ZUKISWA WANNER
Behind
every
successful
man
KWELA BOOKS
To my mom and dad
I have been a woman for too long
So mind my smile
It hides my pain
It hides my scars
It hides my memories
So tell me sister
Where does the breeze begin to blow?
I need to languish in its breath
To begin my renewal
As I renew my soul
I have learnt to love me unconditionally
Just as I am
I have learnt to be proud of this creation
That is me
I have learnt to let go of my past hurts
And live in the present
I have learnt that I can make all my dreams come true
I have learnt that I only have God to serve
That being a woman is okay
CRISELDA KANANDA
1
HiStory
As he left the security guard at the gate, after bidding the last guest good night, Andile thanked the ancestors that Nobantu’s birthday was in June. No better way to show potential investors the type of black person that would be leading them when MAPAMO Holdings got listed on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange. He knew that those on Johannesburg’s party circuit would be talking about this midyear party until the holiday season. He smiled the way he figured someone who had just won the Lotto would smile, although he knew he was worth much more than any Lotto prize. He locked the door, walked into his study, and poured himself another cognac, wanting to muse over the evening before going to bed.
He smiled. The party he had thrown for his wife’s birthday would be hard to match. Sure, it had cost him a little loose change to throw it, but thank heavens for Charlie – the Jaguar had been a lovely touch. Granted, the Americans weren’t making them in the classic tradition since Jag had become part of the Ford stable, but it’s the thought that counts and he had seen the envy on every woman’s face at the party, including that chick, Tau’s wife, Dr Whatever. He was certain that although Tau was one of the five richest men in South Africa, he had never given his wife a present like that. And what was up with him? Loads of money but zero style. What had the man been wearing? Andile had wanted to say something to him about the powder-blue Chinese silk Nehru suit, but he had decided against it. One did not want to antagonise people in business. After all, you never knew when you may want to work with them. Pretty wife, though. Maybe it was true what they said about her plastic surgery. No matter, she was still not as beautiful as his Nobantu.
He shook his thoughts from the Taus. Sure, some might call it a little mercenary of him to use his wife’s birthday to show his muscle, but what of it? What better way to introduce himself and his partners to potential financiers of future ventures than at a family function that would show him as a well-connected, well-balanced businessman who still loved his wife of fifteen years.
Fifteen years of marriage.
Sometimes it felt like he had been married forever, he thought to himself as he took another swig of cognac. Nobantu seemed to have almost always been in his life. In the early years she was the little girl who used to pester him and his then best friend, Nkosinathi, by following them everywhere. “God rest his soul,” he mumbled, pouring some cognac onto the expensive Persian rug at the foot of his desk.
Looking down, he realised his mistake and regretted the action, then regretted the regret. There were two maids in the household and his wife to supervise them, he was sure that between the three of them they could get the stains out. What was he paying the domestics for otherwise? How many maids had medical?
He shook his head, catching himself digressing again. He looked at his watch; it was five in the morning. Still dark outside, though. He would sit in here a bit longer and finish his drink, then go to bed. Phew! He hadn’t partied like this since his university days.
Where was he again?
He nodded his head as though there was an audience to his musings. Aha. Nkosinathi. Very grounded for a child of royalty. Andile wondered what Nathi would have become if he hadn’t been taken so early in his life. He smiled fondly as he recalled how Nobantu had caught them smoking their first zol together behind her parents’ house. He and Nobantu had both loved Nkosinathi.
After Nkosinathi’s death – he had been killed in a hit-and-run during the Christmas holidays just after matric – Nobantu was still there in his life, as a blooming high school student who would smile shyly at him when she saw him on those infrequent holidays eCumakala. Slowly, the high school student had evolved into a charming and confident lass, someone he had been honoured to show his Johannesburg when she began her university studies at Wits. Sure, her mother may have initially requested that he take care of her when she got to Joburg, but the way Nobantu carried herself he was certain he would have happily “taken care of her” with or without her mother’s request. At that time, doing articles with Ackerman & Patel, he had been happy to have the type of wallet he knew few university students had. He knew he could show her much more of his Johannesburg than any of those university kids could.
His Joburg. He always thought of the city with a certain possessiveness. This indeed was HIS Joburg.
Nobantu had asked him in those early days, when the black world was in the grips of euphoria because Mandela was out of jail and the white world was filled with uncertainty and something akin to fear, “But, Andile, why do you keep referring to it as ‘your Joburg’? You weren’t born here, you didn’t go to school here, you didn’t go to university here, so what’s so special about Joburg?”
She was right. He had been born eCumakala, attended high school in King William’s Town and become a university man in Cape Town, but when he arrived in Johannesburg, after having been recruited by Ackerman & Patel, he had known unreservedly that he had found the kind of spiritual home that many spend a lifetime searching for.
He had paused, thinking about her question. Then he said, “Do you know, I have heard it said that when men are recruited from neighbouring countries to work in the mines their wives always say that their husband is ‘eGoli’, even if he’s in Kimberley?”
She had looked at him bemused. “So what does that mean?”
“That, sisi, means this city captures the world’s imagination. No one ever visits South Africa, but people are always visiting eGoli,” he had said triumphantly.
She had shrugged her shoulders and said in a tone of voice that showed she did not really comprehend, “Okay, but lucky for whoever you are dating
