Mr Not Quite Good Enough

by Lauri Kubuitsile

  “Madam, I’d be honoured,” Henry said, taking the card.

  “Okay, later then, Gorata.” Looking slightly flushed, Amita left.

  “Where were you hiding that hotty?” Henry asked once the door was closed.

  “That ‘hotty’ is my good friend, so don’t mess around with her,” Gorata warned.

  “Me? I’m offended. I’m a man of honour, a man of the fourth estate.”

  “Yes, a journalist. But not everyone respects them, present company excluded, of course,” Gorata joked. “In any case, Amita will eat you alive if you mess her around. I’m just warning you. She doesn’t take any nonsense from men.”

  “Okay, thanks, I’ve been warned. So let’s get started. I want to get it in this week’s issue and I have a deadline.”

  Gorata sat down at her desk and kept quiet, not reminding him who had been late and then wasted time organising a date. He’d come to interview her about the new Cellacom deal. Shares were selling well, but the deadline was coming up and Gorata wanted to make sure the widest possible selection of people got in on the deal. It was a great opportunity, especially for black people, who traditionally did not invest in the stock market, to get a feel for how it worked.

  She hoped this would be a step towards a more equitable distribution of wealth in South Africa, something the new rainbow nation was still struggling with.

  Gorata was so passionate about the deal that she didn’t notice they’d been talking for more than an hour, until she heard a knock at the door.

  “Come in!” she said and then got back to answering Henry’s last question. When she looked up again, all she saw was a huge walking bouquet of flowers. “Hello?” she said.

  The flowers moved to the side and there was Ozee’s beautiful dimpled face. “Hi, baby,” he said. “I couldn’t wait for tonight. I needed an excuse to come and see you.”

  Gorata stood up before he could say anything else. Ozee obviously hadn’t noticed Henry sitting in the chair across the desk, the flowers were completely blocking his view, and she didn’t want him to go into any intimate details in front of a journalist. “Ozee, you brought flowers, how lovely . . . This is Henry,” she said.

  Ozee put the flowers down on the desk. He was wearing his uniform from work. He looked at Henry and hesitated for a moment, as if he were unsure what to do next. Gorata wondered if he was embarrassed by what he’d said, or how he looked in his uniform, but then she remembered Henry didn’t look that great himself.

  “Henry is a reporter with The Sunday Voice. We’re just finishing up an interview. Henry, this is my . . . friend, Ozee.” Gorata hesitated about saying “boyfriend”. She wasn’t sure it was alright to call him that just yet.

  Henry held out his hand and said, “Hi, Ozee,” while looking at him in an odd way. Gorata could see something was going on. Henry also seemed unsure of how to relate to Ozee.

  Ozee smiled and said, “Nice to see you.” He turned to Gorata. “Actually . . . Henry and I know each other.”

  Immediately Henry relaxed. Gorata couldn’t understand what was going on. Was Ozee jealous of Henry being in the office with her, behind closed doors? Was Henry somehow put off by this man bringing her flowers? But they knew each other, so what was the deal? Maybe they had some old tension between them that didn’t involve her at all.

  “You know each other?” Gorata repeated. “That’s certainly a coincidence.”

  “Yes, actually,” Ozee jumped in before Henry could speak, “we used to work together.”

  “Ao! Did you also work at the petrol station?” Gorata asked Henry.

  The reporter hesitated for a second and said, “Yes, that’s right, I did. I worked there with Ozee.”

  Ozee kissed her on the cheek. “Listen, baby, I gotta go. See you tonight, okay?”

  He disappeared and Gorata stood there smiling. He was so lovely. It was difficult not to follow him out of the door, but they both had to work. Reluctantly she turned back to Henry. “Okay, where were we?”

  “So Ozee . . . He’s your . . . boyfriend?” Henry asked, as if he couldn’t quite get his head around the idea.

  “Well, we’ve only just started dating, but yes, I like him.”

  “Okay.”

  She hadn’t expected Henry to be a snob. It felt as if his silence was judging her in some way, more likely judging Ozee, she thought. “So what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing . . . It’s all good.”

  Gorata wasn’t going to leave it at that. If Henry had a problem with her boyfriend working at a petrol station, she wanted him to say it out loud. She needed to get past all of this rubbish once and for all.

  “No, you have something to say. So just say it.”

  Henry collected his notebook and tape recorder. “There’s nothing. He’s a great guy.”

  “You’re hiding something.” If Henry knew something about Ozee, Gorata wanted to know what it was. “Come on, Henry, I gave you a heads-up about Amita, at least you can return the favour. We’ve known each other for some time; don’t leave me in the dark.”

  “Okay, there is something, but honestly, it’s not for me to say. Talk to Ozee. Ask him. But do it soon. We all need to know the people we fall in love with, and I can see you’re falling hard, my sister. Just ask Ozee.”

  After Henry left, Gorata couldn’t keep her mind on anything. What had he meant? There was something which Ozee should tell her. It sounded ominous.

  Her mind raced. What could it be? How did Henry and Ozee know each other? Even she could tell that Henry was lying when he said he’d worked at the petrol station.

  Henry was right, she should ask Ozee. But then what if he lied? She was sure he’d just lied to her about him and Henry working together. So why wouldn’t he lie about a really big issue? She needed to find another way to get more information about Ozee. Henry was right, she’d already fallen in love with him, and she needed to know the truth before it went any further.

  Then she remembered something Mark had said. He’d also said he knew Ozee, that his photo was up at Hope Springs. Though Ozee denied it that night, Gorata wanted to see for herself. If it was him, maybe the people there knew something about him that she also needed to know.

  Gorata called Kelebogile. “What are you doing for lunch?”

  “I’m walking over to Hope Springs to eat with Mark, why?”

  “I’m joining you. Wait at school, I’ll pick you up.”

  “You better pick up some food too, I only packed for two,” Kelebogile said, and then added, slightly put out, “It was supposed to be a romantic picnic.”

  * * *

  Gorata drove over to Luthuli Memorial and found Kelebogile waiting outside. She got in and complained, “You’re late. I have to supervise studies in half an hour.”

  “I’m driving you, that will save time. Didn’t you say you were going to walk? That would have taken even more time.”

  “What is this about?” Kelebogile asked. She looked around in the car. “And why didn’t you bring food?”

  “I’m not planning to eat. You remember when Mark said he saw Ozee’s photo at Hope Springs?”

  “Sure, but Ozee said it wasn’t him.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he said. But I want to see for myself,” Gorata explained.

  “Why now all of a sudden? What are you thinking?” Kelebogile asked.

  “I don’t know – anything . . . everything. Ozee showed up at my office while Henry, the reporter, was there. They said they knew each other, they used to work together. I think they were lying. I don’t see Henry working as a petrol attendant. He’d steal cars before he’d put petrol in them. I want to know the truth. I want to know who this guy I’m falling for really is.”

  Gorata was surprised she’d said that about stealing cars; she’d been thinking it, but had been trying to stop herself from saying it out loud. She wondered if Ozee had been involved in the same things his younger brother was involved in – was that what everyone was hiding?

  Having o
nly just got her mind around the idea of dating a petrol attendant, Gorata wasn’t sure she could accept dating a criminal. He said he had other part-time jobs. What part-time jobs could pay for that flat and all his furniture, books and CDs?

  Maybe Henry knew Ozee from covering his court case, or a police investigation for the paper. Gorata stopped herself. No. That couldn’t be it. There had to be a different answer. Maybe someone at the centre would be able to ease her mind. She really hoped so.

  They pulled up at Hope Springs. It was a two-storey face brick building. At the back Gorata could see children playing. They ran a day-care centre for orphans being taken care of by their grannies after their parents had died of Aids. They also did outreach work and had a fantastic home-based care programme for people living with HIV/Aids.

  Mark worked with the volunteers as one of the nurses. Inside they found him attending to one of the children who had cut his knee.

  “Okay, you’re here. Just let me finish up,” Mark said, and then he saw Gorata. “Oh . . . Hi . . . I didn’t know you’d be joining us.”

  The little boy’s hurt knee was sorted out and he ran off to the back with his friends.

  “Actually, Mark, I wanted to see that photo you said was here, the one of Ozee.”

  Mark looked confused, but led them to a notice board that ran the length of the passage. There was a line of photos pinned up. They were of various activities Hope Springs was involved in. Mark pointed to a group of photos at the very end. “Here they are.”

  Gorata looked at them and immediately recognised Ozee. It seemed to be the official opening of Hope Springs, and he was one of the VIPs. Why would a petrol attendant be a VIP at the official opening of a centre like this?

  A tall, dark woman came out of the back office. Though she looked stern, her face changed completely when she smiled. “Hello, I see you’re enjoying our photos.”

  Mark introduced Gorata and Kelebogile to his boss, Mma Mothei.

  “Actually, I was wondering about this picture. I think it was taken at your opening,” Gorata said, pointing to a photo of Ozee standing next to a man cutting a red ribbon strung across the front door of Hope Springs.

  “Yes, it was,” Mma Mothei said, smiling again.

  “And this man? Who is he?” Gorata pointed at Ozee.

  “Oh, that’s Mr Toteng, ‘Uncle Ozee’ the kids call him. He’s one of our biggest donors.”

  Donor? Ozee? A donor to Hope Springs?

  “So what does he do for a living?” Gorata asked.

  Mma Mothei became thoughtful. “Well, it’s complicated. But I think he’s a bit of a businessman, if I understand correctly. You know, it’s difficult to run a centre like Hope Springs. There are so many charities needing money and the pot is so small. We don’t ask a lot of questions about where our donors get their money, we’re just grateful that they want to assist us.” She looked at her watch. “I’m sorry. I have an appointment. If you’ll excuse me. I’ll be back at three, Mark. Hold the fort.”

  Kelebogile looked at Mark, and then they both looked at Gorata.

  “So what now?” Kelebogile asked. “I don’t think you should jump to conclusions. You need to ask him.”

  “Why? Even Mma Mothei thinks he’s getting his money from crime, at least that’s what she implied. Why else would he deny that this is his photo and pretend he has nothing to do with this place? She said he was one of their biggest donors. A petrol attendant with a fancy flat in Melville, plus money to throw around on the stock market and to donate to charities? Come on, what else can it be but crime?”

  “Ask him, Gorata. Just ask him. Don’t be rash,” Kelebogile begged. “It could be so many things. Please don’t throw everything away without giving him a chance to defend himself.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. I think I’ve fallen in love with this man . . . this stranger . . . this criminal.” Gorata walked out of the centre and Kelebogile followed, leaving the picnic lunch with Mark.

  None of them felt like eating any more.

  Chapter 10

  10

  Gorata’s phone rang. She picked it up, saw who it was and switched it to silent. “Ozee again?” Amita asked.

  “Yes, he’s been calling all week. He even came by work and for once Ndo did the right thing and told him I was in a meeting.”

  “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Amita asked.

  “I won’t be able to get over Ozee if I don’t stay away from him. The attraction is too strong. I need to keep my distance until this feeling passes. Eventually I’ll stop thinking about him.”

  Gorata reached for a jam doughnut from the bag Amita had brought for Sunday brunch. Kelebogile was standing at the counter, cutting fruit. She had decided their brunches were getting more and more unhealthy – today they were going to eat fruit and whole-wheat toast, but then the doughnuts arrived.

  “I don’t think you’re being fair to him. You’re just jumping to conclusions. Maybe he inherited the money,” Kelebogile said. “You don’t know. And why don’t you know? Because you didn’t even give him a chance to explain.”

  “Yeah, right. When’s the last time you heard of a brother from the townships inheriting money that he just dishes out to people for free? How about never,” Gorata said. “He’s guilty, and it’s guilt money. Maybe he’s even killed people. He put on a big show about his brother, and I fell for that too. Eish – this whole thing just makes me so angry!”

  Gorata was sad and heartbroken. Most days she felt sick. As if someone had opened her up and scraped every bit of hope from inside her. Her days were empty. She couldn’t stop thinking about Ozee.

  Everything had been too perfect to be true. Why had he lied to her? Why couldn’t he have told her the truth? Maybe if he had told her everything, they could have found a way through, but now she couldn’t trust him.

  The love she felt for him was too big. It had consumed her so completely that when it left, she was flattened. Most nights she spent crying in bed alone until Mmandu heard her and crawled in beside her and held her tightly until she finally fell asleep.

  Gorata pulled the Sunday papers towards her and paged through them, looking for Bra Kee’s column. Maybe he’d have something funny to say this week, something that would keep her mind off Ozee, at least for a little while.

  Kelebogile put the bowl of fruit salad down on the table and dished up for each of them. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re being unfair. I like Ozee. I don’t get any criminal feeling from him,” she said.

  “Actually, Gorata, I like him too,” Amita said. “I think you should talk to him.”

  “What do you know about men?” Gorata asked accusingly. “All those handsome Indian doctors your mother’s been setting you up with, and you end up going on a date with Henry, a broke journalist who cares more about getting his breaking story than changing the shirt he’s been wearing for three days.”

  Amita feigned a shocked look. “Oooooh . . . okay, crabby lady, let’s change the topic before you bite my head off completely.”

  “Sorry, I think I’m losing my mind,” Gorata said, regretting her hasty words. “Sorry, Amita. You don’t deserve that. I’m just not myself.”

  “No prob. I understand.” Amita patted Gorata’s hand. “Now to change the subject to something happy – I got that part on Isidingo!”

  “That’s great!” Kelebogile said. “Any chance they’ll keep you on for a while?”

  “No, but it’s a speaking part, and that’s important,” Amita said.

  “Yeah, that’s important,” Kelebogile agreed.

  Gorata nodded her head but was barely paying attention. She was reading Batho Ba Mzansi. She’d been right to search out Bra Kee; he always had the words she needed.

  Come on, ma-gents, why are we always fronting? When a woman breaks our heart, we just pretend we’re not hurt. We pick the nearest lady and get on with things like all is fine. We start talking crap to our chinas about the one who dropped us, pretending that we dropped he
r, making like our hearts are made of stone.

  Sometimes you meet a person and it’s right. It’s right in every way and you know you love her. Well then, tell her. Fight for her. Prostrate yourself before her. Be vulnerable. What’s the worst that can happen, ma-gents? You can get hurt, but that’s going to happen anyway when she walks out the door.

  Why are we fronting? Love is it. That is what it’s all about – love. You can pile up your junk. You can drive your flashy car. You can slide your platinum credit card to pay for your R5 000 meal, but none of that means shit.

  I’m keeping it real here. Love is it. And if you had it and you lost it because of pride or secrets or disrespect – clean up the mess. If love is there, everything else can be fixed.

  Because love is all there is.

  Peace out – Bra Kee

  Gorata read slowly while the tears dammed up and spilled over down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes so she could look at the article again. It was as if he was talking to her, she thought. Was he right? Could everything else be fixed if love was there? Was that true?

  Gorata stood up. She picked up her phone and put it in her handbag.

  “Where are you going?” Amita asked.

  “I have to sort something out.”

  “But what about brunch? I just got here,” Amita said.

  “Yeah . . . Sorry about that, I have to do this,” Gorata said as she rushed out of the door.

  “Hey, what about my fruit salad?” Kelebogile shouted after her.

  * * *

  Gorata rushed through town. Seeing that it was a Sunday morning, the traffic was light. She turned towards Melville, drove up the hills, turning left and right and right again through the up-market neighbourhood.

  Then she stopped in front of the towering blue Victorian house. She hoped he was there. For some reason she was sure he would be.