Such a Lonely, Lovely Road

by Kagiso Lesego Molope

“It’s rained all week but it’s going to be a nice weekend for the wedding.”

  And so we went on. I longed for Sediba’s voice and my friends’ laughter, so as soon as my mother said she was going down the hill to the shop, I hopped into her car and went to look for my friends.

  Trunka’s house has always been one of the township’s central spots. It’s one of the first houses you see when you drive in, partly because it’s painted a shiny white with contrasting black on the window frames and partly because it’s always buzzing with activity. There’s always someone sitting and drinking or buying food. I had spotted people around there when I drove into town, so I knew if I wanted to go and find people Trunka’s would be the first place to go.

  In the car my mother played her Aretha Franklin CD, her elbow on the open window, her head resting wearily back.

  “Are you tired? You look tired.”

  “Ag, adult problems,” she said, taking a deep breath and a sharp turn at the main road. No parent ever considers his or her child an adult, I suppose.

  “You and Papa are busy, huh? All this work! The shop and the surgery. You should go on holiday.”

  She snorted, shook her head, and turned up the volume and Aretha sang: “Everything is going so much faster, seems like I . . . am watching my life and everything I knew . . . ”

  She swayed her head back and forth slowly to the beat, her hand reaching out to pat her newly-braided her at first but then resting there a while longer. I watched the road. Old houses had been turned new with brighter colours and larger gates. The township is always changing faster than anyone can keep up, but what stayed the same in every township was the children playing on the streets. You had to slow down and swerve to avoid brick goal posts and stop and wave an apology because you had just driven over a well-drawn game of fish on the ground. Watching all the playing I remembered my childhood and the day Sediba arrived. Who would’ve thought I’d now be in love with the boy in the polka dot scarf?

  “What’s on your mind, baby?” My mother turned the music down and we were rolling up the windows to keep out the dust.“Patients?” she asked. It reminded me of how she spoke of my father. Whenever he was quiet she’d say “probably patients” and wave away his contemplative look. I nodded then, not wanting to bother her, knowing she was asking only to move us away from talking about her and my father. Knowing also, that she was aware that I had heard them yelling.

  “Do you want to see your friends?” she asked, already turning towards Trunka’s house. As we approached, Sediba’s mother was crossing the street and my mother and I waved.

  My mother sucked her teeth and said, “This one. She acts like she has the star child.” Aus’ Bonolo, Sediba’s mother, came around as we slowed to a stop. She was as impeccably dressed as I remembered her, her hair in a beautiful round bun and her nails a deep, elegant, purple.

  She came around to my side and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I noticed how she had the same large, beautiful brown eyes as her son, which gave my heart a bit of a start.

  “Yoh, Kabi! You look so handsome! When did you arrive?”

  “This morning,” I said after swallowing.

  “I’m sure Sediba doesn’t know you’re coming. He’s been so busy he doesn’t know what’s going on with his friends.” She leaned in and said to my mother, “You know we’re doing all the people for the wedding.”

  My mother said, visibly toning down her annoyance: “Mmm. I thought you might be. I was going to come to you but I decided to go to town. I thought you’d be busy.”

  Looking genuinely sorry, Sediba’s mother said, “Oh, I would have taken you. I would have made time . . . ” But my mother had made her point and she was turning the car back on. I felt sorry and embarrassed. My mother had never liked Sediba’s mother. They were so full of themselves, she’d say. It puzzled her that they were doing well but chose not to move up the hill or into town. I think she was always expecting them to join in the competition but they never did.

  “OK, Bonolo, I have to get back to the shop, we’re also very busy,” she said, and Sediba’s mother turned to me. “Kabi, I’ll tell Sediba you’re back. I’m sure you’ll all see each other all weekend anyway, neh?”

  I said: “OK, Ma,” and we zoomed off.

  My mother dropped me off at Trunka’s house. As I stepped out of the car my mother turned to me, her hand on mine. “Don’t even worry about your friend getting married. Our . . . your—your time will come.”

  Trunka was busy, running around getting things ready for the weekend. He gave me a light hug and a pat on the shoulder before continuing with what he was doing, unloading the lorry and stacking the beer crates on top of each other against the wall of his back rooms.

  I joined him and helped, and asked, “So where are the other guys?” really only wanting to know about one.

  “Running around. You won’t believe where Lelo is . . . ”

  I knew what he meant. Lelo was with Lerato and probably the son he kept an open secret, bringing him to see his friends but not bringing him to his mother’s house. We laughed but only a little because I think we both recognized the sadness in Lelo’s situation. I shook my head, silently pushing down my disapproval. I had come here to celebrate, not to judge. Later we shared a beer on the cool veranda and Trunka caught me up on what was happening around the location.

  “He’s not like a man getting married,” he said about Lelo. “He’s running between two women’s houses. Eish. Mara these are men’s problems. Women don’t understand.”

  I drank my beer and watched the road.

  “And Sediba . . . ”

  I inhaled and held my breath.

  “What’s new with him?”

  “He has a woman in Durban, I think. You know how he is, so private. But I suspect he’s serious because every weekend he’s out of here, driving down. I asked him if he wants to marry her.”

  I gulped down my beer and picked up another.

  “What did he say?”

  “He says he hopes so.”

  My back went hot. So Sediba talked about his love life these days.

  “What else does he say?”

  “Nothing. He won’t say anything until you ask. We don’t even know her name. Probably a Zulu girl with nice clothes, like he has. But we all agree he looks happy these days. He didn’t for a long time, but these days . . . ”

  Gulping down my drink, I stood up. “Eish Jo, let me run. I’ll come back later,” I said, but Trunka was already distracted with the line forming in front of the tuck-shop. He ran off to help.

  When I walked back up the hill I briefly thought about going to check on Sediba but stopped myself. It wouldn’t be a good idea, no matter how much I wanted to see him. Instead, I tried phoning him again, but he didn’t answer. It was like this overnight: he was not answering his phone, which led to an SMS argument. I’d write: “Do I not get to see you?”And he’d respond, “I have so many clients.” Which was not really answering the question.

  My parents were in and out of the house and never in at the same time. Aus’ Tselane kept busy with the washing and the cleaning and seemed especially subdued. I went to the wedding feeling dejected and angry.

  Traditionally there is a “bringing out” of the bride where we, the wedding party, take her through the streets singing wedding songs—songs that call out neighbours and friends to come see her, to celebrate. Being Lelo’s best friends, Sediba and I had to be in the party, the group of men accompanying our friend to fetch his bride. It was one of the most anticipated weddings in town because Masechaba is a gorgeous woman. Big round eyes, high cheekbones, skin the colour of dark, burnt oak. She was one of Kasi’s hopefuls: the people who are proof that we are better than the rest of the world thinks we are. And after Lelo had studied law and was a gainfully employed man, Masechaba’s mother had warmed to him. Two
cows and a hefty sum he had paid for her. This wasn’t just another wedding around here, it was one we were all meant to remember for a long time.

  It had gone on between them for years, on and off, even after Lerato had had her baby by him, even when it was clear to anyone who knew them that Lelo and Lerato were mad for each other, and the passion between the two of them couldn’t be denied. There was something about Lelo, I suppose, that Masechaba couldn’t shake. She was devoted to him and either pretended not to see or simply didn’t care about Lerato. And it was obvious when she stepped out of her parents’ house, went out into the world as someone’s new bride, that she was radiant and content. As is tradition, she had been kept in a room away from prying eyes. So there was a collective gasp as we all caught our first glimpse of the glowing bride. All agreed that Lelo had found the perfect woman, that on looks alone this was a beautiful match. When we stepped behind the bride and groom and started singing, Sediba came rushing up the street to join us, buttoning his jacket, spreading a painful smile.

  I danced along with the crowd, keeping my eyes away from my lover. We went up and down the streets, neighbours coming out of their houses to join us, car horns hooting, baritones and sopranos lifting the spirits of all who had come to see, old women who were Kasi’s praise poets stopping us every now and then to extol the bride. I have always loved a good township wedding. The biscuits baked by the women in the neighbourhood, the meat cut by the men and cooked by the women, the ginger beer, everyone singing and dancing until the sun goes down: they never disappoint. But I couldn’t enjoy this one. This was the most painful one. My friends had reached the point where they were paying lobola, taking wives, making their mothers proud. I had been hiding out in Durban acting like there was nothing expected of me, but back here, my sense that I would disappoint and break my mother’s heart was like a noose around my neck. I wanted to leave.

  There was a moment, I think, when a praise poet said something about the sanctity of the marriage bed and my eyes met Sediba’s and a lump got stuck in my throat: he and I would never have this. The aunts and uncles, the grandmothers ululating and sharing praise poems—talking about the woman’s beauty, the man’s duties and the happiness of the ancestors at the meeting of two people in love.

  This would never be us.

  Later we stole a moment and went back his house. We were pulling and grabbing each other, our movements too hurried and somewhat aggressive until he put both his hands on my wrists: “Stop.” His voice was soft. “We’re not like this. We’re not . . . letting that shit in here.”

  I nodded because I couldn’t find my voice and we flopped onto the bed with our clothes still on and our eyes on the ceiling fan. Through the open window, Hugh Masekela’s trumpet floated in loud and clear, haunting. Someone was playing Stimela, music from a more determined time. The kind of song that makes you feel like a hopeful little boy. When Sediba held my hand I had to squeeze his and clench my jaw to stop myself from crying. “I hate this place,” I told him. “I hate it. I’m never coming back.”

  He turned to face me. “You have to come back.”

  “No.”

  “It’s home. You have to come back because . . . because I’m here.”

  When I looked in his eyes I could see that he was angry. And I was scared.

  Separately we left his house and at the wedding we sat at opposite ends of the table, working at keeping our eyes and minds on the music, the people, the food—anything but what we were feeling. When our eyes did meet it was brief. The enormous white cake obscured our view of each other with the likenesses of the bride and groom at the top.

  The wedding tent was large and white, hot inside and packed with every close relative of the bride and groom, plus us, the friends who had accompanied them. The older neighbourhood women wore aprons over their traditional brown wrap dresses and fussed over both the bride and the meal. They’d come in fanning the dishes, making sure the flies stayed off the food in the heat. My mother still had her apron on—you had to let everyone know you had taken part in preparing the feast.

  First she came in and put her hands on my shoulders: “Did you eat?” she said and put a plate overflowing with rice, peas, carrots, cabbage, beetroot, potatoes and slices of beef in front of me. I saw Sediba’s, Trunka’s, and Base’s mothers do the same.

  “Did you see Tshidi?”

  Tshidi from my high school days, who was friends with Masechaba, was at the wedding. “There are some high-class girls here,” she added. I flinched. She hadn’t used that term in a long time.

  “Yes, Ma. I replied.” I lied but thankfully it seemed to make her think I didn’t need more encouraging.

  When she left, Base whispered, “Look, there’s Sediba’s person.” He pointed to the opposite end, at two women who were pulling up chairs near where Sediba was sitting.

  One of them had beautiful long braids that looked freshly done, and the other one had short, straight hair. I had never seen either of them before.

  “Who’s that?” I tried to be casual.

  Base said, “The one with the braids is Alice. She wants Sediba. I’m not sure if they’re seeing each other . . . ”

  “But Sediba has someone,” Trunka said.

  Lelo had left his bride talking to her friends somewhere and was coming around towards us, catching the tail end of our conversation. He said, “But maybe he wants a Maimela person too. Durban is far!”

  Everyone laughed but I didn’t. The exhaustion came back, settled, and I had to sit up and talk myself out of it.

  The two women sat down next to Sediba. I looked at him but he wouldn’t look in our direction. So I sat, stewing, contemplating returning back to Durban before the night was over.

  Back again at his house we had a fight.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Diba,” I tried to remain calm, “Is this a break-up? What’s going on??”

  “I’m sorry,” he was saying, throwing his arms in the air. “It’s weird here. It’s . . . my parents are here. Your mother is . . . all our friends are here. All week I’ve been listening to this excitement about the wedding, people asking when I’ll be getting married-”

  “Diba, are you pretending to have a girlfriend now? You?”

  “No! No. I’m not. She comes up to me, we chat about nothing, I walk her out, but I’ve never had anything with her. Ever. At all.”

  “This is hopeless . . . ,” I started to say, because as afraid as I was, I needed to say it. It felt hopeless. There would have to be a time when we both acknowledged it, when we both gave in and tried—a lot harder this time—to be the men all our friends were becoming.

  But Sediba didn’t want to see it that way. “It’s not hopeless. It’s weird here. I know, it feels weird here.”

  I let him pulled me close. Right then I thought: for now, I’ll pretend it’s simply awkward and not utterly discouraging. Just for now.

  But then hours later I was sneaking out of his house to go lie in my old bed at my parents’ house, feeling like I was, in spite of all my efforts, returning to my childhood.

  For me, things shifted after that wedding. I couldn’t quite get back the contentment I’d been feeling before Lelo’s wedding. I’d walk around consumed with jealousy, envy, resentment towards my friends back home. It felt unfair that who I was could never fit into the place I had been brought up in. More upsetting and daunting was the sense that my life with Sediba couldn’t go on. He was a proud and self-possessed man and I knew without him saying so that he intended to come out to our friends and community at some point. I couldn’t see myself standing next to him, openly admitting that I was his boyfriend. The thought of doing that, of the look on my parents’ faces, was terrifying. When he wasn’t with me I’d feel myself holding back tears, imagining having to let him go. When he was with me, sleeping peacefully at my side, I watched him for a long tim
e, overpowered by a sense of impending doom. Sometimes I would get up and walk around my flat, drink water and stare into the night. I contemplated waking him, asking him to tell me that I was overreacting; that we’d never have to end things.

  Then one night even he couldn’t sleep through my misery. I was generally quiet but maybe subconsciously I had wanted him to wake up, carelessly dropping a glass into the sink. When he appeared at the bedroom door I tried to smile.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m just getting water.”

  “I mean, what’s going on,” he leaned his head against the doorframe. “Why can’t you sleep all the time?”

  “Ah . . . I didn’t think—”

  “Yah, I noticed.” His sigh was heavy. “What’s wrong?”

  I shrugged. “It’s always odd, going back. Seeing my mother, seeing everyone feels kind of weird.”

  He looked at me for a long time. “Yah, I see that.”

  “I don’t know, you know. It’s weird to see you and not be with you.”

  Sediba ran his palm over his face.

  “Come to bed. We’re here now. You can be with me,” his grin was infectious.

  I could see he didn’t want to talk about it, that he too was stuck. It was like that time when I had tried to apologize when we were back in Kasi. He couldn’t, for some reason, get into it. It only got me more worried.

  Cape Town

  YET HE WAS OBVIOUSLY TRYING in his own way to work out how we could stay together.

  “We’re going to this wedding,” Sediba told me, as I was getting ready for work two weeks after Lelo got married. We were walking around each other as we got dressed, trying to hurry so that he’d have time to take me to work before starting his long drive back home. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and his forehead wrinkled as he focused on deciding which pair of pants he would wear. I pulled on my usual pair of black jeans, which I insisted looked professional because I couldn’t be bothered to buy or wear formal pants. Sediba had agreed they were better than trouser pants, which he hated and called old, so that cemented my decision.