He shouldn't fret, he told himself, but he did.
The course of his fretting was his wife Suzanne.
In the five years of the marriage he had no need to fret, or to worry. It was more troubling therefore to fret now. Not that his wife had not been anything less than the perfect wife. Loving, caring, understanding and supportive. Scarcely an ill word had passed between them in five years. She was as lovely now as she was when they had met seven years earlier. Her skin was the same soft white, not quite creamy complexion. Her brown hair, short and smart, not overly fancy. Her waist was slim in relation to her build. His wife was not exactly slim, but was certainly well rounded and shapely. Junoesque might be the word, but perhaps that would give the impression of her being larger than she was. Her derriere was a constant source of delight. Tightly packed in jeans it would turn anyone's head. She certainly knew how to wriggle when she walked, and yet she did so with a natural grace that belied the sexiness of the round trembling cheeks of her bottom. Her bust did not appear large, until her top was removed. Then the firm, round, jutting, pink tipped breasts could fill any man's fantasy.
Her eyes were blue, though two years unemployment had deadened them a bit. Those two years had been hard but she had stood by him, with no criticism. Who would have thought just 4 months ago that he would be working again! Not just working but in a senior position.
That it was in Africa was the icing on the cake.
But he fretted.
His wife was dancing with another man.
Another man's hands rested of those lovely round hips.
Her arms rested on his shoulder as they gently moved together.
It was not just any other man. She was dancing with his boss.
Peter Thorenssen was a masterful man. He was charismatic and powerful in the sense of influence and in his presence. As Regional Party Chief for Zanu-PF he had used his connections to purchase Thorenssen Electrics. Forcing the previous owner into sell though a combination of 'created' bankruptcy, bribery, and backhanders until the previous owner had broken down and died. Some say Peter did more than buy the business. There were dark rumours, but Thomas tried to dismiss them. People loved to gossip in Zimbabwe, especially matters sordid. The local whites may not approve or relationships between Africans and white, but that did not stop them gossip mongering.
Thomas did not believe the rumours.
He had worked for Peter Thorenssen for two months now. During that time he had found him professional, competent, sharp, and very able. Masterful yes. He knew what he wanted and got what he wanted. Any who crossed his path were punished in no uncertain way. You may think you had scored a point against Peter in a business deal, but there would be a price exacted for that point, later if not immediate. If the truth were told Thomas had a certain fear of Peter. While he recognised his ability, that underlying animal wildness was just below the surface.
A lion that would eat any prey who got in his way. Perhaps a bull would be a better description. Peter was very physically powerful, almost repellently so Peter thought. Huge bulging muscled arms, broad shoulders, thick neck. He looked at first glance like a professional heavyweight boxer. The smart Saville Row suits, and silk ties from Burlington Arcade bought on his annual trip to London, together with the heavy gold cufflinks allegedly made specially for him by Garrard's, the Queens Jewellers served to provide a sophistication that impressed most who met him.
Had very much impressed his wife, who danced with him now, slow and close.
After two months working with him Thomas had almost forgotten that Peter was black.
Watching his wife dance in his arms brought to the surface buried primitive fears.
Thomas suspected he had changed his name to Peter Thorenssen on purchasing Thorenssen Electrics. Everyone who knew him called him Kizeki. But for business purposes he was Peter Thorenssen and woe betide anyone who let slip anything else. Thomas suspected that by doing so he had left his European suppliers, who only did business with him by phone and letter, with the mistaken opinion that they were doing business with a local white businessman.
The rumours of the Thorenssen take over were dark. The original Peter Thorenssen had not been willing to sell. Kizeki had tried lots of tricks to ruin the company in advance of his bid, but the owner had refused. A week before Kizeki bought the company, the owner had died of a massive coronary. He had no previous heart history. His grieving window had submitted to pressure and signed the Sale Agreement. Within a week she herself was dead. Food poisoning was the official reason. More straightforward poisoning according to others. But that did not ring true. The former owners two daughters had received the monies from the sale. Rebecca,16, and Julie,17. Kizeki, had adopted them as his own, ensured they received proper advice on investing the monies. Indeed they both now worked for Thorenssen Electrics in Marketing and Public Relations. Though Thomas had never seen them. They seemed too young for marketing. He had asked Bukei Farang about the girls. Bukei had looked at him incredulously.
'Marketing ... yes marketing.' He had roared with laughter. Then trundled off down the corridor mumbling about marketing and giggling to himself.
Thomas sipped his drink. It was a Pimm's No1 served in a pint Jug.
He glanced at his wife. She was happy at least. After two difficult economic years this job had been a godsend. They needed it. Suzanne had started to blossom again in the last two months since their arrival in Zimbabwe. He was not going to make a scene and cloud that happiness.
Watching his wife dance with Peter, he did not see a simple matter of his wife dancing with his boss at a quite get together for the senior company's managers. Instead he saw his lovely, gorgeous wife dancing with a black!
He struggled to combat the sudden prejudice.
After two months they had both grown used to the casual determined gropes that Suzanne's curvy derriere received in the supermarket. The sudden press of bodies in a crowded mall followed by a hand darting in and squeezed one of her breasts. They both knew what to expect from black men in Africa. Now his wife danced with one. Though Peter was a world apart from the African men who thronged the shopping arcades.
All of Peter's sophistication and wealth could not hide the fact that Peter was black.
Blacks lusted after pretty white women like his wife Suzanne!
Thomas fought back his fears. He was being irrational he told himself. Peter was a professional, a cut above the rest. He was his boss, a man apart. Someone special.
He sipped again and glanced around the room. His wife was not the only wife dancing. The four other wives of his fellow expat manager's who were present were also up and dancing. Sarah was dancing. She was the wife of one of the Engineers. She had an incredible bust, and what a bottom! Peter struggled to control his thoughts. He should not think of Sarah like that! She was the wife of one of his friends, one of his work colleagues. Hell, he thought, she was a cracker, but she was not dancing with her husband she was dancing with Faria, the African Accounts Director.
Likewise Pamela was dancing with Bukei Farang, the Engineer Director, though Peter had yet to discover any engineering ability in Bukei. He certainly had the ability to create fear in the workforce. Peter doubted he had even a basic understanding of calculus. Pretty little Diana was just 19, and only married for six months. Yet the way she was hugging close to Robert Mushedi, you would be mistaken for thinking her besotted with him.
That left Penelope. Stately Penelope. With a slim willowy body she swayed regally wherever she went. She was a former head girl of Rhodean, one of the top girl's private schools in England. The niece of an English Duke, related by marriage to the Beauforts, and married to her husband Viscount Lennox. Her long waist length hair was not quite long enough to hide the fact that Torke Rembu, the Marketing Director, had a firm grip on her bottom. With hands actively probing their soft roundness.
Viscount Lennox was on his uppers. Reduced to working for a living. He had come to Africa, so that his aristocratic friends could not mock his penury. Gambling had been his downfall, that and unpaid Death Duties on the Longleaf Estate. That he had lost the estate to a card shark bastard of an Arab Sheik had not impressed the Inland Revenue!
It would be a long time before he returned to the UK.
His eyes were firmly fixed on the chessboard. It was a fantastic set, carved from malachite in green and white with ornate carved pieces. He was playing Roger, Diana's young husband. Both were careful to concentrate on the action on the chessboard.
Sarah's husband was watching his wife. He did not seem at all bothered as Sarah writhed slowly in Farai's firm grip. Steve, Pamela's husband was not here. Pamela had muttered something about Steve urgently wanting to do some work at home as she introduced her daughter, Kim.
Kim was lovely.
.... There is more of this story ...