Cherry Marbles

1

An unexpected case of inflamed vaginal thrush and the Sunday paper brought the two together in a Parktown pharmacy. Langa had burst into the pharmacy, fresh from church, the ailment in question behind the manic and illegal parking of her Volkswagen Beetle on the pavement. She cursed under her breath despite the holy anointing she had just received as she made for what she felt was refuge.

The only customer in the pharmacy was a black middle-aged man with an unkempt sort of handsomeness about him. He was holding the
Sunday Star
and chatting away heartily with the pharmacist, an old white man. They both briefly looked up at her, the dishevelled one's eyes lingering on Langa a little longer before resuming their conversation. Despite the frumpy sweater he wore, his caramel complexion and stubbly beard brought out the best of his hazel eyes.

Langa sauntered to the feminine hygiene section of the pharmacy, the gruelling itch inside her imploring relief with every step she took. In front the two men went on speaking animatedly in a language she thought sounded familiar, erupting into frequent bouts of laughter. After fervently considering the products on the shelves, Langa's annoyance got the better of her. Gnashing her teeth, she stormed to the front counter, trying to keep the rubbing of her legs against each other to a minimum.

“What do I have to do to get service around here?” she yelled, mainly at the unkempt man who now had tucked the paper under his armpit. Langa knew she sounded crazy and both men's faces confirmed the fact. But the thrush was driving her insane enough not to pay attention to anything else.

“I'm sorry, sisi; how can I help you?” the pharmacist ventured after a puzzled moment, contritely lowering the hands he'd been waving in emphasis of whatever it was they had been discussing. Langa could feel that the scruffy one's eyes were dancing with delight as he looked at her.

“Are you patronising me?” she demanded from the pharmacist. She hated it when white people talked down to her by calling her sisi. Her fiancé, Richard, knew that only too well.

“I'm sorry, madam,” the pharmacist tried again, his old face turning crimson, the folds of skin gathering around his mouth in a superior grin reserved for the occasional difficult member of the fairer sex.

The black man turned towards Langa and looked into her eyes. “I apologise; we got a little carried away.”

“Do you have a female pharmacist I could talk to?” she countered, impatiently running her fingers through her dreadlocks, avoiding eye contact with both men. The black man's lips twitched and the pharmacist mastered all the willpower he possessed to remain professional.

“She doesn't come in on a Sunday,” he said, “but I'm sure I can help.”

Langa could tell he thought she was a little off the rails.

“Well,” she began, “I . . .” She gave the black man standing beside her an intolerant look before snapping, “Do you mind? I'd like to have a private word with the pharmacist.”

“I'm sorry,” the man said, taken aback. “Thank you,” he went on, addressing the pharmacist before they cordially shook hands. He turned to leave after a friendly nod in Langa's direction.

A few minutes later, she stepped out of the pharmacy armed with two tubes of cream the pharmacist had assured her would help soothe the discomfort. He had the same silly grin on his face when she insisted on taking two tubes even after he'd explained to her that one would suffice.

Langa found the unkempt man standing outside in the sunshine, his paper and smile still intact, seemingly waiting for her.

“You can go back inside now and continue your conversation,” she told him as she fumbled in her handbag for her car keys and then abruptly gave him a suspicious look. The thought that he could very well rob her right there and then had suddenly struck.

“I want to apologise for disregarding your feelings in there. I just got a little excited about the fact that a white man could actually speak Ndebele.” His voice was smooth. Langa noticed his long eyelashes, the wavy dark hair that outlined the contours of his face and his defined jaws. She found it hard to believe he was Ndebele; weren't they supposed to be dark and have a chauvinistic intolerance of women? He was the best-looking man she had ever seen and when he spoke she found herself drawn to him, not wanting him to stop.

“I'm not really bothered, and now if you don't mind, you're standing in my way – and where the hell are my keys?” Langa needed to get home quickly; her discomfort was getting unbearable.

Furiously yanking the keys out of her handbag, she dropped the tubes of cream. They both scrambled for them but he got to the tubes first.

“Give me those!” Langa shouted, snatching them out of his hands. She was sure he'd read the labels. They were extremely bold and left nothing to the imagination.

The man stepped out of her way, looking a little fearful of the harm she could possibly do to him.

“I'll have you know that I'm engaged,” she said as she opened her car, uncertain why she felt she had to justify herself. Then Langa flashed her diamond ring at him before uttering, “I also recently found Jesus!”

Slamming her car door, she revved the engine with more force than necessary, too ashamed to cast another glance his way, too exasperated to turn down Lira's thunderous voice that blurted out the speakers as she sped down Jan Smuts towards home.

A light rain fell like sheets of delicate glass, shattering as soon as the drops touched the ground by the time Langa got to her New York-style apartment on Quinn Street in Newtown. She ignored the muddle of paperwork on her kitchen table and the fact that it was still partially set with place mats and her best wine glasses, reminiscent of the romantic dinner she had served Richard a few nights ago when he was in town. The same dinner during which he had struggled to keep his eyes open.

Slipping her buxom body out of her Stoned Cherrie ruffle dress, Langa piled her dreadlocks high on her head before running the shower. She tried not to think of how she and her fiancé had already begun to drift apart months before their nuptials as she stood under the shower, a warm burst of much-needed life.

She'd met Richard at an SABC conference, one of the first events her company, Buthelezi Events, had coordinated. He was the gorgeous dark-haired white man who helped her find an air-conditioning company when the one she'd initially contracted let her down at the last minute. Richard's cousin Pieter ran a small air-conditioning business in Joburg and instantly arrived at the venue, saving her fairly new company at the time the disgrace it would have faced. Richard, who'd overheard the distraught Langa on the phone after the original air conditioners had bailed out on her, promised he could help in exchange for her phone number. She happily obliged, especially when the beer-bellied Pieter appeared with two trucks in tow.

Langa had met Richard for coffee the next day and enjoyed his easy company. Now it was two years later, and the two were getting married. The past year had been hectic for both of them, between running Buthelezi Events and the time Richard spent out of the country filming wildlife documentaries for the SABC.

Despite the fact that South Africa was called a rainbow nation, both their families initially had reservations about their union. Gerda Muller, Richard's mother, a conservative Afrikaner woman who had raised her only child single-handedly, felt she was losing him to Langa and did everything she could to discourage the relationship. The fact that Langa wasn't Sharon from Stellenbosch with blue eyes and blonde hair didn't make things any easier. But Gerda eventually warmed to her prospective daughter-in-law when she realised how much her son loved her. Langa's own family didn't feign their approval of Richard the first time they met him either, although they also mellowed with time.

Langa spent the rest of her Sunday in her apartment, going over the work she'd brought home for the weekend. With the thrush subsiding, she focused on the presentation set for the next day. Her company had been shortlisted as the official coordinator of the annual Innovation Cosmetics Exhibition, an internationally recognised event hosted by Sasol Wax. She had worked hard on her initial proposal and her presentation the next day would determine if Buthelezi Events landed the contract. She forwarded a few adjustments to the presentation to Zandile, her head event coordinator who would be presenting it with her before calling Naledi, her best friend.

“Hey, mngani,” Naledi said into the phone when she answered. In the background Langa could hear jazz playing.

“Hello there, girl,” she said. “Nenzani noThabo? I know you're up to something when you play ijazz.”

Langa and Naledi had been friends ever since they were eleven. They'd gone to the same primary and high school in Durban, and finally moved to Joburg together for university. Langa had been sceptical when Naledi started dating Thabo at varsity. The couple had however stuck it out through those years and the ones that followed, so it was no surprise when they recently tied the knot.

Langa had always admired their commitment to each other and she had grown to love and respect Thabo. It seemed that the two grew more in love with each other each time she saw them. Langa remembered with longing how easy it had been to fall in love with Richard and how he had swept her off her feet.

Naledi laughed before saying, “Kahle, you got me. I've been cooking for him and we were about to settle down to a meal and a bottle of wine.”

“At least you have a life. I'm stuck at home working on the Sasol Wax presentation, and uRichard is in Namibia this week,” Langa replied into the phone as she shut her laptop and made her way to the fridge. “I can't even talk to him because there's no reception in the bush where he is filming.”

“You two are always working,” Naledi complained. “We didn't even get to celebrate your thirtieth birthday last month because you were slaving away. The last time we got together you were either both on your phones, or arguing about one thing or another. I know I've asked before, but are you sure you guys are alright?”

“Of course I'm sure.” Langa sighed, her head buried deep in the fridge, undecided between yoghurt and cake. Eventually she took out both and settled comfortably on her couch, grabbing the TV remote from its caddy.

“Can we not talk about this right now?” Langa mumbled into the phone. “I know how you feel about Richard.”

“It's never been about race for me, you know that. I mean, Richard could be a Red Indian for all I care. I just want you to be happy,” Naledi said. “The way you two carry on makes it uncomfortable for everyone around. You never settle down in company.”

“Can we not talk about this right now?” Langa repeated. “I'm trying to keep my mind focused on tomorrow's presentation.”

“Alright,” her friend huffed. “On that note, I'm happy Buthelezi Events has grown from organising small parties to Sasol functions. Your mom would be so proud of you.”

Langa smiled at the memory of her mother, grateful they had stopped talking about Richard.

“Well, I haven't landed the contract yet, so don't start popping any champagne!” she warned. “I take it you two didn't make it to church this morning? I looked out for you.”

Naledi chuckled guiltily. “You know me too well, and I guess I don't need to ask if you attended.”

“I did actually but I hardly lasted to see the end of the service. The devil sent a sudden case of thrush my way!”

Langa told Naledi about her grand prix-style driving to the pharmacy and cringed at how rude she'd been to the Ndebele man. By the time she was done with her story, Naledi was laughing so hard that Langa had to laugh at herself too.

The next day Langa drove to Melrose Arch with knots in her stomach. Their presentation would take place in one of the boardrooms at Melrose Arch Hotel. Carrying her laptop more calmly than she felt, with Zandile in tow, she met Mr Zanier at the entrance of the hotel. He was greeting a few other board members who stood undecidedly at the entrance of the innovatively decorated hotel, some of them spilling out into the square.

Mr Zanier was the junior MD of Sasol Wax and worked from their head office in Germany. He'd flown to South Africa to attend presentations by all the potential events companies. His disarming character now saw him the unofficial chairperson of the meeting, a position he seemed to take in his energetic stride. He introduced Langa to the group, impressively taking a few moments to colour the role of each person he introduced.

“Finally, Miss Buthelezi, I'd like you to meet Mr Mabhena, the owner of Mabhena Oil Limited, South Africa's largest privately owned producer and marketer of synthetic and petroleum waxes,” Mr Zanier announced. “His corporation is currently merging with Sasol Wax and you will work closely with him, should you secure this contract.”

Langa stood rooted to the spot, as if her Phindi Ks had suddenly been nailed into the wooden floor of the lobby and opened her mouth, willing a sound, any sound to come out of it, but failed. She felt the thrush return instantly.

“Erm, it's a pleasure to meet you,” she stammered, unsure what Mr Mabhena's response might be.

“Likewise, I'm sure,” he replied, seeming unruffled. His firm handshake made her feel fragile and increasingly uncomfortable. Holding the same chilling gaze he had given her the day before, his handsome face broke into a boyish grin as her pounding heart threatened to rip out of her chest.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, we'd better settle down and start this presentation,” Mr Zanier said to the small group as they followed an usher to a boardroom at the back of the hotel. Langa felt more like a lamb being led to slaughter than a self-motivated, hard-working woman whose events company stood a chance to get the contract of a lifetime.

Zandile sensed her boss's discomfort and threw her a quizzical glance as they sat at the long table. Langa puckered her lips before they curved into a tepid smile. Mr Mabhena sat across from her, his effortless smile revealing a brilliant set of white teeth, his hazel eyes on her.