a good day to make love to his wife, he thought, but all that socialising had made him tired. Besides, his wife, who was not much of a drinker, had been drinking at the party and was probably in a vodka-induced dreamland by now. She wouldn’t thank him for waking her up at six in the morning.
2
HerStory
Scanning the Sunday papers the weekend after her party, it sure looked like she and Andile had finally “arrived”. By all accounts, her thirty-fifth birthday party was one that many a South African would have killed to attend. And how could it not seem excellent? she thought as she looked back on the night in question with a fond smile. She had been wearing a chic Dior dress and a pair of Jimmy Choos, the cost of which, as she well knew, could have fed an Alex pensioner and her orphaned grandchildren for a year. Head of Quintessentially (South Africa), Charlie Heart, who was one of Andile’s good friends – whatever that meant among South Africa’s rich, super rich, and BEE nouveau riche – had ensured the presence of the who’s who of South African society. Jonas Gwangwa, a personal favourite, had also taken time out from his hectic international schedule to grace her party. He had charmingly blown the Happy Birthday tune on his trumpet just after dinner. The guests were bowled over.
From the business world there had been the power couple known worldwide as one of a few dollar billionaires, the Manakas, or as menkind wanted to call them, the Taus, looking just as fabulous in person as they did on television and in the society pages of the newspapers. There were a fair share of politicians, possibly Oupa’s connections, and one or two politically connected Durban businessmen.
Sure, most of them had not been HER friends on a day that had been HER birthday, but there were at least a few people invited just to celebrate with her and not just to powwow over a glass of cognac with her husband and his business partners.
Of course her children had been there, although they soon left a scene which had too many old people for their liking. They had returned to stand next to their father as the presents were being brought out, but then disappeared again.
Her mother had been there looking like a South African version of Hyacinth Bucket, with the pearls and her post-dinner cup of tea held just so.
Nobantu had also been partially gratified to see her two brothers and their dates. Her older brother was married, but in the absence of his wife, who was on a business trip, he had turned up with a wide-eyed, giggly cheerleader-type. The only thing she had been missing was the outfit (although the flared micro mini could very well have passed for a cheerleader’s skirt) and the pompoms.
Ntsiki, her best friend, was there too, with her beautiful date. It was a pity that her other best friend, Dave, was busy on some island being a make-up artist for some magazine or other and couldn’t be there.
Nobantu had also been amused to note that Oupa’s ex-wife, Tsholo, was with a well-toned young stud – talk about one-upmanship. Unable to resist bragging just within Sunday columnist Thuli Norbert’s hearing, Tsholo had said, while looking with naked lust at the young stud, “Nobantu, darling, I have finally realised what the Bible meant when it said God made man in his own image!” She had then turned her gaze disparagingly towards her fifty-five-year-old ex-husband, Oupa. Thuli had loved it and had been unable to resist ending her column with Tsholo’s quote.
Her presents from her husband – probably selected by one of Mister Charlie’s underlings (Andile was always too busy with business) – had been brought in just after dinner. As expected from a husband in the mining industry, there was a white gold bracelet, and a necklace to match, with diamonds and tanzanite elaborately spelling out her name. The second present was a trip for two – her and one of her friends (Andile would be too busy) – to the Atlantic Fashion Week the following January, complete with five-star accommodation and a chauffeur-driven car. Finally, at just the right time, a loud hooting sound came from the gate and all eyes turned in that direction. No question whose car this was, the latest Jaguar driven by none other than Charlie himself, with personalised number plates reading, for all to see, Nobantu GP.
Nobantu cringed, wondering how much all of it had cost, as the sight of the car drew sighs of envy from almost every corner of the crowd. And for what? So her husband could flaunt his wealth prior to MAPAMO being listed on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange? It certainly had not been to celebrate her birthday.
It wasn’t long after that that one of Andile’s female business clients had come over to where Nobantu was standing with her husband. In the manner of those at a party, she had attempted to get into conversation with Nobantu, enquiring, “So, Nobantu, what do you do for a living?”
Andile hadn’t allowed her to answer, smiling as he jumped to respond a little too loudly, having drunk one cognac too many, “Eish, sisi, our Nobantu here does nothing. She is just a housewife.”
She is just a housewife.
The words had cut her to the core. She had excused herself from her party, only stopping to bid her mother and Ntsiki good night before she went and sat in her bedroom with a bottle of vodka and a jug of orange juice. She didn’t drink normally, only on important occasions, and then just the occasional glass of wine, but, goddamn it, this was her birthday and she could get wasted if she wanted to!
“Happy birthday to you, Nobantu, you housewife you,” she said, laughing hysterically at her image in the mirrors that covered the doors of her walk-in closet before downing her vodka and orange. As the laughter turned to tears, she poured herself another glass with a shaking hand, and told herself that, starting tomorrow, her life had to change.
The next morning, waking up from a drunken slumber to a snoring Andile, she had wondered just how her life had come to this. What had happened to her and Andile? When had they become the animals she could no longer recognise? She replayed their life together.
Ever since she could remember, Nobantu had loved Andile. He had been her first crush when she was in primary school – he was a Dale College scholarship student then.
In the throes of first love and girlish giggles, it had been Andile who had occupied her mind as she and her girlfriends fantasised about first kisses. In fact, she had not kissed her matric date because the young man she had attended the dance with paled in comparison with lawyer-to-be Andile. Andile, who had frustrated her by treating her like his little sister. And in retrospect, she understood. Her family were the type of royalty that mattered in a small town. Her father, a chief by birth and a lawyer by profession, had earned the respect of the community by defending ANC cadres during the apartheid era, thus elevating his royal status. Her mother, a schoolteacher, had been a key player in ensuring that the community never misunderstood the great family that they were dealing with. For instance, she would often invite the king’s son (and Nobantu’s cousin), the late Nkosinathi, to stay with them. In contrast, Andile had been brought up by his grandmother while his mother went to slave for some baas eMonti. But, despite this, Nobantu felt, in spite of his humble beginnings, that her mother had always encouraged her interest in Andile.
The first year of university was what eventually led to the change in her relationship with Andile. Mandela had been released, the exiles had come home, the Constitution was being drawn up and Andile had relocated to Johannesburg. By now he was a highly thought of young lawyer doing articles with Ackerman & Patel – a unique Indian and Jewish legal partnership.
In the meantime, Nobantu had completed her matric and had been accepted to study a BCom in Accounting at Wits. She would have preferred to study literature at Rhodes, but her mother had been very insistent.
“Literature? Black people do not read. Hhawu, sana, go and study accounting and then you will be rich, what do you want to study literature for? And at Rhodes?” her mother had asked.
“But, Mama, I have a passion for it and I want to be close to home,” she had stated, pleading with her father with her eyes to take her side.
Unfortunately, her father had just shrugged.
“If it’s reading you want,” her mother had continued, “you can always read for fun when you are trying to wind down. What type of job will you get with literature? Passion, ha! If we all did things we were