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by Andrew Miller TBW Smith Jones Wallace Broadbent and Ndimande is an agency in crisis. Their ‘basket of boutique services’ strategy has bombed. Only a massive new project can keep the doors open – all eyes are now on the corporate tent at Mangaung. Far in the background, an emergency replacement executive PA with decades of experience makes important decisions. Interns rise, board members take unexpected steps and things begin to change…

The intern takes her new desk in the corporate office and becomes a resolution to conflict. Mama E wonders what the hell is going to happen next…

Chapter 14

In which betrayal is implied

Vati had breezed through the  TBW Smith Jones Wallace Broadbent and Ndimande ranks faster than anyone in history, a fact she only became aware of as she took up her new desk within corporate. The office was technically part of the creative commons, but had been decisively sectioned-off by a row of filing cabinets and large-leaved pot plants. Its internal structure was also very different, consisting of eight middle aged desks all purposefully facing away from each other.

Having her own desk was bewildering enough for Vati. She also had to deal with the fact that last Friday’s full moon at the bar had ended at sunrise with her head on Phil’s distinctly unwashed pillow. On the one hand she was relieved not to have to had to deal with the early week face-to-face that would have resulted were she back where she had started. On the other, she sort of missed him. And his words. His soft, sometimes clever, and generally pretty sharp words. His smile.

And then there was the radical re-racialisation she was suddenly undergoing. The strat office was in the midst of a serious conflict between various historically divided groups over whether white jeans were a fashion crime or not. The issue had arisen playfully enough, but denigrated in recent weeks to racial slurs, including seriously prejudicial mutterings about all Sotho’s being cheeseboys. Which would have been amusing and all that if Vati herself had not emerged as a living salve on the wounds of the disagreement. On her arrival all talk of white jeans was quickly replaced by grumblings over the wisdom of young African ladies sharing sexual juices with white boys, about betrayal of the masses leading to ambush and various other things to do with lines being drawn and mlungus.

Vati had been raised in the deep Free State rurals, and thus new how to handle the basic bluster of men. She also had a strong line of Zulu ancestry, which helped her cope with the wider rivalries within her new pack. Her issue was that, despite it all, she had become rather fond of Vati Mach II, flaws and all. She found being a little bit arrogant empowering, and, yes, she would admit it, she was beginning to  find little Phil more than just sweet. He was also surprisingly adroit between the sheets, which, if she could engineer a session or two in the laundry room, were actually quite comfortable. Her instinct was thus to give her new colleagues the finger, but then again, she was still only an intern. Could interns give fingers and get away with it? She wasn’t sure.

Vati was also painfully aware of other mutterings taking place across the commons –  which had to do with how a young intern could possibly manage to shoot into the stratosphere without, um, satisfying the baser urges of certain people in positions in power.

She unpacked her mouse, her new green and pink Skeleton headphones and her Milo lunch bar and shook her head quietly to herself. It was Monday morning. She had been in this place a little over three months and in that time the only piece of work she had produced was a ten page power point presentation.

And look at what had happened.

Dear Diary

Well I can’t even think about dates and things. I don’t know. Well, that’s the truth of it. I really don’t know. I don’t know why I am in this office. I don’t know what happened to my life as such – can it really be over already? I don’t know what to do about Gerald, or the money, or whether we’re going to end up in a retirement home or a caravan park. I just don’t know.

As things stand at the moment I have four more months on my contract. I’ll go pretty much to Mangaung and then Suzie will come back from maternity and I’ll go back to our little house in Randburg and it’ll be like it never happened. I’ll be just another fat old white lady past retirement age.

Vati seems to be doing well though – I’m pleased about that. Although, already she’s not the young girl I thought she was. There’s a confidence there now. Arrogance? Possibly. Anyway, I still hope she goes wherever she’s going in the right way.

Gerald was listening to the Happy Mondays when I left the house this morning. Lord, if anything was going to make me feel old it was the Happy Mondays. They were bad enough when I was 50.

Part 1 -14. Part 15: September 12.
Author: Andrew Miller Illustrator: Lebohang Goge

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Published by Herman Manson

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