Kwaito Love Read online

  Ms Bennet looked in Piet’s direction, rolled her eyes and left without saying another word.

  “God, what a bitch!” Piet said. “I love your designs.”

  Mpho knew Piet had a good heart and a love for fashion but she wondered if compliments from a man stuck in the Old American West was really what she needed. Maybe Ms Bennet was right. Mpho wanted her clothes to be essentially South African, but would there be any buyers? Women in South Africa liked to follow American and European trends instead of looking close to home. Maybe she should compromise a bit. She suddenly felt so uncertain about everything. She wasn’t sure she was able to trust her instincts anymore. She’d been so off base with Thabang; maybe she was wrong about everything else too – even her designs?

  “Eish! I can’t take this anymore!” Mpho said, pushing the evening gown away from her. “Anyway, I need to get out of here. I start work at two.”

  Piet looked up from his design that had a piece of fabric with cowboys on horses stuck to it. “Forget about her, girl; you have talent.”

  “Thanks, Piet.”

  * * *

  Mpho bumped into Marika on the way to work. “Guess what?” her friend asked excitedly.

  “I don’t know – what?” Mpho was not in the mood for guessing.

  “My parents are coming on Sunday. We’re going out to lunch with Ishmael.”

  “Do they know he’s Indian?”

  “Of course, with a name like Ishmael!”

  “But did you tell them he’s your boyfriend?”

  “Okay . . . yeah . . . that I haven’t told them yet. I’ll tell them when they’re here. I didn’t think it was something to say over the phone.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  They walked toward Monate; their shift was just about to start.

  Suddenly Mpho felt odd. She was sad and excited at the same time; what was happening to her? She looked behind them and there was Ishmael. “What is that smell?” she asked him accusingly.

  “And hello to you too, Mpho,” Ishmael said. He grabbed Marika in his long arms and gave her a kiss. “How’s it, babe?”

  “I’m just getting in to work. What’s up?”

  “I came by to let you know I won’t see you tonight. I’m off to Cape Town for work. The flight leaves in two hours.”

  Marika looked stricken. “What about lunch and my parents? It’s Sunday, did you forget?”

  Ishmael smiled. “Of course not. I’ll be back tomorrow morning at nine. No problem.” He kissed her again. “I’ve got to run.”

  “No!” Mpho heard her voice, panicked and too loud, and knew why Marika and Ishmael were looking at her so strangely. “Sorry . . . I just . . . What aftershave is that, Ishmael?”

  She knew it was Thabang’s. She would never forget it. Just the whiff she got from this distance was enough to pull her back into a whirlwind of Thabang emotions.

  “Aftershave?” Marika asked. “Are you okay, Mpho?”

  “You like it? I splurged when I got my promotion. It’s some French stuff called Givenchy Pi Neo. Seriously expensive.”

  Mpho was floating, lost in her memories. She hadn’t seen Thabang for days and thought that maybe she was over him and would be okay now. But with one whiff she knew she wasn’t and maybe never would be.

  * * *

  Saturday afternoons at Monate Takeaways were boring. They had few customers. Everybody had gone home already. Mpho and Marika quietly washed down counters and cleaned out fridges. Both were busy with their thoughts. Mpho worried that her fashion career was headed for disaster. Marika wondered how red her father’s face would get when she told him she planned to marry Ishmael. Anyone listening to their intermittent conversation would think they were crazy.

  “I won’t go home, even if he wants me to.”

  “I can’t change my designs now; it’s too late.”

  “They’ll love him; they have to.”

  “If I fail, I fail – but I’m sticking to my ideas.”

  Mr Habib came from the back office. “Shall I give you girls a lift when we knock off?”

  “A lift? Why?” Mpho asked, pulled from her thoughts.

  “To my house. You remember tonight is Mrs Habib’s party. I invited you weeks ago. I hope you didn’t make other plans. Mrs Habib will be so disappointed.”

  Marika quickly chipped in, “No, of course we didn’t forget. Yes, we’d appreciate a lift from you.”

  Mr Habib smiled, relieved. “Today I am sixty years old, which is a long time to have lived. One must celebrate such an achievement.”

  Mpho smiled at her boss. “It certainly is a milestone, Mr Habib.”

  Mpho and Marika rushed to the women’s rest rooms to get ready. “God, I can’t believe we forgot all about Mr Habib’s party!” Marika said while trying to wash herself in the basin.

  “There’s just been too much going on. I’ve had school and Thabang, and you’ve been thinking about your parents and Ishmael. To be honest, though, I could use the distraction. I’m going nuts with uncertainty about the show.”

  Marika pulled on the trousers she’d bought when Mpho took her shopping. “And your doubts about Thabang.”

  “I have no uncertainty about him,” Mpho said, annoyed. “I am through with that man. Full stop. End of discussion.”

  Marika was leaning forward over the basin to get a better look at where the mascara she was applying was actually ending up. She looked in the mirror at her friend behind her. “Well, that’s what you say but honestly, I don’t buy it.”

  Mpho quickly put on lipstick and then picked up her bag to go. “Doesn’t matter what you buy or not; I know the truth. My fling with Thabang Modise has come to an end.”

  * * *

  The party had already started when they arrived. Mpho was glad Marika had worn her new clothes that afternoon when she came to work. The transformation was incredible. Mpho really did know something about fashion, no matter what Ms Bennet said.

  The two friends were surprised when they saw all the guests who came to wish Mr Habib a happy birthday. In South Africa where the different races were still learning to come together, Mr Habib’s tidy little house on the edge of Soweto reflected a true rainbow nation. He had friends from all racial groups and ages and they filled the entire house, pouring out into the back patio and the colourful garden.

  Marika and Mpho got drinks and moved outside. There was a small stage set up and a band was playing popular South African tunes. Just then the lead singer, a stringy white man, was singing a Freshlyground song. A few people were dancing. If this was one of Mrs Habib’s “small get-togethers”, Mpho wondered what her parties were like.

  Mrs Habib saw the girls standing around, looking a little lost, rushed over and pulled them to her bosom smelling of baby powder. “Oh, I’m so pleased you could come. We must have everyone in the family here for Mr Habib’s celebration. Please come with me. Let’s get you some food.”

  Mrs Habib led them inside to a table laden with all types of Indian food: a variety of curries and different types of rice. Samoosas and rolled chapatis. Nan bread and all types of veggies. Mrs Habib was not happy until their plates were heaped with food. They went back into the garden and sat on a cement bench to the side of the stage.

  Mpho looked up from her food and sniffed the air. Then she looked around.

  “What is it?” Marika asked.

  “I thought Ishmael was going to Cape Town.”

  “Yes, he is there. I just got an SMS saying his meeting is finished and he’s at the hotel.” Marika looked at Mpho, confused. “What’s up? You’re sniffing the air like a bloodhound.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t come back early?”

  “Yes . . . What is wrong with you today?” Marika shook her head.

  Mpho went back to her food, trying to ignore her nose. “I don’t know. Maybe I worked too late last night. My head is a mess.” But she was sure she smelled that aftershave again: the Givenchy Ishmael was wearing. Maybe she was going c
razy. Or maybe one of the guests wore the same aftershave.

  “They look so happy,” Marika said, watching Mr and Mrs Habib across the crowded lawn. “I hope I’ll have that one day – a happy marriage.”

  “Me too,” Mpho said as Mr and Mrs Habib entered the dance floor to the loud applause of their friends. “You know, they couldn’t have children. But it doesn’t matter, because they love each other. That’s all that was important.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow. I hope my parents will behave.” Marika looked upset.

  “Just remember . . . You are a Joburg woman, not a Rustenburg girl! They can’t push you around anymore.”

  “You make me sound like some kind of superhero.”

  “Maybe you are,” Mpho said.

  Marika smiled at her friend and gave her a hug with her free arm.

  The bandleader came to the microphone and announced that some friends wanted to say a few words. People sat down in the chairs scattered around the garden. One by one, people went on the stage and told stories about Mr Habib. They spoke about how he had helped them or they told entertaining anecdotes about silly things he had done. A short, round white man said that he was Mr Habib’s accountant. He told a funny story about Mr Habib’s fear of computers and how that meant the accountant was forever doomed to go through metres and metres of long, thin white paper from his adding machine. The man got off the stage and Mpho’s heart jumped into her throat. She felt her stomach flip.

  “Look, it’s Thabang,” Marika said. Mpho heard her far away in the distance, even though she was sitting next to her.

  Mpho looked at him. He wore sleek black trousers and an open-necked, white silk shirt. Both the trousers and the shirt hugged his body. She could see his wide, muscular shoulders and his strong thighs. His dreadlocks were pulled back in a ponytail. Mpho felt a physical pull to him, as if she couldn’t stop herself. She ached to rub her hand down the side of his arm to feel the ripples under the smooth cloth. She shook her head to clear it, but it didn’t help.

  When Thabang stood at the microphone, everyone became silent. People knew about his success with Mmino Productions, but it was more than that. There was a commanding presence about him up there. He was in control: a silent, gentle authority immediately respected by everyone.

  Mpho shifted back a bit so that she was hidden slightly by the hibiscus bush next to her. She didn’t think Thabang had seen her, at least she hoped not. She didn’t need this today. After Ms Bennet’s attack on her designs she was feeling vulnerable. She was tired and stressed, not at all sure she could handle another interaction with Thabang. Why couldn’t he just move away to Cape Town or overseas? She needed serious distance from him to get over everything. This constant contact was not working. Every time she saw the man, all her efforts to get over him melted away.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Thabang Modise.” A few people laughed. Everyone knew who he was. “I used to work for Mr Habib at Monate Takeaways. Thanks to him, I now own a successful business. It’s not common for someone to help another person in these times. Everyone is looking out for themselves only. When I met Mr Habib, I was just a skinny teenager from a poor family, struggling with my mother to get food to eat and keep a roof over our heads. But Mr Habib saw something else. He listened to my dream and he saw me there. And then he showed me how I could also see myself there. And as if that wasn’t enough, he gave me money to make that dream come true. I consider Morena Habib a friend, a mentor and, probably more importantly, a father. Happy birthday, Tate! Happy birthday!”

  Everybody raised their glasses to Mr Habib and when Mpho looked in her boss’s direction she could see tears pouring down his cheeks even though he was smiling broadly. The music started again and people began to dance.

  “Thabang is lovely,” Marika said.

  “Please don’t say that. I can’t bear for him to be lovely today.” Mpho quickly finished the last of her punch.

  “Let me go and get us some more.” Marika reached forward, taking their empty plates and glasses.

  “Bring me the spiked punch this time,” Mpho said.

  “So, has it come to that, then?” Marika asked jokingly.

  Mpho smiled. “I guess it has.”

  She sat watching the crowd of people dancing to Brenda Fassie’s Weekend Special. Mpho smiled, thinking about all the times Jakes and Thabang’s band had played that song. No matter what crowd, everyone loved that song. She was lost in her memories and smelled the warning of his aftershave only seconds before he sat down next to her on the bench. “So, are you enjoying yourself?”

  Mpho looked around. Where was Marika with that punch? The conditions had changed. It had now become an emergency – she needed the bolstering of a bit of alcohol and the distraction of another person. “Yes, I am,” she just barely managed.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here. I saw Marika inside. She told me where to find you. Here you go.” He handed her a glass of punch.

  Traitor, Mpho thought. She would sort the meddling Marika out later! She downed half the glass and closed her eyes, trying to breathe in the cool night air and calm her jittery nerves. Please, please, please behave, she told her body which was getting out of control being so close to Thabang.

  Before she could settle her body or thoughts, Thabang took her hand in his. “Mpho, I’m so glad I ran into you . . . I so wanted to see you.”

  No, no, no, Mpho repeated in her head. She didn’t want this. She did not want Thabang Modise in her life. No, no, no. But why was her stomach jumping? Why did she feel a surge of happiness just having him near? Why did she wish he’d hold her hand forever? But still she tried to line up the forces against him. She tried to list all of the evidence that said he was wrong for her, that he was a bad guy:

  1. He was a liar.

  2. He was a thief.

  3. He was manipulative.

  4. He couldn’t be trusted.

  5. He wanted to ruin her career and turn her into a helpless housewife.

  6. He . . . He . . .

  Mpho struggled with her list. He was still holding her hand. He was still smelling so lovely. She was still shaking. No, no, no.

  “What’d you say?” Thabang asked, breaking into her inner turmoil.

  “Say? Did I say something?” Had she spoken her list out loud? Mpho was seriously wondering if she was beginning to lose her mind. Was he pushing her to the edge of sanity? Was she going to turn into one of those women who pushed their belongings around in a shopping trolley and spent the day talking to an invisible friend?

  Mpho shook herself, downed the rest of her drink and ordered herself to get a grip.

  “Can I get you some more punch?” Thabang asked.

  “Yes!” Mpho said a bit too desperately.

  When he was gone, Marika came rushing up. “So, how’s it going?” She was all smiles and excitement until she saw Mpho’s face.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Whose side are you on?” Mpho asked.

  “Yours. The problem is I don’t think you are on your side.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Marika looked to see if Thabang was coming back yet but he was queuing at the punch bowl. “It means that I think Thabang is great. I think you need to chill out. So he made a few mistakes. We aren’t all perfect like you. Humans make mistakes. Please give him a chance.”

  Mpho listened but refused to let any of it sink in. She didn’t want this. She certainly didn’t need this. And besides, she should know which side was her side and Marika should follow her lead – not the other way around. Mpho knew what was best for herself.

  Marika looked over her shoulder. Thabang was heading back in their direction. “Listen, I’m going home.”

  “Wait! I thought we came together?”

  “I’m getting a lift with Bibi.” Bibi worked with them at Monate Takeaways.

  “Then I’m coming too.” Mpho made to get up, but Marika pushed her back down on the bench.

&
nbsp; “No, Bibi only has room for me.” Just then Thabang came up to them and handed Mpho her punch. “Maybe Thabang can give you a lift home,” Marika said, smiling hopefully in his direction.

  “Sure, no problem,” he said.

  Mpho gave Marika a furious look. Marika ignored the glare and kissed her friend on the cheek. “Bye-bye,” she said and off she went.

  Thabang and Mpho sat on the bench watching the dancers and not saying anything for a while. The night was warm with a slight breeze. Mpho looked up at the sky. Despite the Joburg lights, stars could be seen flickering down on the party.

  “Lovely evening,” Thabang said, breaking the silence.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know how things became such a mess between us. I wish we could go back to those days when we hung out in the back room of the community hall, drinking Coke and playing music. We were kids and everything seemed so straightforward then. It wasn’t complicated.”

  But for Mpho nothing that involved him was ever straightforward. Even as a teenager being in his presence was problematic. Easy never played a role in her interactions with Thabang Modise. The band played a cover of the Norah Jones song Come Away With Me. Couples cleared the dance floor. This crowd only danced the fast ones. Slow songs signalled time to fill empty glasses and wipe the sweat from glistening foreheads.

  Thabang took her hand in both of his. “Will you dance with me, Mpho?”

  His eyes begged her to say yes. They looked so genuine and honest. Still she hesitated; she knew it would make everything worse. Getting physically closer to Thabang was not a good idea. “I don’t know. Maybe we should go . . . I have to get up early tomorrow . . .”

  While she protested, he led her carefully to the dance floor. He took her in his strong arms and her words disappeared into the night.