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183 Nompumelelo Sinxoto’s Bed Karabo Moleke He used his fingers like a spade as he parted my thighs. I began to cry, but when I lifted my hand up to wipe my face, there were no tears. I had given him the name ‘the Gingerbeer Man’, but they called him Malume Ali. Forty-eight hours ago, my uncle and the Gingerbeer Man had been waiting outside for my aunt and me. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, big hands and a stern look on his face. My uncle was talking non-stop. He had a bottle of brandy under his arm and a brown envelope in his the top pocket of his jacket and I also noticed that there were six new goats in the family kraal. This, I would learn much later, was my dowry, ilobola. I had been sold to this man and he was going make sure he got full value for his bottle of brandy, cash and six goats. We travelled to Johannesburg in his Ford Laser 1400. It had sheepskin seat covers and smelled like it had been driven through a field of lavender. The radio had a cassette player, but there were no cassettes in the Gingerbeer Man’s car, and he never put the radio on once on our long trip. A few hundred kilometers out of Mount Frere, I slowly felt my home town bid a sad farewell to me, the last thought as I fell asleep. He woke me up once, when we arrived at some petrol station. He asked me if I needed to use the ladies room and handed me a pie and a bottle of coke. For a moment I had forgotten I was on a trip with the Gingerbeer Man, but his unfriendly face was enough to remind me. He escorted me to the ladies’ toilet and told me that he would be waiting outside. Silly man. Where would I go even if the thought of running away crossed my mind?. I came out to find him right there and I followed him to the car. It was unlocked with all the doors open, maybe to air the sheepskin seat covers. 184 I stayed awake for the rest of the trip and I thought about my aunt and uncle, trying to make sense of their reason for sending me away with this man. The digital clock on the dashboard of the Ford Laser read ‘22:45’ when the car stopped in what would be our nest, the Gingerbeer Man’s home – and mine. * * * He was hungry from our long trip and he asked if I could cook. He said he needed to know if he would be able to come home to a well cooked meal, each day after work. I guess it was not too much to ask for. After all he had paid for my services. He led me up a single flight of stairs and after pressing a yellow button on the wall, huge steel doors stood wide open. As soon as we stepped in the doors slid shut again, with us in their belly. Oh, Thixo, I was in Johannesburg at last! I had heard of Johannesburg and all its frills and ills, lights and plights, but the fact that I was going to discover it under the care of the Gingerbeer Man took the spark right out of it. When we reached the third floor, the steel doors seemed only too happy to let us out again, room 304 – the third door on your left. The Gingerbeer Man unlocked the burglar bars first, then the door and flicked on a switch, and my new life began. From where I stood I could see his kitchenette filled to capacity with a mini-fridge, a two plate stove and a small wall mounted cabinet with glass doors. Closer inspection revealed his matching dinner set – four white cups and saucers plus four plates and side plates; a steel cup with four knives, four forks, four spoons and three teaspoons; a sugar basin filled to the brim with brown sugar, a small Cerebos salt cellar, a box of Rajah Hot Curry and one filled with Robertsons BBQ Spice. A bag of Iwisa Maize Meal and a wooden bowl with fresh tomatoes and onions completed the list of contents in the cupboard. An electric kettle and three spotless pots stood on the kitchen table. ‘I am going to take a quick bath. Looking forward...

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