done a stint at Robben Island before going into exile. He had great links with both those in power and the exiles. A likeable chap with a penchant for jazz, single malt whiskies and beautiful women, he was working in a senior position in government. Andile had met him at some chisa nyama in Alex and they had formed a mutual admiration society.
After being told of their plan, Oupa – like every ambitious person who “did not fight the apartheid regime to starve” – had resigned from his job and joined the two younger men.
With Anant’s money, Oupa’s connections and Andile’s legal brain, it was not long before MAPAMO Holdings became a well-known name in the world of mining. They had started in the platinum industry, but with South African soldiers eventually being found on Congolese soil, it wasn’t long before they diversified into diamonds and coltan.
Andile figured that if they shut up shop today, all three of them would still have more money than they knew what to do with for the rest of their lives. But with more African countries to be conquered – a Ghanaian guy he had been talking to at one meeting had referred to South Africans as the neocolonialists of the continent – they weren’t going to stop now. They needed more funding and being listed on the JSE would allow them access to the working capital they required for the next big step. Of course, there was no shortage of people interested in investing in MAPAMO, but if anyone had any doubts, they would have seen what a big player he was in the society pages last weekend. Yeah, Nobantu’s party had been a good touch, he thought, nodding his head.
It was almost five-thirty. In another thirty minutes, Andile would meet his partners so that he could break down to each of them just what was due, using the figures he had received from Anant. Sure, he could have asked his secretary to draw up a memo, but he thought it better that they sat down and toasted their good fortune which was, with the listing on the JSE, just about to get better. It was at that moment that his cellphone, the one with a private number, rang.
“Makana speaking,” he answered curtly. He had perfected the art of sounding like a very busy man when answering his phone. It made people get to the point and it scared off telemarketers.
“Yes, sir, this is the principal at —— Convent. Are you the father of Nqobisa Makana?”
The principal was white and had pronounced his daughter’s name as Nikobisa. Andile was impatient with white people who mispronounced black names. They always made such a to-do about black people who were unable to speak good English and yet, four hundred years after they had arrived, they still couldn’t pronounce their fellow countrymen’s names. This is why he had deliberately insisted on his children having names with clicks in them and no middle names. Reconciliation? Then reconcile with my official language as I have reconciled with yours, he thought.
“Nqobisa,” he corrected the principal. “Yes, I am her father. Has something happened to my daughter?” He would sue the Catholic Church if anything had happened to his daughter. Thixo! Please say she is okay, he prayed silently.
“No, sir,” the principal answered.
Andile sighed in relief, but his relief was short-lived.
“But she is the only child left at school and my attempts at getting hold of her mother have proved futile. Could you come and pick her up?” the principal requested, with what sounded like Christ-like patience.
“Sure. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Andile answered, hanging up.
Why had his daughter not called him herself? Had she lost yet another cellphone? More importantly, he wondered, what had happened to Nobantu? She did absolutely nothing all day, how come she couldn’t even manage to pick up their daughter? He had a few choice words to say to her.
He dialled her number, but the phone just rang. And rang. And rang. Until: “This is Nobantu Makana, I am currently unavailable, but if you leave a message I will get back to you at my earliest convenience.” And then the beep.
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