Don't Call Me Ugly

Chapter 2

Needless I say that the trek back to Arcadia is with heavy hearts. The walk is made longer by the horrible thoughts bothering my mind. The brand of ugly discrimination which accompanied me from Limpopo to Pretoria is now resurfacing. Here in the capital city where people are thought to be more considerate and welcoming, all I get is insults and damnation.

On stepping into the single-bedroom flat that I share with Abdul, I slide into the sofa, drawing a blanket over my head despite the warm early afternoon weather. The torture within makes me unresponsive to the surrounding's rising temperature.

In troubled times like this one needs moral and emotional support from a woman, but I have no lady to call mine so I'll rather derive comfort from the cotton sheet. If my mother were still alive, her sagely words would soothe me this evening. I'm tired of reporting my jobless status to my Limpopo aunt who often sends me money from her petty trade. The woman has done well to sponsor me through a diploma course, I should be the one to be sending her cash. But here I am, almost useless.

Abdul returns from work at a quarter past seven, finding me covered on the sofa. "Are you not hot? He yanks off the sheet and, on observing my dour moods, asks: "Are you okay?"

A heavy sigh sums up my feelings. "Hmm." I sit up, fold my legs on the sofa while he drops his bag and walks to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

"You're supposed to be at the internet café. What happened to you?"

I shake my head. "Let's not talk about that, please. You know the story."

"Still no message from agents?" He pours water in a glass cup and drinks from it, after which he takes a seat on the other sofa in the room.

"I couldn't even browse for long before I left the place."

Thinking I lack funds to pay for browsing, Abdul comes forward, digs out a wallet from his back pocket, ready to hand me some cash, as he does often. "I don't have much here, but..."

"It's not about money."

My curt statement shocks him, forcing a squint on his face. He then returns to his seat, taking the posture of someone willing to give a pep talk. If not for this man – this stranger who plucked me from the Township shelter where I used to live – life would be meaningless by now.

I've been staying here for four months, paying nothing as house rent. I offer no dime for electricity nor do I contribute for feeding or housekeeping. Yet he chats with me like a brother and advises me from time to time. He even accords me with respect, the kind given to a responsible sibling. His presence around me wipes out my foul moods. What would I have done without this lad?

To think that he's not so buoyant speaks volumes about his gentle soul. As a security guard in a Menlyn's private residence, there's much he ought to do for himself with his meagre income. This flat lacks the basic things a young man will rush to buy. His TV is the old cathode-ray type and there's no sound system in the house. Abdul hardly listens to music, anyway. He only watches TV occasionally.

Instead of such luxuries, he'll rather share his flat with me. He cuts out extravagant spending to keep up every month which I respect him for.

Although I feel like telling him about my Hatfield encounters, to mention that I trekked from Arcadia to Hatfield might be misconstrued for indirect demand for pocket allowance. I'll rather keep mute about the insult hurled at me. It's not every event one shares with a friend.

Abdul sighs and then hangs his head low. We've been here several times before. Pep talks don't do much; our eyes lock in mutual agreement. A paying job is the only thing that'll wipe out my moodiness.