“Hi, Sophie…” greeted Bobo super-nervously, breaking away from the smoking gang. Surprisingly, he was properly dressed today. Wow! Who was this guy approaching me? she thought, clearly surprised.

“Hi, Bongani.” She responded with her eyes glowing. He had caught her at her weakest point; normally she would’ve shamed him from way over there. She didn’t like their gangster behavior, but today she was going to be happy. She was not going to let anyone, especially not the likes of Bobo, spoil it for her.

A few weeks earlier…

At Twenty-Four Seven, the local tavern where these aspiring gangsters chilled every weekend, it was Sunday afternoon when Sophie came walking past the tavern from church. The boys started whistling drunkenly, and Bobo went as far as hooting at her.

“Yabona ntwana, this is what I call a perfect ten. A turbo charged engine and nice body work. My type of ride. Ucherry ogrend ofuna ukutjhayelwa ngenono lwenwabu.” Said Bobo, drunk and using their special language of cars to describe girls. This is what they always did when it came to girls.

“Ha ha ha. Ay la kimi, mina ngifuna iinsimbi zamajeremani, BMW 325 zabolova ntwana. U cherry ozongispiner kabuhlungu ubsuku boke ntwana.” (Not for me, I’m all about German cars, BMW 325 is the best, a girl that can dangerously twist me all night.) That was Bheki replying, patting his car with passion.

They all had one thing in common, these boys: a love of cars, but Bheki was the only one amongst them to actually own one at the age of nearly eighteen. All the others drove in their parents’ cars and had no right to scratch the wheels like Bheki did. Actually Bobo was always the one behind the wheel.

“Okay, kodwana uSophie uhlukile ntwana. Mhlobo wakade we two-stroke ongasatholakaliko.” (But Sophie’s more than that, bra. She’s a rare collection, the vintage two-stroke starter engine. You’d only understand that once you find her type) said Bobo passionately, trying to get the boys to see Sophie from his contact lenses.

“Wa ha ha ha!” the gang cackled. They were all listening to these two arguing about Sophie. They only agreed “Ya!” with whomever raised an interesting point, or “Mxaah!” to voice their differences to the speaker.

“We like that, we like that!” They all agreed in one voice.

“Okay, let me see you riding one, ntwana! Maybe like you said: I might just see what’s worth it with this so-called vintage two-stroke starter engine of yours. But usually, two-strokes struggle with starting, so they are mostly skorokoros on bricks!” teased Bheki, pointing at a yellow rusty old model on the corner in the tavern’s yard. That way, he was surrendering from the argument.

The gang of boys were cackling as in a sitcom: what Bheki had referred to as a vintage car was a Ford Cortina, Bra Smokey’s first stolen ride. He did six years behind bars for it. He always told that story whenever the boys started ridiculing the car.

Bra Smokey was one of the busiest business men and the richest man in this village. A former struggle comrade who turned to crime as soon as Mandela came out of prison. He felt he was owed by the Xhosa comrades. He was one of the Ndebeles in the struggle, along with the great late Solomon Kalushi Mahlangu, and he was sidelined during the Codesa negotiations.

“Ay, ngizokuphusha da, ngikukhombise ukuthi angikhulumi ngalokhu.” (I’m going to get her to prove you wrong about the good ones) Bobo said, and it was now a bet.

Days were racing out of his favour. With only a week left, he had to come up with a plan to get Sophie to give him attention, so he plotted to wait for her at the gate. He had to win the bet, even if it meant waiting outside the church premises to get her, or even giving up his drinking and smoking habits, he thought.

She was a hard one to come across. She was as sharp as Zorro’s sword to handle. She’d put him in his place. Surprisingly, she was the only girl who never wanted anything to do with him, while the rest threw themselves at him. It was not easy at all, and that’s what made her the kind Bobo felt strongly attached to. She would only be his, he believed.

*****

Sophie was standing there smiling at Bobo, while her left hand’s fingers twirled her new necklace around her neck. Pastor Mabhena was just wowed at seeing his little life associate with these hooligans. They were a bad influence on her, but she hadn’t shown any changes. She was still that little sweet Sophie, with good manners.

“Hey, U… uyaphazima namhlanjesi, begodu njengemalangen’ umuhle my queen.” (You are glowing today, and as always, you are pretty my queen) complemented Bobo.

“Thank you Bongani. To what do I owe this visit?” she asked.

“To be honest with you, I need to ask you something,” said Bobo, walking her into the school yard. Meanwhile, Pastor Mabhena was staring straight at them as they walked away from the car. What was happening there? he wondered.

“What can I possibly have for you to have an interest in, mara Bongani?” she asked, with her smile fading slowly.

Bobo noticed that, so he had to get straight to the point before whatever medicine she was drunk on to keep her this friendly to him ran out of her system. “Everything, to be honest Sophie. I need my special day to be memorable, and only with you would that come true. Shush, please. I know that I am not your favorite person in the world, but all I ask is for you to be my lady of the moment at the dance. Please.” They were now standing still, right in the middle of the school yard.

***

Tell us: What do you think? Do you think Bobo can win her over? Do you think she really hates Bobo, or does she like him and is just trying to fight it out of her system?