A Prince for Me. Nolo Mothoagae
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the contract.
It was Gloria who set the dogs on him; it was Gloria who produced “intelligence” that linked his family to the beleaguered past president of Bophuthatswana and his alleged money laundering, and who made the strong suggestion that his own father had a hand in this alleged pilfering.
Odirile watched in disbelief as the woman he had thought would be the mother of his children, the woman he had introduced to his parents as his soon-to-be wife, brought his world crashing down with drummed-up charges that she threatened to leak to the media should he not desist. She was also the one they sent to encourage him to become the fall guy when the shit hit the fan and this corruption was exposed.
During this, his darkest hour, Odirile’s father encouraged him to keep his mouth shut and remember who he was. Kgosi told him to remember that if he couldn’t resolve this honestly, then wa bona molato o tla sekwa ke ditshoswane – an old Setswana saying meaning the chickens will eventually come home to roost. It was this that saw the young man through the toughest period of his life – his loss of innocence and idealism.
Laughter from under the marula tree that he has been staring at unseeingly while taking a trip down memory lane brings him sharply back to the present. Odirile decides that after what he has been through, facing a bunch of men from the village won’t be the thing that finally conquers him.
As these thoughts and his father’s advice reverberate through his head, he squares his shoulders and goes to his bedroom, where he grabs a shirt from his bed and pulls on a blue overalls jacket to show respect. Then he walks out to go and talk to the men.
They have brought back news of yet another attempt to reclaim their land. Recently there has been a hiccup with the farmer who was refusing to sell the land back to the government and was actually said to be planning to build a resort. After the World Cup the tourism professionals across the country and especially in the North West have realised what a massive drawing card culture and tradition are. There’s a lot more focus on the region in terms of reclaiming and documenting the culture and history of the Batswana and the Bahurutshe. In addition, historians have realised that there are regions that need to be protected. The men are furious, calling it recolonisation.
“Monna Odirile, you need to go and talk to the powers that be. You’ve got connections. Where is that young woman of yours from the city? I’m sure she can help. The white people can’t just keep our land. How much more are we to lose?” asks Rre Seganka angrily. “You know, we even heard that he was using our history to sell this resort idea, on our land! ”
“Well, you need to understand where he’s coming from. Mr Viljoen and his family have been on this land for decades. Even though they were given the land illegally by the apartheid government, they feel a sense of ownership,” Odi tries to explain rationally, hoping he can get through to the angry men. “They’re suffering the humiliation of being called thieves, with no way to defend themselves because the government they trusted misled them and has placed them in this position.”
“Ja, Monna. We hear what you’re saying, but the situation still needs to be resolved. You spent all those years with the political VIPs. We’re sure you have some clout and you can ask your friends from back then to exert political pressure and get the situation resolved in our favour.”
Odirile’s body goes cold at the thought of having to talk to those people and face Gloria. He wonders whether she has retained any integrity or whether greed has completely consumed her. Considering the state of this province and the recent service delivery protests, it doesn’t seem as if she has worked at delivering on the ruling party’s promises.
When Gloria was appointed deputy director in the office of the MEC, Odirile saw it as the final nail in the coffin in which the North West would eventually be buried. Stories of relatives and friends she helped out with taxpayers’ money have abounded over the years. Odirile looks at the hopeful faces of the men around him, not knowing what to say and remembering the guillotine that hung over his family’s collective head.
It feels as if someone has turned up the soundtrack of the world and his head starts to spin. He feels dizzy and sick and . . . Suddenly Odirile becomes aware of a hand squeezing his shoulder and looks up into the comforting face of his father, who greets everyone. Deflecting their attention from his tensed-up son, the king suggests that they elect representatives and find a lawyer to draw up a document that will act as a memorandum of demand that can be submitted to the MEC. The men agree to call a lekgotla where a committee will be set up.
* * *
File is standing close to her mother in the well-appointed country kitchen, furiously arguing her point.
“This is the only long dresslike item of clothing I have, Mama!” she shrieks, pointing at her blood-red gypsy skirt, highly exasperated. “Everything else is either pants or minis, and I don’t think you’d appreciate me wearing a mini.”
“I understand that, darling, but don’t you have a petticoat or something?” MmaItumeleng asks, trying to remain calm. “I can see the outline of your body through it. You may as well be naked.”
“I don’t own a petticoat! I never have, and I never will, Mama. Maybe you should just tell your guests that I’m ill and won’t be able to attend this impromptu meeting after all,” Orefile threatens, judging by the trapped look on her mother’s face that she is close to convincing her. But just then Sandra walks in.
“I came to see if you needed any help,” Sandra says with a wide, friendly smile. “Jissslaaaik! File . . . Is that you?! You’re absolutely gorgeous! Haikhona, man! What have you been doing to yourself out there in the city? Whatever it is, it’s worked for you, girl.”
“Oh, thanks,” File says, pleased but embarrassed by the effusive praise. “It’s been a long time. When did you come back here? Is it permanent, and what exactly do you do?”
“Well, I come here every weekend, and sometimes I also spend a night here during the week. I’m the principal of a secondary school in Motswedi,” Sandra says and then waits for File to explain why she is back home.
Before File can respond, her mother places a hand on her shoulder. “This is all very nice, catching up and all, but there are people waiting for us,” she says to the two young women, who nod.
“Sandra,” MmaItumeleng continues, “please take the tray of glasses through; we’ll bring the food and drinks.”
Sandra nods, picks up the tray and heads out.
MmaItumeleng turns to her beautiful daughter. “Do you at least have a scarf that you can tie around your waist? The king and his son are out there, for heaven’s sake!”
“Ma! I don’t have a scarf! I don’t have another skirt! And I don’t have a petticoat! Let’s go, please, the people are waiting.” Orefile picks up the tray of juices and heads out to the veranda.
Like the well-raised girl she is, she places the tray on the long plastic table and then walks around the table bobbing before everyone and giving them a warm handshake.
File turns to find her mother with a pleased smile, looking over at a handsome young man who is staring at her daughter as she goes around greeting the people. She clearly remembers Odirile as the heir apparent whom all the young ladies wanted to marry so that they could be bahumagadi of the small village.
Being a bit younger than him, File used to watch Odi from a distance when they were growing up. She found him impassioned and even handsome, but the thought of the responsibility of running a village and dealing with the rules and dictates of being a “proper” woman placed on the king’s wife were too restrictive for her free spirit.
Looking at him now, she is surprised when her stomach lurches with feminine excitement. She bites her lip as she heads towards Odirile, hoping her breathing will even out so that she won’t embarrass herself. She is acutely aware that her father is watching her closely, and she can already hear the wedding bells ringing in her mother’s head.
Everything seems to be happening in super-slow motion and File has a sense of