A Better Woman

“A better woman . Seduction of an Indian Lady”

                   I had been in Bourna Park  six months before I realized, that the lady's game was indeed something of paramount importance. Men have fought endless battles and forged through endless acts of boldness and valour. civilization Their deeds are known and put on record for song and praise and storytelling, but this is not the case with the lady's war. It is quite. It is insipid and seems so perfectly without logic, that even the most brilliant man cannot see it, see how it lifts the earth from its roots and transplants into a fictional world of their making, where up is down and down is up , wrong is right and right is wrong , where day is night and night is day, and nought but one question has to be answered, or the world be damned : “Who is the better woman?”

         Simple, seemingly unobtrusive question that one would expect some day at some point with the woman he had married, not an arbitrary female he considered inviting for coffee. And indeed for the most part that is how it will seem, until you are freed from it. Because it all happens behind your back while you are sitting there , you see. And it takes too little set it off, is the possibility that she might not be strong enough to say no or her man might not be strong enough to say no. And at that moment a  fear is aroused in her which is deep and primal, and seeks to discover the strength of the world that is wrought by her womanhood, is it a world enough. And every look every glance every sound from all those around her goes to nothing any more but answering this question, to which you are key . Either as that which she is too good to seek out, or that which must confirm the strength of that world, to be compared with every other world you have lived in, to seek out every woman therein and show that she is the better woman, lest she fall from grace and all femininity lost...and so she set a trap...for you who dares to be sex appeal to her...or those around her...but it is her problem...

         





[ Sex is a threat to her world a. in that she needs to be validated as the sexiest woman her man or the men that influence her men conceive → which means she is angered by her man for not admitting to be attracted to other women cause then he is hiding something from her...at least if he admits to it, she can begin to battle them to show them and their men that she is the sexiest...so our African guy has got to be a ladies man of sorts and she has to subconsciously aware of an acquaintance between her husband and him before he announces it her...and this is one of her motives in her fight with him and for the rapo … she has to show the white friends that she is the sexiest one and of all the women in the end it is her that he could not resist... the same message goes to her husband...who must then learn to appreciate her more as a helpless victim of her own infinity beauty...]



[It is a threat to her in that she is not as show of herself as she would like to tell herself...so she is constantly repeating the same flaw of the African guy in order to help herself find something wrong with him, lest she falls in love or in more to the point in lust with him...I mean if he can get all those girls why not her...she could not not be good enough to pursue, that would turn her whole world upside down and not assure her husband of what she needs to be assured of … so he must... and in doing so he will lie to her and cause her to submit to her own lust... maybe use some voodoo to put lust in her heart... she is above that... So begins working out ways of proving this theory , the only one that can be true... he is after her and is engaged in all manner of plots and machination to get her in bed... but she will prove him proud because she will resist him...observing that she is not his type is beside the point, that must be his ploy the sly devil...]



[A couple of time he goes out with her husband to discuss the business which associated them and her worry that her husband will not be able to resist all those young beautiful women he is reputed or ( some other source ) to go with is immense. She does not sleep and waits up for him as if to warm up his meal, but in fact the family ate a silent microwave dinner... and the meal he is having was in the freezer somewhere...]









The virgin , community builder , housewife character has, in spite of her value for chastity, a need for adventure...to be overcome … to be taken... to be free... and our lady here is no different. It soon became something of a problem to her that, every time , she criticized the African man, she began to spend more and more time wondering what it was they saw in him. “What's it like ?”, she once heard herself uttering, thanking god there was no one around. She must get a hold of herself. What's she doing? It's immoral. It's lude and only girl with no discipline, who were not taught better would do such things. She could almost hear her mothers voice in the back of her head as she thought that.

         She was no such thing and she must turn her attention to respectable things. And, saying so, she got up and went to the kitchen. And open plan kitchen , with the television in front of her in the living room. Someone must have left it on. It annoyed her. She did not like things all over the place and not where they should be and not off or on when they should be. This world was run on order, and this sort of chaos could not be tolerated. So  she went off to switch the tv off. As she leaned over she noticed that it was some music video playing...an American rap video...and there they were, half naked men with rippling chests and the girls gyrating back and forth. The filth , of it, she said. Pausing to indulge in moral indignation as she looked on.

         “Mommy, what are looking at ?”, the boy said. A young boy, who seeing his mother engrossed on the television wanted to know what was on. “Don't worry yourself about it”, she replied. But the boy was adamant, he wanted to see what it was. So he made his way to the television to look, but his mother had switched it off. The boy turned it on again.

         “Turn that off and come get your sandwich...now...Hem”. The boy did as he was told. He didn't see what the fuss was anyway. Turning around and looking at her then she reminded her of his father. A proper man to be sure. In all things. In his work. In his marriage. In his friends. In his hobbies. This little adventure they were on, it became suddenly more exciting then and there, and she looked at her  son with a bit more pride than usual. She let go of her frown and changed into a gentle smile, or was it a gentle grin?

         “Mummy, what are you smiling at ? You are strange today”

         She didn't answer him. She thought instead to herself, that mummy was not just a mummy these days. She was a woman of the world. A regular Mata Hari, like she had read in a novel. Going to all these mysterious places, risking life and limb in her espionage, so that the good guys won. And more excitingly, daddy was in on it too. The proper man he was, a man who never did anything unless he had been shown by someone before, or it was expected of him, was branching out. She laughed a little to herself. Predictability, ha. What did those white girls know, anyway. Going around picking up all sort of men like Jabulani, when a good proper man who had attracted her ( and her mother , luckily) could be this exciting.

         She laid the sandwich on a saucer and , as her son sat on his stool , waiting for it. She gave it to him along with the juice she had poured out. Wonder why he liked it so much...Speaking of things the men in her life liked so much these days. A traditional woman , at least to the outside world, and for the most part really, she could not indulge in feminine vanities. She had always to he humble, quite and self-contained, waiting for attention to come to her and never demanding any. This was fine. She was brought up that way. But it had begun to wear her down, during the years. If that is how she was meant to live than how was she expected to live to do it with all these white girls running around in short skirts, tight jeans, cleavages, not that she had one to show off, but she would have liked to have thought she could if she wanted to.

         So every now and then, when the chicken was marinading or the cake still baking in the oven, she would  sit and look at it, and wonder what it would have been like. To throw on a skimpy little skirt, and prounce around like an irresponsible little girl, making all the men look on, adoring , lustful, wishing they had you , but knowing they never could. To be a woman. Like the white girls were, not be a wife all the time, suffocated by a role that never let you feel you own beauty, know its feminine power and enjoy. Say, ha, I am a woman and I have you desire whether you like it or not. You recognize me.

         But such things could never happen. Not to a girl like her. It would be so taboo. Well, so she had thought anyway. But now, with this new adventure. She realized that, although he never said it, her husband wanted it too. Hanging out with Jabulani , he had become less conscientious about what she wore. And , in fact, even asked her not to put on one or two of the traditional garments. And she could see his excitement as they walked down the street and every now and then a man would look at her. He never said anything, but he was her man, and she knew he loved it. So not to jinx it, she kept quite about it too. Woman.

         She had once read, waiting for her son at the dentist, about this white girl in America who had gotten so tied of men being proper and not recognizing her as a woman, an object of sexual desire that she went off to Mexico for a holiday. And when she got there , sure enough, the guys were full of wolf-whistles and inappropriate comments.  They would have been branded  sexists in her own country, but here, they were just a bunch of men appreciating a woman's sex appeal. The lady ended up being tired of it soon enough though, because she realized they did it to every woman. And we , in fact, just being cheap and lustful. Maybe she was getting lost like that woman, but heck, she was enjoying it.





















She did not know which way to go about it at first, the heroism. She had to show them, those girls,  especially the Sandra girl that she had seen come in and out of his house in the month that they had come to know each other, him , her and her husband. Tight jeans and a little tush, but not so much that a Black man would not like it. She had heard they did...And his precious little educated friends, going around showing off and talking about where they came from. As if they were the only people who came from humble begins. Her husband was educated. He had done his bit to rise through the years and who was complimenting him. Who was in awe of how he had come from the lesser parts of Chatsworth and now had his a huge apartment by the sea. Nothing compared to the four room house his parents had lived in... He'd show them – him – where he came from...Send him back there..She was sure one his friends would oblige.



Behind those fancy suits, and those cheap fluzzies they carried around with them...But they weren't so accepting and she wasn't sure that was feasible in the end...Although she obsessed about it for a while, even braving Mlazi for the sake of a friendship that might help her in her purpose...but it was a dead end. They talked . They were full of anger and desire to hurt...but sitting there with them the afternoon , she realized they would not be able to help her.



So seduction remained still the course...Although she had been thinking about seeing a witch-doctor. The guys she had met with at Umlazi had mention one in conversation. And she was a girl whose had an avid interest in the occult, specifically the after life...reincarnation, heaven, ghost that haunt the land unable to rest, and she thought she might appeal to them, see what they could do for her...One of her relatives, her uncle had passed on recently and she , the Zulu's they knew how to talk to such people...maybe they could help...She befriended a girl when she was Umlazi, the girl who was talking about the witch-doctor, Carla Mhlaza, she was probably would help her out...nice enough girl...full of energy, open. She could get some information out of her and have her guide her through it. How to deal with those people.



         At that moment she laughed. At her own craziness. She sometimes really thought that she was a goddess, a regular Venus of Troy. The godess of love in arms to defending the city of Troy, her Troy her world. A creature worthy of worship and whose decisions of their personal affairs and emotions, other people within the reach of that world had to leave to her. Only to her. She would allow or disallow them as she saw fit. That was her divine prerogative.

         And this adventure she was on made her feel more and more like that then she had before. She had come to feel that way mostly with her family. She had made her husband forget his mother in two weeks flat. He thought himself , she knew, in secret to be so proud of himself, for knowing a love so strong that nothing in the world, not even his own mother, could overshadow, for but a moment. But she had wanted him to the very moment she heard she had passed on.

         She should have been ashamed, she knew. He came to her crying, one day. He found her in the bedroom. It was a bit late and she was getting ready for bed. She could still remember it quite clearly.  She had just put on her night dress and was getting in bed, wondering whether she could get away with using the duvet cover until the weekend, Saturday, which is when she did her washing. She heard the car pur into the garage. The garage door close, and there was a pause for a long time. She was about to get up to see what the problem was when, she heard the kitchen door to the garage close.

         He had his suit jacket in his hands. This indicated something wrong to her. He used to do this earlier on in their marriage, but she had made him quit. And to see him now like this, it kind of put her on alert. She looked at his face and saw nothing but despondency. Something was wrong. She was being called to her divine duty, as purveyor of all emotional life in this, her realm. So she sat up and waited for him to make his report. Tell her what was wrong.

         ......

She remembered the guy who had let go off a lucrative opportunity in Dubai, doing construction there. It was worth millions to the company he worked for – what was it called ? Blue Skys Construction - and at least one to him personally. But she made it seem to him that if he did not, she would finally yield to him. A married man. He stayed, making it sound like his idea. He was so excited and proud of himself , like a child in a sweet shop. He became a bit of a nag as the day before which he had een supposed to leave came, until she actually told him , knowing she was lying out her teeth that indeed she would. He went off and booked at the Hilton . There is only one in Durban. And prepared a romantic weekend there for the two of them. He had the money to spare despite his recent career decision. But when the day came, she fell ill and he could they could not go. They never did and the man never got what he wanted. It was perfect. If it was not that she actually had to lie. It was beneath her. They should come to these decision for no other reason than that she is beautiful, not make her lie.

         The wonder of her own divinity. She noticed like last year, how always during

or a few weeks after a fast, her sense of her godlikeness grew. He dreams became more intense and she felt a power, as if a rage rise within her, following the calm. At times she often felt it was all a waste of time to fast in the first place, a sham created by men to exact their power. But she held herself, considering such thoughts blaspheme. But the anger they created did not go away and when it did finally seem to subside, it left her with a strong sense of her own power, some would have said it was born of intolerance, but she would have said it was a sense of her own worth. A sense of being above it all , not subject to the rules of man or god. These are things which had to be obeyed every now and then because that was what life was , but she could rise above, heck she could create them.

         In this condition, she would walk around town, to see her husband or to do some grocery shopping and feel that anyone of the people in front of her was her secret subject. That she put them there and she could move them elsewhere if she pleased. That for all their hurrying about they were doing so under her command, or since she had only let them do so and if she chose otherwise all would stand still.

         And this is what she thought of Jabulani. He had been beckoned to her presence by her own divinity. That is what had brought him into her world, and by that alone , she had the right to be jealous of him and his girlfriends. And , like any woman scorned, her current plot was a rightful retribution.



         And with this in mind...



[ It would be interesting to look at the god archetype and its development in a female, in the light of this hypothetical situation. And to suggest a god-complex in her man would be even better...she is then made to feel even more strongly toward the African guy in his display of godly characteristics, whatever they may be...perhaps his presence , having a strong presence commanding trust and respect, like she should have...] [It's funny that you have not understood it since 95...said to me of the metapsychic phenomenon...but is the lack of understanding really mine or the people they trust to understand ? Don't forget to add Princess Nefiti here, high priestess to the Pharoahs...]





[C9 -> what are they doing in there...will hassle them until they tell their secret...-> parents -> friends -> lovers -> neighbors – other religions / ethinic groups ]



         He thought he was so clever with his girlfriends, but her San could do it. They often talked , like a men do with they girlfriends about their other experiences. Yes it is a painful subject, apparently, in which the other gets a chance to evaluate themselves. The woman, get to find out that she is part of an exclusive group, but the best of it, any other discovery leads to pain. The man finds out that he is the best lover of them all, and any other discovery leads to pain. So in their conversations, the common tact, mixed with a desire to percieve the beloved as perfectly honest or subject to her guile in her asking as if she really wanted the whole truth, will tell exactly that when he says , well, she is the best of an exclusive group, or fumbles about to sometimes overdo the weaknesses or the strenghts of the other women. Since exclusive and best tend to be in conflict. And he wishing to here nothing else, allows his hopes to overcome any potential for realism until he sees himself indeed as the Don Juan. And when that is done, if it is untrue, he is bound to her. Because she might reveal the truth someday  or another woman would , unlike her take from him this hope he has now convinced himself is reality and that would be unbearable. So he abides by her, senses a threat and doing as he is told and being loving when he does not feel like it, in order to avoid that the truth be spoken. She knows it , but would never say. He is comfortable with things that way and will not bother to think too much about it.









         So the day finally came when the maid took her to the witch-doctor. It wasn't her maid, it was her neigbhours' maid.  They had spoken a couple of times when the neighbour moved in, and having decided she didn't really trust the Mlazi woman, she seemed like a bit of racist and would try and take advantage of her being Indian, she decided to go with the maid.

         The girl seemed beaten enough by life, she would help her just to make her own lot a bit better. She did not seem arrogant or unapproachable in any way, so she would try her. She did. The girl agreed. She had gone to one a few years ago when she fell ill, and he sorted her out in no time...and a little later when she wanted to find a lost lover, who turned out to be married. The man fell in love with her again instantly and they were man and woman for about six months, but she thought the wife find out and got a better witch-doctor, or the same one, she was not sure. But she knew his muti, would work.

         So, this Friday, during the day, before her husband came back, sometimes on Friday's they went out, if she was too tired to cook and had been at it for a while, so that is what she would suggest.  She got in the Beamer and the maid, who would say she had gone to  take her child to hospital, got in around the corner and they were off.

         She knew what she would want from the inyanga...that he must give her his sperm "in spirit". That way he would feel as if he was her husband, an no matter what he did, he would with another woman, it would feel as though he was cheating on her, and the guilt and the shame would drive him to her, to do her bidding like a husband trying to make up for a bad thing he did to his beloved  wife or mother of his children, especially when he looked at the child, and saw what she had done for him. His "sperm" would confuse him.









         When she got to the witch-doctor, she told him how, a beautiful owman like her could not be dependent on a man anymore, and she had this guy in the palm of her hands, only a deceased relative seemed to be in the way of her achieving her goals. So they began a ritual to chase away the mother, which she was happy to participate in , because, she hated her with a passion even though they had never met.  The man came from another end of the province and she the other and so they never could have met. How could they , paths of people so far from each other seldom cross, but that did not stop her emotion. She was an impedement.



         So when she got to the witch-doctor , she came prepared. The girl helping her had told her that she needs to carry a pen so they could gain control of his signatures, a condom to make it stand only for her, so he would not get distracted while they worked on him, a ring or a tin can handle would do just as well and a mirror to make him see her and be enchanted for life.





         It was a strange thing , when she thought about it afterwards. Of course, it had made sense. A casanova alone in a motel room with a woman as beautiful as her, what else would happen. Bring him there, let him think he was in control, do his seduction. When all was done arrest the fool for rape, and get the husband what he wanted. Simple.

         But the minute after she threw her purse on the floor and it split, all he did was look at her. For a second she cursed herself out in her head regretting a lifetime of sexual discipline. She was so sure this would work. Heck she had spent forever to come up with it, running through memories of everything every guy had ever said to her, and this seemed the simplest and the best way possible to get him to do his thing. But it wasn't working. He just stared at her.



         She was suddenly embarrased and bent quickly to start picking up the contents of the purse that had fallen. She did and when she looked up, he was still in the same position, just starring at her. She smiled. She could help herself, she felt a sense of relief.

         "That's a nice smile  you have", he said.

         She almost looked behind her. She knew he was talking to her, but after the little moment they had just had, she needed to make sure. Of what...

         "Thank, you", she heard herself say. It's not that it was so great what he just did, but it's because it was.



         He was not a brute. He saw a lady. His smile disappeared and he moved toward her, ever so steadily, not slowly, mind you, just steadily. She got up from the lip balm she was picking up, as if to wait for it. It was liberating wanting it to happen and not trying to figure out how to stop it for the sake of your name.

         It must have been two seconds but it felt like forever. He finally got to her and stood in front of her, his breath on her face.



         Suddenly she broke out laughing.  "What's so funny", he said.

         "You", she replied. Bold as hell, more than she had been with another man.

         "Really ", he said.

         "Ja"

         "Well, my mother never told me that", he said, grabbing at her arm, which she did not feel the need to move at all. But she looked at it. He looked at her looking at it, and when she raised her eyes, their eyes met. He leaned over and kissed her.

         It was a good kiss, but suddenly she realised , not so  good she forgot her purpose. But , good enough , that she stuttered as she said : "Well, we came here to find that book"

         He didn't seem to hear, his eyes fixed on her hers.









         The years had passed and the memory of the motel room had faded somewhat. Her husband had simply up and left to go off and look after his ageing mother. He left her and the children behind , sending them money to live and continue for while. It was an informal separation . Nobody said it, but that's what it was. The youngest grew up quickly and when he had completed his university degree, the husband became more and more reluctant to send her money. She read the signs and realized that she would soon be out on the streets all alone, so she began to consider how to take care of herself.

         She was sitting at the bench in the park, when like , 15 years ago, this African guy came an set next to her. Memories of her own power began to come upon her, and , quite out of character, she initiated a conversation with him. This guy did not come off quite as suave as the old memory, but there was something in him that she recognized. And she had him pegged for the type in no time. It was sheer speculation, woman's intuition if you like, but what did she have to lose. She had pretty much lost everything anyway, she was just waiting for it to be formalized. Waiting for hubby , after 28 years of marriage to say, well that's it, were are no more. The farce is over. So, a girl has to look after herself.

         Since she had succeeded with the last guy without much effort or self-sacrifice really, she felt no need for anxiety or tension in handling this one. No need for overt flirtations like some loose teenage girl who had no clue what she was doing, but thought herself cool while she made a mess of things. She had never been any such and she so no need to start now, so she held a light , casual chat with this guy, who introduced himself as Mabatha.

         They spoke of the weather, a new bill that was being passed to allow this or other bleeding liberal notion and perversion, and at some point she decided to say :

         “Do you know where I live ?” . The guy looked at her hoping that this question meant what it suggested, but held it still as just part of the small talk, not wanting to get his hopes for an invitation too high, as guys will do.

         “No”, he said, somewhat more focused on her than before.

         “It's a five minute walk from here. Windolene street. I have been living there with my husband  for years. It's a nice place to live.” The mention of the husband dissipated the guys hopes and he said , with a hint of disappointment,

           “That is a nice a place live. A tad expensive sometimes though.”

         “Yes it is”

         “My husband doesn't live with me there any more though. We are kind of separated.”

         Mabatha, felt a little uneasy about this. He was not quite sure he wanted information like that, it would lead to either his having to pretend to be sorry about something he was not, which is a bit of a job; or of course, find ways of employing the information to his advantage, which is not something he had in mind right now. He had enough on his plate. But decency demanded he follow her lead not seem insensitive, so he did.

         “Separation is a difficult thing for anyone “, he said, trying to remain as general about it as possible.

         “Yes, it has been, but I manage. It's just that sometimes a lady...well, in any case, I must be off. I'm burdening you with my problems. It was nice talking to you. I hope we meet here again sometime.”

         The player caught the bait, “Well, give me your number than”, and he laughed a little when she glared at him “unknowingly”. “No so we can meet and have another conversation right here. I enjoyed talking to you too.” At this point his concerns were shifting, so he gave her a quick once over, hoping she would not see it, to see what it was he has after. She saw it, said nothing, pretending not to have. Took Mabatha's cellphone from his hand and entered her number. They shook hands, two finger s, and parted.

         On her way home, she knew that she should expect a call from him by the end of the day. She didn't know that, but one of the friends whom spent time with, over the last few years, keeping her company in absence of the kids and the husband, had always told her war stories of her single life. She was a spinster and decided that you are as young as you feel, so she went off and did her single woman thing, in spite of her age. Of course, she was not the kind of girl she had ever thought she would befriend but misery , like politics, made for strange bed fellows.

         From her stories, she figure this is the kind of guy that would try to impress you with his sensitivity. Try and win over with sensitivity, showering you with attention and the occasional gift, only to be gone when things became too serious. So she would handle him as such.

         Her guess was right.  Around about seven, as she was having a dinner for one, he called. He said some stupid thing like just checking one her, then it was to check whether the he had the right number or not. In any case when the conversation was done and he put the phone down and they decided they would see each other at the park in a week or so. She knew she had him.

         She started thinking about her old wardrobe and wondering what new stuff to get. What she can be seen in by a guy like him and what not. Eventually she decided she had to purchase one or two new items to append to her wardrobe,to give the edge so to speak. So decided she would have to pop into the Foschini in town tomorrow morning. She finished her dinner. Watched a bit of television and went to sleep. This could be her contingency plan.

         The next morning she woke up and straight after breakfast went to the Foschini as planed. There was a floral dress that she had seen there, and wanted an excuse to get for herself and this one was good enough. So she picked it out of the rack straight out, and then spent the mandatory hour looking at other things and settled on a pair of jeans. She was not quite sure about them, it might make her look like Cynthia, her friend, which she did not want to do, but she bought it anyway. It was the only other item she could think of that would grab the guy's attention.

         She knew that with the floral dress she would touch a part of our mister sensitive. The hero in every guy. Light, feminine, fragile, respectful, sexy. That what a floral dress was and she knew he would respond to it. The jeans, well, they were jeans.

         It was about twelve when she finished, all in all feeling she had made a good purchase. She went off and had herself a coffee at the coffee shop, walked around for a little while and then went back home to get things done there. It was a week before Mabatha called again. They would meet again that Saturday for a “chat”, at the coffee shop, it was close enough from the park and the park felt a bit awkward for one reason or the other. She didn't really care, what it was, that's what was supposed to happen anyway, if Cynthia 's stories had taught her anything, so she put the phone and was happy with herself and the progress she was making. For a second there she even started considering this guys virtues. Tall, not pedantic, but sounded like he had a good education, dressed well enough not to embarrass, but what did she know about men's fashion. She would have to see, it was looking good though. A potential meal ticket.

         They met the next Saturday as said, and had a couple of cups of coffee. The guy revealed enough of his life to keep himself interesting, but did not bother her with some sob story of his life as some guys do. They talked about what he did for a living, he was a supplier of antique furnisher. She thought this was strange for an African guy, not to sound racist. How did he get into it. He said his father had been a carpenter, so when he became interested in that sort of thing early in life. He was fortunate enough to have the education he wanted, did Fine Arts at UKZN, and got a job with a gallery where the owner sold antique's as well. At some point he needed him to look after the shop. He did such a good job, it became his permanent position. After about ten years at it, he decided to go off on his own. It worked out.

         She felt a bit embarrassed since she had no such interesting story of financial success and risk and struggle to speak off. She had just been doing her housewife thing for the last couple of decades.  She didn't know if she would be interesting enough for him. But if she wasn't, the wounded bird in need of rescue thing, should hold her over. They did like to be heroes.

         He didn't ask her too much about her married life. She didn't really know why, but it made her a bit comfortable forgetting the disasters of the last decade for a while. Being looked at, pursued as a woman again. The man complemented her nose. The last person to do that had been her mother, when she was a child. Short and stubby, like a cute little doll she used to say, but high enough to show some strength. She could almost feel the safety and pride that came from her mother's favourite complement, as he said it. She kind of trusted the guy from that point. You know the point at which a woman attaches herself to a man against her will, this was hers.

         After this informal first date, she went home, to get things sorted out there. But there a bit more gaiety in her step. Being treated with respect and not like an idiot the way Mabatha was doing made a woman feel good. The bitterness subsided for a while, but like someone who feels pain only after a fight, it hit her. The contrast between the two made her angry, enraged at what her husband had done to her. All those years of dedication , and this is the thanks she get. Middle aged and still with nothing. Having to sit at coffee shops with strangers, however, charming to sort her life out. It was unbearable. The ingrate.

         She started her cooking. Cooking was her favourite activity. It calmed her down . When she was done she sat an waited for dinner time, going through her bills to see which ones were lapsing and which ones she would pay this month. After that she watched television. Went through the family album. Had dinner and went to sleep.

         Sure enough, Mr Mabatha called the next day around early afternoon. This entire thing was happening during daytime. It was a bit strange. She was essentially committing adultery, and had always thought that would be something which would have to happen at night in some seedy B&B 's or the like, but that's not how it was happening. And not trying to hide it, somehow made her less guilty about it.  In any case, Mr Mabatha, had to go off to Witbank for the next weekend to organize a new supply contract between himself and a shop there, so he would be busy the whole week, but he wanted to meet her for dinner, when he came back. She agreed.

         She didn't like the “being busy” part . Too many years she had listened to her husband say he was busy. It meant nothing but inattention and loneliness. To have another man in her life who was always busy, did not sound great at all. But he did want to see her first thing when he came back. He was going to miss her. What else would it be. She mattered to him, and for now it was enough. So she tried not to let it bother her that he was “busy”.  But that was what she sometimes blamed for the separation. They never talked. Never did anything together. He was busy, busy, busy. Until they really did not have a relationship at all. But she hoped for better this time. The man knew how to be attentive and how to listen.

         The week passed and she went on with life as usual. Has a meeting with Cynthia, who was surprised to find that this time she had a story to tell. She was a bit shocked at first, as if intimidated. This was her role, but after a moment it was gone. This was Jill. So they laughed and giggle like teenage girls talking about boys. It was refreshing. Tip after tip, repeat after repeat of the story. They felt more like kindred spirits that day more than they had before.

Life was great. A interested man who knew what he was doing with his life, a friendship given an injection.

         Saturday came eventually and Mr Mabatha 's plane landed in the morning around eleven. They met for the dinner at _____________________.....offers a dinner....can't do that...leave at that...rain check...



….teaches her chat-room s...they speak on one every now and then…coffee shop again.. couple more time...

...asks her about Skype after an Oprah...they start Skyping, interesting for a while, but being on camera kinda of feels burdensome cause you have to worry about how you look...so they go back to chat rooms dinner and coffee house...

finally she agrees to make a meal after he's kept at it a couple of times...

Go to his house...and she make him a curry, that's what he asks for...one things leads to another [ do not state whether he scores or not...keep a sense of mystery about..]



→ Turning point again … she actually confuses herself into thinking she is love with him...it's a perfect sin...she was raised to be a wife...to stand by a man, and being watched by a man who seemed enchanted by her, whilst she was doing her favourite things … and feeling safe and wanted , interesting in this wifely play feels like a dream come true... Mr Mabatha's horns should show here...as he notices this and decides he is ready for invitation into his real life...[She later regrets that she actually fell for him then instead of recognizing trying to use his obvious need to fake husband [all things make sense in retrospect] to continue with her mission, which was to get paid, not to fall in love...



Invites her for a weekend in Durban in his beach cottage...first time she has heard of this...but figures why not she can trust him... get there to find two girls half her age walking around in bikinis....



When she saw the two of them standing there, it was not anger, shock or rage that overcame her, but memories of her childhood. Alone, let behind always because of her moodieness and sulking. She tried to be cheerful and every now and then it worked, but they still left her lonely. And in that loneliness, she became quiter and quiter, as they vanished into the background of her world, and she became the center, nay the only thing in it.

         But with this new found sense of independency she found a darkness grow around her.  She just had less and less of the ability to be happy , year after year. And sometimes she dreamt the loneliness was after her. Chasing her, threatning to consume everything she was until there was nothing else.

         She looked at them , quitely. A thin smile on her face, as if recognizing something. And as she looked they faded into the distance and their voices became more and more hollow along with Mathaba's. But she knew she was home. For all the laughter and the cheeriness before her, the loneliness was her. This is where it lived. And it had finally found her, her and these . Her comfort was she would be away from the big city. Away from Durban and the  perversions, she had seen there. Especially reported by her eternally single friend,  . Stories  of men who had turned issuing out young women into a platform for power, wealth and social control. They were meant to be foreign problems most of these, with girls getting jobs overseas which turned out to be prostitution, and the like. But they had come to her city, like the loneliness that chased her in her dreams. Indian men, men of her people...history, pride what did it mean anymore. There was just the loneliness. She turned to Mathaba and said: "Where do I put my bags ?".

         In the main bedroom. There are only two. The other one is outside. Just go to your left. You can't miss it. There is nothing else there.

"Okay", she said, and she picked up her one bag and moved toward the room. Mashaba was stunned. And the girls, for half a second paused to look at her. But , it was all almost imperciptible. As everybody went on as though nothing special had happened.

         "For us that is the real shame", she remembered, some girl saying a long time ago. About when her husband was showing signs of that he would soon stop giving her pocket money. It hurt. It touched a nerve somewhere. But with her forever single Afrikaanse friend telling her single stories and the way they were handling that very sentiment, she felt better about her own situation somehow. Sitting there waiting for the axe to fall was not the same. She was not yet the plaything of men. And little as she had , she was still living in their old house, since he had moved out. And she still had the things they had bought in better times. Her life was comfortable, by material standards.          The bedroom was small. About the size of the kids room in her old house. She put the bags down. Looked around and laughed to herself a bit. Not yet the plaything of men.