For the first time, I was on the receiving end of cute, rom-com type gestures. He would start all our phone conversations by loudly singing Frank Ocean’s “Novacane” to me because my nickname is “Nova,” until giggled and ask him to please get to the point of the call. It was a huge deal to me that of all the women he knew, he’d actually chosen me! At the very same time, my insecurities were working overtime. I compared myself to the dolled-up TV babes and gorgeous “groupies” (a word that I would have never said aloud) I imagined him surrounded by. Somehow, my crush had set his sights on a skinny girl (no booty or boobies here), who really didn’t care for style and glamour at all.

After a few casual lunches and phone calls, our first proper date took place on a Saturday afternoon in early spring. We were in an affluent Joburg suburb at a pool party doubling as a music video shoot for his friend, who was also my favourite indie-rapper. The space was teeming with popular people. I tried to keep my composure in a way befitting of a “celebrity girlfriend-in-waiting,” a role that I thought of with the utmost seriousness because I was constantly anxious that my girl-next-door appearance would expose me as Cinderella at the ball, way past midnight. Later, in a moment of magic when the stars were out, I sat on his lap in a quiet part of the garden. He held me close and said, “I love you.” Getting to this point so soon after we’d met felt unreal, but I told myself not to look a gift horse in the mouth, to just enjoy the butterflies.

***

The first time I visited his apartment I was impressed. It was so perfectly curated to reflect his personality: the purple piano across the room, the books, the big Malcolm X poster, the vinyls, the massive stacks of CDs and DVDs, the gun-shaped vase on the coffee table, and a whole Nintendo arcade cabinet (WHAT, EVEN?!). Down the hall, he’d dedicated and entire room to his sneaker collection—lined with shelves full of all colours and editions, in the closet and in untidy piles on the floor. The decor had a very The Selby Is in Your Place vibe to it—a book that he owned and an aesthetic that he evidently aspired to. As he showed me around, the tiny panic returned; this apartment had more swag than I would ever have. I worried that soon he’d snap out of it and realize that I was too plain for him.

On weekends, we spent a lot of time locked up in his place. We’d smoke, have sex, and stay really hungry because his amazing apartment never seemed to contain any food. Once, I woke up, ready to spend all day in bed as usual, when he walked over to his massive DVD collection and put on the film Serendipity. I was in no mood to see it, but watched because he kept going on about how it reminded him of us, how we were “destined.” He was so touched by the film that afterwards, he grabbed his Enter the Wu Tang (36 Chambers) vinyl and scribbled his name and number on the cover, saying that he never wanted to lose contact with me. It was corny, but his sincerity made me feel safe. I reminded myself not to doubt my bubble of happiness. I was in love and so was he.

The more time we spent together, the clearer it became that how things looked were incredibly important to him. His celebrity status, apartment decor, belongings, and his involvement in street style collaborations were evidence of a man who led a carefully curated life. He would compliment my piercings and tattoos in a way that made me feel grateful that, even though I was not about to labelled “fashion forward!” anytime soon, at least there was something striking about me. Occasionally, he’d go on about how “different” I was in relation to how other women were “hoes”—some of whom he had relationships with in the past. During one of his monologues, he told me that he thought of me as “a sister, a queen, not a bitch, like in Jay-Z’s song.” I googled the lyrics and, as taken aback as I was about how abrasive I found them to be, I was relieved they existed in the world as a mark of his approval of me.

Although being the mostly silent supporting actress to his soliloquies got tiring,
I was determined to excel and prove myself worthy of being his “ride-or-die.” When he would boast about how he and his crew “had next” as the authentic purveyors of cool in South Africa, I would nod and smile sweetly. I didn’t want us to clash by speaking up against his god-complex. I expended a lot of energy worrying about whether I was good enough and tiptoeing around his demandingly dramatic personality. But his compliments were so lavish. They made me feel safe, even when he followed them up with a snide jab about my weight, or a mention of so-and-so “with the big booty.” I assured myself, He obviously loves me, so why should I be upset? And when he spoke of the future, I pictured myself with him—in his version of it—by any means necessary.

***

One night, we attended one of my friend T’s parties. I felt so good about myself; the outfit I had been planning looked dope! After spending some time dancing with friends, I spotted him near the VIP area and went over to hang with him. “Don’t, don’t do that. You’re attracting attention,” he scolded, after I pulled out a small fan to help me cool off. Looking perplexed, I asked what he meant. He explained, “I’ve never attended T’s events with a girl and I don’t want people to talk.” Excuse me? All of a sudden, he was ashamed of being seen out in public with me.

I thought back to when we’d first met, surrounded by many of the people that were present then, when he’d pulled me close and said, “All these dudes want you” and then added the words I’d dismissed: “…but you’re so damn skinny!” Realizing that he was embarrassed to be seen at such a big event with someone incompatible with his macho, celebrity image hurt me so much that I rolled my eyes and shrugged it off, again, not wanting to give myself away. When we met, and now at this party, it stung deeply that he could fix his mouth to be so cruel to me. My actual boyfriend had just asked me to render myself inconspicuous for the sake of his celebrity life. Even when I found him insufferable and mean, I tolerated the quirks of his personality out of sympathy, chalking it up to the pressures of fame. I’de been loving and supportive, I thinking myself safe from his nastiness, but it was clear that I would not be spared.