“What do you want to eat?” my brother asks, slapping a menu down in front of me.

“Nothing,” I say.

“What do you mean nothing? Didn’t you say you were hungry?”

“I am. But there’s nothing to eat here.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, Magcina. There’s a whole menu to choose from.”

“I want meat,” I said. “Man food, not cow food.”

We were sitting at The Health Jondolo, my brother’s favourite hang-out. He was treating me to a quick snack after school. Yep, you heard right: The Health Jondolo. No fingalickin chickin or shis’nyama special when you’re with my brother. He’s one of those unnatural people who doesn’t like meat. It’s because of the bad experience he had on the farm once, when he was small.

A chicken that they were getting ready for the pot got away and came running to him for help. He tried to save it but they went and chopped it anyway, right in front of him. Its head fell on his shoes with its eyes still looking at him and its body running all over the yard, spraying blood like a hosepipe. After that he wouldn’t eat anything that had a beating heart in it.

“It will do you good to get some vegetables for a change,” my brother tells me. “You eat too much meat. Doctors say it’s bad for you. Look at that belly of yours.” He grabs my stomach rolls and squeezes them; there’s lots to grab. “You need to lose some kilos, Magcina. Change some of this fat to muscle. Come and work out at the gym with me.”

I groan and let my head drop onto the table. When my brother gets going on this exercise thing he can carry on for hours.

“Sit up Magcina. Don’t lie on the table like that. People have to eat there.”

“I’m tired,” I say. “I had a hard day at school. And now I have to go do all this homework.”

“Stop complaining, uyezwa? You’re always complaining, Magcina. That’s all you do. You need to get a life.”

Luckily the waitress comes over to take our order. My brother orders for both of us.

“Two Jondolo no-meat specials on brown roll, and two powa juz mixes, please.”

“With chips or salad?” she asks.

“Salad,” he says.

“Chips,” I say. “Large plate. And a Coke.”

But she ignores me. Too busy falling in love with my brother.

When the ancestors were handing out the family prizes, my brother Prince got all of them. ‘Good-looking’ is a word invented for him. His face just works, uyaz. Nose, eyes, chin, eyebrows, mouth all lined up just like they should be. Everything in the right place, right length, right size. Not even a pimple to spoil things.

Even his name is first prize. He gets to be the Prince. I’m just Magcina the leftover, the last one. Sometimes I tell people it’s Gino. Makes me sound more handsome, angithi? And it’s the way non-Zulu speakers always pronounce it anyway.

The waitress comes back with our food. She puts both plates down in front of my brother, like he’s sitting all alone at the table.

“Can I get you anything else?” she says to him breathlessly.

“Yes,” I say. “The chips and Coke I asked for.”

It’s like I haven’t even spoken.

“Just bring us the bill please,” my brother says. “We’re in a hurry today.”

He smiles up at her nicely; his babe catcher smile. I see her stagger a bit. She goes off, weaving from side to side as if she’s been drinking.

Don’t worry, I’m used to it by now. My brother has that effect on babes. I’m just another brick in the wall when he’s around. Invisible Man. It’s nothing he does intentionally. He just has the gift of making women love him, without even trying.

It’s been that way my whole life. I tried hating him for a while but that didn’t work either. It’s hard to hate someone who’s always looking out for you and trying to be the father you never had.

***

Tell us: Do you know someone like Prince?