A while ago, at a time when every relationship turned into mud at my touch, I decided to forget about men and re-emerge into the lives of long-forgotten friends.
Yes, women tend to do this when they find partners. They forget about other girls who might be going through a dry spell.
What do you know, while I was waiting for a friend, a tall dark and handsome stranger walked in just as I was giving up on Thando.
He was flawless. I somehow seem to cross paths with this kind of perfect specimen every time I try to mind my own business.
I was disgusted at my curiosity about him. He was clean and moved as if he had authority. I even figured he was loaded.
Had my gin been secretly tripled or something? Had I not made a pact with myself not to be swayed by looks unless I wanted another hiding from the universe?
It's a disease because I have learnt over and over again that most men are conceited. The stranger was talking on the phone and I could tell he was parading his good body for my eyes only.
A sudden inner fire ensued and I stared blankly at the parking lot, already weighing the possibilities.
How could he make me feel this way, I mean, who doesn't know that this kind is bad news? And this lot marvels at their gift of height and seem to enjoy towering over the rest of us. Height is such an unfair prerogative, I thought as I tried to brush off my one-sided engagement with him.
What if he turns out to be Thando's man? That would be great, actually, at least I won't have to deal with him, I lied to myself. By now I was all jittery. I couldn't wait for him to get to me and state his case so I could get over him.
He extended a hand to greet me and though I wanted to ask him, "Dude, what are you about?"
I shook his hand and allowed him to join me.
His eyes held a certain sincerity and something told me this was the beginning of a delightful mess. We started talking. First about my drink and how it was unusual for a black woman to have a real drink in Gauteng.
He was right, women in this province love operating on the grey. Though most drink themselves silly, their poison often comes in fancy sweeter packages that give them phuza faces and BEE bellies.
In our conversation he wasn't trying to rubbish my head, my beliefs, his mother or himself. He was a culture freak who didn't mince his words about black pride and how the black and white financial scales refuse to balance because of black people's fear of grabbing opportunities.
I thought he was smart because people of his class always fall short of loving their roots or realising that they have to empower and uplift others. He was cool but also came across as an emotionally unavailable lover.
Like me, Langa was looking for nothing in particular but was out trying to get some form of stimulation even if it meant bumping into his own "rural uncle and pinning him down for an expensive drink".
He later told me his uncle was the king of scrooges, who continued guzzling the cheapest beer despite being so rich his drink of choice should have been cognac.
His endeavours to buy the uncle whisky, hoping he would acquire the taste, yielded no results because the curse of a black man dictates that he should spend a lifetime digging gold but never find an occasion to wear it.
Yet there are some who, like Isidingo's Georgie Zamdela, don't find it a bit awkward to wear all their jewels on the same day.
And for some strange reason that Friday night the city was sleeping. Otherwise some horny vultures would have tried snatching him. And Lyndhurst being the capital suburb for homosexuals, singles are caught between a rock and a hard place.
There was an obvious mutual flicker but I decided that I wasn't taking the plunge to be a woman of the 21st century. He was going to do all the dirty work for himself, his brothers and his chief back in his precious village.
I pictured him lying next to me - docile and stark naked. There's always something alluring about a horny, powerful man who isn't sure he will really conquer his new find. I wanted to watch him become weak from a force mightier than himself or the school of thought to which he belonged.
I took flight and carried on like a hooligan, drinking from the bottle, talking about my imaginary squeeze and trying to look as if he had no effect on me. Inside I was lap dancing him. The skull is the most underrated cover of vile things.
I don't doubt that it was the intoxication selling me out but I have always agreed with the man who once wrote: "Alcohol makes men brave and women weak."
I was done for but I stuck to my guns and let my school of thought reign. I was not going to ask for his number, though we had been chatting for hours. I held my drink like my rope of rescue.
As I opened my purse to settle my bill I announced that I was leaving. He interjected: "Who is that cute little lady in your purse?" I told him it was Anathi, my four-year-old princess. "Does she have siblings?" he continued.
"No, she is the only one but will soon do better when I find a willing donor," I joked.
We were getting somewhere at last. He thought my dreadlocks have a mind of their own. And they do but I wasn't going to be apologetic about my roots.
"I do believe they might be the reason you chose this table," I said, running my fingers through my soft, unlocking dreads.
And it struck me that among the very few things I know about relationships is the fact that I don't have to be the carbon copy of a man for him to appreciate me.
When we walk down the street, hand in hand, I know people think he should have been the woman in the relationship because, yes, I wear the pants and the jacket and the flipping tie.
Got a problem with that? He doesn't.