Cape Town

YET HE WAS OBVIOUSLY TRYING in his own way to work out how we could stay together.

“We’re going to this wedding,” Sediba told me, as I was getting ready for work two weeks after Lelo got married. We were walking around each other as we got dressed, trying to hurry so that he’d have time to take me to work before starting his long drive back home. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and his forehead wrinkled as he focused on deciding which pair of pants he would wear. I pulled on my usual pair of black jeans, which I insisted looked professional because I couldn’t be bothered to buy or wear formal pants. Sediba had agreed they were better than trouser pants, which he hated and called old, so that cemented my decision.

“We’re going,” he continued, “because these are good friends of mine and I want you to meet them. Also, we won’t have to avoid each other like at the last wedding.” He had remained friends with the guys he had met at varsity. Unlike me, he had gone alone, without high school friends and he’d had a true fresh start, not taken pains to hide his sexuality. Refusing to keep moving between two or three worlds, wearing different hats for different friends, he had met people who were also gay and stayed with them—friendships that were now still solid. He had mentioned once or twice that I’d like them or they’d like me, but they were scattered across the country and there hadn’t been an opportunity to meet them all until now, when his friend Scott was marrying a guy Sediba hadn’t yet met. It would be a first for both of us: a wedding between two guys, both White.

This was the first time in two weeks that he had mentioned Lelo’s wedding. The memory of that weekend still stung. We tip-toed around the topic, and when he said “the last wedding,” his voice lifting the words as if with the tips of two fingers and then suddenly dropping them with disgust. I stopped buttoning my jeans and watched him.

He sat on the bed and tugged at his shoelaces, not really tying them, just pulling with impatience.

“We’re going. It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Different.”

I’d been the one waking up at night restless, but his anger about Lelo’s wedding came out in quieter, less detectable ways. I could feel it when he stood still at my window, staring outside with his jaw clenched, or when he stared at the floor instead of watching TV. I could see it in his eyes when he hesitated at the door, jangling his keys, not wanting to leave. The only times that he had seemed visibly upset before had been when he argued about politics with Trunka, Lelo, and Base, the four of them divided between PAC and ANC. Seeing him this way now was unsettling. I stood a few steps to his left, holding my breath.

“You’re . . . angry,” I said.

He glanced up at me briefly, not really seeing me and then back down, back to the thing he was doing with his shoelaces. When he was finished he put both his hands at his sides on the bed, his shoulders arching as he took a deep breath.

“You know what Trunka said to me?” I went to sit behind him, staying quiet. “He said it only took Lelo one week. One week and he was back at Lerato’s house. As soon as Masechaba goes to school in the morning, Lelo is back at Lerato’s house. He’s bringing paper work home, going into work later because it gives him time with Lerato in the mornings while his wife is at school.”

I said: “Well, he always did say he’d never leave her. Remember? Before he got married he always said how good she was in bed and he could never leave . . . ” It was unlike me to repeat something like this and I felt shame slither through me like a quiet snake through long grass. We didn’t talk about the guys at home and their sex lives. Sediba looked at me for a moment like he was taking in a stranger, and I turned my palms up to say I didn’t know what to make of any of it.

“Good in bed?”

“Diba . . . ”

I didn’t really want to be talking about Lelo and Masechaba or what he was doing with Lerato. I didn’t want to remember. But Sediba turned to face me and asked me the question as if seriously expecting an answer: “And if that’s how he feels, if he likes sleeping with her, why the fuck did he get married to someone else?”

I panicked. I was not used to dealing with an angry Sediba. My mind said the thing to do was let him say what he needed to—be quiet and let him talk. But then he stopped talking, sat up straight, took a deep breath, and after a bit stood up to go and look in the mirror.

“Let’s go, then,” he said finally. “Let’s get on with the day.”

I stood up and followed him out of the flat and to the car, where he got in and then out again, saying, “Can you drive for a bit, I need to think.” I took the wheel and we drove silently through busy streets and mild traffic jams, the radio off.

When he dropped me off, he said again, more calmly this time: “We’re going to this wedding.” I nodded and squeezed his hand. Usually he’d try to kiss me and I’d say: “Not here, my patients and colleagues . . . ,” but that day when he leaned over I moved forward and quickly kissed him before his mouth reached mine, like I was apologizing for standing by while other people did things like get married to one person while sleeping with another. Having grown up in a house with my silent parents, I had been taught to be quiet about anger, resentment, and contempt. I had been taught it was unrefined to express these things.

I stood at the hospital entrance and watched as he turned right and headed towards the highway, feeling somewhat helpless. We were going to this wedding and we were going together.

All week, whenever we spoke on the phone, I avoided asking him how the other guys were. He didn’t seem angry when we spoke—he never did when he was away from me. He liked to save certain conversations for when we saw each other, that he found it impolite to discuss on the phone certain things, private things that should only be said face to face. Sediba would always be the boy from the family who made you want to straighten your tie and shine your shoes.

When he came to fetch me that weekend he was wearing a very flattering black ivy cap with his favourite dark blue jeans and white t-shirt. I noticed that his belt was new. Sediba was a bit of a shopper. He liked to treat himself to little accessories: a belt here, a hat there. Nothing too big or expensive, but he’d often go out after a long week and find something small that complemented an item in his wardrobe. He strolled into the flat, cheerfully giving me a kiss as he always did when he greeted me and then throwing his keys on the coffee table. He was obviously looking forward to this trip. I hadn’t seen him this cheerful in a while.

“Our flight leaves in two hours and I still don’t know what I’m going to wear tonight,” I said. I was nervous about meeting his friends and I was nervous about us going out together, to meet people and sit together where everyone knew that we would go back to the same room and sleep in the same bed. I was not ready for that, but I suspected that saying so would throw a dark cloud over our weekend. And even if I were not ready, I wanted to have a good time. An escape from everything I knew sounded quite tempting.

Sediba took my hand and led me to the bedroom. “That’s why you have me, isn’t it? You’re in this for the free fashion advice, right?”

I grinned. “That’s the only reason I’m in this.” And like that I felt more at ease because there was a return to the Sediba I enjoyed, the one who could make me laugh in an instant.

We played around in the bedroom, with me choosing the clothes that I knew he’d disapprove of and laying them on the bed, pretending I was seriously considering them while he closed his eyes and shook his head, insisting, “You’d be lost without me. You’re lucky I came when I did. In fact I’m staying with you just to make sure you don’t repeat any of these fashion mistakes,” and I’d say: “Please don’t ever leave me then!”

By the time we got serious and looked at our watches we were having to throw our things together in a rush and dash to the airport. I had never been on a trip with anyone other than my parents and friends before. It took me a moment to realize that I was starting to feel anxious not because of this trip, but because every time I stepped on a plane my body remembered having to take a seat between two people who rarely spoke to each other. I had to adjust my mood and start looking forward to a great weekend. Sediba looked relaxed and content, resting his head against the back of his seat by the window. “Don’t be alarmed by some of my friends,” he said with an easy chuckle. “They’ve never met someone I was seeing so they might ask a lot of questions. They’re all a bit curious.”

I was jealousy. I didn’t have any old friends who could look forward to meeting him. Andrew remained curious about Sediba, dropping hints about us all going out together with Angie, the woman he was now seeing, but I kept postponing the date and avoiding the subject whenever I could.

“What are they curious about?”

“Well, I mean I’ve gone out with one or two of them but never very seriously and I don’t normally offer details about what’s going on with me.”

I nodded. I hadn’t thought about that but of course it made sense that I would meet someone he had been with. I still didn’t like to ask Sediba about boyfriends—I could laugh about a story or two but liked to imagine that he, like me, had had nothing but brief encounters before I came along. I suppose at some point I had decided that I was the first guy whose bed he had returned to over and over again, and as always happens when one needs to keep a fantasy going, I hadn’t given him a chance to tell me otherwise.

He was running his finger along the outline of the window frame when he added, “I guess they’re curious because I didn’t offer much about myself before and now I’ve said a quite a lot about you. You know, more than I’ve said about anyone else.” His eyes darted from the window to me and then back.

Satisfied delight rippled through me. I grinned at him.

“I’m sure you’ve done the same with your friends,” he said.

I shifted in my seat then and reached for the in-flight magazine.“I really haven’t kept in touch with my old friends,” I told him.

“You and your school friends were so close. All going to UCT together and staying in the same res?”

It was nice, at least, to be sitting next to one old friend who remembered a thing or two about my high school years. Sediba had not forgotten me talking about the guys from school. I thought about my old friends and how, once we were at UCT, our paths had hardly crossed. I wasn’t even sure where they all were now.

“It’s been a while.”

I didn’t look at Sediba because I couldn’t face his curiosity. I was dodgy about Cape Town and I knew it. Every time he brought it up, I’d say: “Ah, that feels like so long ago now,” or “Eish, Jo. Cape Town was crazy,” knowing exactly what it sounded like. I was implying that it was so much fun I didn’t even know where to begin talking about it. Sometimes to myself, I even pretended that it had never happened—that I had gone from Maimela straight to Durban.

This time, as always, he let it go. Yet it was always coming. The threat of the Cape Town conversation was always looming, darting out at odd moments and I aimed to tuck it into small corners every time. When she came to bring our meal, the stewardess’s eyelashes fluttered at Sediba. With her fingertips she brushed her hairline, calling our attention to a bun of beautifully wrapped locks. She was quite attractive and obviously used to easily getting attention. Sediba smiled back politely and thanked her, barely acknowledging her flirtation. I winked at him after she was gone but he didn’t seem to want to joke about it. Throughout the flight she would come and give him special attention, asking if he needed anything, but when I looked at him his eyes were on the magazine or out the window.

After he had handed her his empty cup and she lingered near us a little bit longer than necessary, her eyes on him, I teased him with a whisper: “I think someone wants your phone number.”

He rolled his eyes and glared at me. “Doesn’t she see that I’m with someone? I mean if she were with her man, would I flirt with her?” He clicked his tongue, the anger, and bitterness of the previous few weeks resurfacing.

“Come on. Not everyone can tell,” I offered.

He turned his whole body towards me. “Exactly. That’s the problem.”

I felt accused of something and couldn’t respond. He waited but I only shook my head. “It’s not me you should be angry with,” I said.

Sediba closed his eyes and turned back to face the window, ending the conversation.

We started our descent over Cape Town, picture-perfect mountains in the distance, the stuff of postcards and tourist magazines. But closer, just beneath the wings of the plane, were the squatter camps: endless fields littered with cardboard and plastic homes spread alongside the perfectly maintained roads. I gripped my armrest. My temples throbbed at the sight of Devil’s Peak in the distance, my knee shook slightly and I tried to resume my breathing.

“The Cape contrasts,” Sediba said. “Millionaires fly over squatters, plastic and cardboard homes near some of Africa’s wealthiest.”

I shut my eyes and grunted, wanting very much to hold his hand that minute. It seems stupid now but I hadn’t anticipated the wave of wretchedness that gripped me at the sight of Cape Town. Maybe I had thought only of the wedding and meeting new people, and that had me fooled into thinking I was going to a completely new place. And I had never been to Witsand. It was one of the many coastal towns in the Cape that I hadn’t yet visited and from what I heard it was a small tourist place, quiet in the winter and far removed from the bustle of the city. It sounded idyllic. Perhaps in my imaginings I had neglected to land in the city, heading straight to the beach town instead. Now here I was, forced to confront my first few varsity days amidst mountains and a view of UCT. I had a fleeting memory of myself stumbling and falling, my head spinning from too much booze.

If he noticed that I was a bit shaken, Sediba took it for excitement and nostalgia. When we had settled into our hired car he said, “Do you miss it? You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind. You haven’t said much since we landed. Feeling nostalgic?”

I exhaled and put my hand on his thigh, feeling a bit more at ease now that we were alone again.

“I’m just remembering,” I said and opened my window.

After we’d driven for a while, he said, “You know, someday I’d really like to hear about Cape Town. You talked about it so excitedly before you left and you were so looking forward to it. Eintlik I was surprised when I heard you’d gone to Durban. Even that day when I first saw you jogging I thought I had made a mistake. I thought for sure it couldn’t be you.”

“Eish . . . I had to leave Cape Town. Too much partying and too little studying. I almost flunked, so I left. My parents were kind of furious with me.”

This was at least partly true, I reasoned. I looked at the directions on the map, shrugging off the thoughts of Rodney, the drugs and the day I packed my bags and walked out of the residence with no one there to say goodbye.

***

It is quite a seductive coastal drive along the Atlantic side of the Cape. The towns further north are littered with shops and crowded with tourists and sunbathers, but then you go further south and it starts to feel like you’re leaving everyone behind. It’s the sprawling white sands that first hint at the change in pace—so white and clear, you almost think you’re the first people to get here. The land looks untouched. I had always meant to do some exploring but never got around to it because I was either too hung over or too busy catching up with my studies.

Sediba looked over at me, and when we drove into the smaller roads and reached a stop sign, he leaned over and kissed me. He was purely excited, but for me both panic and excitement rose in my chest, at odds with one another.

“I think you’ll like Scott. I’ve never met Daniel but I’m sure he’s nice. Scott always had good people around him.”

“So where did he meet Daniel?”

“Here in Cape Town. I think Daniel went to UCT or something.” He was trying to focus as he drove so we didn’t miss our turns as we moved farther and farther away from the cluster of houses at the entrance to the town.

“Are you sure?” I started.

“He did say it was secluded. It’s a private beach or feels like it or something like that.”

Suddenly we were on a dirt road and couldn’t see the water anymore. We were climbing, going up a hill between patches of grass, before we suddenly found ourselves facing a large red brick house. The road seemed to end, as if it were created especially for the house. We went up its driveway, which became a circle at the end, reminiscent of the grand English country homes one read about in novels.

“This is it,” I said.

“You see how Whites screwed us on the land issue?” Sediba said. “This is how the 1913 Native Land Act looks . . . in a nutshell.”

We stepped out the car and stood there for a moment, taking in the estate. There was some noise somewhere in the back of the house but no one was at the front. A few cars were parked around the driveway, not enough for a party yet. The guests were not meant to arrive until later that evening for the pre-wedding supper.

Sediba started walking and I followed. Round a bend we saw the sprawling green grass of the backyard, overlooking the beach. To our left stood a smaller, white unit—which in the township would be called a “big house.” It was older, built in the style of the old Cape, with a white wall and a tiled roof. Further down and nearer to the beach, before the grass curved into what I assumed must be stairs, they had built a round outdoor braai area, white like the smaller house and sheltered with a thatched roof. Around the braai area were a few people lounging on chairs, chatting and drinking. A stone path led down to them but I stood at Sediba’s left, hesitant.

“There he is!” He called out just as a guy our age with a white shirt and white pants started coming our way, calling out, “Sediba!”

“That’s Scott,” Sediba said and to my great surprise, took my hand with the delight of someone about to introduce his favourite person in the world. “Come,” he was saying. “Come.”

I felt the instinct to pull my hand away but stopped myself. Anyway, he was gripping it so firmly and so happily that I was suddenly swept up in his joy. Scott was half running now, waving his hands in the air. The people behind him were staring, curious. It didn’t escape me, of course, that we were the only people there who were not White and I wondered if that would be the case all weekend.

Scott threw his arms around Sediba, before turning to looking me up and down, eyes narrowing: “Oh, no! You are not supposed to be this gorgeous. We’re supposed to gossip about you and you’re giving us nothing.” He was leaning over now, brushing his right cheek against my left.

Sediba and I laughed. There was something so easy but also so vulnerable about Scott, that I took to him right away.

“All of us have been dying to meet the guy who tamed this one,” he said with a flick of his thumb at Sediba. “We were hoping you wouldn’t be gorgeous, so we’d at least say nasty things about you since he wouldn’t settle with any of us.” We were both laughing and looking at him run his forefinger up and down in the air. “Tell me something bad about you. What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know . . . I’m a bit of a clumsy lover.”

“Yes! Thank you. Just a pretty face. Are you really horrid? Because that gives me something to talk about.” His expression was mock hopeful.

“Awful,” I said. Sediba folded his arms, a little embarrassed but obviously quite pleased that his friend and I were getting on fine so early on.

I hadn’t realized that as we were talking someone had come up towards us and now he had draped one arm around Scott.

“Oh! Ah . . . ” I started but wasn’t sure what to say.

“You’ve met?” Scott looked from me to the guy I had met once as Danny at Rodney’s place.

He was standing with a satisfied grin across his face, looking quite clean-cut, and also attired in a white top and a pair of white linen pants that suited the relaxed, beach atmosphere. I wondered if they had planned matching outfits for the wedding as well, which struck me as being a bit silly. The Danny I had met had been less relaxed than this one. This guy looked at ease but there was also something else, apart from his longer hair, that was very different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I looked over at Sediba, whose narrowed eyes were full of curiosity.

“Danny,” I said finally.

“Kabelo,” he said with an easy laugh. “I remember you.”

“Yes . . . me too.” It was embarrassing, seeing the first guy I had ever had sex with as I stood there with my current boyfriend. It made me want to find a hole and climb into it.

“We met at one of Rod’s parties,” he explained casually, responding to Scott and Sediba’s curious looks before offering Sediba his hand. “You must be Sediba. I’ve heard a lot about you. Scott thinks you’re his only hope of looking stunning tomorrow.”

Sediba laughed and I wanted to join him but the laughter got stuck like a piece of dry bread in my throat. Had Danny, now Daniel, not mentioned Rodney, I might have gone on maybe one more minute without thinking about it. The possibility of seeing him might not have come crashing down at that moment, ending my two minutes of a good time. I wanted to ask about Rodney but was too afraid I might find out that he’d also be coming.

“Yes,” Scott was saying. “I feel better already.”

The conversation was coming to me in little spurts, like the dial on a radio moving and stopping along several stations and barely making sense.

“I have two shirts like you asked . . . ” came Sediba’s words. Some laughter, and Daniel was saying something about “go whale-watching . . . morning . . . ” “Are you OK?” Scott was saying. “You guys must be exhausted. Let me get you settled in the guesthouse . . . ” Then Sediba’s hand was squeezing mine and we were following Daniel and Scott towards the small white house. I tried to remember to breathe, to listen more and be part of the conversation. I tried to imagine that Rodney and I—if we were to meet here—would be nothing but very happy to see each other.

On the way to our rooms Sediba and Scott fell into step and Daniel stopped to let me catch up and walked alongside me.

“So howzit Kabelo? How’ve you been?”

“I’m fine thanks,” I said. “So I’m trying to decide what’s different about you,” I was speaking with a lowered voice, not sure if Sediba was or wasn’t catching bits and pieces of the conversation; not wanting him to.

“Well, is it maybe the fact that I’m not high?” Scott said and belted out a laugh that mimicked Rodney’s a little bit. I didn’t remember him being so expressive. There was something very cool about him when we had first met, like he was being careful about how much he was giving away. Now he just seemed like he’d open up about anything if you asked.

“I don’t remember you being high,” I said.

Daniel stopped and looked at me. “Everyone says that. I don’t know, I think I was always the guy who could take drugs and look normal. Maybe I had a high tolerance. Anyway, the difference is, I’m off drugs. Well, the heavy ones, at least. What about you? I remember you enjoying the booze and weed!”

I was irritated that he was making no effort to lower his voice. We were at the door of the cottage now. Sediba and Scott had stopped and were watching us.

“I heard about Rodney’s parties,” Scott said. “Didn’t think of Sediba being with a bad boy.” He hit Sediba playfully on the shoulder.

I was so mortified by the comment that even my attempt to laugh it off fell flat. A strange little chuckle came out instead, making me look and feel terribly awkward.

Sediba said, his eyes upon me, “I want to hear more . . . ”

“We used to go to parties thrown by a mutual friend,” I offered, believing now that Rodney would very likely be here. He had said how close his and Danny’s families were. And as if he’d heard my thoughts, Daniel said, “Well, Sediba will meet Rod this weekend.”

I took a breath and let the air stay in my lungs for a while. Sediba was still eyeing me curiously as we followed the guys into the house. He put his hand lightly on my shoulder, wanting me to look at him, but I only gave him a brief glance.

It was quite a lovely cottage, with mostly bare white walls and a polished cement floor. The door opened onto a sitting room with large French doors facing the water. Next to the sitting room was the kitchen with a rectangular wooden table and four chairs. A passage led to a bedroom on the same side, also with French doors opening onto a balcony overlooking the beach. White curtains rose and fell as the sea breeze blew in through the open doors. The duvet cover was white and so were the pillows. The overall feeling of the place was neat, clean, and minimalist. I wanted to stay longer than we had planned.

When Scott and Daniel finally left, Sediba flopped onto the bed while I stood at the open doors looking out to the empty beach. I had decided that I wanted to spot Rodney before he spotted me and work out how to approach him.

“So who is Rodney, an old lover?” I turned to find him propped up sideways on his elbow, head resting on his hand.

“He’s an old friend. I’m not excited to see him.” I walked over to him, took off my shoes and lay beside him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I should tell you about Rodney.”

“What about Daniel?”

“That’s just a little bit embarrassing. One-night thing. Rodney’s . . . well . . . I don’t know. The Rodney thing is more than just a little embarrassment.”

He reached up and stroked my cheek. “This is the Cape Town stuff, hey? This is the thing you don’t talk about.”

I nodded. “I’ll tell you. For now let’s just say I don’t want to see Rodney.”

“And Daniel was a fling then?”

“Brief, one-time thing. He seems so different. So much more . . . comfortable than the last time I saw him.” He was now on his back, facing the ceiling and I went to lie on his chest. “And Scott? What was that about, how you wouldn’t settle with any of them?”

Sediba chuckled. “Don’t all gay men sleep with one or two of their friends? It’s a small community.”

“I never had a community,” I sounded bitter and immediately regretted it.

“The parties were not a community?”

It occurred to me then that that was exactly what the parties were. I barely remembered most of the people’s names and I would never be invited to anyone’s wedding, but that was what we were: a small, dysfunctional gay community.

He rubbed my head and said, “I like this hair cut. The guy did a good job.” I smiled up at him and he kissed me. I loved that he knew when I didn’t feel like talking. We lay in silence, listening to the crash of waves, dozing off to the sound of it, the laughter and chatting around the braai area fading into the distance.

There were lots of activities planned for the weekend: a boat ride and then a braai later the evening of the day we arrived; sundowners on the beach followed by a dip and then of course a brunch after the ceremony. The events would go on until late Sunday afternoon when everyone was expected to leave. There was an itinerary laid out on the kitchen table along with a book of instructions about the cottage saying where the towels were, tips about conserving water and so on. It seemed we’d only have an hour or so to recharge before each event.

Sediba had worked like a mad man all week, rescheduling clients and overbooking so that he could feel OK about taking a few days off—such was his work ethic. He hated disappointing his clients and leaving his mother with more work. I lay on my back listening to his breathing until a knock on the door woke me up.

Barefoot and feeling refreshed, I got up and went to the door, assuming it would be Scott. When I opened the door the light hit my eyes so harshly that I had to squint and step sideways to avoid the glare. The woman standing before me was obviously not here for the party. She must have been about my mother’s age and she was wearing a maid’s uniform: crisp white dress with a light blue collar and an apron to match. Her hair was tucked neatly under a bonnet matching the uniform. On her feet were old worn-out running shoes.

“Molweni,” she said politely. I said: “Molweni Ma,” and stepped aside to let her in but she didn’t move. She explained in isiXhosa that she was there to bring fresh towels and handed me a stack. I took them and thanked her before politely smiling and closing the door.

“She’s the only other Black person here then,” Sediba remarked as we were getting ready for the evening festivities.

“It’s going to be uncomfortable. I was sort of glad she didn’t see us together.”

Sediba stopped fastening his belt to look at me. “No,” he shook his head. “We’re not doing this, not this weekend. I’m not here to hide. We don’t know her, we don’t have to hide.”

“You know what I mean. It’s like having a parent here.”

“What’s uncomfortable is that Scott’s family is keeping up with this ridiculousness, putting their helper in a uniform—that’s what’s embarrassing.” He walked over and put his arms around me and said into my eyes: “We, are not embarrassing.”

I wanted to say something about him not saying the same thing the week of Lelo’s wedding, him hiding just as much as I did, but it was nice, standing there in a lovely room with a beautiful view. I didn’t want to spoil it.

So I decided I was going to have a good weekend if it was the last thing I did. There would be no one here expecting me to find a wife, and for that reason alone, I wanted to enjoy myself. As we walked to the beach for the boat ride, Scott and Daniel came over and handed us glasses of champagne.

“Everyone should be sloshed before a boat ride,” Daniel declared.

And we all raised a glass to their future, with Scott putting his arm around Sediba and adding, “And lifelong friends!”

I’m not someone who enjoys boat rides. Not even with the hope of spotting whales—it was the time of year when record numbers of whales are seen as they migrate, and that beach is known as one of the best for whale-watching. The constant rocking made me feel sick and I was eating salty crackers to settle my stomach. Sediba kept checking on me and then going back to talking to friends, laughing about this, that, and the other thing—old inside jokes they all shared.

Doing my best to be polite, I chatted briefly with a guy who wore sunglasses for the duration of the boat ride, even when it was not so bright anymore. It was unsettling not seeing his eyes because I had never met him before. He said his name was Abe and he had a set of very expensive-looking binoculars. Every now and then he’d push up his sunglasses and glue his eyes onto the binoculars. All he was interested in was whales, saying, “I’m an avid whale-watcher” more times than he needed to. He didn’t seem to mind that I was silent, leaning over the railing with my eyes closed. He was full of information about the whales though. If I had paid better attention I might today be able to say a thing or two about whale migration.

We finally docked back near the house and I was the first to hurry along the boardwalk so I could return to the cottage to rest my head. Sediba stayed behind with his friends, who were all welcoming and eager to get to know me, so I was sorry to be feeling ill. I could see they all had genuine affection for Sediba. They would ask his opinions on their clothes or on their hair, and they asked about his mother, his business, and about me. I was glad for him to have this, but I was also painfully envious of this other world, the world away from Kasi where he seemed very much at ease.

I had my shoes in my hands as I walked down the boardwalk and onto the beach, slowing down to take deep breaths and let the nausea fade. I must have been deep in thought, listening to the birds’ koh-hoh and the swoosh of the water, so that I didn’t see Rodney until I was just steps away from him.

His hair was shorter, cleaner cut, and his face a little fuller. The way I remembered him, I couldn’t have imagined Rodney in formal black pants and a button-down white shirt, as he was now. The only thing that was the same about him was that the pants were a little too big and he was as skinny as ever. He had rolled up the pants like someone getting ready to wade into the water and the sleeves of the shirt were pulled up and buttoned just above his elbows.

He was sitting on the sand, a tall glass of a clear drink in his hand. He looked up as I approached and said—as cheerfully as one might upon seeing a very good old friend—“Oh my God! What the hell are you doing here?”

I stopped and for a moment felt nothing but pure joy at seeing him.

“My God, Rod! Look at you!”

We embraced warmly. He stepped back and looked me up and down. His hand went up and he ran it from the back to the front of my head.

“Howzit man? You look very hot with your hair like that. You look like a grown up.” He chuckled.

“And you also—except your hair is shorter.”

“Oh, I would never have thought—yuss, look at you. Are you a doctor now?”

“Last few months of community service,” I told him. “What about you?”

“Oh, I gave that rubbish up. I have my own gallery now. Went to art school, opened a little gallery. It’s really more of a tiny work studio than anything, but I love it and I don’t have to be a doctor.”

“Wow, Rod . . . ” I was searching for something to say when the group from the boat reached us. I don’t know what it was about me and Rodney—maybe how close we were standing or him still rubbing his hand against my hair—but something about it made Sediba come and stand so close that our shoulders were touching. It felt less romantic and more protective.

“This is Sediba,” I said to Rodney. They shook hands.

Rodney said, “Wow, hi. I heard about you from Scott but I didn’t think . . . I didn’t know of course . . . ”

“I know, I didn’t realize when he said ‘Daniel’ that it would be Danny.”

“I don’t call myself that anymore,” was Danny’s response from somewhere in the background. “Past life.”

“Past a lot of things,” Rodney said and the two of them laughed like they had just shared a joke that no one else could understand.

As everyone started walking again, Rodney and I stayed back and fell into step with each other. Sediba walked ahead with Scott but kept glancing back at us curiously. Rodney and I were talking about nothing serious, he catching me up on his gallery and I asking questions about it, but still I felt guilty about us staying apart from the others. So when plates were handed out I went to sit next to Sediba and we ate together, listening to Scott and Daniel’s playful banter about how they met. Everyone was laughing and having a good time. At one point Sediba looked at me and said, “Are you all right?” I think his question related to Rodney, because he had known how nervous I was about Cape Town. I nodded and then, rather unexpectedly, he reached back and put his hand gently on my lower back. I smiled, looked happily into his big, round eyes.

In a while I saw Rodney go off from the group and sit at the top step leading to the beach. Sediba was talking to a friend of his about what it meant to have a business in Kasi instead of the centre of town, when I slipped off and went to sit next to Rodney.

I took off my shoes and lowered myself next to him, leaning my arm against the railing. We sat looking out at the water, the sky a much darker colour now and the water barely visible. Our shoes at our sides and our feet rubbing against the sand on the wooden steps, I realized how much I had missed Rodney and how, much of the time, I could not find my way past the guilt. Rodney looked pensive.

“This beach feels new, undiscovered.” I spoke first. He smiled at me and then turned to face the party behind us.

“So who’s the guy?” He was spreading his pretty, mischievous grin now. I found it both lovely and reassuring.

“It’s Sediba. He’s someone I’ve known a long, long time.”

Rodney hit me playfully with the back of his hand. You’d think we had not gone a day without seeing each other.

“He seems . . . smitten.”

This was not a conversation I was used to having. I didn’t have friends who asked me about my love life or who even saw us together. It was uncomfortable even as it felt good to be that free to talk about Sediba. I rubbed my hands against the railing and Rodney laughed out loud—a haunting sound that had me flinching, unable to look at him.

“What’s so funny?” I tried to sound relaxed.

“I think he’s not the only one . . . ha! Look who’s in love.” His laughter rose and floated above us, traveling now to the party behind. I turned to find, as I had expected, curious glances, people stopping mid-conversation, their glasses held mid-air. Sediba looked as if he was expecting me to share the joke. I turned away to face the rising tide.

Rodney said, “So does he know how you feel about him, or are you still keeping secrets?”

I was not so daft that I didn’t realize I had been asked two questions, each as loaded with accusation as the past was weighed down with resentment. I inhaled and wondered if the tide would be too high that evening for us to go for the planned dip. I knew what to say, it was only taking me a moment to wade through the feelings swirling around inside me. I tried to get to where I was going, to what I wanted to say, but I was moving towards my point slowly, my mind fretful.

“I’m so, so sorry Rod. I’m sorry I just . . . just left without getting you away from those guys. And I left Cape Town without saying ‘bye.” He rubbed his forehead and exhaled.

“Ag, man. We were so young. I was never even sober enough to say my own name most of the time.”

We both let out a chuckle. Overcome by a blinding sorrow, I put my hand on Rodney’s shoulder, looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Rod, really, I’m really sorry I just left you. I got so scared. There were serious drugs in the house. I thought of police coming . . . I panicked and ran. I’m really sorry.”

Suddenly Sediba’s voice said behind me, “Sorry to interrupt. I brought some drinks.”

Startled, I stood up and took a martini from him, but when he handed one to Rodney, he declined.

“No thanks. I’m staying away from the booze tonight.”

I frowned in disbelief. “You?”

Rodney let out a short laugh. “You’d be surprised how much has changed Kabz. Anyway, I’m going to find my DJ.” As he went, he said, “Cheers, Sediba.”

“Let’s go and hear the speeches. These guys are funny,” Sediba said to me. I followed him, reaching over to put my hand in his briefly.

We sat listening to the speeches telling us how Scott and Daniel had met, how they were meant to be together. Rodney sat next to a guy with long, wavy hair who talked into his ear and made him giggle. I wished so many years had not passed and that I could tell him more about Sediba and hear about his boyfriend. I felt sad about the loss of our friendship, now more so than I had allowed myself to admit since moving away. But it was all right, I reasoned, because now he was here and we could chat and laugh. I hadn’t expected to ever see him again.

And Rodney, without drinking or smoking zol, seemed a different person. It was he and his boyfriend who were the first to wade into the water that evening. Apparently someone had had the idea of doing something mad like having all the party guests dive into the ocean at sundown with our clothes on. It was good fun. I stood laughing and chatting with people but not going in, just handing people towels as they ran out, their clothes soaked and sticking to their skin.

From across the way, beyond the many wet heads on the beach, Sediba eyed me with an amused smile and started walking towards me.

“These people are mad,” he said in Setswana, holding the front of his shirt between his fingers. “Do you know how much this shirt costs?”

I laughed at this, just as Scott came running behind us. “Sediba, did you just say your clothes are too nice to go in? Did he just—he just said that, didn’t he?” Scott asked me. I nodded and we burst into laughter.

“I didn’t even have to hear you say it, I just knew it,” Scott said.

“No, I will go in. I just have to change!” Sediba said, and grabbed my hand and pulled me away. “We’re changing, and then we’re going in!”

“Maybe Kabelo wants to go in anyway!” Scott called out behind us.

“No, he’s wearing my pants!” Sediba shouted back and my sides were hurting from laughing so much. Everyone was running in and out of the water, splashing each other, throwing each other into the waves. The moon hung low, and so did the stars, which collected just beyond reach, and the sky curved, enclosing us in a sparkling dome. I was tempted to forget that we had not come to stay.

Sediba and I had gone running from the beach but when we reached the top of the stairs leading to the house, we slowed down. It was quieter up here. The lights around the outdoor entertainment area were still on as were the ones at the main house and the cottage. These lit the path for us so we stepped on the large stones and followed them to the cottage. The place had already been cleaned by the helpers and looked as if there had never been a celebration, as if the people running in and out of water had nothing to do with the house above.

I noticed that Sediba and I were becoming pensive at different moments during this trip. We spoke about the usual things, but then we would both drift off, neither of us speaking for a while. There was also a new—or old—kind of tension between us. We would exchange a knowing glance, or our hands would brush against each other; he made gestures like holding my hand or he’d put his hand on my back as we sat with the others. The air between us was charged with a new, younger sort of energy. I felt, in short, like a man newly in love.

And so as we left the beach that evening we were not saying anything, only listening to the clip-clap sound of our sandals on the stones. I thought how happy I was and wondered what he was thinking, but did not want to disturb the peaceful silence.

When we reached the cottage, he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, standing aside to let me walk in first. I switched the passage light on as I went in, and we kicked off our sandals. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked down the lit passage to the bedroom, slowing my pace and moving my hand along the wall. At the door I took off my shirt and turned the light on, then back off, remembering that we might be seen from the beach. He slipped his arm around my waist, the inner part of his forearm sliding softly against my bare skin. Then he kissed the space between my shoulder blades. I pulled out of his grasp and went to draw the curtains together.

Later we lay next to each other in bed letting the air cool the sweat off our bodies. I had left the French doors open and only closed the screen, so there was a light ocean breeze coming in. We were silently watching the curtains fly low above the shiny cement floor, the bedside light now on. I could feel his ribs rise and fall at a gentle pace against mine. We had by then lain this way many times, but there was something a lot more exciting about this time that made it feel different. Perhaps it had something to do with this wedding weekend feeling like an escape, a sort of honeymoon away from our real world.

Sediba’s lips came to caress the outer edge of my left ear as we both started drifting off to sleep.

“Should we go back to the beach?” I asked, but his breathing had fallen into a slower rhythm. I wanted to stay there a long time and not ever go back to where we had come from.

When we woke up I could feel something different in the air. There was a thick cloud of fog as we were getting ready, but it gradually cleared and the water was calm. Maybe everyone feels this way on the morning of a wedding because I noted that I had felt the same way when Lelo was getting married, though this time, without the usual early morning buzz of the township, the calm was more intense and there was an unbearable sorrow around me that I could neither shake nor explain. Is this why people cry at weddings? Is there a feeling of letting go of something?

I had been the first to bathe and shave while Sediba was sleeping, so when his turn came I was already dressed but couldn’t bring myself to do my tie. Instead, I stepped barefoot onto the balcony and looked out at the water. That old feeling of standing at the end of the boardwalk looking at ships in the horizon came flooding through me. I realized that I was standing in the position that my mother had always stood in, my forearms resting on the railing. The night before, on the boat, someone had mentioned that somewhere to our left—although it was not visible to me from the balcony—was the Breede river. I wished that I had binoculars now so I could see it. What I could spot in the dunes just ahead was the Blue Crane—one of perhaps three birds that I can identify. Apart from the most well known, the owls, peacocks and the seagulls and so on, the ones that didn’t take an avid bird watcher to spot, I know a Blue Crane. I think, of course, this is because it is our national bird. It was the bird’s legs that always fascinated me, long and twig-like, they are delicate and graceful. The one I saw, not far from where I stood, was with a chick, whose body was still so fluffy that I wanted to reach out and touch it as they steadily made their way across the grass.

“Are you ready?” Sediba said, startling me. He came over and quietly fixed my collar, apparently deep in thought himself.

I suppose the birds had led me to think about my mother. I had told her that I was going to an old friend’s wedding and even as I said that I wondered what would happen if she heard that Sediba was also off to Cape Town for a wedding.

I asked him as he tucked the tie under my collar, “Where did you tell your mother you were going? Did you say it was two guys getting married?”

He exhaled and turned to face the water like me, his eyes following the bird and her chick.

“My mother doesn’t ask questions like your mother. She doesn’t probe.” I watched him slip his hands into his pockets and briefly shut his eyes. He said, “She doesn’t know it’s a gay wedding, no. But the thing with my mother . . . like I said before, she knows things without me telling her.”

I didn’t have a chance to ask anything else because now people were gathering near the entertainment area. It was time for the pre-wedding gathering and we had to go down. I hurried to put my sandals on. “I feel funny in a suit and sandals,” I said.

“I know, but it’s what they asked everyone to do.” And he too put on his sandals and followed me out to the gathering.

Along the path down to the beach stairs had been laid pots of red and white roses. The entertainment area had been transformed into an elegant outdoor dining space, with lines of red and white ribbons—punctuated by similar-coloured balloons—hanging above round tables that were covered in white cloth. It was an enchanting scene, with classical music playing through speakers placed on a wall behind the tables. Three men and three women, all black, walked around in black and white uniforms, serving hors d’oeuvres and champagne. I felt uneasy seeing this, but was ashamed to realize that I couldn’t tell if it was more uncomfortable to feel that we were living in a different world from the helpers or to feel that I was being seen with a man by my elders.

Sediba whispered, “Here we go.”

“Yah,” I said. “I know.” But I got the feeling that we meant different things.

We joined the party and accepted drinks while we waited for Scott and Daniel to come out. I couldn’t make myself meet the helpers’ eyes. When one handed me my champagne, I cringed as I took it, barely acknowledging him. Sediba, on the other hand, smiled and greeted him in isiXhosa. I had never met the man before but he was elderly and the same kin tone as my father. I couldn’t face him.

Down the stairs we went and onto the beach. We were chatting and mingling when the music changed to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. From the big house Daniel and Scott came walking out, hand in hand, in blue and white suits and sandals. As we turned to look at them, Sediba slipped his hand onto mine.

Scott’s mother and father were there, but from Daniel’s side only his mother had come. The day before, on the boat, I had heard Scott tell Sediba something about Daniel’s father “refusing to be part of this.”

We were asked to stand in a semicircle, each of us holding a handful of rose petals while the grooms stood at the edge of the water, being married by a minister who performed the ceremony in a professional yet relaxed manner. Scott and Daniel had written their own vows although they half-cried through them, talking about being each other’s great love.

Afterwards we all joyously clapped hands and threw petals at them and they turned to face us and thanked us all for being there.

There would be a little wait before we sat down. People were milling about, exchanging stories about how they knew the grooms, talking about how beautiful the ceremony was. Some tore off from the group, taking walks or going back to sit near the house. Sediba asked that we walk along the beach for a moment. I was happy to walk away, having had my fill of the crowd and wanting some space.

Our feet got sandy, our footsteps sinking as we walked at the edge of the tide. Sediba was pensive again and I was in a bit of a jolly mood, walking in every now and then to let the water wash over my feet and then back out alongside him. He didn’t stop to wait when I branched off, his head to the ground and only occasionally glancing at me. Then finally he pulled me to him and said, “Stay.”

I asked him what was wrong.

He stopped and took my face in one hand, his fingers caressing my cheek. I leaned and rested my head in his hand the way I liked to, and he gave me a peck on the lips.

“It was nice, wasn’t it, lenyalo?” His voice was both solemn and sweet—calm.

I chuckled at his use of the Setswana word.

“It was nice, why?” I asked.

He started walking again, taking my hand in his and squeezing it. He said, “You know, I mean I think you know . . . ” He inhaled sharply and stopped.

“What do I know?” I could feel my heart racing, he was acting so unlike himself. It was so out of character, this sudden starting and stopping, this loss of words.

He started walking again and continued, “I mean I think by now it’s quite obvious, Jo. It’s obvious I’m in love with you.” His eyes flitted from me to somewhere past me, towards the depths of the ocean.

Something heavy and unmovable came and settled on my chest. I was, in my mind, gasping for air although on the outside I must have looked relatively calm.

“Diba, you know I feel the same way.” I told him.

He took one long step forward suddenly and started walking backwards, facing me. Something flew into my eye and I blinked rapidly and reached a finger to the corner of my eye to wipe it off. He stopped, came closer, held me still and blew the dust out of my eye. We stood there, the tip of his nose touching mine, our foreheads together.

I spoke quietly this time, “Diba, what’s wrong?”

He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me in, but said nothing.

“Diba?” I whispered, but he only kissed me—so slowly and passionately, it was as if we were alone in a room with the door shut and we had all night, but then he let go and said, “Come on, let’s go eat.”

We turned around and I followed him at a brisk pace and we said nothing else.

We were seated at our table with two other couples, two women and their male partners, and I tried to start the conversation.

“So what did you think of the ceremony?”

I posed the question to the woman sitting immediately to my right. Her name was Carol and we had been seated next to each other, I think, because we were both medics. One of the guys was a designer so I think that explained the seat next to Sediba. The thing about Kasi weddings is that there are no seating arrangements. You sit next to whomever you choose. This was more formal, requiring more effort. Everyone seemed polite. They were all searching for things to say. We were all strangers, except to our partners.

Carol answered right away, “It was lovely,” without offering more.

The man with the strawberry blonde hair and piercing blue eyes seated to Carol’s right seemed to give it more thought, “I don’t know, I thought it was a bit . . . much, to be honest.”

Carol, his girlfriend, stuck her elbow in his rib and her cheeks went flush.

“Dominick! It’s your cousin, you could be nicer.”

“I don’t get this marriage thing, frankly. Gay or straight,” was Dominick’s nonchalant response.

Carol took a deep breath and with her fork, rearranged the peas on her plate.

“This is an issue between us. Going to weddings brings it up, I suppose.”

We all put food in our mouths, hoping to make the awkward moment pass as quickly as possible. But Dominick was not giving up.

“What do you guys think? I mean, you’re lucky you’re guys and there’s no pressure. Girls always want to move into it: ‘when are we getting married?’ ‘I’m getting older,’ ‘I think it’s time.’” He was, thankfully, not imitating a woman’s voice.

“Well,” the woman to Sediba’s left chimed in nervously, her voice cracking. She was not comfortable speaking to strangers. “I think Scott and Daniel were both ready. Daniel’s one of my best friends. There was no pressure.”

Dominick waved his hand. “I wasn’t talking about them . . . the pressure thing, well, listen. I’m just saying that men don’t hassle each other to get married, that’s all I’m saying. Right?”

He was looking at me. I shrugged but Sediba pushed back his seat and folded his arms like he was feeling quite comfortable getting into it with him, like it was actually something he’d given a lot of thought and was glad someone was bringing it up. “I don’t think it’s a girl thing. I think people in general just want more commitment, that’s all. It’s about every couple, the way I see it.”

I think because he felt a bit slighted—because he had counted on support from the guys and was surprised that Sediba appeared to side with his girlfriend, who was now biting her lip and turning her shoulder away from him—Dominick decided to attack.

“Well, then how do you define commitment?”

“What the two of you decide works, I guess,” Sediba told him looking as if he was giving it some thought. But I knew he wasn’t thinking about it, he was just slowing down the conversation. “It’s up to both people.”

I was about to say that commitment was just staying together or something like that, something not very well thought out, when Scott and Daniel arrived at our table. They had been going around greeting guests, happily taking pictures and just overall looking like they were having the time of their lives. It brought on a nice feeling, seeing two people so happily showing off their togetherness. I had to fight the creeping realization that I was maybe feeling envious of their carefree manner, watching them being openly loving with each other in the place they both called home. Whenever the thought came up, I had to reach out with another thought and swat it like a fly.

I was hoping we’d move on to another subject at our table, but Daniel asked, “So, when are you two doing this?”

I knew as soon as he said it that it was the wrong—or even the worst—question he could have asked us. We had come here—or at least I had—to pretend that Lelo’s wedding hadn’t happened, that we were doing just fine, now Daniel’s question sent a chill down my back because it was like digging up a buried weapon.

I leaned back in my seat and smiled, trying to look really relaxed.

I replied, “Well . . . we’re just . . . this is really new.”

Under the table, I felt Sediba’s hand find mine and our fingers entwine. I held on to him.

“But look at us,” Scott said with a grin and a dramatic sweep of his hand in the air.

“We’ve only been together a few months—”

“Four months!” Daniel interjected.

“Four months,” said Scott, “and look at us today.”

His eyes were dancing, excited like a child’s seeing something shiny meant for him, going from Sediba to me and back to Sediba.

“I remember the way you sounded when you first told me about Kabelo. Come on. I’d say, actually, you guys should have gone first!”

Sediba leaned back the way he had done earlier when Dominick spoke about commitment, his hand staying with mine under the table. He said, “You’re making Kabelo nervous. Don’t make my boyfriend nervous.”

I felt a mixture of things. A bit of relief, and then some panic, and then some excitement. I always liked it when Sediba called me his boyfriend and I was relieved that he didn’t take the discussion any further, because he was right, Scott and Daniel were making me nervous, but I was also panicked because I could see from the way Scott was reaching for the bowl of sweets in front of him and the way Daniel leaned his head against Scott’s shoulder that they were only getting started with this.

It was like the Daniel I had met as Danny that one time had come back into the room. There was something showy about him as one side of his mouth curved up, eyes mock-pensive, as he said, “A township wedding. I’d go to that. It could be a real cultural experience.”

Before I even looked at him, I knew what Sediba was feeling. He cleared his throat and in a cheery tone said, “Ha! A cultural experience in your own country, bra! That’s the beauty of South Africa, hey?”

Daniel backed away, but Scott had something to say about this, and I could see why Sediba liked him so much.

“It does sound odd to think we all know each other, but we don’t know each other, really. It’s appalling that I’ve never been to a township even though I’ve grown up here.”

What he meant was that it was appalling that you could be White and have Black friends, have lived your whole life in the country and still not know what a township looks like.

“Has there ever been one?” Daniel was swimming in a different direction, evidently—or going back to where we had left off.

“One what?” I asked him cautiously.

“A township wedding. Has there ever been one? Have two Black guys ever gotten married?”

“I’ve never heard of one.” As soon as I said it, Sediba reached again under the table and clasped his hand to mine. I wondered if I had had too much wine and champagne because I had to shut my eyes and then open them again to refocus, my thoughts like inaudible whispers. I wanted to take off my glasses and clean them but thought it would make me look uneasy.

Daniel’s eyes were moving back and forth between Sediba and me, as if they were waiting for a story.

“Well, like I said,” Scott said finally when neither one of us spoke. “Maybe this would be the first one.”

Daniel snorted. “I’m sure all the ANC supporters would be horrified.” He couldn’t help but hit on the hot buttons—as though his mouth were moving before he could stop himself.

Sediba’s grip on my hand tightened. He said, “Well, no actually. It was the ANC that brought these laws in. If it weren’t for the ANC, what you just did today wouldn’t be legal right?” His gaze focused on Daniel as though daring him to disagree. Our table mates had already stood up and danced through a song or two while we were having the discussion, but now they were back and settling into their drinks.

Sediba and I waited uncomfortably for Daniel to respond. Then Scott reached over and kissed Daniel’s cheek. “Ag, my love. You know how I hate politics. Daniel’s the anthropologist here so he’s all about cultural norms and differences and what not. Right?” He put an arm around Daniel’s shoulder.

“I suppose you’re right,” Daniel said but he was looking at me and not Sediba. “I suppose they’re not entirely rotten. When I think of them, I think of how much violence the country’s had since they took over.”

“I see what you mean,” Sediba said, letting go of my hand. “But there’s always been violence. Just that some of us were protected by the state and some of us were victims of violence from the state. Violence is nothing new.”

Daniel looked for a moment as though he did not comprehend, and then, when I thought he was starting to and I was hoping he’d say something, he waved a hand dismissively, like he was shooing away the whole topic.

A relative came over and scooped the couple away and then it was Dominick’s turn to gloat, saying, “See? Marriage is a hot button for all of us. Regardless of sexual orientation.” He was drunk by then, so he pronounced the words sexual orientation like they were a phrase he was reading for the first time in a book—like he was finding them odd and wanted to make sure he was saying them correctly. We all laughed lightly at this, finding it refreshing to move away from the tension the topic had brought.

Later, while we were driving back, after a somewhat tense goodbye from Scott and Daniel, I joked, “Shit, I hope this doesn’t mean we’re not invited to their next big thing. They do throw a good party.”

Sediba chuckled. I put my hand on his neck, rubbed my fingers on his bald head and my thumb on his chiseled beard.

“Like that Dominick guy said, it’s a hot button for everyone, hey?”

Sediba glanced at me and then at the rear-view mirror, before showing his indicator, slowing down, and pulling into a lookout spot. I felt my chest tighten.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer but parked the car near some picnic benches. We could see the ocean and a deserted beach from up there, and there was no one else around. As I sat watching him, he turned to face me, looking as though he were examining me. I felt the heavy weight on my chest again, and then, oddly, I remembered Andrew telling me, “You have such kind eyes. I think people think they can tell you anything.” I tried now to imagine that that was what Sediba was seeing.

“Is it stupid? The whole marriage thing. Do you think it’s stupid?”

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s stupid.”

I was nervous and he could tell. That’s why his hand reached for mine.

“I used to think it was dumb, you know? For us? For gay people . . . I thought it was just dumb. But now . . . Lelo’s wedding . . . ” He shut his eyes as if pushing away the memory. “Then Scott’s.”

“I think . . . I think I’m beginning to think it’s possible. Not so dumb.” I took off my sunglasses and put them on the dashboard with my free hand.

“It’s not dumb. But is it possible? For us? I don’t know. I mean, we don’t come from the same world as Scott and Daniel. You know that.”

I tried to smile, to lighten the meaning of what we were discussing. Sediba let go of my hand and opened his door, pausing with his hand on the steering wheel before stepping out. He left the keys in the ignition and the door open and walked over to the nearest table. The car was making that ding-ding signal, which drove me mad, so I took the keys out and followed him to the table, not closing my door either but the wind had become stronger and it blew one door shut. I sat next to him and we looked out over the dunes, momentarily lulled by the ebb and flow and the sound of the tide. After a while, I reached over and touched his hand lightly.

“It used to seem impossible but not anymore,” he said, continuing as if we had never stopped talking. “I used to think it was even ridiculous, the thought of two women or two men getting married. But now . . . ”

“Diba . . . ” I lowered my voice, tried to sound as calm as I possibly could, given that my head was throbbing and my heart was racing. “I understand. I do, really. I mean being there was beautiful. The ocean, the food, and the little cottage . . . I know. It was romantic. I felt it. But it’s like being on holiday and then you have to get back to your real life. Scott and Daniel are from a different world. Same country but different world—”

Sediba had shut his eyes shut and his head was shaking.

“I loved being free too,” I said. “I liked us being together openly. It was—”

He hopped off the picnic table. He put his hands to on his head, looking away.

“Kabz—”

“It’s not that I don’t understand. Don’t think I didn’t—”

He turned around suddenly, an urgent look on his face. “Kabelo! I’m in love with you. I mean, really, really . . . Every morning I wake up and I’m surprised that you’re not lying next to me. Something happens at work and I think: I have to phone you. I mean it’s ridiculous. Now I sleep badly when I’m not sleeping next to you. What is that? I don’t know when that started happening, but I know—” He stopped and took a breath. His eyes were upon me, pleading. The heavy feeling again rose within my chest, so forceful that I had to sit up straight, put my hand on my chest to press and calm it. I looked at him and as all his words slowly came in and settled in different parts of me. For the first time I understood that perhaps this was the only reason he had brought me to the wedding. I could have met Scott before, and if we had really wanted to, we could have taken a similar trip together. We both had the means. But now I could see that this weekend had been about more than going to a friend’s wedding. It had been about me seeing that it was possible—possible for us to imagine a more open future; for us to be out in front of everyone, openly affectionate and maybe even to get married. In all my life I had never contemplated marriage. I never imagined what came after being with someone. I was not even sure being gay could mean being in love. These things that Sediba was saying were big and new and frightening. I was in love with him—I probably had been in love with him longer than I realized—but I had never thought that I could do anything more about it.

I stood up and walked to him, took his hand.

“Diba, I feel the same way. You know I feel the same way. But that doesn’t mean anything out there, to other people. Think about Maimela. Think about Kasi people and the things they would call us. Our families and friends would be horrified! If I move back, who would come to a gay doctor? Remember that guy, that hairdresser who lost his business because of the rumour that he was gay? Then the gay rumour turned into the AIDS rumour and no one would go to him? We couldn’t . . . it’s not possible.”

“Even with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“It was OK to hide and not tell my mother anything. I was OK being a gay man and being quiet about it, thinking I was at least sparing people the part of me they couldn’t look at. But I can’t with you. It’s different with you. It feels screwed up to hide this. I hated Lelo’s wedding. Everyone got to walk around with their girlfriends and boyfriends and you and I couldn’t even look at each other! Why? Because we’re not a man and a woman? Fuck! It’s legal. It’s as legal as Lelo’s marriage.”

I was caught between wanting to run and wanting to comfort him. I reached for his other hand.

“We’ve talked about this, Diba. We know what we can and can’t do and how people are, what they expect. I’m not saying I can’t be out with you but . . . I am saying it’s just not possible. It’s not up to me.”

He sighed and put his arms around me, resting his chest on my shoulder.

“We’ve talked about not being seen. OK. But this has changed. We’re not boys anymore and we’re not just . . . it’s not simple. I can’t hide with you. Anyone else . . . I can’t with you.”

We stood there with our arms around each other and me feeling that something very fundamental to who we were had gone and shifted whether we admitted it or not, and I had no way of turning back time and putting it back in the right place. Over the weekend I had thought we were as sure of things as ever—but as always, whenever people started to talk about their feelings, I felt lost and unsettled. Since leaving Durban I had refused to think about us breaking up, but I just couldn’t see any other way. I couldn’t come out in Kasi, It would break my parents’ hearts. I couldn’t even begin to imagine doing it.

I thought of my mother and her reaction. I’d always seen my attraction to men as nothing less than a betrayal of my parents, and when Sediba said that we should be out, that we should be together openly, I was terrified of what that would do to them. I believed that I owed them some sort of compensation for not fully being what they expected of me, I thought working hard to make them proud was the only thing I could do to make it alright. And so I didn’t think I could give Sediba what he was asking for.

That conversation was the moment when I decided finally that I had to end this. It wasn’t fair to keep him thinking that I could be what he needed.

I already resented Lelo for being able to do what was right, what was expected of him, and now I had this growing, unreasonable resentment towards Scott and Daniel. I kept thinking: wouldn’t it be nice, just to be able to put the two worlds together?

Every now and then, for some time now, Sediba would ask me what I was planning to do after my year of community service. “Do you think you’ll live with your parents for a while?” He’d say, attempting an air of nonchalance, but not quite mastering it. We’d be doing the dishes and he’d say, his back to me, “Don’t you think it’ll be weird living with your parents again, next year? I mean if that’s where you’re planning to live.”

I’d skirt around the subject the way I’d learned to do all my life, pausing to pretend I was really giving it some thought, when all I was doing was trying to find a way out. The day after we returned from Cape Town he sat up straight on the sofa, propped his back against a pillow and made it hard for me to escape without a clear answer.

“You know that I love you because I tell you.”

I nodded, stroked his arm and said nothing.

“I’m really looking forward to us living closer, because I know what’s going on with you, how you’re feeling, that you love me when I’m with you. I don’t know it from you saying, I know it from being close to you.”

His manner indicated that he had no intention of letting me escape this time. I turned off the TV and sat down so that we were facing the same direction and he could no longer see my eyes. He moved to caress my neck with his lips.

“I don’t know where I’ll be living. I mean, it’s so busy . . . ”

“You have three months. It’s getting to be time. Wherever you go, it won’t be this far though, right?”

He reached down and held my hand.

The windows were letting in cooler air at this time, but I was feeling hotter. It’s not that I didn’t like hearing him say he wanted me to live close to him, I just felt uneasy at the thought of being so close to a time when I would have to make this life-changing decision.

“I think so,” was all I could manage to say.

Sediba swung both feet onto the floor and got up. He paced back and forth and I watched him nervously.

“After all this time, I still don’t know what you want.”

“That’s ridiculous, Diba. Come on.”

“No, I don’t. What do you want?”

“I want you!” I yelled at him. “Obviously.”

He stood still, arms folded, feet planted firmly on the floor and looked me in the eye. “You have me. What do you want, from here on, with me?”

“Diba . . . come on. Stop. So I haven’t made firm plans. It won’t be so hard. I’ll find something.”

“Where? That’s the only thing I’m asking. Where?”

“Can you please just come back and sit next to me? I don’t like the way you’re talking. I told you, I want you, that’s all.”

He furiously put his shoes back on and then he was marching out, before he changed his mind and came back to stand in front of me. “Well,” he said and then took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what I want. I want a life with you.”

“A life?”

“Marriage, a house, maybe even a child.”

I gulped. “Diba . . . come, on!”

“Look, it’s what my parents had and I’ve always assumed . . . Listen: it’s what I want. I can’t change that.”

“Diba . . . ”

For a while we just stared at each other before he left the room to cool off.

It had been a good opportunity to be honest but I had been a coward. I couldn’t think of the best way to tell him that I was sorry, but I was never going back to Kasi.

Two weeks later I saw for myself that my mother was unraveling and I suspected, with a dread that tore every part of me to shreds, that she was going to take me with her to her own special hell. I knew it when I spoke to her on the phone and I knew it when she arrived unannounced at my doorstep with only a small bag in one hand, wearing no lipstick and her hair tied back in a stiff ponytail. She said, with great effort to appear nonchalant, but betrayed by her own tears, “Your father and I will get a divorce.”

It was only one hour before Sediba was due to arrive. I swallowed and pushed away my shameful thought but it kept coming back: how was I going to get rid of her? Her sadness engulfed the room, taking away the joy that had recently floated in and filled my home. Her face was the picture of the house I had grown up in: glum and desperate. Her scent—jasmine and roses—was so powerful and captivating, so heavy that through it I could hear a sad Motown love song on a lonely Sunday afternoon back at our house. When her eyes lifted she was looking in my direction but not quite at me, so consumed was she by her own misery.

I hurried around the room trying to tidy up even though there was really not much to do and I was just busying myself to keep my panic in check. She sat on the sofa and stared outside without saying a word.

“What . . . what happened? Did something happen?”

Without turning to look at me she said: “Ag . . . I told him he had to explain it to you.” Then she took off her shoes and put her feet on the sofa.

“I haven’t been here in such a long time! I like it. I like what you’ve done with it. It’s so tidy and pretty. And look at this,” she pointed at the paintings and photographs on the wall. “You decorated it so nicely.”

My mother was not looking at me or seriously taking in my place when she spoke; then she was staring at something outside. Her voice was so flat that I couldn’t stand to hear its sorrow. I brought her a glass of wine. “This is a really good one, from Stellenbosch. I know you’ll like it.”

She took it without looking at it.

“Sit down. Sit down next to me. Let me look at my only child.”

I sat and then waited for the smile that came but was so fleeting that I thought I might have imagined it. She took a sip.

“Do you like it?” I asked her, anxious.

“Hm? Yes it’s lovely. Listen. Your time here is almost over. You have to go and start working somewhere else. You have to do your work somewhere else, right?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“How do you feel about doing it here?”

The question felt like a trap, although I couldn’t understand why, exactly. I said, confused, “It was always the plan to go back to Maimela. I know the area, the language. I could be close to papa and that way when I do eventually work with him I’ll know all the patients really well.” Why was she asking? She had known the plan from the beginning. And of course Sediba was already upset about this very topic.

“I’m thinking of moving here. If I did, you could be close to me.” She smiled, but it was a pleading look, desperate, and it made me want to flee the room.

“OK,” I forced myself to appear at least a little bit enthusiastic. “OK. We could do that, but Mama, tonight I have to go out. I’m supposed to see friends now, maybe you can go and lie down and we can see each other when you wake up? You look very tired.”

I was thinking that I would go outside and wait for Sediba and tell him that my mother was here—that we couldn’t be alone in the flat this weekend and that I hoped he understood.

Luckily my mother liked the idea of going to sleep and I stepped outside to wait for Sediba. I sat down on the steps downstairs facing the gate and waited with a heavy heart. What would I tell him? He couldn’t drive back now or stay at his aunt’s. He hated staying there. We had had made plans to drive down the coast. The last time he had said, “You know, just because we hate clubs doesn’t mean we have to stay in. Why don’t we drive down the coast and see what’s there? Stop for lunch and things like that.” I had looked forward to it all week. Now I tried breathing slowly to calm down but I couldn’t. I stood up and paced up and down the small garden area in front of the building.

Finally he arrived, using the spare card I had given him to get through the gate. He smiled and waved at me as he turned into a parking spot and felt I the dread rise and rise and rise until I couldn’t breathe and ran over to him, panting with panic.

“Hi,” he leaned over to give me a hug. “I almost kissed you right here,” he said.

I stepped out of the embrace.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mother is here.”

“Oh. That’s OK, we’ll just say that I’m visiting.”

I said, “No!” and it came out more forceful than I had intended.

He was completely taken aback. “No?”

“No. She’s miserable. Depressed. She wants to stay here for the weekend.”

“That’s fine.” He was opening the boot now.

“That’s fine? Where will you go?”

Sediba folded his arms and threw me another look of astonishment.

“You and I are going down the coast. You can tell her that we’re just going for a drive. We’ll return later today and I don’t mind staying with my aunt for one night.”

I bit my lip and waited, trying to find the right thing to say but it was not coming to me.

“What is wrong? Do you want me to go and then come back?”

I nodded. “I need to think.”

Sediba took my hand and squeezed it quickly before letting it fall.

“Fine. Think. I’ll be back later.”

“Thanks,” I said but when he leaned forward I took a step back.

“Not outside,” I said, and he held up both his hands.

I waited for him to get in the car and reverse it. When he reached me, he stopped and winked. “As long as I don’t leave here without . . . ,” he said with a grin. It was an attempt at a joke and I appreciated it, so I chuckled in response. When his car had disappeared down the road, I ran up the stairs, back to my mother.

I found a completely different woman.

My mother had touched-up her makeup and was standing at the bathroom door, one hand on her hip, the other behind her. Her lips were now painted a glossy reddish brown, her black eye liner was darker, bolder. She had even decided against the ponytail, her hair now brushed back, flat, its tips touching her shoulders. There was no trace of the subdued woman who had walked in a few minutes before. This woman was more livid than sorrowful.

“Are you with someone? Going out with someone?” she asked.

“What? Why do you ask?”

“Are you?”

I was gripped with panic. Had she seen me and Sediba outside? I was trying to think, how could she, you couldn’t see the entrance to the flat complex from my room. There were two buildings in this complex and mine faced the ocean while the other faced the street. She couldn’t have seen us. Had she walked out? Seen him hug me?

“Not . . . well . . . I’m . . . I’m dating—”

“Why do you have two toothbrushes and two shaving kits?” From behind her, as if she had been saving it for effect, my mother pulled up one of the two kits. It was actually mine and not Sediba’s.

I had read a lesbian woman’s story once, where she said her mother had found out she was gay when she walked into the room and she and her girlfriend were sitting across the table from each other. They were not holding hands, they were not looking at each other in any special way—they had only been sitting and eating and the mother just guessed. You never know what it is about you that will reveal your secret. I had always imagined it would be something dramatic like being caught kissing or in bed. In the end it was only a shaving kit—and my lover had not even been there.

My defense was feeble. “Why are you looking at my things?” I took the kit from her. Back in the sitting room, I tried to think of ways to appear indignant, but this was my mother and I was no longer a young teenager without the experience of how cruel life is outside of home. I needed my mother, I didn’t want to fight. I needed her to say it was fine, that she’d be all right with it.

She had opened the windows and there again came that whiff of lemons from the tree I hadn’t yet seen. I had a passing memory of Sediba’s arms around me and my head on his shoulder, taking in that scent. My mother came to sit across from me and leaned her elbows on her thighs. I could see what was happening here: whatever she thought was going on with me had helped take away her own misery for a moment. She had something to take care of now. There was my mother’s old sense of purpose.

“I want you to tell me something. You said you were dating, but you have two shaving kits. Why?”

There was no way out of here. I could open every door I had known to let in a little air but there was no door to step through. There was nothing to do but say what was really going on. I didn’t want to, because I didn’t trust her to stay calm and tell me it was all right, that the nation’s constitution says blah blah blah . . . I was at the top of a table and I had to tip it, let the rope pull me up by the neck. It had been many years of running but this was the end. I thought of Rodney and wondered for the first time if he had sobered up for his conversation with his mother or if he had been high on something—if that was why he had been bold enough to tell his mother that he liked sleeping with men.

My mother folded her arms, legs crossed, one red high-heel shoe dangling back and forth like it was a red pendulum above my sitting room mat. Her eyes were narrow and her lips pursed into a reddish-brown O, waiting. I picked up the bottle of wine that I had placed in front of her and took a long swig from it, wiped my mouth with my palm, and surrendered.

“I’m gay.”

I felt the room spin, the wine glass blur and suddenly there were two glasses. I shut my eyes and pressed them with the heels of my palms.

“Now you know,” I said, my best attempt at appearing nonchalant failing me.

I didn’t—couldn’t—look at her. For a moment neither one of us spoke. When I opened my eyes I had an uncontrollable need to grin, a need in me that often comes out of nervousness.

My mother picked up her bag and put it on her lap, her face towards the window as though contemplating a great mystery. I felt cold and then hot all at once. My body couldn’t find a comfortable position on the chair. A small bird came and sat at the window and quickly flew away as if sensing danger on the other side of the glass and I wished I could do the same.

Finally, when it appeared she had thought it all through, she threw her bag down and spoke. “Sies! A doctor, behaving like a dirty street person? A doctor? A gay? My own child, a gay? Sies! You’re a gay? What kind of thing is this? Is this from your White friends? Is this what you think is white? It’s so . . . it’s not proper, Kabelo. Even if you want to be White, Kabelo, this is repulsive, mara. Hao! Sies! A gay? A gay?” The more she spoke the word, the more I felt repulsed by it—I saw myself the way she did for that moment: disappointing, dirty, vile. She spat out the words and left them on my floor. A gay. The ground shifted. My head ached persistently.

What is there to say when someone expresses such blatant contempt? I couldn’t defend myself. I only looked down at the floor, my face in my hands.

I suppose soon it became clear that she would get no satisfying response from me, so she marched out of my flat and slammed the door.

And then just as quickly she was back. She opened the door and stood there, no intention of coming in. She had forgotten something, I thought. I stood facing her, waiting. Perhaps she had come to say it was all right, she was under a lot of stress, it was work; it was this thing with my father, times were changing—no matter what, I was her son. She loved me anyway. No such luck. She said: “Bona Kabelo. Do me a favour. Don’t come back to Maimela if you’re still practicing these things. I didn’t raise you to shame me.”

And that was the very last thing my mother said to me.

Today I remember the phone call about my father’s death, but the one about my mother’s comes to me every now and then as a jumbled mess of voices and words muffled by crying in the background. My father phoned from home, Aus’ Tselane wailing in the background. When you’re a medic you always think: I should have seen the signs. You look back on the time you were in class and you learned about these particular symptoms and you feel completely stupid for not having noticed them as they happened to you in your world. I wouldn’t have guessed that my mother would kill herself. That she would go silent for weeks, be cold and distant for some time towards me, that I would have guessed. But kill herself? No. A psychiatrist I worked with once told us, “I often think a lot of anger goes into suicide.”

I remember the flat was cold and unlit when Sediba came to sit with me, just before I made my way up north, having heard the news. I wouldn’t go with him. I had done enough to my parents, I felt. He was getting ready to leave when my father phoned. I had been in a state and had stayed up all night pacing around my flat while he woke up now and then and begged me to come to bed. I had left the windows open, my phone was on the floor, and I had not eaten or slept.

“I’m so sorry,” he was saying. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Why do Black people say ‘you’re a gay’ instead of just ‘you’re gay?’”

Sediba shrugged and flicked away the insignificance of my question.

“Maybe she had an underlying problem. Maybe it was . . . ” I was speaking in a whisper, my voice hoarse from shock.

When I looked up he was staring at me, his eyes so desperate and pleading that I couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t find me—couldn’t pull me close and comfort me. I kept darting away from his arms, moving in circles, stepping out of his embrace when he reached me. He wanted the person he knew to come back to him and sit with him in the room, but I needed to run away. Finally he was exhausted.

“Do you remember the first time we met? When my family moved in?” His voice was quiet and sad. I nodded, still not looking at him. I was curious where this was going. He stood up and came to sit next to me, so close that now all I wanted him to do was hold me, but he didn’t.

“I remember all your friends—I didn’t think they’d become mine later—but all of them were amused by me, the way people always had been. But you weren’t. You didn’t laugh when they did. There was something so reassuring about the way you looked at me . . . and then Lelo said I sat like a girl and the look you gave him,” he chuckled, rubbing my neck gently, “you were so angry he said that. I’ll never forget it.”

I got up to turn the light on. When I returned to the sofa I sat farther away from him. I said, “I was afraid of you. I didn’t know then but I know now.”

The gulf between us seemed bigger and my whole world felt lonely. He wasn’t gone yet but I knew he would be soon. I knew I would have to let him go, finally, and the knowledge brought with it a staggering sadness, so overwhelming that I started breathing faster, afraid of what this meant for me, for my life.

“You were afraid of yourself,” Sediba said. He moved closer and started to kiss me. It was so sad a kiss that I returned it wholeheartedly, feeling helpless and reassured all at once. But then he started inching his hand up my shirt and I heard my mother’s voice saying, “Sies!” and I was afraid that every time he touched me I would hear her voice again. So I caught Sediba’s hand and firmly pushed it away. When he pulled back he stared at me, his eyes begging.

I sat up and shifted away. I heard the wind whistling furiously outside, and one of the windows slammed shut. There was a storm brewing.

I said without facing him, “Look, Diba, this thing . . . we have to end it.”

He didn’t sound surprised. “We’re in love,” he said, matter-of-factly, “We can keep going. Can’t we? Because we love each other.”

“But it just broke my mother’s heart. Just because we want it doesn’t make it OK, you know. And where would we live, eventually? In Kasi? Come on. You know we have to end it.”

“I think we can find some way. I think you’re grieving and—”

“I can’t ever live there like this. Knowing what I did to my mother and having people look at me like, like I have no shame.”

He sank his head into his hands. “I love you.”

I said, “I love you too,” but my voice was so hoarse that it came out in a slight whisper. I had upset him more.

“Oh, now you say it. Now, Kabelo? All the time I hear, ‘I feel the same way.’ But now, today, when you’re letting me go . . . ”

He had called me by my full name. It sounded strange and formal and distant.

“You know I do—”

He walked away. One moment he was in the bedroom, the next at the window, staring out into the evening. “I don’t say anything. There are things . . . I don’t say anything, I just let you be. I know how you are and because I love you, I don’t even . . . and the way you just let people think . . . I just hope that someday it will change. Every time I come here I hope to . . . ” he stopped suddenly and then he walked towards the door. Through my teary eyes the room looked blurry.

“What do I let people think?”

He paused, turned around, shook his head.

“What? What do I let people . . . ”

“Always. Like we’re doing something shameful. That stewardess on the plane . . . ” He wanted to hurt me, I understood.

“Where will you go? You just arrived. I’m sorry. Let’s just . . . let’s look at it as taking time off. I just need a little time. I have to go back for her funeral. I just need a little time, I think.”

His face twisted in anger, his chin trembled, his eyelids fluttered furiously. “Do you? Just some time and then you’re fine? We’re fine?”

I hung my head. “It was never going to be . . . we’re not . . . allowed, you and I. It’s not like we could do this forever—”

“Because?” he snapped, madly throwing his arms up in the air.

“Come on, Jo. You know where we’re from. We sort of knew we’d get caught—”

I think it was me calling him Jo in the middle of it, like we were back to being pals—like I had already moved on, that enraged him.

“Caught? Caught? Because we’re two children at a forbidden game?” I opened my mouth to speak but it took a while before the words formed and finally came out. By then the door was open.

My voice was clearer now the second time I said it: “I do love you too—”

“Fuck you, Jo,” and the door slammed behind him.