of royalty that mattered in a small town. Her father, a chief by birth and a lawyer by profession, had earned the respect of the community by defending ANC cadres during the apartheid era, thus elevating his royal status. Her mother, a schoolteacher, had been a key player in ensuring that the community never misunderstood the great family that they were dealing with. For instance, she would often invite the king’s son (and Nobantu’s cousin), the late Nkosinathi, to stay with them. In contrast, Andile had been brought up by his grandmother while his mother went to slave for some baas eMonti. But, despite this, Nobantu felt, in spite of his humble beginnings, that her mother had always encouraged her interest in Andile.
The first year of university was what eventually led to the change in her relationship with Andile. Mandela had been released, the exiles had come home, the Constitution was being drawn up and Andile had relocated to Johannesburg. By now he was a highly thought of young lawyer doing articles with Ackerman & Patel – a unique Indian and Jewish legal partnership.
In the meantime, Nobantu had completed her matric and had been accepted to study a BCom in Accounting at Wits. She would have preferred to study literature at Rhodes, but her mother had been very insistent.
“Literature? Black people do not read. Hhawu, sana, go and study accounting and then you will be rich, what do you want to study literature for? And at Rhodes?” her mother had asked.
“But, Mama, I have a passion for it and I want to be close to home,” she had stated, pleading with her father with her eyes to take her side.
Unfortunately, her father had just shrugged.
“If it’s reading you want,” her mother had continued, “you can always read for fun when you are trying to wind down. What type of job will you get with literature? Passion, ha! If we all did things we were passionate about, do you think the whites would have agreed to free Mandela? Don’t waste your opportunities by following a stupid thing like passion.”
And so Nobantu had reluctantly agreed to go to Wits. What swayed her was the thought that she might see Andile while in Johannesburg, and she did.
Sure, upon her arrival Andile had continued with his brotherly routine, but soon their relationship changed. After a while he became less of a big brother and more of a friend, as he took time out of his busy schedule to take her out and educate her about the city he now referred to as “my Joburg”.
When Andile talked of Johannesburg, he always spoke of it with such intensity, such passion, that Nobantu knew if Joburg had been a woman, she would never have stood a chance.
As it was, the city was just that – a city. Spending so much time together, it wasn’t long before he became her mentor, her confidant and eventually, inevitably, her lover.
She had known then that they made a striking couple. With his tall frame and the type of physique that was carefully maintained three times a week in their basement gym, Andile made an impression on everyone he met. And she, she knew without conceit, was the type of woman that, with her classic dark look, made her one of the beauties of her time. Together they made the type of good-looking couple that every photographer wanted in their portfolio.
Yet now, as she sat on her bed in what her mother termed a mansion, she wondered if she had ever really truly loved Andile, or if it was the fear of the unknown and her unplanned pregnancy at the age of nineteen that had resulted in their marriage? As she put on her dressing gown and made her way to their en suite bathroom, her eye caught her framed MBA on the dressing table. Was this all there was to her life? she wondered silently to herself. Prepping her husband and children to go to work and school respectively. A workout in her gym. A shower and an hour indulging in her passion (Andile childishly called it a hobby), sketching designs for the children’s clothes she one day hoped to bring to life. Manicures, pedicures and lunches with Oupa’s vacuous second wife – whom her irreverent eleven-year-old daughter had nicknamed Plastic Penny because of all the surgery she had undergone. Then home to make dinner and, if she was unlucky, her husband would be there, never asking how her day had been, but whining tediously about his work, his partners or the white folks in business who thought he was just another well-connected black person while showing little respect for his business acumen. God! She didn’t care any more. She had started shutting him out mentally even before he opened his mouth. Fifteen years of marriage will do that to you, she thought, and laughed cynically.
She recalled that the morning after her party she just couldn’t get the phrase Andile had used to describe her out of her head. She is just a housewife. Was that all he really thought of her? She had decided that she and Andile needed to talk. She needed to show him, remind him, that there was more to her, that she was a woman of substance.
She had walked to the bed and roused him from sleep. “Hmm?” he had mumbled, partially opening his eyes.
“Andy, wake up,” she had said, continuing to shake him awake. She had stopped with the babes, darlings and sweethearts long ago.
Sleepy-eyed, he turned and yawned without covering his mouth. His breath smelt foul. Had there been a time when she used to kiss him with morning breath?
“What’s up?” he asked, sounding a little more alert.
“We need to talk.”
He glared at her. “For Chrissakes, I have just got into bed. What exactly do you want to talk about that cannot wait till later?” he asked, glancing at the bedside clock.
“If you weren’t so busy all the time, I wouldn’t have to wake you up to speak to you,” she mumbled.
“What?” he asked, obviously unable to believe her tone after the grand old party he had thrown her the night before.
She raised her voice, just so that there would be no mistake this time around. “I said, if you weren’t so busy all the time, I wouldn’t have to wake you up to talk to you now.”
“So talk then,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“I have been thinking,” she started. “I have been thinking of getting premises and starting my business like I’ve always wanted to do.”
Andile looked at her as though she had lost her marbles. Then, slowly, he started laughing.
When he finally got hold of himself, he looked at her with tears streaming down his face and said, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he had just been woken up for this, “Nobantu, we have talked about this. I know you are a trained auditor and have those little sketches of yours you call designs, but do not deceive yourself that you can crack it in the business world. It’s not that easy, and it would be twice as hard for you. You have barely practised your profession,” he said patronisingly, like a parent talking to an impetuous three-year-old. “Hhayi, man, why don’t you just concentrate on what you do best . . .” He paused and chuckled. “Being a housewife and a mother. Besides, no one cares about putting their children in designer gear.”
“That’s where you are wrong, Andile,” she said, refuting his assertion. “If that were true, babyGap would not exist, let alone exist and be doing so well.”
“Yes, but how many South African babyGaps are there?” he asked. “Nobantu, people in this country are too practical to waste money on designer clothes for children they know will outgrow them before the year is out.”
“I don’t agree, Andile. I think most mothers want their children to be dressed in the very best. Besides, I plan to corner the teen market too.”
“Well,
