Langa remembered a time when the two had gotten along, after their mother’s death. The sisters had moved from Soweto where the three of them had stayed to KwaMashu in KZN to live with their mom’s eldest sister and her family, which consisted of their aunt’s husband and three children. The family had warmly welcomed the girls in their midst; Langa had just turned ten and Nandi was four. Like their mother, their aunt was a steadfast and spiritual woman who encouraged her children to pray without ceasing and realise their full potential in life. After Langa and Richard’s last visit to KZN, her aunt was so concerned about their arguing that she called and advised Langa not to rush into a marriage she believed neither of them were ready for.
Buthelezi Events was situated at the corner of Cradock and Biermann Avenues, above a Greek restaurant in Rosebank. The reception was a hive of activity when Langa and Zandile walked in. The company was organising two minor events for the next day: a government sod-turning event and the Gauteng Book Fair.
The receptionist beamed when she saw them. Connie was on the phone but mouthed, “How did it go?”
Langa gave her a thumbs-up just as Justin appeared. The head of visual production had a furious expression on his face. “We’ll have to hire some cameras and cameramen from those rats at Sisonke, or else tomorrow will be a disaster . . . nina? Is Sasol Wax ours?”
“They’ll let us know in a few days,” Langa replied, taking her phone from her handbag. “Kahle, I’ll ask Vusi for a favour. There’s no way we’re using Sisonke after last time.”
She walked briskly to her office, Justin running behind her. But Zandile waited for Connie to get off the phone so she could tell her about their boss and the Ndebele guy.
The afternoon flew by. Langa first organised another production company for Justin and then did a security check on a catering company that turned out to be non-existent minutes before Zandile paid a deposit to them. Annoyed with the girl’s incompetence, Langa ordered her to make coffee before shutting herself in her office and instructing Connie not to transfer any calls to her.
Savouring the silence, she sipped on her coffee and called Naledi to tell her about the dramatic turn of events. Her friend, a financial advisor at Standard Bank, picked up the phone after two rings.
“You’ll never believe who has the final say whether or not Buthelezi gets this contract,” Langa blurted.
“Hey, Langa, slow down, what are you talking about?” Naledi inquired, sounding puzzled. “How did your presentation go?”
“The thrush tubes guy. Remember the Ndebele man I was so rude to at the pharmacy?” Langa explained. “He owns the corporation that’s merging with Sasol Wax; he’s overseeing the exhibition.”
Naledi was silent for a few moments as she took it all in. Then she exclaimed, “Hhayi bo!”
“Yeah, I know! What am I going to do, girl?” Langa whined.
“Pray, my darling!” Naledi said, laughing. “Oh, it can’t be that bad. I’m sure he’s professional enough to award merit and not let his personal opinion get in the way.”
“His name is Regile.” Langa let the name roll off her tongue. She felt another blush rise to her cheeks and was glad Naledi couldn’t see her.
“So did he say anything?” her friend asked. “When will you know if you landed the contract?”
“I’m not sure. He disappeared after the meeting.” Langa brought the mug of coffee to her lips. “I guess we’ll only find out after a few days. They still have a couple more presentations to sit through before the board decides.”
“Let’s Google him. What did you say his name was again?” Naledi’s voice sounded naughty.
“Regile Mabhena,” Langa replied with a smile. “But that’s invasion of privacy.”
“No, it’s not if it’s on the net. Come on, are you on your laptop? You know you want to do it.” Naledi giggled.
“Okay-ke, only because you insist!” Langa laughed and put her mug safely away from the laptop as she punched in his name.
“Wow!” they both exclaimed at the same time as all the articles with his name appeared on screen.
“There’s also a link to Mabhena Oil Limited’s website,” Naledi said absentmindedly into the phone. Langa could tell she was reading about the company. She clicked the first icon. There was enough information on Regile to make you wonder if there was any privacy left in this age of technology.
“He is good-looking, I must say . . . Let’s see . . . He’s forty-two, was born in Mpumalanga and is an Ndebele prince . . .” Naledi’s voice trailed off. After a brief pause, she resumed reading: “Attended private schools in the UK, studied at Oxford University, then went on to New York State University.”
“He inherited the company from his father, King Mabhena III. It’s on the Johannesburg stock exchange; it produces fuels and chemicals and is currently constructing the Escravos GTL plant in Nigeria,” Langa read. “The oil company was the first to discover the Agbami Field off the central Niger Delta in 1998 and is Africa’s main exporter of crude oil.”
“He’s the CEO of the company and employs over five hundred people . . . blah blah blah. I don’t see anything about a wife or kids,” Naledi went on.
“Mabhena Oil Limited is merging with Sasol Wax and will now expand from petrol and diesel to petroleum waxes. The corporation will be jointly listed on the Johannesburg and New York stock exchanges,” continued Langa. Below the article was a picture of Sasol Wax CEO, James Davies; senior MD, Tshepo Mathlaka; junior MD, Andre Zanier, and CEO of Mabhena Oil Limited, Regile Mabhena. The picture had been taken recently at the Gallagher Estate in Midrand. Other archive pictures included Regile at a children’s charity in Mpumalanga, Regile with Nelson Mandela, even Regile with Salif Keita in Switzerland!
“What have I done?” Langa said into the phone. “Are you still there, choma?”
“Yes, yes, I am. Goodness, this guy is loaded! Of all the people you could choose to be rude to, you had to pick him!” Naledi replied, snapping out of a reverie of her own. “Apparently he’s single, so any ideas?”
“Choma!” Langa squealed. “Firstly, this isn’t about getting the rich guy and, secondly, I’m engaged to Richard, remember?”
“The way things are going you’ll be engaged forever! Have you two even set a wedding date yet? It’s almost as if you’re both stalling,” her friend countered. “Anyway, I like this Regile guy.”
“Then you have him. Maybe then I can get my contract.” Langa laughed, logging off and shutting her laptop. It was all too much to take in.
“Well, if Thabo got hit by a bus . . .” Naledi resolved with a snigger.
“Got to go, girl; I want to beat the traffic madness,” Langa told her friend as she got up. “We’re still on for later this week, right?”
“I’m game. Keep me posted on this Sasol Wax business; I sense some drama ahead.”
Langa drove home, going over all the articles she had read on Regile in her mind. She hadn’t read anything about a family, although that hardly meant he didn’t have three wives and eight kids, with two of his wives heavily pregnant. After all, he was a prince! Passing by at Woolworths, she picked up some fruit and juice for the prayer group that came to her apartment on Wednesday evenings because she knew she wouldn’t get the chance to do so the next day.
The weather had warmed up and as she drove past Mary Fitzgerald Square, Langa sighed contentedly and took in the Market Theatre and Africa Museum. The building her apartment was in had been an old factory. It was recently renovated into spacious rooms with high windows that overlooked the museum and a few nightspots. When she saw her twenty-four-year-old sister waiting for her at the guard’s booth, a small bag in her hand, Langa suddenly remembered she had meant to call Nandi.
Chapter 3
3
“I’m homeless again,” Nandi nonchalantly announced while Langa attempted to unpack her groceries. Her sister chewed noisily on a piece of gum as she moved into the lounge to fling her bag on the couch.
Langa cri
nged. “I was wondering to what I owed the pleasure of this visit.”
Nandi appeared again, helping herself to an apple from Langa’s groceries and then flopped down at the kitchen table. Langa stared at her sister, exasperation already building up inside her.
Nandi was the prettier of the two, with a cocoa complexion and high cheekbones. Her strikingly enormous eyes had a defiant fire about them that made older, perceptive women shake their heads.
“What happened to the place in Observatory?” Langa dared to ask, drawing an unsteady breath. She suddenly regretted not buying the Black Forest cake she’d carried around in her trolley at Woolies, only to guiltily forsake it at the till.
Nandi rolled her eyes. “The girls I was sharing the pozzie with got another roommate to replace me, and guess who was the last person to know? They fed me some kak about how I shouldn’t take it personally. Some friends!”
Langa watched Nandi in silence before uttering, “And work?”
“Well, I have this poetry gig I’m taking part in at Baseline for the next six weeks. Seeing as that’s so close to you, I thought I could maybe crash here until I make enough money to get my own place,” Nandi said in one breath, talking through a mouthful of apple.
“I guess it’s the usual case of you only making contact when you need something from me,” replied Langa.
“That’s not true!” Nandi exclaimed. “I do communicate!”
“When was the last time you called me just to find out how I’m doing?” countered Langa.
“Well, a few weeks back,” Nandi stammered. “Sure, I needed some money, but I did ask if you were cool.”
Langa had to smile. “And before that?”
“The time I didn’t have a job, I think. Yeah, okay, I was homeless then . . .” Nandi smirked.
“Obviously the only time I ever see you is when you need something from me,” said Langa and sighed. “But you’re welcome to the spare room.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Nandi sang, doing a little jiggle.
“Well, you can start showing your gratitude by making supper. I’ve had a hectic day. I’m going to take a long shower, then maybe you can tell me what’s been going on in your colourful life.”
A dreadful rendition of Stimela thudded from the kitchen when Langa stepped out of the shower. She could hear Nandi singing along blissfully as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Langa admired her carefree nature, even though the thought of her sister living from hand to mouth unsettled her. She thought suddenly of Richard and realised with a touch of self-reproach that she was actually thankful he was away. Reaching for a framed photograph of the two of them from the dresser, she traced her fingers over his face and frowned.
The picture had been taken at a Christmas party they’d hosted at Richard’s apartment. He wore a Christmas hat that almost covered his eyes and had a protective arm placed around her shoulders. Langa put back the picture, reaching instead for her engagement ring that sparkled in the light.
Richard had proposed later at the same party where the picture had been taken. Langa had been as surprised as everyone else when he suddenly went down on one knee and presented the ring but she accepted the proposal without a second thought. Though not for the first time, she now wondered if marrying him was actually what she wanted or simply what everyone expected of her. If their constant bickering was anything to go by, she knew they were heading for trouble.
“Something smells good,” Langa offered as she entered the kitchen.
Nandi turned down the music and smiled. “I guess Mama rubbed off on one of us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Langa retorted, yet noting the chicken and mushroom slices her sister was expertly adding fresh cream to. The chicken sizzled in the pan, the distinct aroma of cardamom and butter rising in the wake of the cream.
“I guess you’re right,” Langa sighed. “At least Richard appreciates my just nje cooking.”
“Well, he’s marrying you, isn’t he; he has no choice! How is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him in ages,” Nandi asked as she drained water from a pot of rice. “Do you two still fight about everything?”
“We do not fight about everything! Besides, even if our relationship is a little neurotic, that’s how we like it,” Langa protested. “He’s alright. Shooting in Namibia this week though; he’ll be back early next week.”
Her sister did not reply.
“So how’s Mangi? Or have we moved on from all of that?” Langa inquired, eager to change the subject.
“Well, he ditched me,” Nandi said, rolling her eyes as she took out two plates from the cupboard and placed them on the marble counter. “Said something about me being all over the place. Can you believe it? He thinks I lack ambition and I’m fickle . . . That’s the word he used!”
“Well, maybe he has a point,” Langa answered with a straight face. “It’s about time you got your act together, went to university or came to work for me.”
“Great,” Nandi declared, vigorously ladling the chicken and mushroom broth into both plates. “I should’ve guessed you’d take his side.”
“This isn’t about taking sides; it’s just that . . .” began Langa.
“That by now I should have my life planned down to every small detail, right?” Nandi cut in. “Dammit, I’m twenty-four! Why can’t everyone leave me alone?”
“Maybe everyone is simply concerned,” Langa told her impatiently. It was typical of her little sister to play the wounded card; Langa had grown accustomed to her tantrums.
“Well, I wish you’d all just get on with your lives and let me live mine!” Nandi snapped, placing one plate in front of Langa. Nandi sat down with hers and picked at her food for a while before shoving it away.
“I’m not hungry any more,” she stated, then got up and put the plate in the microwave. “I’m turning in. Sweet dreams.” Nandi headed for the spare room.
Two thoughts simultaneously came into Langa’s head as she watched her sister’s retreating figure in disbelief: the first that her microwave wasn’t storage for uneaten suppers and the second renewed regret about abandoning the Black Forest cake earlier. Langa ate her supper alone, mentally going over her hectic schedule for the next day. She resisted the temptation to phone Zandile to ensure the success of her company’s two upcoming events.
When she went to bed, Langa ignored the melancholic voice bleating from Nandi’s iPod as she went past the spare room to her own room; she needed strength for the challenges that lay ahead with her sister.
The next day both events flopped.
At one venue the mobile toilet company Buthelezi Events had contracted didn’t turn up and at the other the caterers had stored coleslaw in aluminium dishes overnight, so that everyone who scoffed down the salad in question got food poisoning!
Later at home, Langa’s prayer group turned up faithfully, each member with at least two eager conquests, resulting in a gathering of saints whom Langa hadn’t prepared for and after her day was too flustered to have fellowship with. That evening she crawled into bed with a pounding head, hesitant to check her emails though fully aware that she couldn’t put it off eternally. Her phone hadn’t stopped ringing since the afternoon; each time she picked it up, more humiliation descended on her as she apologised to her enraged clients.
Seeing an email from Andre Zanier, junior MD of Sasol Wax, Langa recoiled and felt her stomach turn. The last thing she needed was more bad news. She clicked the email open, unable to breath.
“Yay!” she suddenly screamed, jumping out of bed to do a victory dance in her nighty as soon as she’d read the first line. Had they been present, the visitors from earlier would have been shocked at her sudden rebound of energy; she’d barely been awake as they’d welcomed Jesus into her house!
Langa called Zandile and Naledi, and only then she sat down on her bed, panting while scrutinising the contract that Mr Zanier had attached. She needed to be at Sasol Wax the next morning to officially sign it and then start t
he rigorous process of planning this year’s In-Cosmetics Exhibition. Langa knelt down and said a prayer of thanksgiving. She asked for God’s continued guidance and praised Him for His presence in her life.
Afterwards she went over the contract for what felt like hours before snapping her laptop shut with a bemused expression at the sudden realisation that she would see Regile again. What should she wear?
Chapter 4
4
Langa woke up an hour earlier than usual, a wedge of sunlight in her face. She walked over to her window and took in the highway from Soweto; the cars had already begun to pile up. Opting for a professional and edgy look, she decided on a brown striped shirt with fitted brown tweed pants and her signature chocolate round-toe Phindi K heels.
She took time with her make-up; the radiance she felt glowed on her face even before she had applied the Maybelline foundation and concealer. Letting her dreadlocks drop casually to her shoulders, she put on some lipstick, then squirted a moderate amount of Ralph Lauren’s Lauren Style on her neck and shirt. Finally she slipped her favourite silver hoop earrings into her ears and put on her ring. Satisfied with her reflection, she got up to leave.
Langa drove straight to Sandton where the Sasol Wax offices were, forfeiting the idea of stopping in Rosebank for breakfast. Arriving almost half an hour early for her appointment, she sat in her car and made some calls. She had decided on the spur of the moment to throw a party for her staff the next day to celebrate their contract victory.
Giovanni Pane Vino agreed to book them in at short notice after she’d assured the restaurant that Buthelezi Events would order at least three bottles of Moët. She laughed when the manager inquired if they’d need some Dom Perignon as well. Langa graciously informed him that she drew the line at Moët and then hung up. Already light-headed at the thought of a party, she hummed somewhat off-pitch as she walked towards the reception area at Sasol Wax.
Cherry Marbles Page 2
