Mr Not Quite Good Enough. Lauri Kubuitsile

He took her by the hand and led her back to her bedroom.

      Alfred went through her wardrobe, complaining the whole time that she really should keep things tidier. In the end, he settled for a black strapless dress he’d bought her in Dubai. But then her hair wasn’t right. Gorata tried to fix it, but in frustration he took over. She’d never had to have her boyfriend dress her and do her hair before a date. She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult, but she was leaning towards the latter.

      Things didn’t improve at the restaurant. Everything was in French, and Alfred was less than pleased to find that she couldn’t read the menu. She didn’t mention the fact that she spoke isiXhosa, Sesotho, Setswana, isiZulu, Afrikaans and English fluently and had recently learned enough Tshivenda to conduct a basic conversation. Most of these were not languages he was interested in.

      Alfred ordered them something that looked like jelly but had meat embedded in it. Gorata tried her best to eat it, but managed only to shift it around the plate.

      The date ended with a vague conversation about the fact that maybe they needed some time apart, and Alfred left after giving her a dry peck on the cheek. If Gorata was honest, it all came as a welcome relief.

      “So what happened? What happened on your date with Alfred?” Amita repeated.

      “Oh that . . . yeah, well, we decided to take some time off,” Gorata said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Amita and Kelebogile jumped to their feet and applauded.

      Feeling embarrassed, Gorata tried to joke and said, “A standing ovation? You girls are so funny.”

      “But you’ve got to admit, that guy’s seriously odd,” Amita said, sitting back down.

      Gorata put her hands up in front of her as a sign of giving up. “Yeah, okay, you two win. He is weird. When I was out with him, I always had a feeling that both of us might be on the same mission – looking for Mr Right.”

      “Ha!” Kelebogile said. “I think you hit a bull’s eye there.”

      “I always thought as much too,” Amita added.

      “So now, what about you?” Gorata asked, looking at Kelebogile.

      “Me? I told you, I had my game and it was great,” Kelebogile replied. She was suddenly very busy with the croissant crumbs on her plate.

      “But you left out the man part.” Gorata wasn’t going to let her get away that easily.

      “Kelebogile with a man? This is news. Please do tell,” Amita said, pushing her long hair out of her face so she could take a bite of the watermelon slice Gorata had placed in front of her.

      “Okay, okay. But listen, before I say anything, I want to say I’m not like you guys. I know it’s not fair, because I always give you two a lot of grief about your dates and men and everything, but don’t do the same to me. I don’t think I can take it, not this time. Okay? We need to agree on that before I speak.”

      Amita looked at Gorata and grinned. They both put one hand up in the air and one on their hearts and said together, “We promise.”

      “Ah – stop it, you two, I’m really serious,” Kelebogile said.

      Gorata felt bad about teasing her housemate. She could see Kelebogile was not amused. “Okay, sorry, we’ll be serious. Right, Amita?”

      “Right.”

      Kelebogile collected some of the plates and took them to the sink, then came back and sat down. “His name is Mark. Mark Wilson. He’s American, and white. He’s a volunteer at Hope Springs, that Aids hospice near the school. He’s a nurse. I think I really like him.

      “We had such a lovely time yesterday after the game. Doing nothing really, just walking around Joburg. All the trees are flowering and it smelled so lovely. And he was so interested in everything . . . in me . . . and what I do at school. It was lovely. I’ve never really met a man like him before.”

      Gorata reached out and covered her friend’s hand with hers. She’d never heard Kelebogile speak about a man like that, she knew this was important. “So? What about the game in Rustenburg? Is he going?”

      “He wants to. I thought we might pass by my parents’ place. I might as well bite the bullet early,” Kelebogile said.

      Amita was confused. “What’s the deal?”

      “Her father’s a racist,” Gorata said.

      “I wouldn’t call him a racist. He’s a traditionalist,” Kelebogile attempted.

      “Give it whatever name you like, but he doesn’t like the races mixing. Actually he doesn’t like anybody mixing. He didn’t even want to accept a Zulu son-in-law. Didn’t he make waves when your sister was getting married to that Zulu guy from Durban?” Gorata asked.

      “Yes, he did. But she married him anyway. No – you’re right, he is a problem. But it doesn’t matter. He must just get used to it. It’s my life, anyway.”

      “Mark’s white and he’s an American. At least if he were a white South African . . .” Gorata mused.

      “My father will just have to get used to it. I like Mark and that’s all there is to it,” Kelebogile said firmly.

      Gorata heard the words, but she also knew Kelebogile was her father’s favourite. The last-born of four girls, Kelebogile was closer to her father than her mother. He’d named her himself, thanking God for her. He had been a teacher, and she became a teacher too. He was a local hero on the soccer circuit, and she played soccer as well.

      So it was going to be a problem when she pitched up with a white American boyfriend, no matter how tough a stance Kelebogile took.

      “Well then, what are you going to do?” Kelebogile turned the tables on Gorata.

      “What do you mean?”

      “You’re back to being manless. Or have you moved on to Showa?” Kelebogile teased.

      Gorata sipped at her coffee. “As a matter of fact, I had a date with him last night.”

      “You didn’t even let twenty-four hours pass before moving on to the next candidate?” Kelebogile faked shock, but then smiled. “Oh well, at least Showa fits in with your list a bit better.”

      “Ah, Kele! I don’t have a list! I told you already! How many times must I repeat that?” Gorata wondered how the conversation had drifted back to her.

      “You may not have it written down, but you have a list in here,” Kelebogile said, tapping a finger against the side of her head. “I wonder if Showa is flashy enough for your list? He tends to do the village thing.”

      “But he does have money,” Amita added.

      Gorata stood up to run water in the sink for the dishes to soak. “You two aren’t fair. I don’t have a list, I just have goals. I’m no different from you two. Kele, you want to win the national girls’ soccer league. Amita, you want a starring role in a soap opera. And I want to marry a man who fits my needs. What’s wrong with that?”

      “What’s wrong with that is your criteria. They’re blocking you from seeing what’s right in front of you,” Kelebogile said. “If he has no money, you can’t see him. If he doesn’t have the right car, he’s not there.”

      Gorata wondered if she was blind to her own ways. “Am I really like that? Am I really one of those women with a list like Bra Kee wrote about?”

      She didn’t want to think she was like that. She just wanted a man who was equal to her, so they could start out together and build a life. She knew men, they didn’t like a woman who was doing better professionally, it just caused problems. She enjoyed her career and she was successful, she didn’t want to feel ashamed about that. And why should she? But that didn’t mean she was a materialistic lister.

      “Listen,”