His demeanour exhibits the newly garnished riches he so eloquently portrays. His wrist watch alone is worth an entire wage package of a farm worker and to sustain that employee and his family for a full three years. His rehearsed English furnished with an essential vocabulary, a tenacious collection of demands utilised to intimidate those less fortunate, fashioned by some runway brand from Milan that only serve the rich and famous, a subtle cover to dress his illegitimate fabric of success. Never falling short to babble on about his newfound fame to any weary ear, especially that of the opposite sex, defining contemporary flirtation.

Success for him and so many others serves to be the showmanship of materialistic acquisition without necessity, but for the validation of a crude acceptance from the metropolitan society of the world. This corrosive plateau of a deformed definition of success, likened to a fire fed a ton of old newspaper to induce the flame. Temporary and fictitious, unnoticeable at first glance as the forage still unleashes a powerful show of spotlight.

A formidable cover to his narcissistic habitat, while fairing women upon safaris within the crème de la crème scenes of high class living. Carefully plotted devices to colonize their innocence, while the wheel of luck plays to his tune.

His fictitious stature sums to be the incarnate of prestige duly purchased through the rational assumption of consumerism. In a world where materialistic pursuit has no rival and the villains are actual hard work, compassion and commitment are values he is void of. Instead he sugar coats his perverted apparel with young women based philanthropy thus being a father figure, a delightful treat known as the Blesser.

Deep within our conversation, as she unfolds her world and speaks about him, her anger rekindles as she passes along the enormity of his negative influence. The many times she felt debased as a person, as he bought her a lifestyle of glamour only to reward himself with infidel access to her flesh. I listen attentively not allowing any word to fall unheard from her lips, being a friend as best as I can, sympathetic and caring. Yet unknown to her, was that in her description of this testing time and her need for comfort, as she pushed closer towards me to find the reassuring solidarity of a listening companion.

That even then, in her loathsome diaspora found in the most innocent form of touch, seemed to beckon and render me breathless. I swiftly restore my composure, which is all but difficult to achieve when she intrudes the spaces an introvert’s crafts to form a legitimate boundary for social exclusion. Nevertheless in those moments of dire circumstance from being invaded, my atmosphere is thrilled and like magic, is instantly filled with the colourful butterflies that adorn my tummy. A foreign concept to me all together.

She and I both are currently university students, and as have been inseparable from the day we met at the student financial aid department of the varsity -where she asked for assistance in filling out the necessary documents to submit to the office. I recall the day we friends it feels so far back, but feeling as if orchestrated yesterday with much clarity. Ever since, we would spend a considerable time exploring the city from all avenues. Which provided us with a story that we could tell together to others later at the nearby park. Our shared commonality is evident, a zeal for living. Differentiated only by her outgoing spirit and my willingness to tag along.

Today marks our third year of friendship, We’ve had intimate word exchanges since then, but spoken through codified symbols of an uncontrollable passion brewing deep within my veins tamed only by my flesh, the walls of Berlin. In this case the walls of Berlin separate my intention for romanticism and hides behind a solidified friendship. Two great things on both sides of the wall, but unable to meet.

At this moment, as she sits across me, taking hold is the drum beat that plunges a discernible bang, thumping deep and aloud. Professing compassion. Sadly unheard by the mahogany goddess who feeds these unquenchable flames.

“Are you listening?” She asks as she flaunts her hand before my face, waving frantically from one side to another. Attempting to grab hold of me, get me away from my imagination.

We met every so often at the local restaurant. The same place where we spoke about her good for nothing alcoholic father, a principal serving time in prison for molesting and raping. Her desire for a better future away from her village and in the city. And today we’re talking about her experience with what many dub a sugar daddy.

“You wondering again, I can tell” as she says this, my eyes connect with hers . As if I am seeing her anew embroiled in beauty all over again, taking her in as a picture to recreate later in my fantasy. I long to expose and implode upon her the defining “I love you” speech, but something just never feels right. The ambiance of the desire is always ruined by the lurking hand of reality.

“Now that you back here on earth, I was saying that I know it’s wrong, but he gives me what I want and he seems to care. He buys me clothes and hey, sleeping with him is a small price to pay for the benefits I have received.”

As she says this I realise my own perfect lie, this entire time I’ve heard her say the complete opposite to my synopsis. Her phone rings. She braves to pull off a genuine smirk and announces, “It’s him”. She answers her cell phone and a new persona, even unrecognizable by my standards, takes a hold of her.

“Hey love, is your wife gone? So, we can start our cruise down to Durban for the weekend?”

I’m appalled! Then my gut turns inside of me, she said that without a moment of hesitation. And suddenly I stiffen as the realization unmasks itself, she is the Blesser.