My cousin is marrying a second wife. "Can you believe that fool!" my 95-year-old grandmother croaked over the phone. "Talk to him, make him see sense. His children will hate him!"
So I met him at his chosen venue; the Wine Box, also called Cave à Manger, for some inexplicable reason. I'd never been there before.
I walked in through the wine cellar which opened to an opulent sitting area, which further opened to a garden patio with white walls and furniture.
Gorgeous place. Like a sanctum of those enjoying their trust funds. It also felt - rather ironically - like a wedding reception.
Which was apt because my cousin was waiting with a striking middle-aged woman displaying a prominent tattoo on her arm.
I immediately identified her as the person of interest. I struggled to conceal my surprise—and irritation—that he'd brought company to our meeting.
However, not long after introductions and after draining her negroni, she purred, "Well, I will be heading out," she reached out and stroked my cousin's chin affectionately, as if he were a good boy who finishes his food, "let you boys catch up?" My cousin was literally eating from her palm.
He looked bewitched. There was something quite provocative about that woman.
After her exit, I swirled the ice cubes in my whisky and addressed the elephant in the room. "Are we past the point of no return here? Or is there hope for sensibility?"
He sighed, "Sensibility? Which side are you on, Biko?"
I explained there were no sides. This wasn't a communism versus capitalism conflict.
"It's done," he declared.
"OK, then. I guess you've made your bed. I wish you well." Shortest intervention in history. Took less than five minutes. The evening at Cave à Manger was too beautiful to ruin, the moment too enchanting with the lights and plants and wine.
"I love her," he said.
"Well, we are all fools in love," I quoted from Pride and Prejudice.
