A strange encounter

Mandla Zibi

He walks into his favourite bar and immediately changes into his usual cheerful optimistic self. He smiles inwardly on seeing that his best drinking buddy, Max, is there, sitting at the usual table. Good old Max. The man rushes towards Max and, grabbing a chair, sits down and stares at him. Max’s beer is at the halfway mark and the glass is empty.

So. You drinking beer? Max asks.

Max refills his glass and waves at a waiter. Then he takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one for himself. He offers the pack to the man.

Heita. You look excited tonight.

Nothing man, just the usual stuff, the man replies, helping himself to a cigarette.

Max grunts and turns his sleepy eyes to the hovering waiter. Three beers.

Max is a dark, fat man with that strange stillness people like. Every Saturday night he is to be found at this bar, at the same table, listening to the music until the early hours of Sunday. He likes nothing better than to sit there and let himself be entertained by the music and the outrageous stories of his drinking buddies. And so he sets the scene for his friend. Three beers; clean glasses; and his sleepy-eyed attention.

The man begins his conversation.

Sbali, you know what’s the shit about this country? God! We are still so mentally colonised we are the biggest monkeys in Africa. And the amazing thing is that they tell us we are the miracle of this continent. Best constitution and all that. Just because we abolished the death penalty, legalised abortion and recognised moffie so-called rights. Shit.

He takes a gulp of his beer, looks hard at Max and then contemplates the distance.
Man, you know I am as democratic as the best of them and all that, but there is a limit, you know?

Anyway, I go to this stupid place on last Saturday, in Esselen Street, the low-life side. It’s called the Bamboo Bar for some reason. Bamboo is loose man. The place is full of prostitutes, pimps, small-time hustlers and pathetic wannabees. I love it, it’s the perfect place to feel wicked.

So there am I, alone. I like being alone sometimes. Just me and my thoughts. And the music is good, and the beer, and everyone is dancing. I am sitting back, just soaking it in and wham! It hits me. Or rather, she hits me. She is dancing and occasionally looking in my direction, man. I can’t believe it. She is beautiful: athletic hips and legs pumping to the music; small tight breasts; full red lips framed by a dark, smoky face. Fabulous deep-red hair cascading down her slender neck. Our eyes meet again and I go: yeah, this is it.

Look, I know the place, man, as I told you, it’s a low-life place. But you know, once in a while, the genuine thing comes along and it’s mixed in with the muck. Ask your gold and diamond prospectors and they’ll tell you.

But fuck the philosophising. I am hooked. I know I want her. Action. OK, I may not be the gloved one and all that, but I have my moments, man. You know me, Sbali, I have the rhythm, but I lack the African flair. Growing up on that white, rock ’n roll Capital Radio shit killed all my skills man.

Anyway, I go up to this woman. I look into her eyes and dance. She reciprocates. The first thing I notice on entering her orbit is her smell. I don’t know what it was man, but it was intoxicating. You know Max, there is nothing more powerful than a woman’s smell. She can be the ugliest creature on earth, but her smell will make the difference. And yes, she can be the most beautiful woman too, but that will not help if she smells badly.

So there I am, Max my brother, grinning like a monkey and having a half-hard-on and feeling like the luckiest man in the world. Meanwhile she is just smiling at me and dancing and hugging me.

After the song, I invite her to my table and start my routine: drinks, my charming smile and more drinks. We click immediately. She is intelligent, funny and rather big-voiced. But no matter: I like masculine women.

Man, you know me, with these binges of mine I end up remembering less than thirty percent of what happened. The rest I make up. But this time, Baba, everything that happened that night is still crystal clear in my mind. And believe me, I am not impressed at all — this is one episode I want to rub out, totally incinerate out of me, man.

The man pauses, sighs dramatically, and beckons to the waiter. Turning his attention back to Max, he goes: You don’t mind some few shots of firewater, man? I am feeling a bit pesky tonight. Ya, perhaps you were right earlier on. He takes out his wallet. Max shrugs his massive shoulders.

To the waiter, the man calls out: Another three beers and two double shots of Bells and Coke, man.

A small silence. Then Max speaks up.

So Baba, the fish is baited and is starting to nibble? What now?
Damn right, Max my man, but I am clueless. Do I suggest we leave for my place? Or another joint, perhaps more classy? I decide to let things take care of themselves for the moment. Just keep focus and play it by ear, you know. So I crank up my old brain to its wittiest notch and keep the drinks coming.

But with each passing moment, with each dance touch, the fires of lust are growing hotter, man. Something must give. We are now at that stage of alcohol-induced euphoria when nothing else matters outside the ambit of our desire. The man laughs shyly.

So I go: Baby, how about a change of scene? There is a club just two streets away, its actually closer to where you stay.

She goes: Ya, it’s getting late. Is it the club part of that hotel … what’s the name?

Yeah, the Manhattan, I reply.

Now Max, the Manhattan is one of the most expensive hotels in the Pretoria inner city — R400 a night — but what can I say? I was in a generous mood, to say the least.

Uh-huh.

So we go out, get into a cab and within five minutes we are walking into the lobby of the hotel. Luckily, they have a room at that late hour. As the man behind the counter does his stuff with the paperwork and keys, I glance at my babe beside me. I am not sure, Max, but there is an urgent question in her dark beautiful eyes. But all women are like that, aren’t they? They get all uptight and nervous all of a sudden.

Max holds up a hand.

Wait man, I have to go to the loo. Max gets up.

What? OK man, I need a refill anyway.

As Max walks away the man swings around in his chair, surveying the room. He again signals to the waiter. An acquaintance sitting at another table calls out a greeting and waves. The man turns his back and hastily pours beer into his glass. Max comes back. The waiter takes the man’s order of two more double shots of whisky.

Shit. This is the part that kills me. (A terrible smile.) Baba, I took her hand and went up the stairs to the first floor. Room 112. I opened the door and even before looking around the room I turned and took her deep into my arms. She was light and hard against my need. I looked deep into her eyes and kissed her like no other Frenchman has ever kissed a woman. I was frantic by then and I think so was she. I lifted her onto the bed and began tearing off her clothes. The top came off and I saw what the warning had been all about. No breasts. I stripped her of her pants and there — it was revealed. She was a man. A very well-hung man. I was so angry I could have killed him. So I fucked her. From behind. Shit, what could I do?

Max stares at the man, sighs and calls the waiter.

One bottle of brandy, please.


LitNet: 11 May 2004

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