain, may I please have the afternoon off?” Worked every time. Arghh.

  “Yes. That. Can you show me the right ones, please?” he managed to say through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll bring a few and you can make your choice,” she said, getting up from the till and walking away.

  The woman came back with three different packs. “This one is non-deodorised,” she began, “these are small, but have high-absorbency linings . . .”

  He lost his patience. “Okay. Okay. I will have them all,” he said, throwing a two-hundred-rand note on the counter.

  The women in the shop seemed to find it amusing. He hated it when people laughed at him.

  “Plastic, sir?” she asked, smiling as she handed the change back to him.

  “Yes, please.” Why did she ask him that? Just to humiliate him further? Did she want him to go out to the parking lot holding packets of pads? Women!

  When he got back home, he went into Nqobisa’s room. By now she was quietly sobbing. Oh, hell!

  “Use these, then go and soak the sheets and duvet when you’re done,” he said gruffly, throwing the plastic bag with the pads in it onto her bed.

  Pads were simple enough, at least he wouldn’t have to instruct her on how to use them, he thought, knowing his job was for the time being done. He hoped that Nobantu would see his email this morning. When she came over she could give Nqobisa the you-are-now-a-woman talk as well as help
ing him discipline Xolani. If she didn’t turn up, he might just have to be the one to give Nqobisa the talk. God knows, he didn’t want her to make him a grandfather at the age of forty.

  * * *

  Andile didn’t see his daughter the whole morning, but in the afternoon there was a knock on his study door, where he had shut himself off to try and catch up on his office work. He was glad for the distraction, he was tired. The words seemed to be swimming in front of him.

  It was Xolani.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “I wanted to know whether everything is alright with Nqo, Dad,” he said. “She was screaming this morning, and I saw her in the corridor with some laundry that seemed to have blood on it.”

  Andile laughed. “Don’t worry about her,” he reassured his son. “She’ll be alright. She’s probably just a little unsure of herself for the first time in her life. She just had her first . . . um . . .”

  “What?” Xolani asked. “Period?”

  Damn. Was this boy really not gay? He said that word with so much confidence.

  “Yes, that. Don’t worry, she’ll be alright,” Andile reassured him again.

  “So shouldn’t you go and give her some kind of talk, as Mom isn’t coming around this weekend?” the boy asked with a glint of humour in his eye.

  What would he do with this boy? He had a way of lightening up moments like these. Andile felt a warmth towards him, in spite of his transgression the day before.

  “What?” Andile asked. “Are you telling me how to be a parent now?”

  “I’m just saying, Dad . . .” Xolani left the sentence hanging and walked out of the study with a laugh.

  * * *

  Andile figured that there was no time like the present. He had left the girl by herself most of the day; he might as well get it over and done with.