The singles lane no place to hide from the drama of lying men

I travelled seven hours to see an ex, only to bump into my replacement.

Great to meet you. Shall I pour you wine or Chivas? fghgf hgfhgfhgfh

People often assume that being single means you’re spared from misadventures with men.

The truth is, navigating the single lane has its peak hours. Sometimes in that traffic you encounter an ex-lover, voluntarily travel across provinces, pay for the trip yourself and meet his girlfriend too!

I once travelled seven hours by bus to an ex. I had spent a few months in celibate oblivion, and he was safe and familiar.

We had both moved on. Well, I’d only just moved to a new province, and he was thriving under the skirts of beautiful ladies. Nonetheless, I booked a return trip.

Surprisingly, the weekend turned into a debauchery. We enjoyed wine, chops and chillies and over-indulged in our passions.

I had spent two days indoors, clad in silk and lace and random showers when there was an unexpected knock at the door, a little after 10pm.

In my drunken state, I shouted “Ubaaaaan?” (who is there?) and unwittingly stirred things up.

The man got up so fast, you would swear his weight was not on the wrong side of 100kg. He opened the door about 5cm wide and managed to squeeze his bulging frame through, exited and shut it. The bastard! It had to be a woman at the door. I was drunk, but I did not want any drama. I’m a dismal 1.5m tall with no self-defence skills.

There seemed to be a lengthy discussion outside in Tswana, but it was definitely not romantic. From the little I could pick up, the lady was really keen on coming in.

Remember the chops and chillies? My stomach started turning. I urgently needed relief. The food, sex and booze was about to show me flames! I spent a good 15 minutes crouched on the toilet. I was compelled to open the window before I flushed. Unfortunately, the man and his illustrious guest were now standing right next to the toilet window. That is when she forced her way into the house.

My name was thrown around a lot as they screamed at each other. Something like ‘kere kere Gwanele...’ With little understanding of Tswana, I could only hope they were saying good things about me.

The lady was no stranger to his apartment, probably the owner of the weave-riddled hairbrush I found there. The paste of make-up she had on - at 11pm - explained the cannisters and 10kg of cotton balls in the en-suite bathroom cupboards. She looked like she stepped out of Instagram, and I was basted in Vaseline, ravished and burping wine and kisses.

Her urgent demand was that I be ejected. But my return trip was booked for the next night, so if anyone was to be excused from the mess and sent home, it’d be her.

He eventually introduced his conquests to each other,

“Ms Brown, meet Gwanele. Gwanele this is Ms Brown.”

I suspected that she was named after the colour of her Mac foundation.

So, being the warm-hearted generous fool that I am, I knew I had to be hospitable now that we were formal acquaintances.

So I gathered my manners and responded “Oh cool, great to meet you. Shall I pour you wine or Chivas? I think we all need a drink and a smoke here.”

Ms Brown didn’t seem too pleased with my offer or the fact that I was wearing a thong in her man’s kitchen. She raised her voice a little above the legal alcohol limit: “Baby, why are you allowing this girl to disrespect me? She wants to pour me a drink? In whose kitchen?”

The lady was territorial and clearly not thirsty.

So he dived in with a dismal attempt at defusing her fit of pique,

“Gwanele, please. Eish. Ms Brown and I are going out.”

Well, out of genuine concern, I had to ask: “Oh, so late? Where are you going?”