Oyama: Her Story

CHAPTER 44

The convoy slows as it pulls up to the red carpet. Leon steps out of the lead car, his ear pressed to his comms as he scans the crowd with hawk-like precision. The Rolls Royce door opens, and Qhawe steps out first, adjusting his blazer. His presence alone commands attention. He turns and extends his hand to me, his smile reassuring.
“Come on, Marvel.” I roll my eyes at the nickname but take his hand, stepping out gracefully. The cool evening air brushes against my skin. As soon as we step onto the carpet, the cameras erupt into a frenzy.
Shouts of, “Over here!” and Qhawe’s name is being shouted from all directions with flashes. He helps me up the steps until we reach half way and this is where we are supposed to be taking pictures.
He leans down, “Don’t smile too much, they can smell nervousness” he says and I laugh into his chest.
I’m trying my hardest to not be blinded by the flashes, so I look up at him and he looks down at me and smiles, “Mr. Mahlatji over here” others are shouting.
“Who’s the lady you with sir?” asks a reporter.
He leans down again, “Just show them the ring don’t say anything” I take a breath and slowly lift my hand and let the light catch a glimpse of the Diamond ring. The flashes begin to intensify, and I hear gasps ripple through the crowd. Reporters scramble to get closer, shouting over one another.
"Is that an engagement ring, Mr. Mahlatji?"
"When’s the wedding?"
"Who’s the lucky lady?"

Qhawe places a hand on my back, his touch grounding me amidst the chaos. He gives a small smirk, the kind that doesn’t give anything away, but still manages to say everything.
“Just keep walking,” he whispers.
We move up the stairs, his hand never leaving my back, as if to shield me from the frenzy. By the time we reach the entrance, the roar of the crowd is muffled by the heavy glass doors. Inside, the atmosphere is just as dazzling but far more controlled. The grand hall is a masterpiece in itself. Towering sculptures line the walls, and the air is filled with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses.
We go and greet his parents who are all over the place, talking to investors and donors.
Mogale finds us, “Yeah thanks for leaving me out there”.
“You were right behind us” says Qhawe, “Uphi o’Lwandle?”
“Bar” Mogale replies, “He’s already tired”
“Shit me too and we still have 3 hours to go” he says.
“What time do these things end?” I ask.
Qhawe starts to pretend to cry, “They go as far as beyond midnight, but at around 10pm we are allowed to go home” he sobs onto my shoulder.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“Well makoti,” says Mogale, “You mingle and socialize, everyone in this room has something you want whether you can see it now or not”
“You see that woman over there” he says pointing, “Premier of Gauteng, everyone wants to be friends with her. Why? Because things move quicker when the Premier is in your pocket”
“Or him” Qhawe nods, “He’s the Mayor of Cape Town, he’s here because he wants campaign funds, so he’s gonna need to sell himself to anyone who’s willing to listen”
“You got fashion moguls, Media Moguls, Politicians and Business Tycoons, everyone here, isn’t here to buy Art, they are here on Business, this maybe a gallery event, but it’s a Business event first, speaking of which, let me go make Lwandle introduce Olwethu to some Fashion people so we can get her to move here, I don’t like that she lives in Cape Town” Mogale says.
“Yeah me neither” says Qhawe.
Mogale kisses my cheek and walks off.

The moment Mogale walks off, I feel the weight of the room press down on me. It's one thing to walk into a glamorous event, but it's another to realize just how much strategy and maneuvering go into every conversation, every handshake. The subtle power plays happening all around me are dizzying, and the last thing I want is to get caught up in it.
"Alright, Marvel," Qhawe says, his voice low as he turns to me, "Let’s make our rounds. First, I’ll introduce you to some people who are good for... connections. Then we’ll find a quieter corner before I lose my mind."
His smile is playful, but his eyes give away the exhaustion that’s starting to settle in.
I nod, taking a deep breath, “Let’s get this over with then.”
Qhawe leads me through the room, and despite the bustling crowd, I notice that all eyes seem to gravitate toward him. It's not just his wealth or status that draws attention—it's the way he moves through the room, like a king among commoners, exuding confidence without ever seeming arrogant.
“Well. Well. Well. If it ain’t number 2” says a man wearing a Chef uniform.
“Uhg I don’t understand, why the Help is talking to the Host” Qhawe says in a sarcastic obnoxious tone.
“Yeah this help is in charge of your food” says the man.
The 2 start laughing and hugs each other and patting their backs.
“How you been?” Qhawe asks.
“Life’s been good, thanks for hooking me up with this” says the man.
“Come on now, you don’t have to thank me, I eat you eat you know the game.” Qhawe says. “Still can’t thank you enough, business been booming” he says.
“Babe this right here is Reagile, we went to the same culinary school, and traveled Europe together” Qhawe says.
“Sawubona mama unjani?” he asks reaching his hand across.
“Ngiyaphila unjani” I say and he nods.
“Boy I need to keep swerving alright” says the man.
“No problem ntjaka I’ll catch you later”
“Hai na flopo” and we walk again.