“What are you laughing at?” Gorata asked.
“You!” Kelebogile said. “Do you even pay attention to yourself? You have a list. You’re a lister.”
“What? You’re crazy! I have no list and I’m not a lister.” Gorata carefully lifted a fork piled high with cheese omelette and bacon to her mouth.
“Admit it,” Amita insisted. “You have at least a mental list of the kind of guys you’ll date.”
Gorata shook her head, her mouth still full. She swallowed. “Of course I have an idea of what my type is like, who doesn’t? But it’s not a list.”
Kelebogile smiled. “I thought you said Bra Kee never makes you angry? You sound a bit irritated.”
Gorata ignored her and took a bite of her croissant. “I’m not irritated. I’m just showing you two how badly you got me wrong.”
Changing the subject to keep the peace, Amita said, “I haven’t told you about Mama’s latest blind date yet.”
Kelebogile pulled her legs up onto the chair, ready to listen. “Oh god, what happened this time?”
“First thing, we’d hardly sat down at the restaurant, he tells me how much he hates TV,” Amita started. “Imagine! Just goes to show how well my mother knows me.”
“What does he hate about TV?” Gorata asked.
“Apparently for him it’s the modern opiate of the masses. He’s some heart surgeon, big intellectual type. But not immune to asking me detailed questions about my sexual past. Said he was only going to marry a virgin. Mama apparently told him all was clear on that front.”
The three women burst out laughing. Since Amita had no intention of marrying, she hadn’t troubled herself with trying to retain the bargaining card of virginity. “Oh well, one less doctor to contend with,” she said and then turned to Gorata. “Now tell us about your date with Mr OCD. How did that go?”
Gorata was hoping they would both forget that she’d had a date with Alfred. It hadn’t gone very well. Actually, it had started off badly as soon as he arrived.
“Are you really wearing that?” he’d asked at the door, even before saying hello or giving her a kiss.
She looked down at the cream-coloured Dior dress he had bought her and wondered what the problem could be. “Yes, why?”
“Cream is not for evening this season. Come, my dear, let’s find something more appropriate.” He took her by the hand and led her back to her bedroom.
Alfred went through her wardrobe, complaining the whole time that she really should keep things tidier. In the end, he settled for a black strapless dress he’d bought her in Dubai. But then her hair wasn’t right. Gorata tried to fix it, but in frustration he took over. She’d never had to have her boyfriend dress her and do her hair before a date. She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult, but she was leaning towards the latter.
Things didn’t improve at the restaurant. Everything was in French, and Alfred was less than pleased to find that she couldn’t read the menu. She didn’t mention the fact that she spoke isiXhosa, Sesotho, Setswana, isiZulu, Afrikaans and English fluently and had recently learned enough Tshivenda to conduct a basic conversation. Most of these were not languages he was interested in.
Alfred ordered them something that looked like jelly but had meat embedded in it. Gorata tried her best to eat it, but managed only to shift it around the plate.
The date ended with a vague conversation about the fact that maybe they needed some time apart, and Alfred left after giving her a dry peck on the cheek. If Gorata was honest, it all came as a welcome relief.
“So what happened? What happened on your date with Alfred?” Amita repeated.
“Oh that . . . yeah, well, we decided to take some time off,” Gorata said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Amita and Kelebogile jumped to their feet and applauded.
Feeling embarrassed, Gorata tried to joke and said, “A standing ovation? You girls are so funny.”
“But you’ve got to admit, that guy’s seriously odd,” Amita said, sitting back down.
Gorata put her hands up in front of her as a sign of giving up. “Yeah, okay, you two win. He is weird. When I was out with him, I always had a feeling that both of us might be on the same mission – looking for Mr Right.”
“Ha!” Kelebogile said. “I think you hit a bull’s eye there.”
“I always thought as much too,” Amita added.
“So now, what about you?” Gorata asked, looking at Kelebogile.
“Me? I told you, I had my game and it was great,” Kelebogile replied. She was suddenly very busy with the croissant crumbs on her plate.
“But you left out the man part.” Gorata wasn’t going to let her get away that easily.
“Kelebogile with a man? This is news. Please do tell,” Amita said, pushing her long hair out of her face so she could take a bite of the watermelon slice Gorata had placed in front of her.
“Okay, okay. But listen, before I say anything, I want to say I’m not like you guys. I know it’s not fair, because I always give you two a lot of grief about your dates and men and everything, but don’t do the same to me. I don’t think I can take it, not this time. Okay? We need to agree on that before I speak.”
Amita looked at Gorata and grinned. They both put one hand up in the air and one on their hearts and said together, “We promise.”
“Ah – stop it, you two, I’m really serious,” Kelebogile said.
Gorata felt bad about teasing her housemate. She could see Kelebogile was not amused. “Okay, sorry, we’ll be serious. Right, Amita?”
“Right.”
Kelebogile collected some of the plates and took them to the sink, then came back and sat down. “His name is Mark. Mark Wilson. He’s American, and white. He’s a volunteer at Hope Springs, that Aids hospice near the school. He’s a nurse. I think I really like him.
“We had such a lovely time yesterday after the game. Doing nothing really, just walking around Joburg. All the trees are flowering and it smelled so lovely. And he was so interested in everything . . . in me . . . and what I do at school. It was lovely. I’ve never really met a man like him before.”
Gorata reached out and covered her friend’s hand with hers. She’d never heard Kelebogile speak about a man like that, she knew this was important. “So? What about the game in Rustenburg? Is he going?”
“He wants to. I thought we might pass by my parents’ place. I might as well bite the bullet early,” Kelebogile said.
Amita was confused. “What’s the deal?”
“Her father’s a racist,” Gorata said.
“I wouldn’t call him a
