Lebo woke at around midday. She had only two things on her schedule: a late-afternoon session with her trainer, Sbu, and a 9am casting that she intentionally skipped.
She simply did not have the stomach to queue alongside girls who used to be her fans to battle it out for an appearance on a show she didn’t care about. Lebo resented her agent’s plans to get her cast on a telenovela. Telenovelas are for former pageant queens with questionable talent.
Baby Girls who could sell bullshit storylines to bored viewers across the nation. No, that wasn’t Lebo. She was once the country’s youngest triple threat – a singer, actor and dancer whose TV show and spinoff music career set trends, broke records and inspired millions. Now, lying in her king-sized bed, still wearing last night’s sequinned number and stilettos, with make-up residue smeared on her white linen, that felt like a million years ago. ‘Time to rise and grind, sunshine.’ She regularly spoke to herself when she was alone.
Lebo slowly raised her aching head and scanned her bed for her phone. She found it tucked under the pillow and scrolled through her notifications. ‘Nope, nope, nope,’ she said, ignoring the social media notifications, the angry messages from her agent and the missed calls from this morning’s casting director. Opening the food-delivery app, she ordered a meal to help her feel a little less hungover, then dragged herself to the marble-tiled bathroom to survey the damage.
Staring back at her from the bathroom mirror wasn’t the worst she’s looked in months, but definitely not the best. Her deep-wave 30-inch Peruvian wig looked slightly matted; she’d have to go to the salon for a reinstall. It wasn’t giving buss down, as much as it gave busted. Her make-up was smeared, but the bright red lipstick on her full lips hadn’t budged: ‘At least when they claimed it was “stay fast”, they weren’t lying,’ she rolled her eyes. Her fake strip lashes were dangling from her natural lashes. Mama would be turning in her grave if she knew she was regularly going to bed without cleansing and moisturising, but at least her skin remained blemish free. Her star might have faded, but her looks hadn’t.
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Lebo peeled off her clothes, dropping them on the bathroom floor as she stepped into a hot shower, hoping the scalding water could wash away her hangover-induced Loser Syndrome. It’d been six months since what had been labelled as her ‘breakdown’. But she’d hardly classify the … well, incident . . . as a breakdown.
The tabloids called it everything from a manic episode to drug addiction to demonic possession. Talk about dramatic. Maybe, if they knew what was really going on, they wouldn’t be so quick to judge her so harshly. Her latest album, Love, Lebo, a collection of covers of classic romantic oldies had gone double dust, selling only 400 copies. She hadn’t wanted to do the stupid album, but her record label was convinced it’d help with trying to introduce her to a more adult audience. The ‘adult audience’ never quite got into it and her actual audience – the teens and young people who grew up watching her on TV – were not feeling this adult contemporary disaster.
Stressed and depressed, she found herself on stage at jazz festivals, community centres and farmer’s markets, playing to ever-shrinking crowds. Did she spend too much time on her mini tour knocking back shooters with her band mates and backup singers? Probably. Throw into that mix a serious lack of sleep and a strict diet as she was slimming down for a reality show about celebs stranded on a deserted island. She started smoking more weed to calm her anxiety and then taking pills to get her energy up for the hours on stage crooning to no one. Who wouldn’t crack under those circumstances?
So, when a hater posted a tweet talking about how she ‘fell off’, she had jumped into an ill-advised rant that started as a defence of her album and ended a week later with her calling all her fans broke hoes and ugly povvos who needed to get a life. Not entirely untrue, she still thought, but definitely unkind. Next came the fan videos of her drunk on stage, slurring her way through her set. She was almost thankful for all the footage of her as a train wreck because she definitely didn’t remember everything that had gone down during that time. The internet was forever, after all.
Then there were the videos she had taken of herself in her apartment, a few too many edibles later, swearing at her management and fans, and ranting about the Sedi character that had made her famous. And, of course, the paparazzi photos of her passed out in the back of cabs that were quickly turned into memes online. Like a hurricane, that one short month of her losing control nearly cost her everything; her car sponsor, her clothing lines, her deals with tech companies – all gone. The only sponsor that stuck with her was VisageLuxe. Her record label hung on to her for sentimental reasons – her Sedi Star Sings Christmas was still one of the biggest selling albums in the country, so they owed her at least a little loyalty. And, besides, it was their fault she was stuck on the road promoting an album she really didn’t believe in. It had cost her R100 000 just to start rehabilitating her reputation. That’s how much it cost to check herself into a month-long inpatient programme at Silver Meadows, one of the country’s upmarket ‘treatment centres’. Exhaustion, they told the press.
She spent her time at the ‘retreat’ meditating, doing yoga, eating bland salads, drinking loads of green juice, and attending the odd therapy session. Lebo didn’t mind being there – truth be told, the time out was much needed – but she didn’t consider herself a junkie like some of her fellow patients. Those people had problems! She just needed ‘me time’ away from her career and the party scene. After her shower, just as she was pulling on some leggings and a tank top, her food order arrived at her Melrose Arch penthouse. She promptly popped a bottle of champagne to wash down the double cheeseburger and chips. Although she’d taken a pledge with a local animal-rights group to become vegan, who could blame her in her time of need? Was roasted butternut going to cure her hangover? No, didn’t think so.
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At least her rebellion against the industry – or was that the industry’s rebellion against her? – meant she had more time for the things she loved: shopping, partying, champagne. She knew she’d have to make a big move soon, though; it had been too long since she’d done anything truly impactful. She just wished she could find a meatier role than a Z-lister appearance on Jabulani Mansions or Reflections.
She wanted a breakout role, something against type – maybe a serial killer in an indie flick or something truly meta, a washed-up child star gone rogue.
Doll, what you doing today? Bored AF Tired AF! Lunch?
The text from Mimi snapped Lebo out of her pity party and made her smile. When wasn’t Mimi bored or tired? She lived a pampered life courtesy of some tenderpreneur, oga, corrupt politician, self-made man or another, and didn’t bother herself much with things like ‘work’ or ‘activity’. She called herself a hairstylist and make-up artist, but only ever did Lebo’s face as a way to earn her ‘plus one’ ticket to events and launches.
Lebo: Dinner? Busy til 5!
Mimi: Busy? You book a new gig? Happy for you friend, you deserve!
Lebo: LOL a gig? You know I’m still a leper in this town. I’m with my trainer til 5.
Mimi: Oops … Sorry. Dinner at 7 then. Marcelo’s. My treat!
Mimi meant well, but the reminder that she didn’t have a gig to go to still stung. Lebo was just thankful Mama wasn’t around to see the mess she’d made of her life.
The tabloids had always cast her mother as a ‘momager’, pushing Lebo into the spotlight, but that wasn’t the case. Lebo had always been interested in dancing and singing, often disrupting her classmates in primary school with impromptu performances. While her teachers reprimanded her, everyone loved seeing this talented child’s creative outbursts.
Although it was Lebo’s mother, Petronella, who had spotted the ad for an audition for a precocious pre-teen to play a new character on a soon-to-be-filmed TV show, it was Lebo who pushed herself, rehearsing her audition song, dance and monologue for hours with her friends on the dusty streets of Dube.
This is an edited extract from the novel When the Filter Fades by Janine Jellars (published by Incwadi Yothando). Available in all good bookstores. Recommended Retail Price: R325.
