Molefi arrives at Polemann Castle the following morning in high spirit. The job applicant can't wait to impress the crazy wealthy man who gave him money the previous day. Three thousand, four hundred rands for transport fare – the largest sum he ever received from anyone since he completed a psychology degree at the University of South Africa two years ago. Doling out such an unrounded figure shows that Bandele doesn't count cash. There should be more to such a man. He'll find that out today.
Getting to Bandele's mansion, a security man slides the gate open for Molefi to step in. Pono is around to welcome the new face – knowing Bandele doesn't give cash to male strangers for the sake of it. Molefi must have impressed the boss in some ways, hence this invitation.
Molefi steps into the large compound, noting at first the beautiful interlocking tiles spread all over. He paces measuredly behind Pono, marvelling at the magnificent edifice standing before him. Bandele is indeed a wealthy tenderpreneur, but this degree of wealth is beyond his expectation.
The structure, a three-storey mansion, is covered in white marble. That it sits at the tail end of the street marks it out in the area. The metallic maroon gate is twice Molefi's above-average height. The compound should be about three-quarters or four-fifth of a football pitch.
The dimension of the security post compares with his sister's bachelor's flat in Arcadia. At the far end of the compound is a garage housing eight wonder-on-wheels, all of different brands and colours, each befitting a sitting president.
Pono leads the guest into the building, entering through the lower floor. The sitting-room to the right, a hallway ahead and several rooms line up on the left. He slides open the sitting-room glass door. "Please, take a seat. Let me check if the boss is ready to see you." He then walks towards the stairs which is covered in red Persian rug.
"Okay." Molefi glides through the parted door of the exquisitely furnished living room – the grandest he ever stepped into. Dropping to the cozy sofa which hugs his bosom, his right-hand runs through the succulent cushion as he appreciates the thick velvet fabric. Either this man is a player in the mining industry or his business is listed on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange.
Pono returns. "He's busy on the phone. What will you like to drink?"
"Anything. Just anything."
Pono enters the kitchen and returns with a tray of juice and glass cup, dropping them by the stool close to Molefi.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't use 'sir' for me." Pono recalls that Bandele doesn't like his staff to answer titles. "I'm Ponolytus Mabuza. Pono for short."
"All right, Mister Mabuza."
Pono walks away unimpressed about the Mister prefix. His simple t-shirt tucked into a pair of khaki trousers, same he wore the day before, marks him out as a well-fed messenger cum manager. He goes about doing his job without fuss.
Bandele's bass and croaky voice echo through the building as he climbs down the stairs. He soon appears with the same lady met at the restaurant yesterday.
Molefi stifles his back, glancing at the wall clock which displays 11:53 am. "Good day, sir."
"Yes, you..." Bandele points his left index finger. "You're here on time."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm coming for you."
At the exit door, Bandele digs out some bulky wads from the pocket of his pyjamas which he hands over to the lady. "See you."
"All right." She blows a kiss before leaving.
Bandele turns to Molefi, rubbing his tummy. "Yes. I like people who come early. Let's talk."
The two men climb up the stairs where Bandele asks his guest to sit in another sitting-room. While the host steps into his bedroom, Molefi drops his jaw looking around. If the lower-floor sitting room is exquisite, this one is splendiferous.
Everything in sight is hued in yellow: the Italian-leather sofa and rug, the electronics cabinet, ceiling art design, even the walls and the home bar furniture. Evidently, a professional interior décor expert worked here.
Thinking Bandele is out to discuss tender, Molefi brings out his folder to go-through his write-up. This man shouldn't have to ask him a question to which he'll have no idea. He spent the better part of last night reading up government regulations on tenders.
Bandele returns to the sitting-room, placing his right leg on the sofa opposite Molefi. "Tell me about you, young man."
The guest lifts to his feet, hands straightened by his flanks. "I'm Molefi Shabangu, a psychology graduate from UNISA. I'm analytical-minded, goals-driven, dedicated and industrious. I have a passion for excellence just as I'm innovative and creative. Where people run into brick-wall of problems, I see challenges and dig my way through..."
"Isilungu Kakhulu." Bandele rubs his clean-shaven face, reeling at Molefi's high-sounding words. If not that the lad is meeting him for the first time, a strict warning would have regulated his vocabulary. Still, the guest's spoken English sounds good and his confidence thrills. This one will be useful in many ways. "How old are you?"
"Twenty seven, sir."
"When talking to me, you must use normal English, not this job-applicant English. I left school in grade seven and my father didn't ask me to continue. There was no need to waste time in school when I have serious things to face. There're more important things in life than big, big grammar. Is that all right?"
"Okay, sir."
"Continue talking."
"Okay, sir. I've been searching for a job since I left university. It's been tough, but I believe with my abilities and capabilities, better days are coming."
Bandele flaps eyes at the fellow who can't seem to do away with long words. "Where do you live?"
"I currently live in Tshwane with my sister."
"Yes, you said so yesterday. Err...what can you do for me?"
Molefi picks up a few documents from his folder, bracing up to talk about tenders and stuff. "Government tenders have a few guidelines we —"
"Stop there!" Bandele's voice shoots through the roof. "I didn't ask you to talk about tenders."
Molefi recalls that tender-related issues dominated their discourse yesterday. Does the big man now have something else in mind? What's unknown to the lad is that Bandele's experience at the municipality quelled his interest in tenders. The businessman felt dishonoured.
"Forget tenders." Bandele paces through the yellow rug which glows under his feet. "I have white people working for me and they manage my blocks of flats and many other buildings. Those boys bring me good money every month. What will the government tender do for me that I don't have already? So, you see: your tender thing is shit." He makes a derogatory sign.
Molefi quakes, thinking the interview is heading south. He's only a recent graduate with no real cognate experience. He has yet to work in an office before and doesn't know much about real-estates. An opportunity to work in such properties firm will be welcome with open arms.
"Do you know Soweto?"
"Yes, sir. I come here a lot."
"In one week, can you get me three of the most beautiful girls in Soweto?"
Molefi's eyes fall on the rug again. This sounds like a task for the pimps. Well, he was involved in organising school pageants. Fetching pretty faces such as the one who just left shouldn't be hard. "I can do that, sir. I'm trained to —"
"You like long explanations. Can you get three beautiful girls in Soweto, yes or no?" Bandele's eyes widen.
"Yes, sir."
"Fine. How will you do it?"
"I'll need access to their social media profiles, Instagram or Facebook, to do facial and physique evaluation. And then I'll shortlist them according to the required specification."
Bandele drops to the chair, exasperated. "Meaning what?"
"Sir, can I write down the steps I'll take?"
Bandele thinks for a while. "Yebo. I give you thirty minutes. Go downstairs and come back with a report."
Molefi tucks his papers into the folder, hopping down the stairs two threads at a time. What sort of job will require one to seduce imaginary beautiful ladies? Well, these days companies devise creative tasks to screen candidates. Maybe the job is high paying or one that will involve serious brain-work.
A write-up to win over pretty faces shouldn't crack one's skull. With the kind of wealth in this mansion, Miss World will renounce her crown and take the next flight here. Molefi switches into study mode, carving out the topic: 'Winning over beautiful ladies for a wealthy, arrogant but unschooled bully.' If this write-up will fetch him the job, he had better give it his best shot.
While Molefi gets busy, Pono walks past to meet Bandele. "Nkosi, she can't make it here."
"You can't bring me a girl living on this street? What can you do, Pono?" Bandele barks.
"She says she's not that type. She doesn't know you."
"Who doesn't know me on Polemann?" Bandele thunders, beating his chest. His yell startles Molefi on the floor below. "I say who doesn't know me in the whole of Soweto?"
"She's a new tenant, sir."
"I didn't know that before asking you to get her? Get out of here!"
Pono complies.