A Journey Half Travelled

By Khanyisa Fihlani

Arnold is a divorced farmer living a simple life in Limpopo. One day he meets a carefree woman who takes his breath away. Unbeknown to him Lisa, bears testimony to how cruel the world can be for the other half of the population. She takes Arnold through the tumultuous life she has lived. Together, they try to forge a relationship that can overcome all social divisions. But will they succeed? Is this what Arnold has been missing in his life? Will their love conquer all even with the many obstacles in their way? Where love blossoms, in a flash, life can be full of thorns.

This bitter sweet fiction novel is a tale of love, hope, survival and broken hearts.

About the author

Khanyisa Fihlani is a first-time author. She grew up writing and performing poetry until her late cousin Andisiwe challenged her to write a book. She never published the first five books she wrote. A former Site agent and premix plant manager who studied civil engineering at Walter Sisulu University and later completed a business course at University of Free State, she now co-owns a restaurant. She is an avid reader and a construction chick at heart. This work of fiction is her first published novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Khanyisa Fihlani
• Release date: Jul 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463855805

Book preview

A Journey Half

Travelled

Khanyisa Fihlani

Copyright © 2020 Khanyisa Fihlani

Published by Khanyisa Fihlani Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Khanyisa Fihlani using Reach Publishers’ services,

Edited by Vanessa Finaughty for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Website: www.reachpublishers.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

Content

Acknowledgements

My Readers

The Poem

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

To Show That I Care

Chapter 6

The One Who Got Away

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

A Journey Half Travelled

Life

Gone Too Soon

Acknowledgements

To my mother for believing in my writing and always pestering me to publish my work. This one is for you. At last, I followed my dream and did this. This is for all those other novels I only wrote for you.

To my brother and daughter, thank you for being my cheerleaders. My family has been supportive of my gift and I appreciate all of you.

To my friends, especially Patrick M, for making me believe in myself and pushing me to finish it. Thank you for the love.

My Readers

This is my gift to you. These words are my sanctuary, a billabong nested in an undiscovered cervix of the earth, and I am unearthing it and presenting it to you. I have laid my soul bare for your constructive criticism. I hope that my articulation is of the standard you can enjoy. I am a daughter of the soil.

The Poem

The silent storms blow harder than the hurricane

Causing havoc and mayhem to the heart of the receiver

Stomped and walked on behind closed doors of prying eyes

Paraded as a priceless jewel to unsuspecting spectators

The gentle soul is what the label says to the naked eye

If only they knew the swords spewing from the mouth of saint love

To gently shake the surface and damage the inner core

The buckets of smiles tried to fool the world of the turmoil inside

As love was served morning, day and night

To shadow the dagger of words shot straight through as a joke

The insensitive served compassion to confuse the sensitive of the bile

A venom given as coffee never loses its sting, but paralyses the receiver

Made to believe that second best is better that nothing

The calm exterior finally broken by one slip of a tongue

Said to put you in place, but somehow propelled you to greater heights

The eyes finally opened to emotional rollercoaster disguised as love

Bordering on obsession, but love nevertheless

Will the bird find its original nest after the smell of fresh air?

Will the clipped wings fly again or is the walk better than flying?

The resilient heart losing its famous elasticity through years of stretching

Love parallel to what it felt while most envied, for it supposedly clothed it

Only the closest know just how deep the scar goes

For its bleeding stopped long ago, making the masses confuse the clean exterior for healing

Fly away, my gentle bird heart; your nest has been destroyed

Your wings may never be healed, but will surely propel you to your destiny

1

I spot her again today and, like every other day, she doesn’t notice me. She is wearing her sunglasses and they sit perfectly on her small nose. I wonder what her name is and what the story could be with the sunglasses, as she is always wearing them.

Excuse me, are you last in line? she asks in such a beautiful voice that I find myself mesmerised by it.

I nod, for I don’t trust myself to give a coherent answer. There’s something about this woman and, in the three times that I have seen her, she has always been alone and wears such a serious look on her face and her beauty always imprisons me. I need to progress from this self-inflicted prison I have confined myself to when this woman is around me.

It’s so hot today, I say, trying to make small talk. Yeah! I know, so creative, Arno.

She turns towards me and takes off her sunglasses. She has manners. Lord! This is so rare and unexpected. Make this woman see me as a man, I think as I smile like a bloody fool. She flashes me a smile and we start talking as the queue snakes forward towards the cashpoints. She is soft-spoken, but I can sense a wild streak in there. I am a good judge of character. It’s a gift I have always possessed. She gets a call and starts talking in a strange language and I see that I am not the only one confused by this. I can speak the local dialect, but this is just exotic and foreign, although I can pick up a word or two. Zulu maybe? I wonder.

She leaves the line and drops her basket, then off she goes. Just like that, I am left to ponder if she is just a phantom. Will I see her again? I wonder as I leave Woolworths towards my car. I was so close, but these things happen. I quickly go to the bank to query a transaction before going back to the farm. As I survey the parking lot behind FNB to find an open slot, I spot her getting into the car in a hurry and she rushes off. At least now I made headway as I write down the name of the company she works for. It is emblazoned on the driver’s door. Now what?

I take my iPad and Google the company. They have their offices in Polokwane, so maybe I should drive there tomorrow morning.

***

When you are a man in love, your brain tends to go straight to your genitals. I didn’t think this through when I left my farm this morning and now that I am in her offices I am tongue-tied as to what I will say exactly. You can’t just go into a company and say you are looking for a beautiful short woman with a pixie haircut and big watermelons driving a company bakkie without sounding like a raving lunatic. Let me just give you a brief description of this woman so you can understand what I am talking about. She is short, beautiful and dark, but not too dark like the locals, and has such glowing skin. I have never seen her with make-up in the four encounters with her and her breasts…

Let me get back to the business at hand before I lose myself. I am starting to sound like a confused monkey who can’t differentiate between a banana and carrot. This is now my predicament as I am standing at the reception. You need to understand one thing about men; we are a bunch of impatient imbeciles at times, but, when it comes to what we want, we can withstand anything. Imagine the stares I am getting from passers-by as I ply my story to the receptionist. The most irritating part is that she has the audacity to talk to other employees about me, not even realising that I can perfectly converse in Sepedi without an interpreter. I let her bask in her glory and fight the urge to burst her bubble, for I have bigger fish to fry.

Her day will come, mark my words.

I’m sorry, sir, but you need to be specific, because we have about thirty company bakkies and they are identical. At least if you knew the fleet number I could help you.

My frustration is starting to manifest into perspiration on my forehead. I am slowly losing my grip. I need someone besides this fool to whom I can talk. This woman thinks I have lost my marbles and I can feel the laughter in her voice as she answers me. I ask to speak to the fleet manager and she directs me to his office.

It’s a spacious office and I can see this guy does not have time for pleasantries. There are pictures of tipper trucks and all assortment of construction plant and miniature replicas of trucks adorning his office. I spot a framed picture of his wife and kids and she has a pained expression on her face. Maybe this is not the right man to help me. He seems detached and does not even bother to stop typing furiously on his laptop. No one is that busy to spare a minute for a visitor. He just doesn’t want me here and is making it obvious. He waves his hand to show me where to sit and I do so like a naughty school kid in a principal’s office. I greet him and he makes a sound to acknowledge me. I tell him what I want and he stops typing on his laptop and looks me straight in my eyes.

Is there a problem? he asks without even blinking.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come, I think as my annoyance towards his arrogance is boiling. The only catalyst is that I need to see her, so I stare back at him.

No, there isn’t. I just need to know her name and I need to talk to her, please. It’s urgent, I plead desperately and I think he senses it. My pride has taken a few knocks, but I really do not care at this point.

I am not trying to be difficult, but she is one of our managers and she had a run-in a few weeks ago, so unless you tell me what this is about then I’m sorry, I will not help you.

Alarm bells ring and my curiosity grows. He will have to level with me before I let go of this.

What do you mean when you say she had a run-in? I probe, not sure if he will divulge any clarity to the matter, but I have to try.

I shouldn’t be saying this, but some guys cornered her about bypassing our system and getting the product from her plant at half price without the head office knowing and when she refused they started following her to find out where she stays. Police had to be involved, but to cut the story short, she was rattled and her safety is our priority.

I give up. I just stand up and leave. Maybe if I asked the guys on the ground I would have got an answer or maybe a name. This is so bloody frustrating. I understand the need to protect her, though, and I admire her more now that I know she is a principled lady. However, I still need answers. Who is this woman who has got me so worked up? I get into my bakkie and drive off. As fate would have it, my luck changes a few days later. I am leaving Game store in Louis Trichardt when I spot her getting into her bakkie with a parcel from PostNet. Forgive me, Lord, but I will follow her today. I sleep with a smile that day as I now know that she stays in a safe apartment block, but wait. What if she stays with a man? I wonder as I try so hard to sleep. I shove that thought to the back of my head and fantasise about the day I’ll finally introduce myself to her. I now know that day is inevitable and I cannot run away from it. I follow her for two weeks just to know her from a distance.

Crazy, I know. I need to be certain that she is everything I need. I am a white farmer, so if I go out with a black lady I need to be sure that she is all that I have been fantasising about. The thing is, South Africa might have changed and is accepting towards cross-cultural relationships, but Louis Trichardt is as backward as you can ever imagine. My brother thinks I have loose screws when I tell him about my crush on the elusive pixie lady, but, when he finally saw her this Saturday at the grill, his mouth just dropped.

She’s beautiful, Arno, and that rack.

Forgive me, but I am also mesmerised by it, so I understand my brother’s fascination. He is married, though, so I am not worried about him straying towards her. There are a few things I have learnt about her in the weeks I have been unashamedly stalking her. She stays alone in a two-bedroom apartment in a very safe complex. She doesn’t have friends that I know of and keeps to herself. She is managing some sort of manufacturing plant just outside town and she drinks red wine. I know the last part, because I saw her twice at Woolworths buying a bottle of dry red wine. Imagine my surprise when my brother, Deon, and I decided to go to the grill on Saturday to watch a rugby match and have a few beers and I saw her sitting at the bar. This place is frequented mostly by whites and they can be territorial.

Let’s go sit with her before these guys hit on her or worse, start trouble, Deon says after he has recovered from the shock of seeing her.

You see, pixie lady does not have that in-your-face beauty. She is naturally beautiful, dark and short, with beautiful skin and her breasts… damn. She is so confident and the way she carries herself is just sexy. The top she is wearing now is not making things any easier for me with her tight jeans and black heels. She is drinking a glass of red wine. No surprises there.

I tell Deon that we must let her bask in her own glory. A guy approaches her and they strike up a conversation. I guess that’s why my beer suddenly tastes like urine. She is laughing and carefree, but she turns down his offer to buy her another glass. Classy lady, I think as I pat myself on the back. She only drinks one glass, then she is given her take-away. Just as she approaches the door, she takes out her phone, answers it and disappears into the night.

You can stop smiling, bro. I think it’s time you approach her before some cow takes your place.

I think Deon is right and we need a refill. Oops! I cannot stand up right now, as junior is still excited about seeing the pixie lady. I won’t hear the end of it from Deon as he realises what’s happening. He waves to our waiter and he brings another round. It’s around 11pm when we finally leave the pub and I am so surprised to see her still parked outside, clearly shaken and sitting in the car with people yelling at her.

What happened? I ask one of the guys standing next to her car.

They have even parked her in; she can’t move. I now feel bad that I did not follow her to the car.

Just because she has money, she thinks she is better? Why did she come here instead of the other joints frequented by her kind? he asks, clearly pleased with himself.

I still don’t know what is happening, so I ask another and he says they parked her in as punishment, because she wasn’t supposed to come and drink in their pub. This shit needs to stop right now. I speak to the owner of the car to move it and tell them that I know the lady and she means no harm, only to find out that they have slashed her tyres. The fuck! I knock on her window and she opens it hesitantly, clearly freaked out and thinking that I am part of the mob crowd.

Lady, you will have to drive slowly with the tyres like that and I will follow you. I will send someone with new tyres tomorrow. I’m so sorry about this, I say to her.

She just stares at me as if she hasn’t heard a word I uttered. She is shaking badly. I ask Deon to drive her car while I follow them. We leave only when she is safely inside her apartment. The tyres and rims are damaged and need to be replaced. These people are sick and it’s not safe for our women to drive around alone anymore. I can’t sleep and Deon is not helping matters the way he is complimenting everything about her from her haircut to her perfume and her breasts. Yes, but those breasts will be the death of me. She is not a flashy dresser, but she chooses her outfits with care. The following morning, I call Martin and tell him I need two new tyres for her bakkie, with rims, of course. He is the manager at Tyre Rack. I can’t afford to let her be inconvenienced by some hoodlums. I’m in too deep, hey.

I get to her apartment block and she opens the electric gate for me. She ushers me into her simple, yet elegant lounge and offers me juice. She is listening to Calum Scott. This woman is full of surprises. I turn down the offer of juice for later, as I still have work to do. I wear my overalls and go out to her car. She asks if she can help me while I’m changing the tyres and I cannot lose points like that, so I tell her I am fine. You need to understand that I still need to get my foot in, so I can’t afford to look like I am not man enough. While I am changing her tyres and sweating my arse off, she quickly whips up something for me. The sun is punishing, but I brave it. When I am done, I toss the overall behind my seat and wash my hands at the tap that is outside. I go inside and she serves me grilled pork chops with veggies and savoury mash. Did I say I love her? Oh well, I think I am whipped. She pours me a glass of wine while she enjoys her lime water.

I am Arnold Schmidt, originally from Polokwane, but now I reside just outside Vivo, I say, breaking the ice.

I am Lisakhanya Komani from Umtata in the Eastern Cape, she says, not looking at me, as if she is thinking of something.

I won’t ask what it is, as I might not get an answer. She has a naughty smile on her face and it disappears the moment I look her way. I did say she has a wild streak; I am good at this. It might be an inside joke.

So why are you not drinking wine with me? I ask as I take another sip. By the way, the pork chops are succulent.

She sighs deeply and puts down her plate. She looks at me as if she is transported into a time far removed from the present. Her eyes are now hollow, devoid of any emotion, and that smile has vanished into the bowels of whatever is eating her. For a moment, I think she is not going to answer. She looks straight into my eyes as if searching for that which can propel her to dig into her past. I nod in encouragement; she is back.

Thank you for the new tyres and for last night. I don’t know what would have happened to me if you didn’t arrive.

Just like that, we are off that subject, but I can see that she is not done talking.

I used to drink a lot. You see, I was a typical party chick and wore that crown with pride. I was a dance floor lover and cognac was my preferred poison. I had a lot of friends; my life was crazy. I travelled all over Africa and had friends in Nigeria, Kenya, Ghana and Mozambique. Johannesburg was my second home and we didn’t need any reason to celebrate; my presence on its own was reason enough. The only thing I enjoyed about going back home was to hook up with my girls and drink all night and then life happened. I decided to do introspection and, from then, I changed my priorities. A glass of wine after a long day at work is all I need now.

If I wasn’t looking at her, I would have missed it. It was so fleeting and self-consuming, but I saw it: a wave of sadness in those beautiful eyes of hers. Something is eating her up and, even though she has a wonderful job that pays well, judging by her apartment, she is not happy. Should I ask? I wonder as my curiosity imprisons my mind. We can only talk about general stuff right now, as we have just met and anyway, I have scored brownie points with these two tyres. I ask to use the bathroom and she shows me. An eye has an uncanny habit of looking where it is not supposed to, so mine wanders to what I presume to be the main bedroom. She has taste, I give her that. It is decorated in pastel colours and I love that her colour scheme flows from the lounge to the bedroom. There are touches of yellow and grey in the bedroom. Her lounge has grey couches with a charcoal TV stand and yellow cushions. There’s an assortment of books on her coffee table. The other bedroom is closed, so my prying eyes will just have to live with that. I get back to her and she is changing the CD in her home theatre and is now playing Keith Urban. It’s as if she is an extension of me. Only on my way here I was playing Keith. It’s time for me to leave before I embarrass myself. Damn, when she bites her bottom lip, I swear I want to taste it, but Mama raised a gentleman or so she likes to believe.

As I enter my farm in high spirit, my heart sinks when I spot Natalie’s car parked in the driveway. I forgot I had a girlfriend in the past few weeks as I was chasing my dream. I’m seriously not inclined to her over-the-top antics today, but I will endure it. Did she have to choose today, though? I walk slowly towards her and she runs to me as if she has not laid eyes on me in ages. I hug her and we walk hand in hand into the house. I will break things off with her at some point, but right now I need a woman in my arms. A quickie will do me good.

I am woken by a loud knock and quickly go to check who it is. I see Tshilidzi waiting for me with a frantic expression. What could it be now? He tells me that four calves fell into the stock dam and died. That is bad for business, but there’s not much we can do now. That’s the life of a farmer. I drive out to the dam to do an inspection and realise that the rain has damaged the platform where they stand when drinking, so I get my workers and we level it for them. It’s too slippery and I need to get at least a bakkie load of crushed stone to level on top of the platform and maybe cement to hold it in. The nearest place to buy them is at Makhado Aggregates at Louis. Wait a minute! Lisa’s company is renting space at Makhado Aggregates, so I might get to see her. This means I need to bring her something. I don’t know what this woman likes and that is frustrating the fuck out of me. I know she likes the Woolworths kebabs and pecan nuts, so I buy her those and lilies. I don’t know her favourite flowers, so I am guessing.

There she is, standing on the skip with the mechanic, probably checking out whatever is wrong with the plant. She is wearing a white hard hat, sunglasses and work suit top with jeans. She is so attentive to what is happening that she doesn’t even notice me. I now feel stupid with these flowers I’m carrying, so I ask Tshilidzi to drop them at the reception and tell them they are for the manager. At least there is a note in those flowers. With most women, I know from first encounter if I stand a chance or not, but with this pixie lady over here, well, it’s a different story altogether. My phone is ringing as I exit the smoke-infested, dust-filled atmosphere that is the crusher plant. How does she survive in a place like this? She is a tough woman, my black diamond.

Arno, hello.

I know it’s her, but I don’t know how to address her. Nerves!

I don’t like flowers, but thanks for the food, Arno.

I told you that she is different. I never understand why women like shit like flowers, but they do, and then there’s Lisa. Now for the big guns. I need to ask her out. I need to wine and dine this woman. She looks good in heels even though she is so at home with timberlands. She surprises me when she agrees and I promise to fetch her at 6:30pm that evening. I need to strike while the iron is hot. I cannot waste time when I know that things might go south and she might change her mind.