The Good Times

(An Exerpt from the novel "SoulMate")

By: Vusumzi Matomane

                     

The Good Times

The Nightingales played at the Beau Monde Cuisine their latest composition: Daddy’s Little Princess specially composed to suit the occasion—Portia’s twenty-first birthday. The socialites of Fortgale, celebrities, close friends, successful-and-famous professionals and members of the press were all present—cordially invited by Mr. Dube himself; to be part of the celebration. According to the Mr. Dube; there was no better way to celebrate achievements and special moments than with the company of dear friends congregated under one roof.

And so, even on this special occasion, Mrs, Mokoena, the Sibis, the Sokhelas, Odwa Nkosi and John Edgar were present; to witness the festivities of the big day—or rather; the big night.

“So, you’re John-of-all-trades?” Ntombi started with a forced smile on her face. She was fully aware of the camera-people who roamed the restaurant floor flashing cameras throughout the evening. And she did not want a funny-face published in the local newspapers. So, for the best part of the night Ntombi decided to force a half-decent-smile.

“I don’t follow,” the accused responded.

“You don’t only stalk defenceless women—you also trick them.”

            “I’m not sure I follow. I never stalked you—or tricked you into anything for that matter. In fact, we’re here because you owe me an apology: remember? You agreed to be my date, and now, here we are. I don’t understand the tricking part now.” John protested politely.

            It was common behaviour in Fortgale, especially at parties, to find couples quarrelling politely, in subdued voices whilst having heated arguments about this and that.

“I never agreed into anything—not in anything of this nature. I don’t attend parties—night parties. Technically, you forced me to agree into coming here John Edgar.”  Ntombi still maintained the smile.

She was alert in her conscious mind that the Beau Monde Cuisine was unlike the city park where she would have been free to raise her voice, point-out a thing or two, complain about this-and-that, pack her things and storm-out when dissatisfied.

The Beau Monde was a classical restaurant (intended by the Sibis) for people with style and class.

Storming-out now would be, definitely, uncalled-for. Such behaviour would divert all the attention to their table; creating embarrassment in the process—not only for John Edgar, but for her too. The nurse had to maintain a sweet temper even under the latest sour circumstance.

            “You can’t force people to agree with you, Nurse. Now, will you stop complaining and enjoy the party? ... I’d like to propose a toast; raise your glass,” John Edgar tried to escape the boiling-pot of complaints; seasoned with sprinkles of questions.

His toast, though, was swallowed by the applause given to Mr. Dube after his long speech that was adorned wit his business-prospects here-and-there.

            After the long speech, The Nightingales played, once more, now; their most admired song in Fortgale: When the World is Gone; I’ll be Loving You Still, a song that always got lovers to the dancing floor whenever performed by the quartet. The Nightingales were a sensation in and around Fortgale for their sweet tunes—songs such as: Before We Fell in Love, Let’s Go to the Moon, Heavenly Sweet, Your Smiling Eyes, Bridge Street, When We were Strangers…

When the World is Gone; I’ll be Loving You Still; was specially done by the Nightingales for the wedding of Nomsa Kapayi to Karabo Mokoena—and that was the wedding that the Fortgalers never forgot in a long time, and the song became a hit in Fortgale and was performed by the group in every joyous celebration.

           

            For more than five decades (since the discovery of coal in the region); the small town of Fortgale had been known as a paradise of the successful, rich and famous. Business boomed in Fortgale with The Dube Deep generating tens of billions of rands annually.

Gradually, the town became the jewel of the country. The Dube Deep owned by the coal-mining tycoon; Mr. Dube, was the heart and soul of Fortgale. Life was intertwined (directly and indirectly) to The Dube Deep, and for that fact, the big-old-man and his daughter, received more respect and attention than any other Fortgaler.      

Then there were the Mokoenas; who were a thread-and-needle that had sewn the warm garments of the Dubes.

Karabo Mokoena, a mechanical engineer, saw to the thermodynamic-affairs of the mine as well as improving design of the machinery used underground. Karabo was the engine of the mine whilst Nomsa did all the finances.

            ‘Nomsa you’re the brains of DD.’ The old-man would tell Mrs. Mokoena whenever he had the opportunity. Together, they; Mr. Dube, the Mokoenas and a team of engineers: designed, constructed and operated the world’s first emission-free fossil-fuel power-station. The state-of-the-art power-station (apart from megawatts) generated hundreds of billions of Rands for the small town of Fortgale. Migrants, business-people, scientists, engineers, researchers and scholars flocked into the small town—and so did the plastic-surgeon.

            Doctor Nkosi decided to come down and set up his practise, and his very first patient was Nomsa Mokoena. He gave her a new nose.         The long and pointed new nose became testimony in all of Fortgale that: Doctor Nkosi had a magical-and-miraculous knife that performed wonders—and Nomsa was living proof.

 Everything, suddenly, smelt sweet in the tunnels of her nostrils. Gone was the flat nose that she had been secretly mocked about, and made everything smelt badly. Nomsa had always thought the old nose a mistake; a mistake that Odwa Nkosi rectified.

“Odwa, please, you must help me.” Nomsa pleaded.

 In the absence of her husband (who was abroad on a business-trip), she decided to date Portia’s boyfriend for the birthday party.

            “Sasa, I’m unable to help you—I’ve too much work as it is. Besides; smoking and gambling addictions are beyond my scope of practise,” the young surgeon explained and continued to add, “The nature of your problems is mentally rooted. It requires the attention of a…a psychiatrist—however, I can always refer you to a friend of mine. She has had great success in this line of work and I’m sure…”

“No!” cried Nomsa in a whisper louder enough for his ears only.

She had heard or read somewhere; of how a psychiatrist could hypnotise a patient in an attempt to dig-out the roots of the patients’ problems. And Missus Mokoena had a couple of skeletons in her closet: she did not want the world to know about her smoking and gambling addictions, and above all, that she was carrying Odwa Nkosi’s child. Those were the skeletons (she thought); that the psychiatrist would, perhaps, if not probable, let loose and parade them for the members of the public to behold.

            And it was common practise within the medical fraternity in Fortgale to leak crucial information about high-profiled individuals to the press. She did not want her personal stuff to become public news.

“I’ll see no magician—who’ll make me fall asleep, and steal information from me, and sell it to the papers. You must help me. Either that or, I tell Princess Portia about our little secret—and my husband. And, Odwa; remember, I can always survive, no matter what the future brings, whilst you—you’ll be reduced to nothing… I’m going to the ladies. It’s your call and it’s your baby, Doc.”

            The Nightingales kept on entertaining through the hours of the night; whilst the Sibis, (the Sokhelas gave notice in the last-moments that due to a family crisis; they could not make it to the party), Mr. Dube and daughter: were chatting, dining and wining.

Their grandest table, positioned in the centre of the room, was the centre of attraction with its glamorous decorations—and the birthday-girl, dressed on a lovely and unusual outfit. She was dressed in a waitresses’ garb—apron and all.

            “Oh, Portia, my dear; I wish your mother could wake up from her grave and see how beautiful and intelligent a young woman you’ve turned out to be,” Mrs. Sibi was saying, “And what was it again that you were studying at varsity, Sweetheart?”

“I’m now a writer Mrs. Sibi, I’ve always been—and currently, I’m working on a children’s’ book that tackles the impacts of global-warming.” Portia explained to Mrs. Sibi who was very touched by the philosophy of the young woman

            “Now, that’s what I call intelligence, my dear: feed them the right stuff whilst they’re young, and they’ll grow up to be the best men and women of character and strong will—I admire your line of thinking, and I support you fully, Sweetheart—and I know that; Thandeka: may her soul rest in peace— is happy for the way you’ve turned-out to be.” The madam of the Beau Monde Cuisine encouraged, pointed-out and consoled.

“May her soul rest in peace,” the trio around the table sang in unison.

Immediately after the chorus Mr. Dube started, “But, Florence, the writers I know; are the poorest bunch I’ve ever come across.”

            “Lwazi, ever since we had this money; our problems began…and I say: all of this money we don’t need. The greatest wealth we can ever have is pure water and clean air. Your daughter here; has a solid point—you ought to support the child.” The old lady advised.

And just after her advise, and as usual; her husband added, “Dube, my friend, we can’t expect the whole world to dig coals—some of us must cook, others must build, others must entertain, others must do this-and-that and some—a chosen few; are being called to write. Let the child express her. She might teach the world a thing or two.” The old friends tried to soften ‘daddy’s’ stubborn mind.

            What mattered to Mr. Dube, since a young man; was currencies, profits and losses—business: imports and exports. His sound knowledge of finance had earned him friendships with the state-president and some of the ministers in the cabinet. He was very good at predicting what will happen in the financial-markets and knew what needed to be done to improve the economy of his country.

            ‘What you can do, Vuyani,’ he was told the president whilst they were having drinks in his mansion, ‘is to sponsor the achieving students in engineering—encourage them to become researchers…scientists, mh? Devise means of generating more funds for the kids: impose more tax on alcohol and tobacco. Underground; you’ve got most of the things that the world needs. All you need now are world-class scientists—in all faculties, and your problems will be solved…now; I’ll pour us other drinks.’

‘I totally agree,’ His Excellency had agreed; to the advise and the idea.

            And so the party continued to its climax with: The Nightingales still playing, the kitchen-staff sweating it out behind the scene, Zanele (the most hard-working domestic-worker in all of Fortgale) busy at the scullery, waiters and waitresses moving in smooth movements—attending to and serving everyone in the house, the media taking pictures, Mrs. Sibi, now chatting with Portia, and elaborating to the young woman how ‘men have inflated the globe with ugly gases’ and now; clueless about deflating it.

“A science which does not bring us nearer to God; is worthless…perhaps you could paraphrase that, my dear, and put it in your book.” She told the aspiring writer.

“I’d like to go home now—it’s been fun…enjoyed the party. I need my rest now.”

            “’M glad you enjoyed it. I think we should do this more often.”

“Edgar; I owe you nothing now—is that the life of the Architect: all party and no work?” Ntombi asked, now; with a true-smile on her face.

            “Oh no, it’s nothing like that at all. You still strike me…never mind. About the cookies and coffee: I’ve changed my mind; does that offer still stand?”

“Take me home John Edgar.”

Copyright © Vusumzi Matomane 2009

 [...to be continued...]