CHAPTER 17
One Month Later…
NOMVULA
The last month has been a rollercoaster. One moment I’m sweating and moaning under or on top of Sabelo, the other I am busy with my assignments for my online Business Course and the next in busy trying to be an adult that I am. One thing that still shows me flames is grocery shopping. I suck at it. My mother used to do it for me and now I have to do it myself. Nandi has been helpful though in my journey to becoming me. She told me to write a list of the foods I normally eat and then list the ingredients. The online shopping Apps have been lifesavers too because the business of pushing a trolley is just so not me.
My relationship with Sabelo is everything I never thought relationships are made of. We haven’t established how serious we are about this but we are officially dating. I have met his colleagues and his sister. I haven’t been to his house though, that’s one place he is still not comfortable to introduce new memories to. We spend most of our time at my house or in hotels and restaurants. I’m not worried about him not taking me to his place, I understand that the place still holds sacred memories for him. And if I must admit, he makes me happy. I believe I make him happier too. He’s even adding a few inches to his waist.
I have also been pushing him to build a relationship with his son beyond financial responsibilities and he is progressing well. He spent the last weekend with the boy and from the pictures he shared, they were both happy.
The only thing I’m not getting used to is Sabelo’s kind of fun. This guy loves cars so much he researches and reads about them as if he’s an aspiring car seller. He knows history of so many cars and his wishlist is mostly made up of cars. I have never seen someone whose idea of fun is that expensive.
He’s taking me to one of his favourite places and he insisted that I buy a gown worth R57K just for this event. Of course his bank card was used to pay for it. There was no way in hell I could have purchased that with my own money. He also bought shoes and a clutch. The money used to buy the three items is enough to buy a four-bedroom house ekasi. I’m here smelling like all kinds of gold and money and it does feel good.
“Let’s add this to complete your look,” Sabelo says as he stands behind me. He stretches his hands in front of me and puts a necklace on my neck. It’s a golden chocker that compliments my black gown. “Now you are good to go,” he pecks me on the cheek.
“Thank you, babe,” I say as I run my fingers on the necklace. I spray cologne on my neck and arms as a finishing statement to my attire and I’m ready to go.
“Ready?” he asks. He is so excited he cannot hide it.
“Ready, Sir.”
He takes my hand and off we go.
******
NARRATED
The atmosphere is electric. The room is filled with high rollers, celebrities, and serious car enthusiasts, all gathered around the sleek, high-performance machines on display. These are the kinds of people who don’t need to check their bank balances before bidding – they are here to indulge in their passion, and they have the wallets to match.
The crowd is dressed to impress, with designer suits, sleek dresses, and statement accessories – Rolex watches, tailored blazers, and shoes that cost more than most people’s monthly salaries. The air is thick with the scent of luxury, and everyone is looking their best – after all, you never know who might be watching.
Conversations are hushed but buzzing with excitement. People are discussing the specs, the history, and the potential resale value of the cars on offer.
“This 1967 Ferrari 275 GTB is a real barn find – I heard it’s been sitting in a collection for decades,” says one barrel-sized balding man with an anorexic barbie standing next to him. At first, Nomvula thought the woman was surprised at the prices pasted on the cars, until she realised that is her permanent look, one of those plastic surgeries gone wrong.
“The provenance on this Porsche 911 GT2 RS is insane – imagine owning a piece of history!” said another enthusiast, taking a measured sip on his whiskey.
The whispers are interspersed with the occasional burst of laughter, as old friends and acquaintances catch up and share stories.
“Babe, this is one expensive hobby,” Nomvula says absent-mindedly, her eyes wondering with admiration from one glittering sports car and vintage models to the next. “I wouldn’t even come here for sightseeing.”
“Sight-seeing? No, you definitely can’t come here for that. To even be here, you have to pay an advance deposit of R50 000. You can’t just walk in as if you saw an item you liked on the window outside.”
“What? R50K?” Nomvula is astounded.
“Refundable, of course. But if you had bid on something and won the bid, the deposit would be added to your purchase. If you had bid on something that costs, for example, 150K, you then only have to pay 100K. Spoiler alert: nothing here costs 100K. That’s pocket change to these people.”
She laughs. “I noticed.”
They continue walking amongst the cars, viewing and listening to the car expert salesmen explaining the specs in the type of jargon only petrol heads like Sabelo would understand.
“And these two Lambos… I think I have seen them before,” says one car enthusiast, directing the salesman and his audience to a pair of roadsters on a revolving stage at the centre of the room.
“Oh, yes,” says the salesman, smiling sheepishly. “Those are the only second-hand cars on the floor, as you can see even by the prices. These are the Hybrid V8 Lamborghini Temerarios, retailing at R7,5 million brand-new. Starting bid today will be R3 million. These two have driven less than a 1000km each. The previous owner basically used them only to go buy the newspaper every morning.”
“Sorry, but… did you say ‘owner’?” Nomvula asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes Ma’am, both these mean machines were owned by the same person.”
“But… they look so alike. They are essentially the same car. Why would anyone–”
“Buy the same car twice?” the salesman chuckles. “Why did Mandla Mthembu and Khanyi Mbau buy similar yellow Porsches back then when they were high rollers?”
“His and hers. Got it,” says Nomvula, embarrassed by her ignorance.
“No Ma’am, the previous owner is a bachelor,” says a man within the throng. All eyes turn to look at him.
He is white, tall, and dressed in a white tuxedo. His face is deeply tanned like someone who has been in the sun too long. His long, glistening dark hair is pulled back and tied in a neat ponytail. His well-trimmed beard gives him an exotic Jason Momoa look.
“Uhm… ladies and gentlemen, the identities of the previous owners of the vehicles…”
“Highly confidential,” the ponytail man cuts in, sips on his glass and walks away.
Sabelo tugs on Nomvula’s arm gently, leading her away towards other cars on display.
“Don’t you remember the Eskom tender scandal that has been on the news?” he asks. “That 25-year-old minister’s nephew who got the R5 billion tender through a company that had only been registered a month before the tender was issued?”
“Oh, yes. I remember that. He bought two R7 million mansions in Sandton, tore them both down and built a new one on the two stands. I remember he also bought these cars.”
“Yep. That’s why these cars are here. They are being auctioned to recoup the money the state lost in that corrupt tender. He also tried to conceal the purchase by not registering both cars in his name. They are still in the name of the dealership he bought them from. I won’t be surprised if the dealership’s representatives are here to bid on the two cars.”
“My goodness, the corruption that is in this country.”
As the auction gets underway, the energy in the room ratchets up a notch. Bidders are laser-focused, their eyes fixed on the auctioneer as they raise their paddles and make their moves. The room falls silent as a particularly pricey car comes up for grabs – a LaFerrari, perhaps, or a Bugatti Chiron. The bids fly back and forth, the tension building with each vehicle that is brought out, until the decisive ” Sold! To the gentleman in the back, for R20 million!” rings out.
Soon, it is the two blue Lambos going under the hammer. As the salesman had predicted, the starting bid is R3 million for each car. Nomvula is shocked when she sees Sabelo’s hand goes up, raising the paddle.
“Haibo, Sabelo!” she says under her breath, her eyes wide. “R3 million? Do you have that kind of money?”
He is grinning at her, and then whispers, “Of course I don’t.”
“Then what are you doing?” she retorts, chastising.
“Relax, there will always be people outbidding me. No car has ever gone at the first…”
“Do I hear R3,1 million?” the auctioneer shouts.
“R3,1 million,” shouts the gentleman in the ponytail.
“Do I hear R3,2 million?” the auctioner challenges.
“R3,2 million!” a voice rings out in the back.
“May I remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that this is no ordinary vehicle,” says the auctioneer. “It barely left the showroom floor. With less than a 1000Km on the clock, it is still a brand-new car. Do I hear R3,5 million?”
“R3,5 million!” shouts the ponytail gentleman with so much bravado, a number of people turn around to glance at him.
“Do I hear R3,6 million?”
Silence descends on the floor, the audience now using their paddles to fan their faces.
“R3,7 million.”
Nomvula has to look up to be certain the voice she heard indeed came from Sabelo. Haibo, this man! He even has his paddle up. Stunned silence lingers in the room. From the corner of her eye, Nomvula can see the gentleman in the ponytail eyeing them through his blue, squinted eyes.
“Do I hear R3,8 million?”
The ponytail gentleman and Sabelo exchange stares like poker players across a table at an illegal gambling den downtown.
“R4 million,” the ponytail gentleman blurts out, drawing a deep sigh of relief from Nomvula, who grabs Sabelo’s hand that is holding the paddle and holds it firmly between her thighs.
“No more!” she orders through gritted teeth, and Sabelo simply smirks. He looks over at the ponytail gentleman and gives him a nod of resignation.
The auctioneer rambles on, calling for more bids above a room that seems to have fallen deaf and mute. Eventually, the gavel rings out on the bid, securing the ponytail gentleman’s winning bid. The second car is also purchased by the same gentleman in yet another competitive bid that Sabelo abstained from, much to Nomvula’s relief.
The successful bidders are beaming with pride, shaking hands and exchanging congratulations with the auction house staff. The losers are already planning their next move – “I’ll get the next one, mark my words.” As the auction winds down, the room erupts into a hubbub of chatter, as people discuss the highlights of the evening and make plans to meet up for a spin in their new toys.
“What on earth was that, Sabelo? You nearly gave me a heart attack. What if that man hadn’t outbid you?” Nomvula is still visibly livid, and cannot understand why Sabelo still finds all this amusing.
“Just for the adrenaline,” he says, grinning. “I promise, there was no way I wasn’t going to be outbid on this. For these guys, it is not only about the cars, but it is about winning. About pride. They don’t mind forking out a billion just because someone said a certain old and stained ceramic cup is the actual Holy Grail.”
“But what if he hadn’t outbid—”
“The auctioneer would have offered the item to the second highest bidder – me,” comes a voice from behind them. They turn around and find it is the ponytail gentleman. “Worst case scenario, the winning bidder would have been held liable for the full purchase price, forfeit his deposit and potentially face legal action.”
Nomvula instinctively punches Sabelo on the shoulder, fuming.
“Name is David… David Jacobsson,” the ponytail gentleman says, extending his hand for a handshake.
“Jewish?” says Sabelo rhetorically.
“Swedish, actually, spelled with two ‘Ss’,” he says. “But yes, my family is of Jewish descent. My grandfather became a citizen of the world, so was his son, who eventually settled in Sweden. Hence I am Swedish.”
“I’m Sabelo Mseleku, this is my girlfriend, Nomvula.”
“Nice to meet you, folks.”
“Well, Mr Jacobsson with two ‘Ss’,” says Nomvula quite sarcastically, stressing on the ‘S’ so it sounds like she is saying ‘asses’, “I don’t see a ring on your finger. Who is the second ass… I mean, who is the second car for?”
David laughs good-naturedly, taking the obvious sarcasm in his stride. “How about I tell you two all about it over dinner. My treat. Call it my way of bandaging your battle scars for having outbid you. My hotel is down the road.”
“YOUR HOTEL?” Nomvula is scathing.
“Well, it’s where I have booked for the next couple of weeks—”
“Unfortunately, we will have to take a rain check on that, Mr Two Asses,” Nomvula cuts in.
“Uhm… yeah, it’s been quite a long day, David,” says Sabelo, squeezing Nomvula hand, non-verbally telling her to take it easy. “Some other time, perhaps?”
“Now that you have mentioned it, yes,” says David, digging into his pocket and coming up with a business card. He hands it to Sabelo. “A Cape Town businessman friend of mine will be hosting some friends from the United States next week. You two can be my guests. Plenty of opportunities for networking and expanding your entrepreneurial cycle. Think it over and give me a call. I will have my PA book the tickets. First class.”
“Let’s go, Sabelo,” says Nomvula, pulling Sabelo away.
As the crowd files out, the cars are carefully prepared for their new owners. The lucky few who scored a rare gem are grinning from ear to ear, knowing they have just added a serious piece of automotive art to their collection. And the rest? They are already counting down the days until the next auction – the thrill of the chase is just too intoxicating to resist.
“What was that all about?” Sabelo asks as they walk towards the parking lot. “One minute you are angry that I am bidding, and the next you want to bite David’s head off for having outbid me. What’s up?”
“Oh, please, that had nothing to do with the auction,” says Nomvula curtly. “That man just rubs me the wrong way. There’s something off about him.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. He just seems… shady.”
“David just forked out R8 million for two luxury cars. A forex trader doing his bidding online is shady. A man doing business openly, in a room full of equally wealthy people—”
“Then why is he talking to us instead of those wealthy people?”
Sabelo scratches his head, looking stumped.
“Stay away from him, Sabelo.”
And she gets into the passenger seat and slams the door shut, sulking.
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