that a woman could be so vicious; the same men who sometimes called her a family breaker and a tight-ass feminist.
Princess opened the closet and pulled out a pair of khaki chinos and a white shirt. She was thankful for her low-maintenance, ready-to-go look because she couldn’t spend another minute with Leo. She left without saying another word.
Twenty minutes later she arrived at her office in Braamfontein, downtown Joburg. She was the only person there and was glad to have some time to reflect on the events shaping her life. Her eyes landed on a framed photograph next to her computer. It was her favourite photo of Leo, taken on the day they first met at a gallery in arty Melville.
Nandi, an art enthusiast and a collector, had read in the newspaper about the opening exhibition of Leonard Moyo, a twenty-something progressive Zimbabwean painter, and had suggested they attend. Princess was shamelessly clueless about art, and tagged along because her date, Juan, a super-sexy Spanish bartender she was dating – sleeping with, really – for nearly three weeks had cancelled on her at the last minute.
At the gallery, bored and listless, Princess had detached herself from her friends, who were engrossed in the paintings – caucusing, pointing, and nodding in unison as if uncovering the answers to life’s biggest mysteries – and had wandered around the room sipping the tepid champagne provided.
At that moment she couldn’t have been less concerned about Zimbabwe and its daily struggles. Her mind was on Juan. All week long she’d been busy, and she’d been looking forward to a relaxing Friday night with him, especially as it was his night off. He hardly ever got weekends off. She had made an extra effort to make their night memorable, a sizzler. She had bought a sexy red mesh camisole with ruffled feather trim and matching thong, and almond-scented massage oils. An hour before he was supposed to arrive, Juan had called and in his broken English told her he couldn’t make it. She had screamed at him, calling him all sorts of names under the sun, and told him never to call her again. A wasted night; what a fool!
Her thoughts were disturbed by clapping and shouting. “Yes, comrade!” The noise was coming from a crowd gathered in the far right-hand corner of the room. Someone, the comrade, was addressing the audience. Princess stopped and could hear bits of the speech.
“. . . confronts reality. I see my work as the voice of the silenced fellow countrymen . . . issues of involvement . . . issues not everyone is keen to talk about . . .” The voice was melodic and the words poetic. Out of curiosity, to match the face with the voice, she made her way towards the crowd. And there, in shoulder-length dreadlocks, snugly fitting jeans and a black T-shirt with UHURU printed across it in white, stood her lean, long-limbed saviour – the answer to her troubles. Freedom indeed, she thought. Without wasting time she pushed through the crowd, causing a small disturbance, until she got to the front. She watched the artist from up close, mesmerised. Such beauty, and at arm’s length!
“Excuse me, comrade,” Princess said, waving her hand. She was aware of the sudden silence, perhaps even disapproval, and could feel the audience’s eyes burrowing through her back. She smiled unapologetically; she was a lawyer.
The comrade artist stopped midway through his sentence and turned to face her.
“Yes, ma’am?” He wore a lovely expectant smile on his face.
“I just want to say I’m deeply moved by the intensity of your work.” She held his gaze with her expressive brown eyes. “I feel the pain and the suffering of your subjects. You’ve done a wonderful job. That’s all. Thank you.”
The comrade artist nodded politely and said thank you. Then he continued with his talk, but it wasn’t with the same oomph. He seemed to have lost the thread of what he was saying. Satisfied, Princess squeezed her way out of the crowd and went to find her friends, whistling. She made a mental note to thank Nandi for bringing her to the gallery. She knew it was merely a matter of time before the artist came looking for her. And he did, half an hour later.
Princess returned the photograph to its place and stared at the busy street three floors below. The pavements were clogged with wares of every description; a fruit-and-vegetable hawker harassed rushing passers-by by shoving her bright red apples into their faces, a man in a business suit was buying a cup of tea or coffee from a makeshift coffee stand close by. The city was coming to life and she was standing by watching, confused.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed Leo’s change in behaviour in recent weeks. He was staying out late – sometimes, as had been the case that morning, not coming home until the crack of dawn. She suspected he wasn’t painting as much; she no longer smelled the nutty smell of oil paint on his clothes or saw its traces under his nails, and his studio looked as if it hadn’t been used for weeks. And his mood swings! He was like a premenstrual female. Had he always been so easily irritated and defensive? Princess wondered. She had decided not to interfere; perhaps he was experiencing a case of painter’s block. Yet she couldn’t brush aside the thought that Leo was possibly involved in something illegal and dangerous that could affect the lives of both of them.
* * *
Nandi arrived at the accounting and auditing firm of Le Roux, Mathaba and Associates in Randburg and entered her office inconspicuously. The years of hard labour had paid off. She was no longer an inexperienced newcomer, the reluctant tenant of cubicle 0054, but instead had advanced high enough within the firm to be afforded the luxury of a matchbox-sized private office that came with spectacular views of the taxi rank below. A qualified chartered accountant and senior manager, Nandi couldn’t wait to be made junior partner and to move upstairs with the big boys. She was particularly proud to know that when she got appointed – something that was to happen before the month was over – it would be due to dedication and hard work and not merely the result of a political balancing act, all that right skin colour and gender drivel. She would deserve every bit of the recognition she’d get.
Nandi’s plan that morning was to get as much administrative work out of the way as possible and leave the office early; a visit to the hair-and-nail salon was overdue. She was also meeting with Zaza in the afternoon for drinks and to discuss the progress of her upcoming wedding in January. They were having a small ceremony, hundred and sixty guests, but the details of the event were starting to take their toll on her, not to mention the enemies she had created in the process of trimming down the guest list. Though the wedding venue was confirmed (a charming farm on KZN’s north coast with acres of rolling sugar cane fields and breathtaking views of the Indian Ocean), the bridesmaids’ dresses nearly complete, the wedding bands picked, a week-long honeymoon in Phuket, Thailand, confirmed and paid for, and the invitations sent out, the list of things requiring her attention was growing longer with each passing day. Her wedding gown, bought at a bridal trunk show while she attended a conference in New York City, needed minor alterations. The menu for the reception dinner was under heavy debate between herself and her mother. And they hadn’t chosen the cake yet. She enjoyed the full support of family and friends, but she couldn’t help wondering how brides managed to come through the experience poised and smiling. To her, preparing for the wedding was proving to be harder than writing an accounting board exam.
Thinking about the wedding reminded Nandi of the nightmare she’d had earlier that morning. She felt a chill run down her spine. It was only a bad dream, nothing to agonise about, she told herself. The wedding plans were on track and her beloved Thomas was at her side.
Thomas.
She was still pissed off at him and that cow called Pinky and the whole state of affairs. One thing was certain, it was time to put diplomacy aside and tackle the problem with the ex-girlfriend head-on. She was no coward. She could play dirty too. Pinky brought out something evil in her. She had always thought that should she find herself in the unfortunate position of becoming involved with someone who had a child from a previous
