I’d paid my parents’ house off and draped it in renovations, and paid all the incremental loans that had been a lingering thorn in the side of their long, unforgiving years of marriage. I’d also bought them a brand-new car. But after a sunbathed get-away in Mauritius, the destructive song engaged my dispirited mind all the more. For once I had tasted juvenile freedom. What I wanted out of life was out there, somewhere, and I couldn’t wait to get away from my parents’ coddling.
To my mother’s worry, and father’s continued distrust, I received the blessing of buying myself a new R1.95 million loft in the wealthy suburb of Hatfield, Pretoria.
Maybe I was trying to bury something that weighed on me by buying the adoration and love of those around me. But time was too short for armchair pyschologising — surely as a bee dies pleasurably after a sting, my fate was set in stone.
Zane encouraged this ignorance, shouting my salutations at one of my now-regular parties at my place: “Thuso! Thuso! Thuso!”
“Ayibo yebo! Ayibo yebo! Hei wena! Ayibo yebo!” the rest of the place sang along in concert to a grinding Amapiano song, while I felt the man of the hour.
“Stop the music! I have something important to announce.”
The sound gradually decreased to murmurs resonating above it, as I fell on one knee, and the entire crowd leaned in with interest.
“Please indulge me, ladies and gentlemen. What I’m about to do might go down in the leafy book of the Guinness World Records… Lerato, Pamela, Stacy. Please come over, my lovelies.”
The crowd made way, and they stood before me in the glory of their varying beauty.
“As the saying goes, no man is an island. Lovelies, would you make me an honorable (and the happiest) man amongst men? Will you marry me?” I gravely asked, shortly burping out in drunkenness, pulling out three 5-carat solitaire diamond rings, set in pure platinum, from their cases. Everyone ululated and the oohs-and-ahhs reverberated.
“Legendary,” Zane said, comically.
“Yes, I will!”
“YES, Thuso, of course!”
“Yes, babes, yes!”
They all agreed, chirpily huddling in around me in true sister-wives’ style, and the entire loft erupted so that the security had to be paid off to endure the raucous party just a little while longer, to the customary vexation of my neighbours.
***
After 10 months of reckless living, I found out I was running low on money, on a weekend rendezvous to Durban. I wanted to rent out a Lamborghini Aventador with all its premium specifications for the stay, and after running a back check against my account, for the first time in months, I was told the silly words, “Sorry sir. We can’t help you. You can’t afford the expenses in the event of something happening to the vehicle. You can apply for other options though. Maybe a Hyundai or a Polo?”
“Babes, are you OK?” Stacy asked, when I got back to the hotel room. “You’ve been dead silent ever since coming back here. Is everything alright?”
Can’t afford the expenses? Me? The words turned my brain into frozen mush. I tried to marry reality with the dream I’d been living out. What was I going to do with the last R 450 000 that was left in the bank account? How was I going to maintain my fast-paced lifestyle? What were people going to say after I’d squandered that much money in such a short space of time? And what about the women for whom I’d taken responsibility?
“Babes, I’m concerned. Did something happen, love? Talk to me,” Stacy continued to ask, brushing her soft hand against my slumped right shoulder.
After having mentally veered off for some time, sense returned like a ghoul repossessing its favorite host, and I responded, “I’m OK, baby. Everything’s in order. What are we having for dinner? And where’s Lerato and Pamela?”
Tell us: What do you think Thuso will do with his remaining money?