Critical But, Stable

Angela Makholwa

Description

‘It’s Angela’s wit for me. The unexpected twists and turns … the truth in it. Things are really critical behind those high fences.’

–DUDU BUSANI-DUBE

‘The standout bestseller of the year; love, sex, betrayal and the best shoes in town! Waspish, ridiculously funny and sharp. This is a must, must read!

–JENNIFER CRWYS-WILLIAMS

The Msibis, the Manamelas and the Jiyas are high-flying married couples who belong to the Khula Society, a social club with investment and glitzy benefits.

The wives are smart, successful in their chosen careers and they lead lifestyles to match – jostling for pole position in the ‘Keeping up with the Khumalos’ stakes. The husbands have had their successes and failures, sometimes keeping dubious company and getting to the top of their fields by whatever means necessary.

Beneath the veneer of marital bliss, however, lie many secrets. What will happen to their relationships when a devastating event affects all their lives?

Sujets

• Johannesburgo
• 21st century
• General officer
• General
• Crime
• Sagas
• Family Life
• Thriller
• Fiction
• Johannesburg

Informations

• Publié par: Pan Macmillan South Africa
• Date de parution: 24 septembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781770107328
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Praise for Critical But, Stable
Longlisted for the Sunday Times/CNA Fiction Literary Award 2021
‘An excellent read with cracking and sparklingly witty dialogue, funny, sexy, fast, Makholwa covers the lives of the contemporary rich black middle class, with career challenges, sexual challenges and politics.’ – Barbara Spaanderman, Cape Argus
‘A perfect read when trying to escape daily life.’ – Sibusiso Mkhize, The Citizen
‘This is a gripping murder mystery that takes an unflinching look at the dark secrets that lie beneath the alluring veneer of affluence and success.’ – You magazine
‘Makholwa’s latest [book] is fun and delicious.’ – Pearl Boshomane, Sunday Times
‘Makholwa has tackled some of the big subjects of our contemporary society with both humour and panache.’ – Margaret von Klemperer, Witness
‘A great weekend read.’ – Farmer’s Weekly

Also by Angela Makholwa
The Blessed Girl (2017)
‘In The Blessed Girl , Angela Makholwa has yet again given us a deceptively simple yet layered narrative, in which the plot is as memorable as the characters are unforgettable. Bravo.’ – ZUKISWA WANNER
Black Widow Society (2013)
‘ Black Widow Society possesses all the elements of a great thriller – sex, suspense, violence and murder. It’s a riveting read!’ – ZINHLE MAPUMULO
The 30th Candle (2009)
‘From an author who has a wicked sense of humour comes a skilfully written must-read for any woman who winces at the idea of celebrating the “big 3-0” – or for any man who still seeks the answer to the eternal question: What do women really want?’ – FUTHI NTSHINGILA
Red Ink (2007)
‘With Red Ink , Makholwa has taken the South African urban novel to new heights. By turns gritty and shocking, yet tender at the core, Red Ink is an important addition to the canon of modern fiction in this country.’ – FRED KHUMALO



First published in 2020
This edition published in 2021 by Pan Macmillan South Africa
Private Bag X19
Northlands
Johannesburg
2116
www.panmacmillan.co.za
ISBN 978-1-77010-731-1
e-ISBN 978-1-77010-732-8
© Angela Makholwa-Moabelo 2020, 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Editing by Alison Lowry
Proofreading by Katlego Tapala
Design and typesetting by Triple M Design, Johannesburg
Cover design by publicide
Author photograph by Nicolise Harding


The Body
He stares at her quiet, peaceful face.
So much love in that face. Such passion.
This woman embodies everything he ever envisioned love to be. She is caring, intelligent, sensual, sensuous. A beautiful person inside and out.
Looking at her now … That body … underneath those covers, that body’s the same.
How strange to be thinking about its eroticism at this moment.
This is the thing about his body. It always betrays him. Even now. The shame of it.
Yet here she is. Voluptuous, smooth, perfect, naked in his bed.
The thought stirs something in him. Unbelievable. That his body can be responding so rudely in the circumstances.
He collapses to the floor, weeping.
Can it really be over? He thinks of all the good times they’ve shared. The laughs, the kisses, rubbing her feet … The passion!
The remains of their meal are still there, their empty wine glasses on the table. As his heart constricts with loss, the tears roll down his face. He is a heap of grief.
Suddenly, a new emotion takes over.
It is fear.
What is he going to do with this beautiful body now lying so still – and so finite – in his bed?
He will have to call someone.
An ambulance? No, too late for that.
The police? No! No police, not for a man like him.
Her husband? And say what exactly?
Oh shit, oh shit! What has he done?


The Manamelas
‘Nomathando! Sweetheart! Come, we’re running late. Noma!’
After twenty-seven years of marriage, he still could not believe how long it took his wife to prepare for occasions. And this wasn’t even an occasion. They were just going out for a quiet early dinner, trying out a new restaurant up the road that had been featured in one or other glossy magazine. It didn’t matter to Noma. It could be something as banal as a visit to an old friend, a family braai or a PTA meeting, yet she’d still go to great lengths to ensure she was the most beautiful woman in the room.
As he regarded his reflection in the antique gilt mirror in their ostentatious foyer, he tried to calculate how many hours he had spent waiting for his wife. How long on average?
After taking a shower, it took her probably one to two hours to prepare for an occasion. Never less than that. Not ever.
If he calculated the number of events and occasions they attended every year, he reckoned her preparation time clocked up to about 100 hours per annum.
He found himself taking out his smartphone and clicking on the calculator app.
He sat down on the occasional chair beneath the arched staircase that led to one of the three floors in their behemoth of a house.
He typed in 1.5 hours x 100 x 27 years.
He had been waiting on this woman for approximately 4 050 hours.
If you divided those hours by 24, this amounted to 168.5 days of waiting for the same woman over a 27-year lifespan.
More than five months of waiting for someone to finish applying her make-up, switching between two to three outfits until she found the perfect one to suit the occasion. Then more waiting for her to match the bag, the shoes, the jewellery … endless waiting.
He shook his head.
Were they all worth it? All these hours of waiting?
He heard her velvety voice dripping down the staircase.
‘Ratu, look! What do you think?’ she said, twirling to show off her designer dress, matching shoes and bag.
He looked up the stairs to catch a view of the five-month (and counting) exercise in vanity. He considered her face, now lined with a few crow’s feet and laugh lines in spite of her regular ‘visits’ to the skin clinic and the expensive creams that lined her bathroom cabinet and vanity closet. He took in her chocolate skin, long legs, curvy body, tiny waist.
He was quiet for longer than was comfortable. Especially for his wife.
‘Well?’
‘Honey … I’ve never seen you looking more exquisite, but …’
‘But what?’
‘Won’t you be cold in that thin material?’
‘It’s not for now, silly – it’s for Zimbali. It’s always hot down there, even in winter.’
‘But Zimbali’s only next weekend.’ His stomach rumbled.
‘I know that. I’m going to change for lunch in a minute. I just wanted you to approve my choice of outfit for the social club event.’ She posed and pouted. ‘Am I going to be the most gorgeous creature in the room?’
Like a well-rehearsed thespian, he responded, ‘You’re always the most gorgeous creature – in the room, in Zimbali, in the world!’
He knew his lines.
His wife blew him a kiss.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she said.


The Jiyas
Moshidi stared at her office PC for the umpteenth time. A flat screen. Black, stern and menacing. The screensaver that bore a photo of her and her family did nothing to calm her unease.
If she clicked on her mailbox, she knew that the email would still be waiting. The one she had not been able to bring herself to open yesterday when she’d left her desk.
It was still there. Lurking darkly in the pile of unopened mails.
FINAL DEMAND – that was the subject line. Was it better in the era of snail mail, when the message took weeks, sometimes months, to land on one’s desk, thanks to the inefficiencies of the postal system?
She sighed and shook her shoulders as if to ward off the tension and stress that had been accumulating over more than a year.
How did they get into this mess?
It was her. She knew it. Though Solomzi was not much better than she was.
They were both so competitive. So … shiny. She knew what her sister Lerato would say about their dilemma.
‘Show-offs. Why are you two so superficial? You already have it all. Why can’t you just be happy?’
For the life of her, Moshidi could not imagine being any other way.
The biggest mistake was joining the social club. Khula Society was the final nail in the coffin for them. They’d always had a huge appetite for the grandiose, her and Soli.
She sighed and leaned back in her executive swivel chair, opting to dream about ‘The Way They Were’ instead of facing the nightmare that loomed large, so inescapable. So, suffocating.
She remembered how Solomzi stole her from her accountant boyfriend by showering her with ridiculous displays of extravagance.
Shame. What was his name again? Ludwe. Such a gentleman he’d been. And so … level-headed. Maybe if she’d stuck with him, she wouldn’t be facing this mountain of debt now.
A true-to-type accountant, he always watched his rands and cents. He’d taken her to a McDonald’s on their first date. A McDonald’s!
Solomzi was the polar opposite of Ludwe. He was extravagant, tall, bow-legged, with an intelligent face that belied his mischievous nature. He was so sexy then. Still sexy even now.
This year marked their tenth-year anniversary.
Sometimes she wondered how they’d made it.
The seven-year itch had gnawed away at different areas of their marriage like a swamp rat. Nibbling here, nibbling there until every aspect of t