.
mulberry-coloured lips. His brown eyes were soulfully prominent in his mocha face.
The muscles in his arms flexed as he lovingly strummed his guitar. He was wearing a cream muscle vest and white linen pants that provided the enthralled Masedi with tantalising glimpses of muscular thighs in a teasing show-and-tell game. She managed to wrench her gaze away and noticed that all the other women were also staring in desire at the musician.
She watched as he came closer to their table, strumming his greeting, giving each table attention. She became more and more nervous, until her breath caught when he stopped at their table. She ducked her head and refused to look at him, thinking that she didn’t need this torrent of feelings; she simply wasn’t ready for it.
Kagiso and Tsholo tried to poke her as discreetly as possible so that she would look at him, but Masedi refused. Until the man went down on his knee and played especially for her. An exasperated yet amused smile broke out on her face.
The singer frowned in what looked like consternation and then quickly smiled to cover the play of emotion fluttering in his gut. He nodded, got up and headed for the stage, where a waitress had placed a small table with water, while segueing seamlessly into an old Setswana folk song.
“We knew it! We knew it!” Tsholo clapped in excitement.
“O bua ka eng?” Masedi asked, pretending confusion.
“We knew you’d like him. You melted!” Kagiso said with pleasure.
Masedi sighed in defeat, shook her head and looked off into the evening sky, not wanting to admit to the clear attraction she felt.
“How can you say that?”
“The last time you smiled like that was when you were with the bastard Brian,” Kagiso stated.
“You think I like this singer?” Masedi put as much contempt as she could manage in her voice.
“Sure you do, babe. You couldn’t even look at him,” Tsholo challenged.
“Get real. I’m a chartered accountant. He’s a troubadour. So am I going to be driving him around to his gigs? Paying his rent?” Masedi responded.
“We aren’t talking about marriage. We’re talking about someone to hang out with,” Kagiso retorted. “And anyway, Bastard Brian was an investment banker – or should I say investment wanker.”
“Ijooooo wêêê . . . Huh uh . . .” Masedi ran her fingers through her hair in frustrated anxiety.
“Listen, babe. All we are saying is, allow yourself to feel something for someone else, so that you can feel when the right one comes along. That’s all,” Tsholo pleaded.
“I don’t know . . . I just don’t know, okay . . .” Masedi’s voice trailed off.
“And anyway, who says he’ll go for you? Look at all these drooling women. But if he does, all we ask is that you give him a chance,” Kagiso insisted.
“All right – if . . .” Masedi acquiesced.
Her friends clapped their hands in excitement – progress, finally.
After the show an exhausted Masedi checked her watch. It was close to midnight and it didn’t look as if her two friends were anywhere near ready to go home. They were dancing to the DJ’s music. Truth be told, she had waited all evening for the troubadour to come and woo her, but he had been too busy with groupie after groupie, treating each one as if they were special.
Masedi smirked. Any man who did that was most assuredly a player, and she wasn’t in the market for that. She also had to secretly admit that she was disappointed; it was nice to be pursued by a man that everyone wanted. Clearly that flutter in her stomach had been felt only by her, and she wasn’t of the age where she was willing to traumatise herself with unrequited love. A woman only deserved to experience that once in her life. More than that was just cruel and undeserved punishment.
Masedi picked up her bag, stood up and headed for the gyrating forms of her friends.
“Last song, guys. I want to go home.”
“You’re always such a party pooper,” Kagiso complained.
“You mean I’m always the designated driver,” Masedi retorted.
“Designated driver, party pooper . . . Is there a difference?” Tsholo asked.
Masedi laughed. “Nope. Maybe one day you’d like to be the designated driver so that I can have a good time?”
“Hell no,” Tsholo responded.
“Maybe we should take a taxi?” Kagiso suggested.
“Maybe you should,” Masedi agreed. “I’m leaving after this song.”
“Okay, we need a bathroom break, and then we can go,” Kagiso said and they headed off to the restroom.
Masedi made her way through the crowd, focusing on the path, not looking into people’s faces . . . until she came face to face with the troubadour. The two of them tried to get past each other in that awkward dance that strangers do, but just couldn’t get it right.
They smiled at each other, and then frowned again as the same kind of fluttering robbed them both of breath while they stared into each other’s eyes. The air around them seemed to crackle, then the soft breeze that blew through the open-air restaurant stirred his dreadlocks and blew her hair into her eyes.
Masedi’s eyes went wide as she wondered what this meant, and she was shocked when the man lifted his hand and brushed the hair behind her ear. Electricity seemed to shoot from his hand to her ear. They both gasped in astonishment, staring at each other.
One of the gyrating bodies pushed Masedi off balance and she ended up flush against the singer’s chest. She felt desire rush through her body with a force that exceeded even her experience with Brian. He felt his member stir in interest, and was floored because this never happened to him.
“Uhm . . .” was all Masedi could say.
“Yeah . . . Wow,” he said.
“Uhm . . .”
“Yeah, strange, huh?” he replied.
Masedi could only nod as his musky masculine smell enveloped her and the warmth of his palms burned into her shoulders.
“I have to go. Now. Immediately,” she said anxiously.
“Really?” He felt he couldn’t let her leave.
“I don’t do this kind of thing. I’m not a groupie. So . . . Nice singing.”
Masedi pulled herself out of his arms and rushed towards the entrance blindly, feeling strangely bereft but determined not to look back. If she had, she would have noticed the troubadour staring after her, clearly intrigued.
Chapter 2
2
Pelo Sebata was dreaming of his dead parents. They were sitting under a huge morula tree outside his childhood home. His head was in his mother’s lap and she was laughing, saying how proud she was of him. His father kept telling him to stop crying, sit up and look.
He obeyed and saw a voluptuous figure dressed in a beaded skirt and bra, dancing the traditional dance as people he knew to be his relatives clapped for her. His father told him it was time to wake up and see the gift that was there for him. Then his parents got up, held hands and faded away.
As Pelo turned to look at the woman dancing, he couldn’t see her face, but then gradually their eyes met and he saw it was the beautiful woman from last night. Light flooded around her as she danced and danced, smiling at him.
Pelo’s eyes flew open to stare at the painting on the ceiling of his bedroom as the dream played in his mind. He wondered what it meant, if anything. Dreams were dreams, right?
Yes, that woman was beautiful, and yes, he’d had that strange reaction to