Bandele, a Soweto-based properties tycoon, emerges from his bedroom in pyjamas, phone clasped to his right ear. "What's this noise about tenders?" He says to his learned friend as he walks over to the home bar. Rumour has it that well-connected people in the locality are offered contracts worth millions of rands to execute government projects. Is there anyone better qualified for such? He's one of the top five wealthy people in Soweto, or so he believes. The only one among them who doesn't thrive on public funds.
"Oh, you want to join the tenderpreneurs?" Rhulani teases, surprised Bandele could think of joining the bandwagon.
"Why not? Just tell me what it is." Bandele sits on a stool, pouring some La Motte Hanelli wine into a tumbler.
"Well, its government work. You get a contract to supply commodities or render services to the municipality. They'll pay a big sum."
"Government work? How much will government people pay me that I can't spend already?"
"It can run into hundreds of millions if you're lucky."
"Millions? For doing nothing?" He sips wine.
"Of course you have to do some work. I just said you'll supply stuff. Some win tenders to construct blocks of flats or cottage houses. It depends on the project advertised and then the budget attached. But I must say: the contest for tenders can be tough."
"I should contest with poor people because of products and services?"
"The effort will be worth it. It may help you in future if you want to join politics. When people know you through community projects, they'll come out and vote for you."
"Oh, politics." Bandele rubs his distended tummy, laughing like a swamp toad croaking some thirty minutes before midnight. Even if politics doesn't rank high on his mind for now, that he's considered worthy to hold a public office does tickle. "You can be smart sometimes, eh? At least you know these small-eyana things about government work."
It's Rhulani's turn to crack up. Chatting on the phone with Bandele is always fun, despite the generous man being a blabbermouth.
"Which tender is there for me to take now?" Bandele puts on his arrogant hat. "Tell me who is in charge and where the person lives."
"Give me a minute, please." Rhulani goes off air to do some internet and tabloid searching. Running an errand for Bandele comes with perks because the businessman compensates for people's sweat.
Rhulani calls back. "There's one I think will be okay for a man of your standing – supply of transformers at the municipality."
"Transformers? What are those?"
"Electric transformers are used to distribute electricity to our people."
Bandele stays quiet for a moment. "That one is good enough. How will I start this thing? Who will I call? Give me names. You know how I do my things."
"You'll need to first register your company with the municipality before they'll consider you."
"Register?" Bandele chuckles and then leaves the bar area for his yellow-leather sofa. "Who doesn't know me at the municipality? Anyone asking me to register must be sacked."
"Well, people usually register their companies first. The officials will then call for tenders from all qualified companies. They'll shortlist a few and then award the project to the winning company. The process can be complex sometimes."
Bandele hisses at what sounds like hard work. "Not me. I'll go to their office tomorrow and introduce myself. Everyone who doesn't know me must come out and see what will happen."
"I can help with the registration, to make it faster."
"I don't need your help to get tenders in Soweto. Goodbye." Bandele cuts off the line. "This guy thinks he knows everything."
Bandele paces around the large sitting area, wine-glass in hand. Despite Rhulani's condescending remarks, the guy is opening his eyes to a kind of future he has yet to think about. Delving into politics will be perfect, even if rental income can sustain him till he dies. This tender thing will work to his favour.
But why must he register at the municipality before they give him a contract? Are there people who don't recognise him in Soweto? With his connections and wealth, gravitas and fame, why should he follow the same procedures as others?
He has as friends top-ranking police officers, business moguls, property magnates, taxi-cab association chairmen and powerful politicians, to name a few. Those who don't know him in Soweto are not important. They must be turning blind eyes to his influence in the community. He, Bandele, should be begged to execute government projects. He'll show up at the municipality tomorrow, to know how the people regard his contributions to the community.
The bachelor wishes there's someone in his mansion who understands government tenders. An egg-head that will give him updates on happenings in government circles – one with a solid command of English.
Bandele casts a demeaning look at his loyal aide, Pono, who just stepped into the sitting room. "Go and get me all the newspapers today!"
"Okay, sir." Pono looks stunned that the boss is barking orders so early in the morning. But even more shocking is the mention of newspapers. He tries to guess the possible reasons Bandele wants to read newspapers. His boss is up to something he's yet to figure out.
The five-feet, five-inch man muses over the uncommon task. Bandele likes his aide to sweat around – a sign of hard work. Or at least walk or work smart. No sluggishness in front of the businessman.
But reading newspapers is a new hobby. And there's nothing brainy about fetching some up the street.
Pono climbs down the stairs and dashes to the exit gate of the mansion. His striped blue long-sleeve shirt tucked into khaki trousers makes him look like a 1920-era office clerk. On stepping out of the exit gate, resident ladies' curious eyes descend on him. Is Pono out to select a lady to accompany his boss?
Most ladies on Polemann Street are keen to know the goings-on in Bandele's mansion. The businessman's wealth can meet the yearly needs of every tenant. Pono only walks along the street when Bandele sends for a resident lady. The selected one will hit jackpot.
"Hello, Pono," a lady sings, sashaying across the street, waving both hands.
Pono ignores her, same for a few others who suddenly sees the need to check if the sun is round or square. After picking up five newspapers at the vendor's stand, he throws a two-hundred rand note to the grey-haired man, seeing no reason to ask for change. The vendor quickly pockets the note, glad that the landlord remembers him at last. "Ngiyabonga!" He shouts, revealing his gap-tooth or plucked teeth.
"Pono-Pono, I'm Loretta and I just moved in." One of the ladies waves on the pavement. The radiant smile on her wet lips can sway a monk.
"Welcome to Polemann," Pono says, hurrying back to the mansion. These girls have no reason to accost him. He could have called their phones or knock on their doors should there be a need to invite any.
Pono's break-neck pace doesn't deter the ladies, though. The concerned ones gather to rub minds, finding it unusual that Pono would return to the mansion on a Sunday afternoon without any of them, especially when Bandele hasn't cruised around the whole weekend. Something strange is happening at the mansion.
"What's happening today?" one asks her friend. "When did Bandele start looking for ladies inside newspaper? So we are not good enough?"
The other lady cups her hands. "I have no idea. Maybe he wants to buy something or auction old furniture."
"Or do they have guests who asked for the papers," says another.
"Maybe Bandele wants to buy a house."
Questions tumble in dozens as the ladies exchange puzzled looks, watching as Pono melts into the mansion's tall maroon gate. The super-curious ones rush to the vendor to ask about the specific papers Pono picked. Then they return to their bases with long faces, hopeful Bandele will soon reach out.
Many of these ladies are college students clustering together in a single-bedroom or two-bedroom flats. Some are single mothers working in department stores, who see the lure of an evening with Bandele as an opportunity to earn four months salary in one night.
But college students and working-class ladies aren't the only ones on Bandele's radar. Those who consider themselves upper class runs-gals look out the windows from towering storey buildings. Why should they rush to the street like rookies? Bandele has their numbers and will call if necessary.
With flared nostril, Pono hands over the papers to Bandele who's reclining on the sofa's backrest, shaking his right leg. "Here sir."
A smile appears on the boss's face. Where is he to start from? Reading newspapers presents its challenges. He ponders over Pono's talents: the little man is skilled at pouring wines and summoning ladies. Domestic tasks in general. Despite his small stature, he has been playing the house-manager role well since the last one left.
Pono won't do well well newspapers. For one, his spoken English is laden with Venda accent. Despite himself, the Polemann landlord knows an educated man when he sees one.
Bandele steps into the balcony with the papers. Paying no attention to the chairs' conditions, he sits on one of them. On second thought he checks the armrest and, finding it dirty, calls out to Pono. "When last did they clean these chairs?"
Pono rushes to the balcony.
"Why is this place not clean?"
"I've not been opening it for the cleaners because of the weather."
"Is your mind on this job?"
"I'm sorry, sir." Pono rushes to grab a piece of rag.
Bandele hisses and then moves closer to the rail, apparently in a good mood today; otherwise, Pono will by now be nursing mental injuries from prolonged tongue-lashing.
Done with cleaning, Pono bows before leaving. "It's ready, sir."
Bandele starts with the Sowettan Independent, gaping and laughing at the front-page headline which reads "Julius Malema spends the weekend with five ladies in Mauritius."
Hardly flipping over two pages, he enters his bedroom to swap his sky-blue pyjamas for a yellow one, donning a face cap to conceal his hairless scalp.
The thirty-seven-year-old flips through multiple pages looking for tenders on a Sunday afternoon. Despite being partially schooled, he can read well. The strange true-life story of a man whose manhood got stolen by Tokoloshe evokes laughter, but wading through huge blocks of text is heart-wrenching.
"No. Someone must do this for me." The need to hire an educated aide beckon again.
Although he doesn't find tender-related information, much against Rhulani's assurances, the bevy of ladies waving at him across the street douses his disappointment. That Bandele sits in the balcony is cheer-worthy. They're hopeful he'll soon send for them.
Bandele drops the paper, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. Does he need a company this afternoon? His initial zeal over government tenders wanes as gushing adrenalin takes charge of his brain.
"Pono!"
"Sir!"
"Go and call me that girl who came here two weeks ago."
"Which one of them, sir?"
Bandele tilts his head, trying to recall the fair-skin lady that visited. "The yellow bone."
While trying to describe her, five ladies flounce around the mansion, some pretending to be chatting on their phones.
Bandele laughs at the gesture, tapping his tummy. Nothing pleases him like seeing damsels throwing themselves at him. Life is too sweet in Soweto; no other township can be this fun.
In spite of his influence, university students turn him down. Some of them avoid his car when he's driving through Polemann. Pono tries hard but he fails to coerce these stubborn ones.
"He'll make you happy when leaving the mansion," Pono will say often.
"Your boss can keep his money. We have our careers ahead of us."
The religious ones point at Bandele as the perfect example of how not to behave when one becomes rich, deeming many of his habits eccentric.
To escape Bandele's lechery, discerning ladies watch out for his cars before leaving their homes. Some even dress shabbily while going out only to swap clothes once outside Polemann Street, all in an attempt to keep Bandele at bay.