At 9pm, after the NEC meeting is concluded, and dinner is done and dusted, we drive in a convoy of six cars – led by Ibhasi Lomjolo – into New Brighton Township.

We are no longer the bright-eyed revolutionaries of pre-1994, but testosterone-driven, beer-guzzling, and power-drunk post-apartheid men with a sense of entitlement to women’s bodies. Every car has a cooler box, a bag of ice and cold beers. We agree that alcoholic beverages for ‘our women’ will be sourced in the taverns once every comrade has a woman of his choice in his arm. We are in high spirits. This is our turn to shine. Or doesn’t it go, ‘It’s our turn to eat’? Never mind.

We negotiate the narrow streets inside New Brighton Township. We can already see and imagine ‘our women’ in our heads. The convoy comes to a halt at Andiswa’s home. Chris goes to the door.

We park outside while banging kwaito hits on full blast: Boom Shaka’s It’s Our Game (No Need To Claim), Arthur’s Die Poppe Sal Dans, and Oscar Wa Rona’s Mama Wami.

Andiswa comes out and walks towards the convoy of cars. I don’t need any introduction; her image, as described by Chris, is still vivid in my head. She is a woman and a half. Her complexion alone lights up the poorly lit New Brighton Township street.

She walks like she is on a New York or Paris runway. Her gait is choreographed and neat. Her hair is in classic cornrow braids, and she oozes yellow bone privilege and model-like confidence.

As I study Andiswa, my comrade Tshepo from Technikon South Africa jumps out of his VW Golf and welcomes her with a warm hug. I watch this as though it is happening in slow motion. Tshepo holds on to her for a full 30 seconds. Chris just stands there, motionless.

“Nguwe uWilfred?” Andiswa asks Tshepo, after what appears to be a hug with time delay locks.

“Wilfred! Come here!” Chris shouts at last, over the booming sounds.

I am all flustered by now. Things aren’t going according to plan. But I cannot ignore the allure of this woman. I want to touch her. I want to smell her. I want to be intoxicated in her embrace. It is my turn to be touched by New Brighton’s finest. I walk a slow walk of shame. My pride is dented.

“Here is your Zulu boyfriend,” Chris says to Andiswa.

Andiswa smiles a wide smile. I hide my relief with a low-key one in return. A voice inside me says, ‘Don’t appear too eager. Play your cards close to your chest. You’re already one-nil up: she asked for you by your first name.’

I am confronted by a Xhosa queen that can rival the nation’s mother, Winnie Mandela, in terms of beauty. And I am lost for words.

***

Tell us: What do you think of Wilfred’s focus on how pale skinned Andiswa is? Okay/not okay?