hopes and dreams on fire, the goalposts just three more years away.
Sport was so committed to Pretty that, for once in his life, he focused only on her. He had always had lots of girlfriends, but with Pretty he had found everything he was looking for. He did not need to be with another woman. But Pretty was pretty and it wasn’t long before she had a fellowship of wannabe boyfriends, and eventually one of them began to share the stage with Sport. Inevitably, one Tuesday night when they were busy in bed, Pretty heard Sport’s GT roaring outside, but she dismissed the idea because Sport only ever visited on weekends – saying that he didn’t want to interfere with her studies. But then there was a knock on the door, and the knock was Sport’s.
“Who is it?” she asked, and immediately he knew something was wrong because she had never asked him to identify himself before.
Sport knew that the room had burglar bars on the outside, so he relaxed and waited to see what would happen. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Pretty opened the door. Behind her the boyfriend was sitting on a chair, his books open and a pencil in his hands, trembling a little.
The truth was obvious, but Sport didn’t want to believe it. He pushed past Pretty and offered his hand to the boyfriend, watching as the pencil slipped and fell. Sport picked it up, trying to catch the boy’s eye as he gave it back to him, but his eyes were running all over the room.
“Don’t you think that study time is up?” Sport eventually asked.
The boy didn’t know what to say.
“I mean that you can go now,” Sport continued. “You can continue studying tomorrow . . .”
Then, finally, the boy offered Sport his hand and they shook hands very hard.
After the boy had left Sport turned to Pretty, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to compose himself. Even though he had been half expecting it, the fact that she had another boyfriend had hit him hard. He didn’t know what to do.
Pretty had talked herself out of almost every situation with men, but this time she didn’t know where to start. “I am sorry,” she finally said, but it was as if he didn’t even hear her. “Sport, I am sorry,” she said again, trying to break his silence.
Finally, Sport looked at her, but it was too much for him and he made for the door.
“Sport, don’t leave me,” she cried.
He paused at the door and wiped away his tears. It was the first time in his life a woman had ever made him cry.
“Sport, I am sorry,” she said once more, as he opened the door.
“For what?” he asked violently, closing the door and turning back to her. “What are you sorry for?”
In his line of business you were only sorry when you got caught; sorry because you got caught, but not sorry for the act itself.
“Sport, I am sorry,” she repeated, trembling with emotion.
“You’re sorry. Yes, Pretty, I understand. But what is it that you are so sorry for?” He took a step towards her and she tripped on the corner of the bed, anticipating the fist that she knew was coming.
“For the last time, Pretty,” he said, looking down at her, “what are you sorry for?”
Then he thrashed her, and by the time the campus security came to rescue her there was nothing pretty about her.
* * *
The morning after Sport had caught her with her boyfriend, Pretty sat down to think about her prospects. Her father’s money had finally come through, but it wasn’t even enough to keep her going for a month, and the student fund was only available for the next study year. The truth of it was that without Sport’s financial support she would have to abort her studies. It was either that or go begging to him, and she was determined not to do that. She had never begged a man in her whole life. If there was any begging to be done, she was always the one to be begged.
She sat on the single bed, her back to the wall, hugging her legs for comfort, thinking about Bongani and what could have been. Then she began to think about all the other men that she had got naked with, wondering if one of them could help her. She fought the thought, but it wouldn’t go away. Just ask, this once, something inside of her said. They are the ones that came to you. They got what they wanted. Ask and get what you want too.
She had never been inclined that way; men were always the ones to come to her with offers, but she had to ask this time. She made a list of all the men that she had got naked with, then separated them into three categories: Grade A, Grade B and Grade C.
Grade A men were those who were family men with financial power. Herbert was the first on the list. She called him at his bottlestore and caught him first time. After they had greeted each other she put forward the purpose of her call: “Well, I am sorry to call you, Herbert, but I have some difficulties with my studies, financial difficulties, and I don’t have anywhere else to go. I just thought that maybe you could help me somehow.”
“I will call you back,” he said, after she had given him the residence phone number, but then he cut the call without even saying goodbye.
Immediately, Pretty felt worse than she had ever felt before in her life and she took to her bed.
Herbert called her the next morning. “How much do you want?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure how to respond to the question, so she stayed quiet, calculating.
“Pretty, I said how much do you want?”
Then she told him how much she owed the institution and he gave her all of it, plus fifty per cent.
After Herbert, Pretty tried the next man on the list and then the next. Almost all the men put something towards her education, and that was how she put herself through the University of the North. They had used her, and she was using them in turn.
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