Lip Gloss

June 2001

'Guys Shmooze, Chicks Smooch', I chuckle.  'Ai, Katryn!  I wish you wouldn't talk like that', sighs Pa.  'You've been so rude, ever since you started working for that kaffir at the Department of Agriculture'.  'Ag, nee, Pa.  And you say I talk ugly!  It would of been ok to say that eight years ago, but you got to move with the times', I retort.  Ma just shakes her head.  This has been the war zone between Pa and me since I was in Grade 11 in 1996.  What Pa doesn't see is that the world has changed. 

After supper, Pa settles in to read his paper, and Ma and I go out onto the stoep to watch the sun set.  It's beautiful to watch that red fire ball sink behind the hills.  The outlines of the aloes stand so stark in the fading light.  We've got a smallholding in Albertinia.  It only just pays the bills, and the bit Ma makes in the aloe factory and the bit I make at the Department means that we live ok, considering. 

But boy, did I have to lie to get that job!  It's not easy being white in South Africa any more.  It was just a little lie.  I mean, why would a typist need Grade 12 Biology for heavens sake?  It's not like I grow the plants or feed the sheep.  And if my boss can't spell, why should I have to?  Besides, if I need to check the spelling of a word, there's always the computer with the Internet on that I can use at lunchtime.  I just go onto www.dictionary.com and hey presto!  I got the spelling. 

I probably wouldn't of got the job at all, if it hadn't been for Sipho, my boss's son.  Sipho is a pump jockey at the Total garage on the N2 between Durban and Cape Town.  And, well Sipho and I have a thing going.  Ma sometimes teases me in an offish sort of way.  She plays up the word pomp, you know, pump, and I just laugh.  I don't ask her personal things like how many times a week she and Pa get it on, so why should I tell her who's my latest dipstick?  Pa hates it that I cross the colour bar, and Ma doesn't like it much.  But then, it's fashionable to show that you're beyond apartheid.  When I chat with friends in Cape Town, they think it's cool that I've got a black boyfriend.  Ma worries about if we get married, and what colour the kids will be.  She worries that they'll be albinos; you know the ones that are very pink with big black blotches.  There are some in our town, and they're outcasts.  Not even the coloureds have anything to do with them.

It's like when Ma and I tease each other about lipstick.  Ma says she's from the old school, when lipstick came in a tube.  You put it on once and it stuck fast all through the day.  She says I'm like the new generation when lip-gloss comes in a pot.  You put it on a thousand times a day as you lick you lips, making darn sure that nothing, but nothing, sticks to you for long. 

I make my own lip-gloss.  Ma gets aloe gel from the factory.  I mix in some cochineal and voila!  I got my lip-gloss.  It costs too much otherwise.  We got to trek all the way to Mossel Bay to find a Clicks, and then it's still like thirty Rand a pot.  This way, it's almost free.  Ma teases me about the cochineal.  Sometimes it comes out so red, she calls it Kotchineal, as in puke.  She's funny is my Ma. 

Ma's right about the lip-gloss in many ways.  There was a time, back in the old-fashioned colonial days, when you needed to be stiff upper lip and all that, when what you said stuck to you.  Nowadays, if you want to be part of the new South Africa, then you just got to have a smart mouth.  What you say doesn't have to be the truth.  It just needs to be smart enough so some of the money sticks as it passes through.  A bit like the Pretoria handshake, you know.  You just got to hope it's your palm that's being greased.  Of course, it helps if you have an uncle in the government business.  We're very into nepotism here in South Africa.

It's dark now, and time to go inside.  I collect our coffee cups and make my way to the kitchen.  Pa looks at me kind of funny.  'It says here in the paper that the Department of Agriculture in Albertinia is dealing with fishing quotas between Stilbaai and Gouritzmond.'  'Ja', I say.  'We got nothing much else to do.  Aloes grow themselves most of the time, so we're dealing with the quotas.  You should see the queues of folk who come in with application forms.'

'You should of said', says Pa.  'Night, Pa'.  I wonder why I should of said?  I mean, we got a boat and all, and we fish sometimes, but not much.

What a surprise I got at work today!  Pa came in to apply for a portion of the quota!  He insisted on speaking with Mr Sondiswe, my boss, and I heard him schmoozing big time and talking about Sipho and me.  What a cheek!  Like knowing Sipho got me this job.  Does he figure it's going to get him fishing quota, too? 

After Pa left, Mr Sondiswe spoke with me.  'Your father has applied for fishing quota', he says.  'Oh, really?' I say.  I've learnt that part of lip-gloss is to be a bit dumb, most of the time.  If you're dumb, and say little, then less sticks.  'Are you still seeing much of Sipho?' asks Mr Sondiswe.  'Now and then.  When we're free from our busy work schedules', I smarm.

This afternoon, I got the first batch of fishing quota allocations to type up.  Pa got quite a big one.  I mean, he's just one person with one boat, and he got half of what the local fish market got, and they're fifty people with four boats.  But then they're coloured, and coloureds don't get much of a look-in in the new South Africa.  It's only really the prossies in their neighbourhood that make any money these days, them with their fish net stockings, mini skirts and bright red lips.  What some people will do for money! 

I've got to hurry.  Sipho and I are hiring a video and going to his place this evening.  If his parents aren't home, it'll probably mean a bit of a snog.  I better take my diaphragm.

So what will I wear tonight?  It's only Sipho and it's only his house, so I'll pass on heels and a mini.  Maybe just jeans and a T?  Sipho likes it when I don't wear underwear.  He likes my boobs to swing free.  Like in the Valley of a Thousand Hills in the Drakensberg.  There, the black women don't wear tops at all.  Their boobs just hang out.  With their skins, they can take the sun.  I'm a bit freckly and my skin is fair, so I can't do that.  Besides, the locals would faint.  Can you imagine me walking down the highway with no top on?  They'd think I was a prossie!

I'm careful about my make-up though.  I see there's a zit on my chin.  I cover it well with my cover stick.  This is one bit of make-up that's got to stick.  I'll do the lip-gloss just before I go in.  It'll be off again in five minutes, what with all the smooching and stuff.

Before I go to meet Sipho, Pa nods at me with approval.  'That Mr Sondiswe is a very smart man', says Pa.  'I called in to find out about the fishing quota, and he says I've been allocated ten percent of the total quota.  That's pretty good for someone like me.  There'll be profit enough to employ some fishermen, so I won't have to do it myself.  I heard they're going to lay off some people from the fish market.  Those coloureds really know their stuff'.  Pa rubs his palms together almost feeling the quantity of money that will roll in.

On my way to meet Sipho, I stop in at the Ahjee Supply Store.  I want to buy some chocolate.  It's my contribution to the evening.  There's a new Indian on the till, and hey!  He's a looker.  He's got those dark brown limpid eyes, framed with thick black lashes, and carefully coiffed hair, not like Sipho's.  Sipho's mos a krul-kop, being black and all.  This one's also got that rich brown skin some Indians have.  It's nice when there's new talent in town.

'So, you from around here?'  I ask, licking my lips.  'I moved here last weekend', he smiles lazily.  'Your family here?'  'Yes, I'm staying on my uncle's farm just outside Albertinia'. 'Whose your uncle?'  I ask.  'Mr Ahjee', he looks at me quirkily.  I mean, we're in the Ahjee Supply Store, right?  And Mr Ahjee owns the biggest farm in the area, has shares in the biggest aloe factory, and owns the supply store.  What am I waiting for?  'So I'll see you more often then?'  I ask pouting and fluttering my eyelids.  'I guess', he says, gazing intently at my lips, as I slide my tongue slowly over them.  For just a moment, I'm sorry that I didn't put on lip-gloss.

Well, that's certainly one for the books.  I'll have to plan my strategy carefully.  He must never know about Sipho.  Most of the white folk here in Albertinia won't have much to do with me, because I cross the colour bar.  It's an attitude from the old days.  And probably an Indian wouldn’t want a girlfriend who's been with a black guy.

It won't really work with Sipho.  He's black and there's always the albino risk.  I wonder if Indian and White pigment mixes better?

But then when we're together, and after the movie, and Sipho is so strong and kind to me, and the sex is great, I say to myself, 'What will I be losing if I make a play for the Indian?  Then again, Sipho's just a pump jockey, even if his father is high up in the government.  It's best to go where there's real money.'

June 2003

'So how's college, Sipho?'  I'm not interested, but one has to gloss over these break-up things.  Sipho's been at the local Agricultural College for eighteen months now.  He doesn't have much time to share with me any more.  'I don't think this is working out, Sipho.  We never really see each other any more'. 'I'm sorry, Katryn.  I thought that you'd be pleased that I am making something of myself for our future'.  He's very disappointed, naturally.  He likes it that I'm pretty and white.  I'm kind of a prestige symbol in his life.  His friends think it's cool that he has a white chick.  'I'll be going home now, Sipho.  Stay cool, you hear?'  As I wander home, I'm sorry.   He's a nice guy, is Sipho.

'So how's it going, Pa?'  I'm not interested.  Pa is so into his fishing business that it's all he talks about.  'The Ausbergs are going back to Germany.  Their smallholding is up for sale.  I'm thinking of buying it', boasts Pa.  The Ausbergs have the smallholding next to ours, also growing aloes.  'You must be doing well, Pa.'  'Yes, I am, but it's also going cheap.  The Ausbergs are pessimistic about the outlook for South Africa.  With the consistent non-delivery of basic essential services to the community, they predict that the ANC will lose support and all hell will break loose.  In their minds, we're sitting on a time bomb.  They compare us to Zimbabwe and say that our time is still coming.  They've made a mint during the past ten years, and they're taking it with them when they go.  Besides, I don't have enough money now so will have to pay them out over the next ten years.  This means that they can hedge their bets.'  Ah, lip-gloss.  They're getting out whilst the going is good.  'Well, that's great, Pa.  You're so busy.  Who’s going to manage it for you?'   'I've spoken with Mr Ahjee from the Supply store.  He says he knows some people who might be interested.  We'll see.'

'I'm going out now, Pa.  Ivan and I have a date tonight.  Must I ask him to speak to his uncle?'  Ivan is the cute guy from the supply store.  His uncle is Mr Ahjee.  'No, Katryn.  Let time run its course,' says Pa as he settles down with his newspaper.

Things are going well between Ivan and me.  Ivan is extremely good looking.  About six months ago a cameraman from Bollywood was passing through and stopped off at Ahjees.  They're doing a film out on the beach at Gouritzmond.  Ivan has been offered a part in the film.  He doesn't work at Ahjees any more.  He's on set all the time.   

I go out to Gouritzmond over weekends.  Ivan has a mobile home there, so accommodation isn't a problem.  When Ivan and I are not together, I hang out with the make-up and wardrobe people.  They like my lip-gloss.  They are impressed with the fact that it's made out of aloe gel, with all its medicinal properties.  They want to broker a supply chain of aloe-based products with Max Factor in the United States.  Mr Ahjee is going to put up the money to make this dream come true.  I have resigned from the Department of Agriculture.  This is the moment I've been waiting for.

June 2005

'So how was the trip, Katryn?'  'Great thanks, Mr Ahjee.  Looks like everything is set.  The Supply Chain with Max Factor is in place.  I guess now it's a case of managing it'.  'I'm pleased to hear that, Katryn.  The company, Ahjees Gloss Aloe Products [AGAP], is already showing an amazing profit.  There is something I need to mention.'  'What's that, Mr Ahjee?'  'We no longer need a Supply Chain Manager, Katryn.  I'm sorry, but your post is redundant.  Here is your retrenchment contract.  We've offered you a good package with fair benefits.’    'You are advertising a post for a Services Manager.  Why are you not offering me that post?' I whine. 'The affirmative action quotas mean that we must employ a black person, Katryn.  Sorry, but it's the only way to go.  I don't have more time, so excuse me.  I wish you everything of the best for the future.'  Mr Ahjee all but closes the door in my face.

Ivan isn't here to comfort me.  He's gone to India with Bollywood Studios.  He's not famous, and probably never will be, but he lives well with his Indian wife who is very beautiful.  She doesn't wear make-up.  She has a flawless skin and doesn't need any.

'I'm sorry about your losing the fishing quota, Pa'.  It's very hard for Pa.  'They say I'm not qualified, and experience doesn't count, Katryn.  There is nothing I can do.  It's the new law.' 

There is a new fishing company in Albertinia, Sondiswe Fishing Cartel [SFC].  Sipho is the managing director.  With his Agricultural diploma, he's well placed to manage the company.  They've been allocated Pa's quota.  SFC has amalgamated with the old fish market.  Most of the employees are coloureds.  Those coloureds really know their stuff.  Sipho married his black secretary.  She is very beautiful.  She doesn't wear make-up, or underwear for that matter.  You can see the way her boobs swing free.

'And the aloe farm, Pa?'  'Without the fishing quota, there isn't enough money to pay the Ausbergs.  Their smallholding is on the market.  AGAP has put in an offer for it.  It's less than I paid for it, but we need the money, so I'm going to take it.'  'Ai, Pa.  I'm sorry that the tides have turned for us.'  A wry smile washes Pa’s face.  ‘Your Ma says this is nothing but an ahjee-bahjee.  Mr Ahjee just took AGAP.’  A look of deep affection wells up in Pa’s eyes.  ‘She’s funny is your Ma.’

I've applied at the Department of Agriculture for my old job back.  Mr Sondiswe has indicated that there are twenty applicants, mostly young black girls, one of whom is Sipho's wife.  The affirmative action quota in the Department of Agriculture has not been met.  It's a given that I won't be offered the position.

'So I'm not sure what to do, Ma.  Everyone's moved on.  Others are living my dreams'.  We're on the stoep outside, coffee cooling in cups on the floor at our feet.  'Like I had it all, and now it's gone'.  'Think of it this way, Katjie', says Ma.  'You had a wonderful time.  You've been to the United States.  You've learnt a lot about people and their ability to stick with one another.  Perhaps you have even learnt something about sticking with others yourself.  You're twenty-four.  It's time to put away the lip-gloss and move onto something more substantial.  Maybe it's now the time in your life for a little bit of lipstick'.  She smiles her quiet, teasing smile.  'Perhaps time in Cape Town would be good for you'.  Ma digs into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper.  'Pa found this in this evening's paper.  Yardleys are looking for a Supply Chain Manager.  They have a big lipstick factory in Epping and are looking to expand into the African market.  Let this be your yardstick.'  Ma anticipates the twinkle in my eye.  ‘And no, Katjie, I’m not talking about a dipstick’, she dimples at me.  The two of us laugh long into the night.