THE commercial promoting a new brand of condoms interrupted the rather boring local drama and all eyes in the men’s bar swivelled from the television to Mabo.
By Boyd Maliki
They all roared with laughter, drowning the rumble of thunder and the heavy downpour outside.
My friend Mabo, who claimed he had worked for several newspapers in Southern Africa, always had a juicy story when he visited our club.
He always takes his time narrating his escapades, making sure his ever-attentive listeners keep his beer glass full — no booze, no story!
Before the ad was flashed on TV, Mabo had just been talking about condoms (hence the guffaw following the condom clip) and how he narrowly escaped being raped by a woman called Josie — a stunning sister with an ample backside that made heads turn everywhere she went.
Eyebrows had been raised! A sizeable number of eligible men in this room had made advances at this high-flying businesswoman and all had been turned down. And this penniless scribe was claiming she almost raped him?
This is how it all happened, according to Mabo . . .Mabo had decided to gatecrash an all-night party at one mansion in the city’s northern suburbs, making his appearance at this house when nearly all the revellers were hopelessly drunk. And that’s where he first met Josie . . .
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Sloshed and barely able to walk, Josie flung herself on a couch, face down. She remained sprawled there, her short skirt with long slits on either side of her hips, revealing her much-talked about derrière.
Attention in the room lingered on Josie, but in case the men ogling her were entertaining any silly ideas, one soberly drunken she-hulk lifted the sleeping beauty and moved her into an unoccupied guest room. She locked the door and pocketed the key . . .
Two weeks later, while pushing a grocery cart in a supermarket, who does Mabo spot? There, by the liquor section, looking a bit confused as to what wine to buy, was Josie! Mabo changed course and walked towards her . . .
“I would recommend this one here,” whispered Mabo, lifting a bottle of sparkling red wine from the shelf and dangling it in her face.
“They served it at the last party I attended and I had to volunteer as a life guard as nearly everyone who sipped it mistook the swimming pool for the dance floor!”
Josie gave him an odd look, chuckled, grabbed two bottles of the wine and moved out.
“Wait! Wait!” Mabo followed her, waving his business card.
“Just in case you intend drinking the wine near a swimming pool, the life guard job is free.”
From that day Mabo and Josie would chat casually whenever they met, but when she phoned and invited him to her apartment for lunch one Saturday, he knew this was it . . .
Josie was busy table-setting when Mabo arrived. She ushered him into her lounge, offered him some wine and darted back into the kitchen. The food she’d prepared included Mabo’s favourite savoury — boiled cow hooves. Popularly known as amangqina, cow hooves are believed to be an aphrodisiac . . . was the inclusion of this delicacy as part of the dish a mere coincidence? Mabo smiled.
After the meal, they sat cosily in the lounge sipping their drinks.
Then Josie, her hand reaching out for Mabo’s, stood up and led him around the apartment, showing him the rest of the rooms.
She had class! In the centre of her bedroom was a queensize waterbed and Mabo knew that type of bed didn’t come cheap.
He paused by the bedside, softly humming away to a melodious song coming from a clock radio on the headboard and then lowered himself on the bed. Looking rather roguish now, he winked at Josie and, she threw herself at him! He was all over her, unbuttoning her dress, as she also undid his clothes . . .
Trembling with excitement, Mabo explored the booty woman, feeling the softness of her body when, suddenly coming down to earth, he reached for his trouser pocket and fished out a condom!
“What’s that?” Josie asked.
“This is a French letter, honey.”
Josie, looking disappointed, surged and pulled the Malay rubber sheath off him.
“Men who go around carrying condoms are promiscuous and I detest them.”
“But honey. I thought –”
“You are not touching me with any rubber!” yelled an enraged Josie, her hands knotting into fists,
Was she reacting to his “promiscuity” or was it the use of condoms she didn’t like? Slowly, he grabbed for his pants . . .
“And why are you dressing up?” she challenged him.
“I thought you said we can’t do it?” “Why you dope? We’re doing it but, please, no rubber hose.” Mabo’s stomach sank. He badly wanted her but not like this. What to do now? “Ah, Josie, why didn’t you just say so?” He faked a huge grin and discarded the rest of his condoms. “I only brought them thinking you might insist on them.” The glimmer in Josie’s eyes returned as Mabo resumed the kissing act, but his mind was at work . . . he was still figuring a way out when the DJ hosting the golden oldies programme on the radio decided to wind up her show with a Marvin Gaye classic, Let’s Get It On — much to Josie’s delight. “Well, what are we waiting for, sweetie?” she whispered in his ear. Mabo smiled but inwardly he was cursing the treacherous clock radio on the headboard. He gave it one long sour look and, pop, came an idea! “Hey, is that the time?” He shrieked, jumping out of bed, pointing at the clock radio! “It is early, why?” replied a startled Josie. “I’m in deep trouble! Can I use your phone?” before Josie could answer he was already doing that. “Hello. Is that the editor’s office?” “Can I help you?” answered the editor. “This is Mabo. Please tell the process department guys not to change the bath for making line blocks. I forgot to hand in the illustrations for the tourism supplement.” “The supplement is being printed even as we speak and there’s nothing amiss among those pages!” “That’s what I mean. After 1600 hours they do half-tone blocks only.” “Mabo, have you lost your marbles? You very well know that we use gravure printing here, not blocks.” “Thank you. I’m coming there right away,” he rang off, lifted the receiver again and phoned for a taxi. “What was all that about?” Josie asked, getting up from bed. “Don’t you dare dress up,” Mabo ordered her. “I made a blunder at work which could have cost me my job. Let me go, sort things out and come back immediately.” He hugged her, slid his hands down her back and cupped her bottom . . . and the taxi hooted. “That’s your taxi, honey. You said I shouldn’t dress up?” “No. Get back under those sheets and stay warm. We do it your way when I come back — no condoms!” Mabo was released and that was the last Josie heard from him.
Boyd Maliki, is a journalist. He ca be contacted at [email protected]
