Diary of a Zulu Girl Part 1

By Mike Nkululeko Maphoto

Thandeka Mkhize is destined for greatness. Or at least that’s what she believes. She feels on top of the world when she is accepted to study law at the University of Witwatersrand.

Johannesburg is the City of Gold where for a young Zulu girl like her, dreams do come true.

All that glitters is not always gold. She arrives in Johannesburg and her cousin introduces her to the party lifestyle. She is naïve. It comes at a price.

Her peaceful life is replaced by police, parties, money, champagne and an occasional death or two.

But who is counting for as long as the money is rolling in. All is fair in love and war.

This is the story of a young girl’s journey that might be her last ultimately. The signs that it might end in tears are there. But You Only Live Once.

Bravado grows the more fun one has.

The need to survive and be relevant drives Thandeka’s story and the people around her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bula Buka
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005525330

Book preview

DIARY OF A ZULU GIRL PART 1

From mud huts, straight back hair and umqombothi, to penthouses, expensive weaves and Moët

Mike Nkululeko Maphoto

Please take a selfie with the book and post on your Social Media. Insert hashtag #BookSelfie #DiaryOfAZuluGirl

Copyright

DIARY OF A ZULU GIRL PART 1

SERIES: 1

SERIES NAME: DIARY OF A ZULU GIRL

By Mike Nkululeko Maphoto

Copyright © 2013 Maloma Content

All Rights Reserved

Print ISBN: 9780620590914

Published by Maloma Content – www.malomacontent.co.za

Edited by Lesedi Setlhodi-Paul

Cover designed by FAD Communications

Cover, layout, eBook conversion and online distribution by www.bulabuka.co.za

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electrical, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission of the author.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

About the author: mike nkuleleko maphoto

Mike Nkululeko Maphoto is a South African dramedy novelist and lawyer. He is the author of the hit blog-drama Diary of a Zulu Girl and Confessions of a Sugar Baby. He is the co-writer of SABC 1’s hit TV series Makoti.

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The Polokwane writer was born in Zimbabwe to an exiled South African politician. He also lived in Zambia, Botswana and England.

Mike Maphoto’s writing journey began when he pulled a prank on a friend in 2005. It was from this prank that he realised he had flair with words and storytelling.

He is the father of the diary chronicle genre.

His blog Diary of a Zulu Girl is largely seen as the reason behind the blogging family in South Africa as it broke barriers for many authors to find their voice.

Boasting over 130 000 followers and with over 30 million views on Facebook, the Diary of a Zulu Girl dramedy broke readership barriers among young and old – male and female – readers.

Such was its influence that in 2016 he not only won the IEB award for blogging, but also the English Matric National Exams had his blog as one of their questions.

Mike studied Law and Politics at the University of Cape Town.

About the book

Thandeka Mkhize is destined for greatness. Or at least that’s what she believes. She feels on top of the world when she is accepted to study law at the University of Witwatersrand.

Johannesburg is the City of Gold where for a young Zulu girl like her, dreams do come true.

All that glitters is not always gold. She arrives in Johannesburg and her cousin introduces her to the party lifestyle. She is naïve. It comes at a price.

Her peaceful life is replaced by police, parties, money, champagne and an occasional death or two.

But who is counting for as long as the money is rolling in. All is fair in love and war.

This is the story of a young girl’s journey that might be her last ultimately. The signs that it might end in tears are there. But You Only Live Once.

Bravado grows the more fun one has.

The need to survive and be relevant drives Thandeka’s story and the people around her.

Acknowledgements

I read somewhere that blogging is for failed writers who are crying out for attention. This is for my father Isaac Maphoto who fought for so long to free this country! For my family that stood by me, for Reinet and Ntheteng who saw to it that every morning there was a story to tell, for Sash my brother who made sure that forever young was not just a phrase and finally, Sfiso R. Themba whose vision got us here. I am immensely grateful to you all.

Chapter one

I was not born poor but I can’t say I was born rich either. My parents are both teachers in Mooi River, which is halfway between Joburg and Durban. It’s a beautiful quiet little town where nothing much really happens except for the occasional weddings, funerals and memulo (for those who don’t know, it’s a coming of age ceremony for Zulu girls). Funerals are the order of the day as almost all girls from here who moved to either Joburg or Durban seem to die mysteriously. Those who don’t die, bring back their babies here because they say life is too expensive and too fast to raise a baby there and some never seem to want their babies. Funny enough, when these girls come back they all look so glamorous with Brazilian, Peruvian and Malaysian weaves that I am told are worth five thousand rand a piece. They all have designer bags and shoes I don’t even see in Drum magazine. Their lips are so heavily glossed, I swear you could see them from a mile away. Life must really be expensive ke! The grandparents go around showing off their grandchildren with pride but we all know the shame it brings when your daughter brings home a fatherless child, for this is KwaZulu-Natal after all. Yes, I don’t stay in the rural parts but it’s still deeply cultured with rules and traditions that go deep.

I can’t describe the sensations that flooded me when I passed my matric and Wits accepted me to study Law. We all grew up seeing long queues at universities for students looking for space and here I was receiving mail in my post to say Come hither daughter of Shaka, you have qualified! I was scared and excited at the same time. I had even received a full scholarship and all I had to do was maintain good grades. Yes, I knew it would be tough but I had come this far, so why stop now? My parents, though ecstatic for the fact that I had passed they did not seem to share the same joy I had for going to Joburg.

For a moment there I thought I was not going to be allowed to go but eventually my mom convinced my dad that I had been raised right and I would not bring home a child or some foreign guy. They eventually allowed me to go. I promised them that I would not become a statistic like other girls as I was smart and ambitious.

I didn’t get the campus residence but through one of the girls who reside in my neighbourhood, I got a place in Braamfontein. She told my parents that it was really convenient for varsity, a mere ten minutes’ walk in an area where 80% of the people are students. She neglected to mention what the rest were. Both my parents escorted me to my new place the day I moved in and this meant I could take most of my things along as compared to using public transport. My dad had insisted that my mom pack us lunch because he said takeaways were expensive. I remember leaving home and getting onto the N3 highway. Given the opportunity I was about to explore, I felt I was victorious, I was triumphant, I was on my way to the city of gold and the world was my oyster.

My mom had insisted that my dad stick to a speed of 100 kph after we drove past an overturned Roadlink bus just 20 km out of Mooi River, so you can imagine how long the trip was. Five hours later we were driving into Joburg. I updated my WhatsApp status that I had finally arrived in the city of dreams, and the girl who had arranged a place for me to stay at responded by asking me when my parents were leaving because she was taking me out that night. I wasn’t very outgoing but considering that it was Friday why the hell not. My dad (being my dad) had decided that they would help me settle in during the day and drive back around seven when the roads were empty and most certainly my mom would fall asleep; this way he could break all speed limits. He had refused to sleep in Joburg because the following day there was the biggest derby, Chiefs vs. Pirates; my dad being a true buccaneer. The game was to kick-off at 10 a.m. with a braai at his friend’s place. I told my friend (let’s call her S, for she would prove to be a snake and a slut but that’s a story for later) that if it’s after 8 p.m. then we could go. She laughed at me and said,

"Akekho ophumayo ngemuva kuka 11 sesi lol welcome to Jozi."

I laughed and my mom asked me why I was laughing; I told her it was some funny clip online. I checked in and S came to welcome me in.

My parents were happy that she was there to guide me. My mom called her my big sister; back at home she was such a decent child and had been the head of our Sunday school and youth choir. I am Methodist, by the way. When she walked in to greet us, she was wearing a maxi skirt, dignified to meet my parents. After two long hours I couldn’t wait for my parents to leave as I felt like they were hovering. My mom did my bed, unpacked my suitcases and almost everything else for me. She was the one worrying and fussing whilst my dad was impatient. An old friend of his from Mondeor had called and said he must come say hello, so he wanted to leave. I was relieved when at 7 p.m. became 5 p.m. and we said our goodbyes. I won’t lie, I actually cried because this was the first time I was away from home. The thought of being away from home in a foreign city overwhelmed me; I was however also excited. S laughed at me but reassured me that she had gone through the same emotions. She took me for supper downstairs and we had KFC. It’s right at the foot of our building, how convenient. Around 8 p.m. my mom called saying that they were driving home and I told her that I would be going to bed soon because the trip had worn me out. We said goodnight.

At 10:30 p.m. S came to my room to check if I was ready. I was wearing my hip-hop outfit (trend back home), skinny jeans with air force sneakers. You know, the teen high school uniform for going out. We all look like Lil’ Wayne wannabes. Looking at her I felt stupid. There she was in a short-ass white dress that looked so tight I felt it would tear. Later I would learn it was the Joburg night uniform and it was called a freakum. We are the same height but in her heels she towered over me, making me look even smaller and more pathetic. She laughed and said that we were not in Mooi River anymore and I would have to change. I told her that I didn’t have those kind of outfits and she said I should not worry as she would hook me up; we were cousins after all. She told me that this would my story (us being cousins) from now onwards. I readily agreed, my naivety had presented. She went to her room and came back with yet another short dress.

I have worn short dresses before but I felt so naked and exposed. I could feel the fresh air go to my privates unabated and thank goodness for my matric dance, because there they had taught us how to walk in heels. I just looked expensive. I had a weave which back home we commonly call the razor cut, you know, the one that is short and flat but curly at the back. She told me that by the end of the week this had to go as here it was called a "kasi weave". She told me to rather stick to braids or my own hair if I didn’t want a weave. I was an eager student and I obviously didn’t want to look rural, so I absorbed it all. I asked her where we were going and how we were going to get there. She told me not to worry.

At 11 p.m. she got a call and she said, Let’s go. When we got outside I was astonished. I am not a car person but outside was a white E63 AMG waiting for us. I am not stupid, I know what that is, and it’s more expensive than my house. I was so impressed by the type of friends she kept. I couldn’t wait to meet them but maybe my enthusiasm was a little too much too soon. Out stepped this mountain of a man with muscles everywhere, even on his head. S ran and jumped on him happily and he said (in one of those accents you hear on Africa Magic), I see your cousin has finally arrived. Hi, I am Ada Orunu but everyone calls me Tiny. I think I blacked out for a second there, as I could hear myself from a distance whispering,

Oh, God!

Nervously I composed myself, I was not about to embarrass my cousin. I smiled and offered my hand to shake but the Gorilla would hear nothing of it. He hugged me, lifting me up in the process. I am sure with the shortness of the dress I was wearing the hobos who were lurking around got a good view of my exposed buttocks. I am light-skinned; a yellow-bone as they call us, so when I blush I turn beet red and that was me at that moment. You neglected to tell us she was this beautiful, what’s up with that, he said as he opened the door for us. I must admit, in all my life I had never seen a man open a door for a woman, not in KZN. What? Shaka would turn in his grave if a Zulu man did that. Our men are uptight like that. I was flattered yet anxious. My parents hadn’t even reached the second toll gate and already I was dressed like a prostitute about to go out with men I had never met, and worse, Nigerian men! What was I doing?

Tomorrow I will have to give S a piece of my mind, I am not that kind of a girl but for tonight I will not embarrass her. Look, I have been in several cars in my days; nothing this fancy, but many just the same. When the engine of this E63 started, I swear I could feel my body vibrate. I tried my level best to keep my legs closed, but this man was driving so fast I kept falling sideways. I got the impression that the Gorilla was doing this on purpose. I could see that he was looking at me every time he made a sharp turn, fortunately I was sitting at the back. I was so relieved when we got there, and in bright lights there was the sign, Taboo I had heard so much about this club, so it was something familiar at last.

When we got to the door we didn’t pay nor wait in the very long queue outside. The bouncer knew our Gorilla (whom I will call G from now onwards). They spoke in their language for a minute or two and then we walked through. I could hear people grumbling and complaining, but the bouncer (who was also built like a mountain) just gave them a warning look. My fellow countrymen made to look pathetic but did I care? Nope, I was let in, so better them than me. The music was pumping and everyone there was dressed like S and me. Now I was a bit grateful that she had made me change because I would have looked pathetic. I could also see why she wanted me to change my hair. I was the only one with that style, and yes, amongst all these girls, it looked "kasi." We were ushered into the VIP section by yet another Nigerian guy but he wasn’t as big as the others, rather more athletic. It hit me at that moment that South African men next to these guys looked like little boys. These were men!

We sat down on the impossibly low couches which again made it really hard with my short dress, but looking at S she had no problems whatsoever. You could tell she was a pro at this. They asked us what we wanted to drink and immediately I said Coke because I was uncertain of myself, the new environment and the company we were in. S asked for a bottle of Sky Vodka and G took out a wad of cash. I couldn’t help it but say out loud "Imali engaka! and thank heavens the music was too loud for anyone to hear me. Growing up I got pocket money but I don’t recall ever seeing such a large amount of money in one place. I asked for the bathroom and S took me. When we were there, we took a few pictures in the bathroom for Instagram in all poses, pouting, snarling, you name it. I asked her casually what G does for a living and she casually said, He owns two hair salons in Joburg." They must really cut a lot of hair neh!

I didn’t know my cousin could dance this well. She was a church girl back at home. She was even a head-girl in her grade if I recall properly. There she was, gyrating her hips on the table whilst all these old men in our group were drooling and imagining all the nasty things they would do to her. She was causing a scene as far as I was concerned, and embarrassing us. I chatted to a few friends who were still updating their WhatsApp statuses that late, telling them I was at Taboo. Some were envious whilst others warned me to be careful. I drank my Coke but eventually I moved on to ciders. S once or twice offered me her Sky Vodka but my stomach was not ready for that. Back home I could only handle my alcohol after I had had a solid meal and KFC was hardly it. Besides, it would certainly not be cool to puke in an E63. I was getting tipsy enough and dancing too. Not on tables though; imagine the scene if I fell off! The guys (there were four by the way, with another girl whose name I didn’t quite get when we were introduced) didn’t really dance with us nor did they try to touch us. Maybe they were gentlemen after all.

Around 3 a.m. I was getting tired and remembered that I had travelled long distance and had not rested, so I wanted to go home. I told S this and she said it was fine, I just had to give her time to say bye and speak to G to take us home. That took about an hour but eventually we walked out. As we walked, some idiot touched my ass and before I could angrily turn to see who it was I just saw someone flying on to the floor. It was a South African guy half the size of G who had taken his chance with the wrong girl. The guy just lay there; G and the rest of the guys we were with walked us out as though it was nothing. G is the one who had punched him, mind you, so you can imagine. I was excited, angry and tired at the same time, so I didn’t care, it served him right for touching my ass. S seemed a bit annoyed by it all but she didn’t say anything.

We were escorted like VIPs into the car and everyone was staring at us. It felt amazing to have all those eyes on us, even though it was a bit disconcerting. In spite of my kasi weave I know I looked hot in S’s dress, and now that I was tipsy keeping it down was another mission. S and G were walking holding hands whispering sweet nothings. With his accent I could hardly hear what he was saying and I was tipsy nonetheless. His friend was walking with me. He was polite and as G had said,

Was fresh off the boat,

Meaning he had just come from Nigeria. He was a bit shy and I felt I intimidated him a bit. It was a bit chilly considering the lateness of the hour and he gave me his jacket. G made him drive so that he and S could have the backseat. Here I was, sitting on the front seat of this magnificent car, wow! If only my high school enemies could see me now. The music was pumping in the car and the fatigue was forgotten. I could hear S asking why she can’t sleep over and G replying that he had things to do. It went quiet in the back seat for a moment; being the inquisitive person that I am, I looked back to catch a glimpse of S sucking on his dick. Tjo! I was mortified. I shouldn’t have looked. I didn’t know what to do. Luckily, his eyes were closed and his head tilted to the back. She didn’t see me either as she was stuffing her mouth like a hungry child after a long day without food. I just wanted to go to my room.

We got out of the car and G said something to the driver in their language and they both laughed. He must have underestimated S’s grasp for the language as she immediately turned to him and snapped, Next time don’t touch my cousin’s ass and pretend it was some other poor guy whom you can bully because he is so small, and she walked away angrily. G (my cousin’s boyfriend!) was the one who had touched my ass and that poor guy they had punched had not been at fault?

Ouch!

I ran after her to apologize because I didn’t want to be caught in between; I was after all a victim in all this. When we got to the stairs out of site from G who was still calling after her, S was smiling from ear to ear. I asked her why and she turned to me and said,

When he apologizes he is going to give us so much money so it’s a win for us!

And that was that! My cousin had just pimped my ass!

The following morning or rather afternoon as I woke up at noon (now Saturday), I made it a point to go to her room and tell her that this was not the girl I was. I had fun, but this was all a bit much for me. I came from a home where all these things were a taboo. I had every intention to tell her that she was not the person we had all thought she was, so I would not be hanging out with her anymore. I mean, to be fair, it was only my second day and already I had seen a 40-year-old dick, no thank you! As I got to her door, she was also just coming in. She told me she had knocked on my door earlier because G wanted to take us for breakfast. She hugged me quickly and said she had something for me. She seemed so excited by it that I also got curious. She took out a roll of two hundred rand notes rolled up and held together by an elastic band. She handed it over to me and said that it was for me from G for touching my ass and she laughed. Stunned.

I wanted to throw it in her face and tell her that I was not a whore but I had to count the money first. I told her that I was going to put it in my room and then I was coming back because we needed to talk. I think going up to my room I literally ran in excitement. I had to count it. I was scared I would get robbed along the hallway; that’s what they say happens in Jozi, and since I was not carrying a bag I put the money in my bra when I got to the elevator. Speaking of elevators, there are none back in Mooi River. Someone saw me do that and laughed. Again, I was embarrassed but I acted as if I did not care. I went to my room, locked the door behind me and started counting. Twice I lost count and started again, and even when I got it right, I counted again. R 5 000 for someone touching my ass. All the anger I had towards S was gone and G was no longer Gorilla but Teddy Bear. Was I a prostitute now, I wondered? Nah, of course not. According to S, he had to pay for having touched my ass. I decided the best thing to do was save this money, so on Monday I would go add this to the R 1 500 my parents had given me for the month for pocket money in my student account.

Having swallowed my pride now and having been softened up by the money, I headed back to S’s place. She was expecting me; she was on her iPad loading the pics from this morning at the club. She asked me what it was I wanted earlier and I said, Nothing, just wanted to catch up. She then sat me down and apologized for throwing me in the deep end like that yesterday. Just like that. She then told me if I wasn’t comfortable with it, next time she will go with her friends. It was just that she felt bad going out without me yesterday. I told her I was fine and carefully avoided telling her that I saw her give Gorilla a blowjob in the car. Everything was cool but she said she needed to warn me of a few things and laughed; she called them the Rules of the game.

The Rule Book

Foreign Guys are not bad. It’s just a myth perpetuated by jealous South African guys who have no money and no ambition. The most they can do is get a job because they can’t think outside the box. They are stingy for one and let’s be honest they are abusive, physically and emotionally. We have all been victims. However, not every foreign guy is kind, gentle, rich and fun either. You have to be careful. There are Nigerians, Cameroonians, Angolans, and Ghanaians. You have to pick them well. Oh, how can I forget Zimbabweans? Foreign people back home (Mooi River) are classified into two groups. Either you are Zimbabwean or you are Nigerian so what the hell are Cameroonians? She was just confusing me but like an eager student I listened carefully.

From the get go, stay away from Zimbabwean guys as they are usually waiters in restaurants. They are not bad people but life is what it is. I tried to tell her that it’s a stereotype and she said, Wait until you get to any restaurant in Joburg, I laughed uncomfortably at this.

Angolan men. They are very hot and have money. The problem is that their women are even hotter, so you will always be self-conscious, and they love sex. You are not about to be used for sex are you? I obviously said No, but I wanted to hear more.

Men from Cameroon (that country I had never heard of until now) are few but have money. They are possessive and they cheat. They don’t really get along with Nigerians because they speak mostly French. If you are to play them, you most likely won’t get caught. I laughed again and asked her if she had ever messed around and she assured me that G would kill anyone who got close to her, so she didn’t want to end up making police statements.

She preferred Nigerians because as much as they are sweet and caring, they also think that they can get everything they wanted with money. The problem with them is that they often have wives back in Nigeria. I asked her if this didn’t worry her and she asked me if I even knew where Nigeria was. When I said No, she laughed and said, I rest my case.

You can’t do this forever though. In your first year, you are allowed to play because you are young and no one fails first year. Just don’t get caught and be discreet. Don’t flaunt your money when you get home because they will ask where you get it and then you will be caught out.

You need a new wardrobe, so I’m taking you shopping today. Your razor weave we will fix tomorrow (Sunday).

By the way, we don’t date South African men, they don’t appreciate women. They lie; cheat, steal; beat women up and most importantly, they are stingy. How can you date a boy when you have a big man to take care of you?

With that being said, we headed to Sandton City because she said it was more convenient than Cresta and we would most likely not bump into anyone we knew. My makeover, she said, was about to begin. She told me how I would leave behind the dusty old me from Mooi River to be reinvented. By now you must be asking yourself where my backbone in all this was. I had hardly fought back and let this girl run my life. Don’t forget I was in Joburg and she was by far the only person I knew. She had given me R 5 000 for someone touching my ass; I mean she could have kept it. The most any of the South African guys I had dated (and yes, shagged in a few cases) had ever given me was a teddy bear for Valentine’s and airtime to call them or chat. I had grown up with S, so I trusted her. Like she said, it was my first year and I needed to try new things. It was only my second day in Joburg and I was already disgracing my parents.

Like I said, I did not grow up in a village. On the contrary, I grew up in a small town. We had DStv, flushing toilets and all the perks people in big cities enjoyed. Don’t even get clever with me. I was also on the verge of getting my driver’s licence using my mother’s old Tazz, so I was well off compared to most of my peers. I had been to malls in Pietermaritzburg and Durban but walking into Sandton City was like walking onto another planet. In KZN, our white people are Indian and in Mooi River that statistic is even worse. Sandton City was packed with mostly white people. I suggested we go to Edgars (the black woman’s heaven) and S looked at me as though I had farted out loud in front of my father-in-law. She quietly and calmly said that Edgars would be for another day. I couldn’t help but ask myself what the fuck is wrong with this girl. Back home when you came out of Edgars with bags, all your friends commented about it on Facebook. That didn’t happen often though but every now and again my parents would buy me something; those were necessities and not luxuries, and yet here I was in Mecca about to indulge. She made sure to point out that we only shop in boutiques, this way all the clothes we got were a once-off.

The problem with Edgars was that whatever dress you bought, a hundred other people had the same dress. In a boutique, the dress was yours and yours alone. I saw this absolutely gorgeous dress in one boutique with which I fell in love almost immediately. It was a leopard print dress, and back home, leopard print was all that. When I got excited and showed S, she shut me down quickly. That day I learnt that leopard print was ghetto and absolutely ugly. It’s a Durban thing where girls even buy leopard print shoes and underwear, she warned me that this wasn’t Durban. Again she made me feel small. Come to think of it, in the club I don’t recall seeing any girl in print. Eventually we found a dress. I was too scared to even comment but fortunately she was excited about it too telling me how awesome it would look on me. I had to agree though, it was gorgeous. It was a white dress with gold trimmings. I held it and the material just flowed through my fingers. This was quality, no doubt. I searched for the price tag and, hidden somewhere, it said R 1 800. S then said, Wow it’s so cheap! It’s under R 2 000! I beg your pardon! There was just something obscenely wrong about buying a dress that expensive, no matter who you are! I told her defiantly that I would rather buy three dresses for that amount. The white sales lady came to us and said Hello to S by name, and I of course was completely ignored. They spoke like old friends before she casually said, I want you to try it on. Again I felt stupid. I didn’t even have a say in my own wardrobe. I felt as though I was like a sheep being led to the slaughter. I tried on the dress and the saleslady and S showered me with compliments. Again my hair haunted me in the mirror. It didn’t sit well in this dress. I felt dusty and backward.

S paid for the dress and we walked out; she didn’t even flinch as she paid cash. You want to buy three dresses, she laughed, slow down dear, you are moving too fast! Did she just say slow down? How am I moving too fast when I am the one trying to budget?

Tonight, I was told that there was a major all-white pool party at a house in a place called Benmore, also here in Sandton. Entry ticket was a bottle of Hennessey and the invitation card. How fancy, I thought! That’s why we had bought the white dress. I also heard that some celebrities would be in attendance. This was going to be super awesome. Being from Mooi River, a celebrity was someone we only saw on TV. I am sure if Vusi (the news reader) came to Mooi River, he would be mobbed as a celebrity. I wonder if anyone from Generations would be there, that will be the ultimate! When I got back to my room I cleaned up a bit as it was in the same state I had left it in the morning. My mom and her neatness would die if she walked in here. I must say, I was extremely excited as I was taking my shower. Let’s do inventory here: I had been in Joburg now for a full 24 hours. Already I had 5K and a dress that was worth almost 2K. I had always been told that Joburg is the city of dreams and so far, it was. Tomorrow I was going to do my hair and if anything, I most likely will do it at one of G’s salons, so it will be affordable. Monday I was registering for my law degree. How then can one say that things were not falling in place for me?

It was already 9 p.m. We were going to buy take-out on the way there so there was no need to prepare any food. When I shop, I don’t get hungry. Maybe it’s because the clothes fit better when your stomach is not full. As for the white dress, I looked great. At exactly 9:30 p.m., S was at my door. This girl really knew how to keep time. She was wearing a white short catsuit which exposed her thighs, with black stiletto boots. Stunning, I tell you. We walked downstairs and the security whistled as we walked past, perv! Gorilla was not there this time. It was one of the friends we had met the previous night at the club, who was waiting in a BMW 6 Series cabriolet. I couldn’t help but wonder if he also cut hair like G. Thank goodness it was warm outside. He stepped out and S hugged him like he was an old boyfriend but it was something I didn’t linger on, I had figured already that S was a bit flirty and touchy. His hand grabbed her ass when he hugged her. He shook my hand, something which I appreciated. In the back seat was a brown paper bag with three bottles of Hennessy (imagine, this was my first time seeing it live). When we got there, there was a bit of a queue but again, like the previous night, we waltzed right through. Coming out of the car someone bumped into me and I turned as she said, Sorry.

It was the bubbly one herself, Babalwa!

Look, I am not a groupie or anything like that, but here was a real-life celeb in front of me. What’s a girl to do…? Eish! I screamed ecstatically and hugged her. Poor girl didn’t know what hit her! Shame, she was quite startled at first but handled it gracefully. We took a few pictures, S was the photographer and didn’t seem too excited but I am an original Zulu girl – woooo shem – I didn’t give a fuck. As soon as she walked away, I updated my FB, Twitter and WhatsApp status: At an all-white Hennessy party chilling with my girl Barbs, I put up our picture as my display picture. I could feel my friends’ envy when they asked me via social networks where I was and what I was doing with Barbs. After calming myself down, S pulled me to the side for a chat and said, "We are not going to behave like groupies! Don’t act tjatjarag and stop screaming at celebs like a pregnant teen in labour." She was very annoyed and walked away. What had I done now? She calmed down when we saw G and his crew. She kissed him the moment she sat next to him. As she was sitting next to him, I had no space and after he had touched my ass the previous night, I preferred to sit as far away from him as