But it doesn’t matter. He must just get used to it. It’s my life, anyway.”
“Mark’s white and he’s an American. At least if he were a white South African . . .” Gorata mused.
“My father will just have to get used to it. I like Mark and that’s all there is to it,” Kelebogile said firmly.
Gorata heard the words, but she also knew Kelebogile was her father’s favourite. The last-born of four girls, Kelebogile was closer to her father than her mother. He’d named her himself, thanking God for her. He had been a teacher, and she became a teacher too. He was a local hero on the soccer circuit, and she played soccer as well.
So it was going to be a problem when she pitched up with a white American boyfriend, no matter how tough a stance Kelebogile took.
“Well then, what are you going to do?” Kelebogile turned the tables on Gorata.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re back to being manless. Or have you moved on to Showa?” Kelebogile teased.
Gorata sipped at her coffee. “As a matter of fact, I had a date with him last night.”
“You didn’t even let twenty-four hours pass before moving on to the next candidate?” Kelebogile faked shock, but then smiled. “Oh well, at least Showa fits in with your list a bit better.”
“Ah, Kele! I don’t have a list! I told you already! How many times must I repeat that?” Gorata wondered how the conversation had drifted back to her.
“You may not have it written down, but you have a list in here,” Kelebogile said, tapping a finger against the side of her head. “I wonder if Showa is flashy enough for your list? He tends to do the village thing.”
“But he does have money,” Amita added.
Gorata stood up to run water in the sink for the dishes to soak. “You two aren’t fair. I don’t have a list, I just have goals. I’m no different from you two. Kele, you want to win the national girls’ soccer league. Amita, you want a starring role in a soap opera. And I want to marry a man who fits my needs. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that is your criteria. They’re blocking you from seeing what’s right in front of you,” Kelebogile said. “If he has no money, you can’t see him. If he doesn’t have the right car, he’s not there.”
Gorata wondered if she was blind to her own ways. “Am I really like that? Am I really one of those women with a list like Bra Kee wrote about?”
She didn’t want to think she was like that. She just wanted a man who was equal to her, so they could start out together and build a life. She knew men, they didn’t like a woman who was doing better professionally, it just caused problems. She enjoyed her career and she was successful, she didn’t want to feel ashamed about that. And why should she? But that didn’t mean she was a materialistic lister.
“Listen,” Amita said, resting her hand on Gorata’s shoulder, “we all have our requirements. The men have theirs too. Believe me, we’ll be reading all about it in next Sunday’s paper. It’s just the way it is.”
The three friends laughed. When their laughter died away, they could hear a cellphone ringing somewhere. Gorata stood up to collect her phone from her handbag in the sitting room and came back to the table. “Hello?”
The other two listened. At times Gorata held the phone away from her ear with a pained look on her face and both Amita and Kelebogile could hear the person on the other end clearly because she spoke as if she was talking through a bullhorn. In the end Gorata said, “Okay, go siame.”
She threw the phone down and let her head fall to the table with a loud thump.
“Who was that?” Kelebogile asked.
Gorata didn’t lift her head but spoke into the table. “Mmandu.”
“Mmandu? What does she want?” Kelebogile asked.
“Who’s Mmandu?” Amita asked.
“Gorata’s eldest sister,” Kelebogile said and turned back to Gorata. “Is everything okay at home?”
Gorata lifted her head as if it weighed a ton. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Why now? She had so many things to deal with. She didn’t need this as well. Finally she said, “She says she’s coming to Joburg.”
“Mmandu’s coming here? Why?” Kelebogile said.
Gorata’s head was back on the table. “For a visit.”
“So what’s the problem?” Amita asked.
Gorata’s head shot up. “The problem? The problem?” Annoyed, she stood up and paced the kitchen. “The problem is Mmandu. Busybody, always in your face, loud-mouthed Mmandu!”
“You’re overreacting,” Kelebogile tried to pacify Gorata. “Your sister isn’t that bad.”
“What? Have you forgotten? Mmandu is bad. She’s very, very bad. She and my Joburg life don’t go together. Mmandu in Rustenburg is bad enough, but a Joburg Mmandu – no, no, no!”
Amita looked confused. “I don’t get it.”
Gorata turned and glared at her. “You will. Don’t worry, you will.”
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