Other People's Children

OTHER PEOPLES CHILDREN

I

She sits, cross legged in the middle of a green field. I watch her read, so serene and for a moment I despise myself for being a mere bystander, in awe of the sight before me. I am, you see in transit, a passer by in her world and I’m contemplating an invasion of her sanctity for a second. A cocktail of sheer recklessness, one part foolishness and a dash of come-what-may now have me standing directly above her, announcing my grand presence. Here’s to good girls.

“Hi, sorry to disturb your peace, but see the pathway over there? Yeah, right over there.” She looks at me, the pathway and back at me again. “Well from over there you looked awfully intelligent, never mind gorgeous. I needed a closer look to verify.” I pause and find myself saying, “Sooooo, what book are we busy reading today..?” I take a deep breath, sucking the air in as I inhale. “Okay sorry, let’s try this over. My name is right there on my business card, together with my mobile number and email address.” She looks at me, bemused and shaking her head in a manner that says, “What the..? Who are..? Where the hell do you come from bruh-ther-mann..?” I calmly reassure her that it could have been much worse, adding how boring the details about who I am and what I do yadda yadda can be. “Convenience my good lady, convenience.” I say as I point to an imaginary chalkboard beside me.

The tide is clearly not turning, so I decide its time to improvise, and quickly. Latching onto the first words that enter my mind, I suggest that since she knows a bit about me, perhaps she too could volunteer some information – name first if possible. “Oh that is quite possible, but you’re just plain crazy..!!!” She accentuates it like the kind of crazy that’s been rolled down a hill, slowed down and manhandled by some shrubbery before continuing along its fateful course. “You hear me? Cray-Zee!”
I protest, and in the same breath correct her partly true observation and statement, adding that I’m actually what crazy wants to be when he grows up. She bears a full set of teeth, accompanied by suppressed laughter which I immediately take as a cue to sit next to her.

“So stranger, what am I to call you I you wont tell me your name then?” Pulling some reading material of my own out of my bag, I kindly inform her that I will address her as Stranger for the duration of our conversation.

She’s reading Biko, I Write What I Like. Wow, I’m quite impressed but choose to lament on his legacy – literature included – that has now become a latter-day fashion statement. The Strange missus enquires very politely, “Dude are you always an ass or is today a once off?” Anyway the book I am currently reading is called Mandela’s ego by Lewis Nkosi. She mumbles something about having read enough Madiba relics to last her a lifetime.

This Stranger of mine, it turns out is an auditor at some prestigious company. Knowing next to nothing about number crunching, I immediately confess my ignorance, wary that it might show me up sooner or later. Nodding and the odd repetition of big auditing jargon is what I’ve now been reduced to. At this very point in time my mind is certain of one thing. That one thing and is that I like this lady, and very much at that. I ask her what a Stranger is doing reading Black Consciousness in a park when she could be enjoying her annual leave halfway across the world. She informs me that that it all has to do with a certain something called choice. The answer momentarily satiates my curiosity and for a while there is total silence. It is neither a tense nor comfortable silence; somewhat unsure to say the least. Beware what you wish for.

Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I suggest that I was on my way for some coffee on the square if she’d like to join me. I also add that her mobile number will do just fine if she’s not into coffee. Neither advances are entertained and I throw the towel in, but not before adding that my momma explicitly warned me never to talk to Strangers anyway.

II

I sink into my bean-bag and immerse myself into some unfinished work from the office. My levels of inspiration are truly not up to this, but stringent deadlines leave me little choice but to assert myself. Besides, I don’t expect that the work will simply complete itself. Ah, time for a cigarette, and when it comes to a smoke, not time is better than the present. There’s more paper than carpet on the floor, thanks to days without so much as a spring-clean. I ash into an empty matchbox. For all purposes and intents, I am quite content.

My mobile goes off while my mind follows suite with thoughts of the Strange missus I met earlier on. It is my girlfriend and she’s on the way. Her visits no longer excite me like they used to. In days gone by I would have gone into a five minute spring cleaning frenzy. But like I said, I’m quite content and I’m not going to lift a finger to tidy up. The doorbell rings and I think about ignoring it for a moment. I walk toward the refrigerator for some juice, taking my time to pour me a glass. The doorbell rings again and I slowly make my way toward the door.

There she stands, in all her grace and beauty. We embrace long and hard, as if to asphyxiate the void between our souls. I kiss my girl on the forehead and we look at one another deeply. Not a word is said. Nowadays not many words are said, unless absolutely necessary. You see it all started with her complaining that I was spending way too much time in the office, something that she viewed with suspicion. Two months ago she quizzed me about matter pertaining to fidelity. I simply gave her an expressionless look and retired to the bedroom. Since that fateful day I bring my entire workload home with me. This girl is beautiful, brilliant and bewitching. But allow me to digress.

See yours truly has been a hound for as long as memory serves him right. I’ve only ever been faithful in two of my previous relationships. The thing is, I’m easily bored and have a short attention span to go with, although by some miracle I’ve remained true to my girl. Until recently her presence has done nothing but enrich my state of mind as well as my overall well-being. She has just returned from an out of town business trip which she’d told me had gone very well, so I thought we’d celebrate a bit.

What followed in the short space of time before we met that afternoon surprised even the dog in me. So I’m picking up a bottle of bubbly when my mobile rings and it’s my good friend Lerato from the Golden Outpost. He weaves a story that drops my jaw and shocks me to the core. Anyways he was having some drinks with a friend cum colleague when the subject of the weekend’s sins arose. This friend of his met a girl who upon description appears to be my boo, works in the same building as my angel, but more especially has the same name as my baby. Bless your soul Lerato you good man. Here’s to good friends.

I’ve recently been accused of being cold, unapproachable and always swamped with work. I’m of the opinion that what I don’t know won’t hurt me, but in this instance I must admit a fair amount of confusion. Yeah I know that my ass is karma’s for the taking and the debt is going to be charged with interest. She says that something’s up with me and I wholeheartedly agree, adding that I haven’t quite placed my finger on it as yet. I’ll make sure to let her know once I know what the problem could be.

I tell her to find a seat if she can, while offering her something to drink, all the while wondering what could possibly be taking place in the theatre of her mind. It’s much like watching paint dry, only with a sick sense of emotional turmoil. The last thing that I will do is to let her know that I know, which means concealing how I feel. Then again, I’m not even sure what it is I am feeling.

The smell of breakfast draws me out of slumber land and into a rainy Saturday. I wonder just how much longer this game of pretence can continue, dying to scream and tell her to put an end to the whole charade. Admittedly some good has come out of this predicament. We hold each other ever so dearly nowadays and we’ve grown more sensual as opposed to the usual sexual. I touch her body like I’m feeling at fabric, contemplating its texture as I hold, squeeze and release. I cannot, however bring myself to kiss her on those beautiful lips that hold the key to a confession. You’d be surprised just how much woman there is in-between the usual spots we fellas are quick to run to. My lady’s a whooole lotta woman. Enough evidently to please more that just me. She asks me what I’m up to for the day. I reply between mumbling mouthfuls that there’s an exhibition at a downtown gallery.

The rain beats steadily upon my umbrella, making rhythmic sounds to go with the off-tune melody I’m humming. My thoughts weigh heavily on the on my encounter with the Stranger I met in the park yesterday. No name, no number and certainly no telling if I’m ever going to run into her again.

Walking up and down among countless photographic memoirs, I ask myself whether I even like these exhibitions or simply attend them to be seen here. I think about my girl, work and of course my Stranger. Just then I receive a call. Formalities and greetings are exchanged but I still have no idea who is on the other end so I sheepishly ask.
“So, do you always dish out business cards to Strangers and then act surprised when they call?” I reply that I wish I could, except I don’t have nearly enough cards for all the strangers I might happen to fancy. I’m promptly slapped with one charge of possessing a silver tongue. She says she found me funny, ha ha humorous, not queer – and for the record somewhat thought provoking in a strange way. We talk about nothing in particular and pleasantly conclude the conversation. Needless to say, I am flattered beyond words.

Second later I find myself scurrying through my incoming call folder and dialling out the last received number, totally prepared for whatever shame and embarrassment I might inflict upon myself.
“Confession is good for the soul and I thought I’d let you know that you’re doing it for me right now.”
A protracted silence follows and the Strange missus informs me that she’s having coffee at the square. That’s it, I’m there like a bear, screw this exhibition!

III

Mind-map – navigate - shortest route - off we go – (shoooo…) internal dialogue over. I’m back in the rain playing games with my umbrella, overcome by compulsive fidgeting. Think think think, I urge myself, wondering what vile crap I’m going to spew in this serene Stranger’s ear. First thought that rushes through a narrow funnel is, “what the hell am I doing?’ But strictly speaking that was a question and since we’re dealing with thoughts’ I’m afraid that won’t qualify. I think that the best way to approach this situation is not to think about it at all. That’s the coffee shop on the square over there. Branches of trees whose names I know not droop both delicately and precariously over the outside seating area, but nobody’s crazy enough to be seated outside in this weather. I also observe that the squirrels aren’t out today either. Call me ignorant but I have my suspicions that the next rodent-to-man plague may just come from those furry critters. Don’t feed the animals damnit!

Bless the smell of slow roasted coffee beans. My nostrils flare as I inhale an infusion of scents that slowly soothe and sedate the restless being in me.
“Table for one?” the waitress asks me. I kindly inform her that I’m joining someone. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Showtime! There’s an accompanying drum roll, in this instance my heart trying to flee through the rib-cage. I case the floor, not too sure where to begin my search. Adding insult to injury, us men (READ: Me. I. Self.) find it next to impossible to ask for the simplest of assistance. It’s in our nature, see. This is an impulse directly connected to the ego nerve, a powerful – no Herculean structure which, when all things said is extremely brittle. Well today, right now I’m going to override it entirely. So I walk up to the waitress and ask her if she has by any chance seen or served a gorgeous olive skinned, full bodied princess with finesse and an afro. All I get is a blank stare followed by a voice from behind me asking if I ever stop irritating other people’s children. I turn around to meet and acknowledge the owner’s voice, and sure enough it’s the Strange missus alright. She’s looking mighty different, sporting cornrows and a beanie. The Stranger beckons me to follow and I do as I’m told. She’s whoa alright, which is why I’m fighting off a thousand dirty thoughts this very moment. Although I feel like an ant inside a Venus flytrap, I still pity the praying mantis facing his post-coital demise.

She stretches her hand out from across her end of the table and I meet her halfway. The Stranger introduces herself as Zama and I tell her that I’m pleased to know her on a first name basis, further stressing that she really needn’t try at all. Cutting to the chase, I immediately absolve myself of any ulterior motives by confessing that I have no idea what I’m doing in her company at all, adding that it simply feels right and I’m in no mood to question the feeling. Zama says something along the lines of pitying those who are righteous. I enquire if she often entertains such encounters with her male counterparts.
“Only to entertain myself,” she replies in a calm and self assured manner. For once there is no internal dialogue in conflict with the voice I’m listening to, so like a sponge I absorb every word Zama has to speak. A pin drops in my mind, landing silently upon a cold concrete floor.

Zama is a woman of worldly ways, well read and in possession of a vast intellect. Born in Lusaka, she narrates the story of an exile’s existence that has taken her to London and Havana, Cuba and back to Zambia again. I summon all my reserves of politeness and seek permission to take a dig at her. I want to know whether the children of our freedom fighters really believe that it is their birthright to assume their new ‘Black Elite’ status to deride the masses and act superior to all and sundry. She scrutinises every words I say and her demeanour suggests that she’s not impressed. I’m quick to tell her that I’ve had several unfortunate run-ins with individuals whose families I’ve held in high esteem. Thing is, they’ve mostly come across as ignorant irresponsible offspring who can at best be described as nauseating. Freedoms do after all come with great responsibilities.

In the ensuing debate Zama opens my mind up to a conscientious and articulate individual, a soul determined to shine in her own light, not forever live under the shadow of her family’s name. I do not retract my earlier statement, but simply tell her that I appreciate she’s different, something that has duly been noted. We agree to disagree even though she has the last say, in admonishment of my crass generalisation.

We settle the bill consisting of coffee, plain ol’ bran muffin for me and a slice of carrot cake for her. I offer to settle the bill, much to this independent woman’s displeasure, prompting me to reassure her that this is the one time I can lay claim to the bill. “My money’s in liquor stores and bars across town.” I tell her. “And there’s no telling what I’d get up to with all of it if I still had it in hand.” I place a rain check on that over share, promising to elaborate at a later stage or date. Sensing that our rendezvous is slowly approaching referee’s optional time, I find out what the rest of her afternoon has in store. Zama is going home to cook herself a rainy day dinner. Unable to neither contain my unbridled enthusiasm nor arraign my tongue, I tell her that nobody should have to break bread in solitude, while punting my culinary talents. Taking things to a whole new level, I offer to cook for her – at her place. We’re on the same page.

IV

Zama’s place smells of an opulence that is evident on the floor, walls, up to and including the air I breathe. My eyes slowly imbibe and digest all before me. This is her queendom right, tailor-made for her every whim and convenience. An elaborate liquor cabinet with single malts, bourbons and V.S.O.P’s stares me down as she offers me an array of beverages to drink. This brings us back to our coffee shop conversation and I kindly decline, settling for some herbal tea instead. Yesterday marked eight weeks since I last had a drink and I’m getting to know my sober self a little better. My reasons for being on pause have got nothing to do with drinking itself. It is just my way of exercising some fiscal discipline, so from a moral standpoint, I cannot go around drinking other peoples’ liquor if I refuse to buy my own. There’s no telling when I’ll reunite with my old friend the bottle again.

This woman’s kitchen is larger than my bloody bedroom! There are utensils in here that are beyond my wildest dreams and I’m not sure which ones hold ornamental or functional value. It is safe to say that them stakes is high. This whole setting is somewhat daunting, but the kitchen is my domain and I’m going to make a point of it to show off. Zama puts some music on while I familiarise myself with her kitchen. She plays Hugh Masekela – the boy is doing it – so I ask her if it is really necessary to deliberately patronise me. Her next statement brings me down to earth in the form of a kind and gentle reminder that not everything revolves around me. Almost forgot about that, maybe I just see way too many uncanny coincidences.

The master chef washes his hands, chooses an apron from a selection of three and quietly gets to work. A red onion is first on the chopping block, cut into rings, followed by sweet basil. Red, yellow and green peppers are next while only a handful of rocket leaves are spared from the chef’s knife. Zama watches pokerfaced, from a distance as the chef throws a bowl of shrimps into a medley of garlic butter on a hot pan. Looking to improvise – impress maybe – he whips out two martini glasses, arranges a bed of rocket and throws a salsa avo mix in. the shrimps are next, then the onion rings, and assortment of peppers and a dash of lemon. Starters are served.

Some people write, compose or paint on canvass, but this is my art and I thrive on breaking every or as many rules as possible. I experiment and take chances, something I believe is a subtle secret to good food. In my experience though, total cock-ups usually arrive unannounced, but that’s a glitch that comes with the territory. It appears that my reckless impunity is vindicated. Zama appears indifferent but I smile inside, safe in the knowledge that I’ve just bought myself enough time to focus on the main course. Damnit I’m here to impress and for a moment I sense that the tide might be turning.

The chef on duty patiently works his way to one of the more inspired dinners he has prepared in quite some time. Zama occasionally steals a peek from the other end of the kitchen counter, seemingly unmoved and quite indifferent. A medley of vegetables does time in the oven and they’re due for parole any moment now. On the pan are tuna steaks, medium rare with a sprinkling of sesame seeds and balsamic vinegar. This chef is in his element, visibly animated and feeling self assured. For him, this is sheer exhilaration. In a sudden and rather clumsy manner he throws a statement out to Zama, telling her that she might have very little choice but to kiss the cook before this dinner date is done.

V

Her lips are soft, warm, and moist, not forgetting the spell-binding presence they possess. Oh my gosh, why did I just do that? Probably because it felt so damn good! This rather loud and untimely thought is immediately regretted as Zama looks at me with a serious and studious face before bursting out into laughter. Just then my mobile ring, shattering this stolen moment and taking with it the magic from a second ago. I ask Zama if she’d like to sit down and stay cool. All is fair in love and warfare.

“Aha..? Where you at..? In my element and beside myself. Cool… (silence)… where though? How did the… Where I want to be right now. Don’t be silly man, you coming round anytime soon..? Nah, I doubt. I really have no inclination. Oh, what’s the holdup..? That would be the inspirational company I now find myself in. I am having dinner with an exceptional missus and you’re pissing on my bonfire. Dude, you’re being so…What are you saying..? Actually, you’re being a dick! But an honest one nevertheless. What’s gotten into you brah..? Oh, one more thing… Hush now, listen carefully… Please don’t call this number again, not for a loooooong while. Oh and one last thing…”

I terminate the call, put an index finger on my lips and inhale deeply. A palpable tension in the air stings my nostrils and I go about trying to neutralize it. “That, as of a minute ago is now my ex-girlfriend,” I tell Zama in a casual and matter-of-fact manner, “and we were loving on borrowed time.” I step back out of self to reflect on the chaos I have just wreaked. We eat an otherwise exceptional meal in relative silence before washing up together in the kitchen. Zama probes in the hope that I’ll divulge, reminding me that confession is indeed good for the soul. Taking that cue, I duly request if she minds me smoking on her balcony. She joins me seconds later, only she’s carrying an exotic cigarette – sensi baby. Oath to Robert Marley it’s the shit and it blows my mind right. I watch the rest of the world go by from this sixth floor vantage point, wondering what happened to my love for Saturday nights out on the town.

Once indoors again I browse through an extensive music collection and for some reason I play ‘Heart of the City’ and I don’t even like Shawn Carter… The song unwinds me and it feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders as we lie motionless on the carpet, her head on my chest while my fingers run along her scalp through her immaculate rows. I no longer know what’s going on and for the umpteenth time while in her company, I choose not to think about it. Like a thunderbolt out of a blue sky, I ask Zama if she’s by any chance bestowed with the character building priviledges of a fucked up relationship. A sigh, rolling eyes and no comment is all she surrenders. Choosing her words cautiously, she tells me about the rigours of the long distance trade. Who knows, for all I care we probably deserve one another.

We touch, hold, embrace and kiss gently, as if we’re fragile parcels entrusted into the hands of one another. I wonder why it is that another man, many cities away should suffer the indignity of his lover’s infidelity. We fall asleep, collapsing into a conduit of inexplicable emotions.

VI

The sun’s rays pierce through the floor-to-ceiling sized windows and we arise to a brand new day. There are too many unanswered questions in my mind so I decide to run a few past Zama. I cannot imagine when either of us would have mentioned that we had already invested our efforts into other people’s hearts. Holding her hands in mine and looking her dead in the eye, I tell her that deceit cannot be a firm foundation for any love to flourish and bloom. The truth, as always remains an unpalatable tonic, as we decide to part ways amicably. We do not know if we can trust ourselves in each other’s company. Our time together is up and it hurts, but above all else there’s an overwhelming feeling of calm upon me.

I walk back to my place with a sense of trepidation, feeling like an animal emerging out of mankind. There’s no trace of the lady who used to be my love. I call her up and thank her for having been a part of my life, and also apologise for having at any stage held her back or in any way retarded her progress in love, life and otherwise. She does not utter a word. I conclude the one way conversation and my soul sinks for a moment. For the first time in ages I feel liberated, as if I’ve just been granted my dying wish. I am free.