“I AM sorry, we’re fully booked for the night,” said the lady, who appeared to be the manageress, before we’d even reached the restaurant door. She stood there waiting, with a “There’s no way you are coming in here” look on her face, one hand resting on the doorframe and the other on her waist. Insects were gathering around the lamp above her head.

“But madam, we’ve booked a table for nine. It was confirmed earlier today,” said my brother Tebogo.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any tables available,” said the woman. She was dressed in black pants and a white shirt, and wore her nose on her forehead. Her pale, tetchy face was etched with contour lines that became deeper as she talked. Her collarbones protruded sharply, like knife blades. She spoke in a loud voice, as if we were standing a kilometre away.

The autumn sun had vanished into the skies, and the coastal wind blew hard and cold on our ears. Although you could not see it, you could hear and feel the living sea close by.

“Someone confirmed our booking and gave us directions on the phone five minutes ago,” said Tebogo.

“I told you, we’re full. There is nothing I can do,” she said. She removed her hand from the doorframe and stepped back into the restaurant, her body blocking the entrance. Clearly she expected us to leave. We were shocked. We had not anticipated such rejection after the joyful day we’d had in Grahamstown, mingling with intellectuals during my graduation ceremony.

Earlier, when we arrived at the restaurant and got out of the Toyota Kombi that my brother had hired at the airport, I thought I saw people peering at us from inside the restaurant, but quickly dismissed the idea. The Kombi resembled one of those notorious township minibuses. Our cheerful chatting and laughter must have unintentionally announced our arrival. It had been a while since anyone had graduated in my family, and it was cause for celebration.

“Is this the only Link-Up restaurant in Port Alfred?” Tebogo asked again.

“Yes!” she said.

“Maybe you could check your reservations again, because I am sure we have a table booked for nine people,” said Tebogo, scrolling through his cellphone.

My seventeen-year-old son, Mohale, who was standing next to one of the restaurant’s front windows, said: “Eh, malome, I see there is a table inside with nine chairs and a reserved sign on it.”

Tebogo was now on the phone with his personal assistant, Annamarie. She was an efficient sixty-two-year-old Afrikaans lady who had become more of a family member to all of us than an employee. She was the one who organised everything: the flights, the hotel and restaurant bookings. She had phoned me earlier in the day to wish me a pleasant trip.

“Hello boss, is everything okay?” said Annamarie.

“Annamarie, we are at Link-Up restaurant and there is a very touchy lady here telling us we don’t have a booking,” said Tebogo.

“Impossible! That is nonsense. Give her your phone,” said Annamarie.

We never got to hear the conversation between Annamarie and the skinny manageress, because she immediately took the phone and disappeared inside, leaving us standing at the door.

She returned a few minutes later with a smile befitting a toothpaste ad.

“Sorry, there has been a misunderstanding. Your table is ready. Follow me.”

“I told you there was a table reserved,” said my son. We walked in, one by one. The manageress stood beside the door in the same way that air hostesses did when you boarded a flight. Her nose was now in its right place and she smiled at each of us as we passed, though no one smiled back.

“That’s a lovely outfit,” she said as I entered. “Very different.” And when my mother came in she complimented her lavender suit.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” my mother said, marching in without looking at the woman. We all burst into laughter.

According to Annamarie, this was one of the classiest restaurants in Port Alfred. I wondered why. The space was so closely packed that our chairs touched those of the tables next to ours. It looked like it had been a residential home which was converted into a business.

The décor was plain, with dull, off-white walls. Inside, we were something of a spectacle. All the other tables were occupied by white people, who twisted and turned from their seats just to get a glimpse of us. It was as if we were exotic creatures in a zoo.

By the time we were settled at the long table, it was seven-thirty in the evening and already dark. Fifteen minutes passed before our waitress appeared. A young girl, who might have been in her early twenties, dumped a pile of menus on our table. My sister Kgaugelo distributed them to everyone. The menus were large and leather-bound, like books of old maps.

Another fifteen minutes passed and still we’d received no service. At one point the young girl who’d brought the menus said, while passing our table and without even looking at us, “I’ll be with you soon, we are very busy today.”

Now it was my brother’s nose that was out of place. I learnt later from his girlfriend, Maseapo, that he is normally not this tolerant in such situations.

“If we were in Johannesburg, there would have been a scene. He can be very theatrical, he is a drama king. He would normally have staged a ballet on the table top, I tell you. Maybe he just didn’t want to spoil your day,” said Maseapo.

Kgaugelo and Maseapo claimed that they preferred the Pan-Africanist approach in circumstances like these. As my eyes scanned the room, I discovered that the restaurant was not even full; there were about four empty tables. “I think we are being punished for our past sins,” I said.

“Or the sins of our ancestors,” said Molatelo, a friend of mine who was also graduating.

“They’ll serve us eventually. Let’s just sit here and be darkies, like they think we are,” said Kgaugelo.

“What? I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if they serve us at ten? I am diabetic, I can’t wait that long. I’ve already taken my insulin shot,” said my mother.

“No, Mma, don’t worry. Let’s behave like we are having a good time, be loud and make a noise, and they will all leave. Then we’ll have the place to ourselves,” said Maseapo.

“I don’t want a scene on my sister’s big day,” said Tebogo.

“These are the English. They’re not big on scenes. They were taught before they were born how to be polite. They are not like the Afrikaners. They would rather leave quietly, to make a statement,” said Kgaugelo.

“Why don’t we do the same?” I said.

“Yes! Let’s go. They are treating us like lepers,” my mother agreed.

“No! If you do that, you are giving them what they want,” said Kgaugelo.

“It’s no longer about them. We just want to have a peaceful, decent dinner. Maybe we should settle for the buffet at the Fish River hotel,” said Tebogo, getting out his phone again. The hotel was about twenty kilometres away, along the coastal Garden Route to East London. The woman who answered the phone assured Tebogo that their buffet was still on.