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Rasta and the woman in red

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Rasta and the woman in red


By Dumisani Kufaruwenga

I’m drinking at Parktown Shopping Centre, alone. Am sitting outside on the verandah of the Southern bar, just watching and observing. 

A woman emerges from the saloon next to the bar. She is dressed in red tight pants and a very short matching red top which exposes her mid-rif. She has thick sensuous lips and a steady engaging stare. She holds my gaze without blinking. I wonder whether she is looking for action. 

A dreadlocked gentleman appears. He looks much younger than the lady in red. They chat amiably while the dreadlocked gentleman sips a chilled drink full of ice. Whiskey or brandy?

I can’t help admire the dreadlocked gentleman. He is smartly dressed and the lady in red is being drawn in by his charm and is discreetly rubbing her naked belly against his muscular frame. 

Some action must be in the offing. 

The two part ways and the dreadlocked gentleman saunters into the bar, while the lady in red leans against a nearby red car. 

I can’t help notice that everything about her is red. The car. The clothes.

The dreadlocked gentleman returns to her after a short while.

And the fight started. 

What took you so long?  the lady in red charged. You think l don’t know that you want that bar lady? Everyone in the saloon calls her a slut, but you still chase after her. Get into the car right away, lets go.

The dreadlocked gentleman slides meekly into the driver’s seat of the red car. The lady in red jumps in besides him, and starts poking him in the face with her finger, shouting something l could not hear while he drove off.

But I know from what I saw that there is no peace in paradise. 

And that red stands for danger!

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