Mr Not Quite Good Enough (10 page)

“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 only 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.

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 her, 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.

She opened the white picket gate and the squeak brought an elderly woman leaning on a cane to the front porch. Gorata thought it had to be Mma Olson.

“Can I help you?” the old woman said in a shaky voice.

“I'm a friend . . . A friend of Ozee's.”

“Orapeleng is not in. He's off to work. Works even on a Sunday, the poor boy.”

Chinua came out from under the yellow rose bush at the side of the path and rubbed against Gorata's leg. She picked him up and pushed her face into his fat, furry body to hide the tears she couldn't stop.

Why was she crying? Ozee wasn't here. It meant he was at the petrol station. She just needed to drive back to Soweto and find him. That was nothing to cry about. Still, she couldn't seem to control all of the emotions running through her. They were seeping out all over poor Chinua.

“Are you okay, my dear?” the old lady asked from the porch. “Maybe you should come in for some tea.”

“No . . .” Gorata put Chinua down. “No, thank you . . . I need to go . . . I . . . I'll talk to him later . . . It's fine . . . It'll be fine.” Gorata turned and stumbled out of the gate, her eyes still swimming with tears.

She turned and walked to her car, paying no attention to the other car that had parked down the street. Someone had got out and was walking towards her, but she was blinded by tears and kept her head down.

“Gorata?”

She stopped and looked up. It was Ozee. She was confused. He was supposed to be at work. How could he be here?

He was next to her before her mind could settle or her tears could dry. “Gorata, are you okay?”

She wiped her hands across her eyes. “Yes, I'm fine. I came . . . I wanted to say something . . .” Gorata struggled, not knowing what to say really.

“I've just been to your house. Kelebogile said she thought you might be here,” Ozee said.

“Yeah? I read something and it made me think straight. You know sometimes that happens, right? You read something and it just makes you see things in a completely different way.” Gorata couldn't seem to get her words in the order she needed them to be.

Ozee stepped forward. He was so close, but he didn't touch her. He spoke in a voice only just above a whisper. She leaned forward ever so slightly to hear clearly.

“Love is it,” he said. “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.”

Gorata stepped back, her eyes wide. “Yes, yes! That's it! You read it too! It's Bra Kee.” She couldn't believe it. What a coincidence that the same newspaper column would remind each of them that they needed to get their priorities in order. “Is that why you were looking for me, because you read it too?”

Ozee shook his head. “No,” he said. “I didn't read it. I wrote it.”

Gorata was confused. “What do you mean, you wrote it? It was in
Batho Ba Mzansi
. Bra Kee wrote it.”

“Yes, Bra Kee wrote it.” Ozee smiled.

“What? You mean . . .” Gorata tried to figure out what he was saying. “You mean you wrote it and Bra Kee wrote it, so that means . . . what exactly? Like . . . that you're Bra Kee?”

Ozee nodded his head. “I told you I had another job, a part-time job. I'm a writer. I'm Bra Kee.”

“But . . . why work at the petrol station? Bra Kee is the most famous columnist in Joburg. Why waste your time filling tanks and washing windscreens?” Gorata asked, still not believing what he was telling her.

“Do you think if I sat up here in this Victorian mansion looking out over Melville I'd get any feel for what the people are thinking, what they're feeling? I'd be writing a bunch of nonsense. That job at the petrol station is a great place to find ideas for the column.”

Gorata thought about all the heartache she'd been through. She had been attracted to him the first time she met him, but his job had put her off. He could have told her then, and everything would have been easier. But even when they finally got together, he didn't tell her. If he had, she wouldn't have thought he was some criminal. She wouldn't have thought it was over between them. Everything wouldn't have gone all black.

Suddenly she was angry. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't know you – and Bra Kee's identity is a secret. Only a few people know who I really am. I was going to tell you after running into Henry in your office, but then you refused to speak to me or let me see you.”

“So he knows you're Bra Kee?”

“Yes, Henry is one of the people who know.”

“It could've made things so much easier if I knew,” Gorata said.

“Maybe. But I wanted you to know me, not Bra Kee. Bra Kee would have gotten in the way of these.” He touched his chest and then very gently touched hers. Then he grabbed her up in his arms. “I thought I'd lost you. Why did you run away?”

“I think I just went nuts. I jumped to the wrong conclusions. Mostly I was trying to protect my heart, I guess.”

She kissed him and then he pulled her to him and kissed her back and she was so thankful. Suddenly she was filled with hope again: the blackness was replaced by yellow sunshine and a bright-blue sky. He took her hand and led her back through the gate towards his flat.

Mma Olson stood almost where Gorata had left her. “Oh, so you found Orapeleng?”

“Ee, Mma, I found him.” Gorata looked up at Ozee and smiled.

Mma Olson's voice became stern. “Now, Orapeleng, I don't want you becoming like all the other wayward young men. You've always been sensible. I don't want all sorts of young ladies moving back and forth from your place.”

Ozee laughed and looked at Gorata. “You won't need to worry about that, Mma Olson. This is the only one, she's special, and her name is Lady Gorata.”

“Oh . . . A lady then, how nice,” Mma Olson said, smiling. “You must bring her round for tea one day so I can get to know her properly.”

They walked around the back of the house. Chinua followed them, meowing the whole way like the band in a parade of three. They climbed the stairs and while Ozee unlocked the door, Gorata turned and looked out over the garden.

Something lying in the corner of the small balcony suddenly caught her eye. She bent down and picked it up. It was a sea shell, just big enough to sit in the palm of her hand.

“How'd this get here?” Gorata asked.

Ozee opened the door and turned back to her, giving her a kiss on the lips before looking down at her open palm. “I don't know, where'd you find it?”

“Here on the balcony,” Gorata said, pointing towards the corner.

“Who knows?” Ozee took her hand and led her inside.

Gorata smiled. Who knows? Finally, she knew the answer to that question – she did.