Everything for the money
“I’m sorry, miss, but your credit has been declined.”
Lerato tried to remain calm. She had worn her best outfit to the bank. Today was supposed to be the day she received the great news; she had even prepared a small celebration to share with her grandmother at home. The Melktert was waiting to mark her triumph.
With that money, she could finally open her own restaurant. She was tired of answering calls from foreigners who grumbled; she imagined them sitting on enormous sofas with a foul smell, demanding to be treated as if they were refined beings. Most of them used customer service hotlines just to unleash their pent-up anger that, for personal reasons, they couldn’t release in any other way. Lerato couldn’t stand another housewife who didn’t know the difference between restarting the router and restarting her phone. But once again, the cards weren’t in her favor.
All her hopes were crushed.
“What happened? Why won’t you give it to me?… I don’t understand what…” She tried to hold back her tears.
“We have identified that your credit history…”. The employee, a kind woman, didn’t know how to explain to the young girl that someone like her would never have access to such a loan. “I’m very sorry…”, was all she could say.
Lerato didn’t insist. It was useless. She left the bank with her head down, trying to hide her tears, which clashed with her colorful clothes. When she opened the door, the scorching sun hit her dark skin, and she raised her hand to shield herself from the blinding light. Looking up, she said to herself:
“It’s already noon.”
She wiped her tears and headed home.
On the way, she passed by her old mentor’s bakery. He welcomed her with a wide smile.
“My chef! Today’s the big day, tell me, did we get it?” The man stopped talking when he noticed Lerato’s miserable appearance. He adjusted his words. “You’ll find a way,” he comforted her.
Lerato gave him a faint smile and sat at a table by the window. It had been her table since childhood. Lost in thought, she didn’t even notice when the handsome waiter placed a small bowl of fruit and a clean cup of tea in front of her.
She was disappointed in herself. Too many debts and too little money—that had always been her problem. She wondered how she would find the money for her grandmother’s medicine.
Looking out the window, she saw people on the street who seemed so calm, as if everything in their lives was perfect, without a care in the world. How she wished she could be a spectator of herself: the girl in the bakery, having an afternoon snack, with the face of someone whose life was already set.
“$250,000 could be yours… apply now… registration open… universal love…”
The words coming from the television caught her attention and sharpened her hearing. For a moment, she could swear she had turned into a hearing aid, amplifying those sounds while blocking out the noise around her.
Without even realizing how, she ended up standing in front of the screen as the juicy number lit up her eyes.
Now she had a solution.
She arrived home full of enthusiasm, ignoring her old grandmother’s persistent questions about how things had gone at the bank. She served her dinner eagerly and, at the end, gave her the delicious dessert she had prepared.
“Ouma, I’m going away for a while.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” the old woman said as she carefully ate her dessert. “A young girl should go out. It’s good.”
Ouma’s eyesight was poor. With her cloudy, whitish eyes, she gave a toothless smile. She was already 89, and the wear of time showed on her face, every wrinkle telling an intricate story.
“Yes, it’s good, Ouma. I’m going to earn money and open my restaurant, and you’re going to live like a princess. Do you like pearls, Ouma?”
The old woman shook her head.
“Useless things, Lito. What I want is a good coffin, one that’s comfortable enough to rest in peace.”
Lerato didn’t like how easily her Ouma spoke of death.
“…but Lito, make sure they bury me with one of those little toys, the ones young women use. Your grandfather never gave me anything like that. At least in the afterlife, enjoying a good hammer would be a blessing.”
“Hahaha, Ouma! Those things aren’t crosses, how am I going to put one at your funeral?”
“Even better—let one of those things serve as a candle at my funeral! And I want a big black one in my coffin, that’s the only thing I want.” The old woman got up and, with weary steps, carried the dishes to the kitchen. “Pearl necklace…”, she muttered through her gums, lacking teeth.
Lerato was smart. It didn’t take her long to find the application form for the contest: “Conquest: Love, Money and Marriage.” Apparently, a very popular reality show in the U.S. that had run out of ideas and decided to expand abroad. “Now Universal,” read the small subtitle, added almost as an afterthought.
The rules were simple:
Ten couples matched through complex algorithms and confirmed by “love experts” (if such a thing existed). They would have to marry—as the title implied. They would only meet minutes before the wedding; until then, they wouldn’t be allowed to know anything about their partner.
And what did they have to do to win the money? The conditions were simple: stay together for one year, and in the end, choose money over love.
If one chose money, they could walk away with their prize, and the marriage would be dissolved immediately. The poor fool who chose love would be left with nothing. If both chose money, neither would win. And then there was the special bonus: if both chose love, they would receive the money and a house in the country where the couple decided to have their new residence . A possibility that, for both Lerato and the organizers, was unthinkable.
In the end, Lerato had to spend her weekend filling out endless surveys and forms. She was thankful for her advanced English, the result of years of training in her exhausting job.
To her surprise, she was contacted quickly. She passed many filters and, after a couple of months…
“Congratulations, Lerato! We’ve found your perfect match.” The message was delivered at her door by a stranger dressed in sequins, tall, slim, blonde, and with strikingly clear eyes—like the Barbies she used to play with.
Lerato took a moment to process the information.
“So… does that mean I’m getting married?” she asked, pulling an indescribably ugly face.
The sculptural blonde halted everything with a wave of her hand. Her voice sharpened, and the silly, flirty look on her face disappeared.
“This won’t work like this,” she said, snatching a large glass of ice water from her assistant and fanning her armpits. “Look… you… what’s your name?”
“Lerato” she replied, a little confused.
“Yes, yes… this is television. You were chosen because you barely have the minimum appearance required to be on screen, but if this is what the viewers see…”.
The beautiful blonde pointed at the camera image of Lerato’s grimace. She was right—it was hideous.
“Understand this: I have to fly to Egypt in a few hours, then Paris and a dozen other dreadful places to capture the excited faces of the participants, and this… THIS is what you give me?!”
Lerato looked again at the image. She couldn’t understand how her gums had become so huge, her neck had disappeared as if she were about to sneeze, and her eyes were pointing in different directions. “I didn’t know I could look that ugly,” she thought.
“I understand,” she said, keeping her composure.
“Good. Let’s do it again, everyone outside. We’ve got…” The blonde checked her watch. “Five minutes for this shot.”
Everything was repeated, and Lerato discovered she actually had a talent for acting. She arranged her braided hair to one side, showing her better profile, and opened the door as if she had no idea what was happening—all according to plan.
“I can’t believe it, I’m finally getting married!” Lerato said, bouncing with excitement.
Her grandmother, who had been napping, came out to investigate the commotion at the door, her pink gums showing with every word.
“Who’s getting married?” asked the toothless old woman.
“Me, Ouma. Aren’t you happy?”
“Poor idiot,” said sweet Ouma, shuffling away with hypnotic, lethargic steps.
The blonde’s expression changed, her nostrils flaring in anger.
“Fine, we’ll have to edit it out. Let’s go,” she told the crew.
“Wait… what am I supposed to do?”
“Wait for them to contact you. You’re getting married in two days.”
Author’s Note:
Meet Lerato, and the best photo she managed to take for her application form.
