The Brand by M.N Providence Page B

three bouquets of red,
yellow and white roses arrived by special delivery at her suite at
the hotel. The card attached to the red flowers read: To a beautiful
woman, from a gentleman.
    A little after 9.30am, Raizer T used his
smartphone with his private number, known only to a few select
close friends and family, to call her phone number. ‘Did you get
the flowers?’ he asked after they had exchanged greetings.
    ‘I was wondering who sent them,’ she replied
truthfully.
    Raizer T let out a laugh of amusement.
Briefly. ‘I was wondering something different. I’m thinking we
could do lunch together…informal…Lemme show you around town.’
    Joelyn hesitated. Raizer T was getting
friendly with her too fast, but she was afraid of offending him. He
was, after all, the man who would take her music career to the
stars. Last night, when the Maybach 62 had picked her up and taken
her to the restaurant to meet Raizer T, Joelyn’s stomach had
knotted with apprehension at what sort of character she would meet.
Owing to South Africa’s lingering racial prejudice, Joelyn had had
few personal dealings in her life with Black people. She knew from
music videos that he was a handsome kind of guy, usually with
short, neat hair and no visible tattoos on his body, but she did
not know who the real Raizer T was. She had found out last night
that he was a surprisingly intelligent-sounding guy who spoke in
“proper” English and was dressed more like a careless fashion
designer than a rapper’s rapper. He was also shorter than TV
suggested; perhaps shorter than her, and she was of average height.
He had been in casual white pants, white sneakers and a green shirt
with white vertical stripes, open at the collar to give a glimpse
of a white vest. The only items of jewelry he wore were a gold
watch on his left hand and a dazzling diamond bracelet that was a
perfect fit for his right wrist.
    ‘I didn’t get that,’ his voice brought her
mind back to the present and she realized that she had not answered
him.
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Okay? Good. Can I pick you up at 12?’
    ‘Sure.’
    That was the end of their conversation. He
arrived exactly on time at her hotel, accompanied by his
bodyguards. With the two protectors in tow, they walked around the
city, sightseeing. He took her to Times’ Square, a dazzling arcade
of tall buildings and electronic advertising boards. They bought
hot dogs from a stall and she told him that she knew a place called
South Africa where there were sausages of a premium quality, known
as boerewors . They took
a yellow cab to Central Park, where it rained all of a sudden and
they had to rush indoors and hide.
    It was an afternoon when he learned that she
was from South Africa and had until recently been married. It was
an afternoon when she learned that currently aged twenty-eight,
Anthony Ryzor had seven children of varying ages, two of them the
same age but with different mothers. The eldest of those children
was aged eleven.
    ‘What?’ Joelyn was shocked. ‘Your first child
was created when you were just sixteen!’
    ‘It’s crazy,’ he said with a smile. ‘But it’s
true. I just can’t seem to keep this thing in its pants.’
    She laughed hysterically at that.
    He went on. ‘I guess it’s genetic. My father
went through five marriages and produced twelve children within
those marriages and six without…and supported none of us. I’m
tryin’ to be a better man and takin’ care of all of my kids.’
    It was an afternoon when it rained intensely
but for a brief period, baffling meteorologists and laymen alike,
and afterwards the skies cleared and the sunshine fell across the
city and brought with it a wonderful atmosphere. It was an
afternoon when they strolled through Central Park, enjoying the
wonderful atmosphere that lingered after the short rainfall. It was
an afternoon when she discovered how busy an individual he was, his
phone singing incessantly until he had to switch it off in respect
of her.