MATHONGA

Chapter 8

VUKUZAKHE

Perhaps this is a mistake. He thinks as he strolls beside the petite young man pushing a trolley full of items down the parking lot. There’s an undisputable attraction he can’t look past.
That day at the river— they went too far, farther than allowed—farther than their families would tolerate.
A Sangweni and a Khanyile. It’s a sin on its own, an atrocity the devil would love to watch on a  big plasma TV over a glass of sadism and amusement.

There’s a pull, he wants to be close to him, closer than he’s ever been to anyone—closer than they were that day at the river. He wants to be under his skin, tasting everything he is and everything he’s got to offer.

A thirty five year-old man surely ought to know his sexuality, Vukuzakhe is no outsider to the feelings stealthily lurking in his heart, he knows what he feels. He knows why he suddenly has his eyes on a man.
Omnisexual also known as pansexual, the white man calls it.’ Google has been around longer than he has, and thanks to it, he was able to find out why as a man he’s attracted to other men.

He didn’t grow up with the confidence he has now, his teenage years were confusing to him. From having speech impediment, to sounding less like a man when he spoke, to being attracted to both genders.

As he came into his manhood, he came to understand that it’s not gender he fancied but the person themselves.
He's never dared to go beyond shaking a man's hand, the thought scared him. Thanks to alcohol he was able to conquer his fears.

Funokuhle feels awkward when Vukuzakhe gets the car door for him, it feels more like a deliberate favour than a kind gesture. More scary than tense and dreadful than awkward. 
“You don’t have to do that.” Funokuhle hesitates, scrawny hands enclosing around his chest.
Vukuzakhe doesn’t say anything, instead he plugs his hands in the pockets of his pants, eyes flickering up and down the length of Funokuhle’s small frame.
The stare makes Funokuhle shrink into his overalls that do nothing but make him look skinnier.
He’s unable to hide from the man’s fixated stare.

Vukuzakhe’s lips draw into a slow smirk, “You’re a minion.”
“Excuse me?” 
“You’re ridiculously small. Your body I mean. It reminds me of a minion.”
“I’m not short, if that’s what you’re implying. You’re—you are just too tall. A gorilla.” The last word is whispered under warm breath. Lean shoulders moving up and down in a tentative dance, the motion finds Vukuzakhe and tickles him, a light chortle stems from the big man. 
“Did you just call me a gorilla?” Vukuzakhe asks. The question shocks Funokuhle, he thought it wasn’t that audible.

He fidgets, trying to move past Vukuzakhe so he can get in the car. Their shoulders graze, it’s enough for Funokuhle to freeze mid-step. His eyes shoot up to glance at the giant looking down at him.

“Ex—excuse me.” The boy needs to pass, there’s only space fit for a meerkat to slide through. He can fit of course, he’s as lean as Pumba’s Timon.
“What happened?” The question is random, that’s why Funokuhle welcomes a frown, wanting to know what it's about.
“The bruises on your arm?” Vukuzakhe is touching him, no permission has been granted. Just one night with him and this Khanyile offspring thinks he can go around touching other people’s sons.

Funokuhle quickly averts his eyes to the arm that’s been held prisoner by a gentle warm hand. Big hazel eyes widen. They scan his chocolate colored skin, studying the fresh markings before pulling down his sleeve so the tall snoopy guy would see them no more and he won’t have to ask questions that have nothing to do with him.

“Well?” 
“It happened at work.” Funo thinks he owes him no explanation.
“What, you got in a fight with one of the cows?” Vukuzakhe. Funokuhle would laugh, in fact the query is ticklish, but he doesn't humor his boss' son.
“Something like that, what about you? Those scratch marks look pretty bad.”
Funokuhle is looking up his neck. Something flashes in Khanyile’s eyes resembling a power stain, and vanishes just as quick. He’s fixing the collar of his shirt, wondering how the hell the scratch mark got there. It wasn’t there in the morning.
“Mosquito.” He’s capping.