on Berea Road. I sent Nana to buy soft drinks, cigarettes and a starter pack. Musa strolled around on a call. The petrol attendants asked to look at the engine. They were joined by two white men in their forties and a formally dressed black guy. Just for show, I started the engine and pressed the accelerator for one hard rev. Nana returned and stood by my side. Then a black BMW M5 – circa 1988, and spotlessly clean – entered through the exit of the petrol station and stole everyone’s attention. Musa ran to the M5. He was in conversation with the driver for barely a minute, but when he came to us there was something different about his face, the lightness of a smile that ran from ear to ear.
The 325is displayed its rage on the N2. I could not resist – in places, that freeway has four fat lanes. I was lucky the speedometer did not work, because Nana was always alert in a car, glancing at the speedometer several times a minute. I was probably doing 180 km/h, yet there were no remarks from her or seat belt warnings. She was uncharacteristically calm and not even wearing her seat belt. While she applied lip gloss, she told me about the movie she had seen. She did not feel the speed. If it rides on four wheels, the suspension must definitely be sporty.
I did not know the way to Musa’s house, so I reduced speed when we entered the suburbs of Westville. I recalled some of the streets we powered through. A friend of mine once took me to a party in the same area. On that weekend, my uncle Stan from Pietermaritzburg was down for a visit. Uncle Stan rolled in a big black BMW 735i. He gave it to me for the whole weekend. I still meet girls who were at that party; they think I’m rich. Being no mood killer, I go with the flow.
The air you breathe changes in the suburbs. There are more trees than houses, more space than you can imagine. The silence is healthy, the peace of mind a priceless asset. It is the kind of place you should be in if you want to be the fastest forward.
Musa lived at the end of a street whose name I never saw – the sign was hidden behind trees. It was the most peaceful place I have ever visited. His house was a contained, face-brick cluster. Space seemed absent upon entry, but the back yard was where the land was. The gradual slope felt like a park – there were even park benches. The balcony looked out onto houses scattered amid the trees. Space is what I see when I think of that house. In the lounge there were black leather sofas big enough to sleep on comfortably. The lounge looked out onto the balcony.
Nana turned on the TV. The programme was music videos. She watched intently. We smoked weed on the balcony.
“Do you know the driver of the M5 I was talking to at the garage?” Musa said.
“Not really, as in riding and rolling with him, but I have seen him around. He’s very down low, though he disappears for long periods to return with a faster car. Isn’t he friends with the owner of the garage in R Section? I have seen his car there,” I said.
“You are right. He used to scheme with those people. He made me a proposition, but I want you and Vusi to be in on it as well. He is a quick, smooth mover. You won’t regret this, Sipho. Do you remember the remuneration talk we had this morning? This is that type of thing. He put me on some fast money up in Joburg. His name is Sibani – the purest of all money lovers. He is a quick thinker, but most important of all he is fair.”
I watched Musa as he talked – his eyes turning crimson by the smoke from the blunt. His matter-of-fact speech and serious expression were today’s story to yesterday’s journey of carelessness.
“We have to see Vusi first and I’ll lay it out for you. Damn! I don’t have any food in the house. What do you want to eat?”
“Nana, what do you want to eat?” I shouted.
Nana turned down the volume and came to the balcony.
“Anything,” she answered softly, as if turning down my own volume. We eventually decided on Nando’s chicken. While Musa was out getting the chicken, I snuggled next to her on the sofa. She smiled and gave me peppermints to counter the smell of ganja. I perceived this to be a sign that read deep kissing ahead.
My favourite part of Nana’s body is the curve at the back of her waist. I touched her ear, and felt her heat. Lips locked, we rotated in slow motion. I slid my hands down, felt the contours of her hips. Seeing all was in rhythm, I touched the top of her thigh. Lecture time.
“Baby, we can only kiss.”
“But why, Nana? You know I love you.”
“I love you too, baby, but I am not ready yet.”
“Can you give me a time, then? An estimation of when? Baby, it has been a year. How many more months until you are ready?”
“Don’t get like that, baby. We will do it when I am ready.”
I had never had intercourse with Nana. Physical love would solidify what we had. I stated this. Instead, she gave me lectures on readiness. I didn’t understand – and still don’t – how anyone could make tall tales from so meaningless a word. I went to the balcony, smoked a cigarette and a blunt in succession to let my erection subside, and gave her zero for conversation.
All the women in my life say I handle rejection like a spoiled child. I hear them, but I won’t change. If you don’t want to do what I want you to do, for that minute or hour or day, we have nothing in common. We might as well not relate.
Musa returned with the food. He joined me on the balcony while Nana set the chicken on plates.
“When I left you were all smiles. What’s the problem now? Is there trouble in Loveland?” he mocked.
“She is playing with me, my brother. We have been going out for a year of no sex.”
“I feel for you, Sipho, but flip this coin. Look at it this way: Your problem is rare. Girls with brains want it to mean something. You can see that, at least.”
Our meal – chicken and chips with Coke – went down in silence. Nana slowly took bites of her chicken. She mimicked a frown, her lips pursed. In all honesty it made me laugh, for she looked like a little girl. Musa answered the intercom through a mouthful. He hurried for a change of shoes.
“My appointment is here. Here is the key – make sure you lock up when you go. Take my car. I will call and we can meet up in the city later. Bye, Nana, I hope we can meet again in a more festive atmosphere,” he said.
I ate in silence. Nana picked sulkily at her chicken. We sat on separate sofas, indifferent to each other. I tried to activate my starter pack but the battery on my phone was dead. Stretching out, I flipped through the channels. She washed the plates and glasses.
“When will we leave, baby? I don’t want to be late.”
“We can go now, even.” I grabbed the keys from the table.
On the freeway, I nearly clocked the 325is, stopped short by Nana’s sobs. I did not look at her directly during the trip to her house. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see she had a tissue over her face.
“I don’t know what you are crying for, Nana. I am the one who is not loved here.”
She let out a torrent, which eased when we entered the township. I dropped her off with no goodbye kisses.
* * *
“Mus-sa called. He s-said you s-should meet him by the 320 at s-seven o’clock.”
My little
