Tuesday, December 7, 2010

The Innocent Virgin.



By Mak Manaka



Lost in her take off, she finds herself in bed with another man and confused of how she got there. The mirror reveals the secret as she stares into her eyes, she’s the street’s daughter, her life flashes in front of the mirror, and she catches a glimpse of how she was raised by a single parent.

She is 5 years old and living in the slums of Johannesburg, her mother Gloria works as a cashier at Pick n Pay, they live with an abusive Nigerian in the corrupt flats of Hillbrow not far from Ponte.
Lost in the big City with a 1year old child, Gloria made a lot of sacrifices for her daughter to sleep with a full stomach, lord knows how much she had to endure.
The police crash the Nigerian’s dream, Gloria ends up pawning clothes to pay rent, Pick n Pay is not enough, the 5 year old soon to be 6 wants to know who her father is, because the concerned pre-school teacher hands out an assignment on a family tree.

Trapped in her flight she finds herself stuck in translating her feelings to a man who only wants to debauch her, pay and then leave her. She lives only at night trying to find out a way of surviving. The mundane street life brings tears to her eyes every time she chases after a client that’s not interested in her name, she searches for solitude in a club while going down on some guy in the toilet, she looks in the mirror and catches a glimpse of how much her mother sacrificed for her.

She is 8 years old and very inquisitive, ‘mama, who is my father’, Gloria looks at her with eyes covered in pain, ‘if only she knew the truth’ she thinks to herself, she tells her that her father died in the line of duty, and that he was a police man. Every Sundays she weeps more than Jesus, the cross has a way of reminding people of pain and in Gloria’s case, the pain in truth stares at her, from her daughter’s little eyes.


Ashamed of her face she looks away from her soul and drowns in liquor. Two men take advantage, and she ends up in hospital. In less than an hour out of hospital, bruised and beat up she is out on the streets selling her not so pretty thighs again. Tonight she sleeps alone, business was bad but somehow she finds means to take off and so she flies, tries to sleep but hears her mother’s voice calling in the dark, switches on the lights and no one is there except for her reflection glancing at her from the mirror.

She is 11 years old and goes to a school near by, her mother Gloria moved them out of Hillbrow and went to Yoeville, Gloria now works at a Spar down the road, and as a single parent, she believes no man can walk on water and bare gifts of her freedom. A mountain of School fees and debts invades the quality time a daughter needs from her mother, she works at night keeping Yoeville streets clean, and comes home around 5am, only to find her patient daughter sleeping on the table waiting to say ‘good night mama’. The sickening landlord threatens to kick them out because of two months outstanding rent. Every free chance she gets, she battles banks for a student loan but doesn’t qualify, they move out and find a cheaper place, a single room for the both of them in a commune house around Yoeville.



Finally he looks for his love, lost his collar in doing so, ‘what type of people are these, to strip a man of his pride, then call themselves children of god, after so long they still cant let me be with my wife.’ He thought to himself before embarking on his journey to Johannesburg and look for his love, he still loves her and his face blossoms in smiles whenever he thinks about her.


The lord works in mysterious ways, after 3 years living in the city a man can change but not Terence, he started to work at some Indian store in Fordsburg so he could survive, he rented a cottage at the back of his boss’s yard, and after 3 years of searching with luck not on his side, a man can only do one thing, move on. But just as when he is about to throw in the towel, he sees the face that once stole his heart across the road walking out of Spar, how can he not see her, after all she was and still is his pride and joy. He stops the car and jumps out, Gloria barely recognizes him from across the road as he runs towards her calling her name aloud, Terance’s face looks different covered in a beard, she drops the Spar plastics full of grocery on the floor in shock of what her eyes are showing her, they both hug in tears, and at this moment, Gloria misses the sent of her home town down in the Cape. ‘Where have you been?, I left the church to look for you, Where do you stay?’ as Terence showers her in untimely questions all she can do is smile with her tears running down her beautiful and aging face like Victoria falls. Terence’s happiness is short lived when his phone rings, his boss wants him back, Terence takes her to the house before heading for slavery and promises to come back tomorrow, and before he leaves while still in the van, Gloria tells him about her daughter and that her father was a Nigerian dealer, and inside the house the 11 year old daughter looks over the window and sees them hug.

Inquisitive as always, she wants to know who the man outside was, Gloria tells her teenage daughter that he is a relative from back home.

Covered in lies as she pleasures an old man and getting him to think that she is about to touch the sky, she feels dirty inside and disgusted at the sight of wrinkles on his face and body. She closes her eyes to forget her past, but as the man’s breath gets heavy on her face, she turns her head and sees herself at the mirror with England on top of her. The English man decides to confide in her and tells her about his daughter that ran away because of what he used to do to her, and also tells her about his dead wife, he keeps on telling her how he lost everything, she pushes him off of her, and blinks her eyes then sees another episode in her past life.

It’s July and she is about to turn 16, they now stay with Terence in Fordsburg. Truth still hasn’t surfaced and uncle Terence loves her like a father, she is as beautiful as the sun in spring, reminds Terence of Gloria when she was her age, all the boys at school surround her and bring her gifts, life seems to be back in order again.

Gloria can’t stop looking at Terrence, she wants him but fears to face the truth with her daughter. Gloria’s young woman is old enough to see the glow in her mother’s face when ‘uncle’ Terence plays around with her. She goes on a field trip to Durban, Gloria and Terence do it again. This time its different, they do it slow and passionately paced with every year that went by with out a man or a woman’s touch, they explore each other’s continents every night as though it were their last.

And then, a child of passion is conceived in Gloria’s womb, but her daughter doesn’t know, how wrong for them to keep such secretes away from the innocent virgin.

Terence comes home early one day, while Gloria still at work, he just got fired and soon they will have to move. She comes in the house from school looking tired as Terence’s face, and in his drunk state he thinks of how she could have been his daughter, and now, he despises the fact that Nigeria flows in her veins, trapped in the anger of his past, Terence becomes a beast and forces himself on the soon to be 16 year old. He painfully penetrates his manhood through virgin gates, telling her ‘it’s going to be fine’ as he ravages her until she feels no pain, then ejaculates’ on her light skinned thighs and screams in jubilation.

Gloria comes home and sees the faded light in Terence’s eyes, her daughter is sleeping, ‘but its only 7pm, she must have been tired’ Gloria thinks to herself. Terence tells her the bad news, and tells her that he will find another job, they have a month to look for another place.

Terence continues to drive himself into the now 16 year old, and she begins to love to hate it, and Gloria sees a change in her daughter’s attitude, “where is my daughter”, she questions herself, she’s either out or in her room isolating herself. She now calls him ‘uncle T’, at school she lost her innocence and all the boys lost interest coz she gave almost every teacher some sort of pleasure, boys call her ‘Queen Bitch’, ‘Queen B’ in short. She hates the image her mirror reflects every time ‘uncle T’ and her are done. They manage to stay for another month and Terence is always out looking for a job but comes back home broken, only to forget his failures in between the sixteen year old’s young thighs.

Gloria can feel the seed growing from within her, and decides to confide in her aging daughter, about who her father really is, and as she confesses to her daughter her eyes catch a reflection of her self from the mirror in her daughter’s room, and remembers how she came to the City of Gold.


The young Terence looks at young virgin Gloria with all the love a man can give, this man wounded in his pride, walks with her as his ego, beauty has never seen such a face. She loves him so, night after night, she prays for god to spare them the shame, of living without light.
Many men live under this man’s word, to some he is the Son of God, and to children his hand is cast in gold.
‘Fortune favors the bold’ they say, and bold he was.

Covered in papers of debt, a quiet man in a church robe leads him to victory, though his heart remains at home trying to build a family with no inspiration, until he walks in with strength in his eyes and power of the future in the way he holds her, so masculine, so sensual. Her body longs for him, he comes inside of her and explores the world she once promised him.

A miracle she thought, ‘His blood grows in my womb’, the young Gloria doesn’t tell him because of the collar, and she then wonders as to how it happened because the young father Terence has slow swimmers, he is weak in the cradle of man. Young Gloria keeps her secrete away from the man of the cloth, and leaves behind her man, her pride, her world for a seed that changed her future.

Gloria breaks down when she reads the later her daughter wrote to her before she left.
“my child, with that bastard” shouting as tears flood her face, Terence walks in the room, only to find Gloria weeping, and out of nowhere, Gloria snaps and tabs Terence on the chest with a pair of scissors while screaming, “he was your daughter, he was your daughter”.

Covered in the rapist’s blood she calls the police and sits next to the phone ready be imprisoned.

 ‘I can’t live here anymore mama, the man you said was family turns out to be my father, and do you know what he has been doing to me? He has been forcing himself inside of me telling me if I say anything he will have me kidnapped and I hate him for that, and I hate you for not believing me when I tried to tell you, and thought that I am a silly girl. I am sorry mama, goodbye. Your loving daughter, Ntombenhle’………..
 
  

Friday, December 3, 2010

Stranger to Sunshine


Stranger to sunshine.
By Mak Manaka


Noxolo Mpilo-Jones, the country’s greatest writer. She was the 1st born in a family of two sisters, both her parents were artists, her father was the country’s well known writer, poet and painter Kwanele Mpilo and her mother Pam Mpilo was an actress and a dancer. Her parents moved from the Eastern Cape to Natal coz the father got a job as a teacher in the University of Natal teaching literature. In the 70’s, a profession in the arts was a health hazard because black writers never got the respect they so deserved and coz of that, life became uncomfortable especially living in a disadvantaged province such as the Eastern Cape. So when they moved to Natal, Noxolo was 8 years old followed, by her sister Nomhle whom at that time was 6 yeas old and the baby Nontsikelelo was 2 years old. Noxolo’s father was a member of the Pan African Congress, he wrote about the pain of his people and how black people must unite and define themselves, he spent half the time either writing or on stage directing or a in class teaching, and his wife Pam collaborated with him, he would write and she would act and dance in the plays.

From an early age Noxolo was familiar with theatre, she was born on stage. In the early 80’s her father left his teaching profession and moved to Johannesburg, they lived in Diepkloof, Soweto. And across the road from their home was an arts and culture center where her father spent most of his time if not all of it teaching fine art on Saturdays for little money, and her mother Pam opened up a dance school, by then Noxolo was about 12 years.

She attended school not far from their home and Nomhle was sent to a boarding school in Natal. 

It was here in Diepkloof where life got a little bit harder and her parents began drifting apart. Her father was becoming an abusive alcoholic, like many black writers at the time, coz by then South Africa was free, and not in the way they fought for it, and that really frustrated him.
He spent time in his study painting and wrote so much work that never got published, people knew him for his plays.  Some time during that time, he wrote a play that went to London, and Pam had to stay behind and look after the children, every Saturday she taught dance. Just before Noxolo’s father returned from Europe, Pam got an acting job on television for a soapie and shut down the dance classes. When her father returned after two months, he was not impressed, Kwanele was threatened by her wife’s artistic growth, he assaulted Pam like she was a man and Noxolo who witnessed everything was devastated. Pam took him to the police, he stayed in the cell for about a week then Pam dropped the case, love can do that sometimes, seeing her parents fight like that affected her so much. After witnessing that vile domestic violence she became very distant, kind of like her mind would wonder. It was her father’s misdeeds that led her to writing coz every time her parents where at each other’s throats, she would take her youngest sister Ntsiki and herself to her room and softly sing for her until she slept, and then write.

It was on the day they went to pick up Nomhle from school that her life changed.

Her father came home smelling like a bottle store, he had come from a meeting that did not go well with the investors and that left a bitter taste in his heart. And so on the way from the airport, Pam and Kwanele got into a fight and he lost control, they overturned with the car.
Kwanele tried to swerve the car from the truck but they were moving so fast, the steering wheel went out of control smashing against the side of a cargo truck. The over turning car threw Kwanele out of the window and he landed head first on the ground, Pam’s face was badly bruised and Ntsiki was paralyzed from the waist down. The father died on the spot that afternoon, and Noxolo never forgave him, she never cried at the funeral.

Three girls and a single parent, and so Noxolo became the bread winner in the house. Pam sacrificed her career and took care of her disabled last born, Noxolo quit school with only one more year to go and got a job as a waitress at a café in Newtown, Joburg’s cultural precinct, this is were she met people from all over the world, and changed her world, she began to read all the time. She would read anything she came across, and before her sifts she wrote and wrote. The more people she came across the more she began to realize her self, though every time she went home she would feel as though she was fiddling with a wound that took a long time to heal, she would clean up the house, make dinner, wash the clothes and try to comfort her mother every lonely night when she wept over the accident. Noxolo felt herself trapped inside of her but every time she was at the cafe, she was free, she was able to be herself and express her self the way a woman does, the way humans do.

The manager of the restaurant decided to host open-mic nights every Thursdays and people from all over Johannesburg came to listen to poets, musicians, and comedians.

She was only 20 years old when she decided to recite her poetry live on stage, after two weeks the open-mic’s had been running, she was extremely scared but calm on the surface, she did a poem about Soweto’s life styles and its the people. The crowd went wild, coz she had the ability to captivate her audience with her commanding voice and her energy on stage. That night she only did one poem and the audience was screaming for more when she was done, she went on stage in her work uniform and performed her heart to the moon.

That night when she got home with an uplifted sprit she found the house empty, Ntsiki was in hospital, she had bedsores that were now very deep into her flesh. That day she was in so much pain coz the sores had affected her skin, her small left thigh was swollen. They didn’t have enough money for the bedsores to be surgically removed, when Noxolo got to the hospital her mother sobbed when she walked in coz in some way Noxolo reminded her of Kwanele coz when Noxolo and her sisters were younger, he was very strong for the family and keeping them together.
Ntsiki stayed in hospital while Noxolo now worked double shifts every day trying hard to raise money for her sister’s operation.

Every Thursday Noxolo would perform like there was no tomorrow. People started coming only to see her perform and then after dazzling the audience with her poetry she would return to work, serving people drinks and food. She was becoming known as the young force from Soweto, every Thursday she would escape on stage and forget the past that fueled her performance. Every night when she came from the café after the exhilarating open-mics, she would tell her mother how people loved her and how they cheered for more, and her mother would discourage her and want her to stop, fearing that she might end up like her father.

She managed to raise money and paid for the operation, the bedsores were removed but the family’s joy never lasted when Nomhle’s outstanding school fees came knocking at the door. The school she went to in Natal was now promising to kick her out if the outstanding amounts were not paid so Pam decided to take her to a cheaper school in the township near their home. Nomhle would pick up Ntsiki from her so called ‘special’ school after school and Pam got herself a job as a receptionist for one of Kwanele’s friends who ran a communications company in the city.

Noxolo continued working double shifts coz in that café she was Noxolo and half of the people who came on Thursday nights now came every other day of the week just to be with her, she had an outgoing personality, she became employee of the month for three months until an older man approached her and wanted to know how much would she charge him for a performance at a private function. She didn’t know how much to charge him coz first of all she didn’t even know that money can be earned from poetry. She got R2500 for her first gig, after that news started spreading and Noxolo was in demand. She would get calls to come perform along side people she admired, in the art community people who knew her father would tell her that she was more articulate than her father.

With her new job Pam paid up all the hospital debts and schools fees and Nomhle was doing her last her, everything seemed to be fine. An article about Noxolo was printed on The Sowetan newspaper, the article spoke about her and where she came from, it also spoke about her father how this country forgot about the genius. Her mother read it and started to cry, she was unaware of how Noxolo’s poetry affected people, and so one Thursday night without telling her Pam went to the open-mic and saw her daughter win the hearts of people with her words, that night she did a poem about the strength in her mother. She went outside and waited for Noxolo until she knocked off, Pam had managed to buy a car, a white Conquest. When Noxolo came out she saw how many of her colleagues surrounded her in smiles and laughter, she was doing most of the talking, she saw a different person and when Noxolo saw her stepping out the car, tears of joy ran down her eyes, her mother congratulated her and she had never been so happy to hear her say that.
Pam called some of Kwanele’s friends to come see Noxolo perform the next Thursday, after the show she got a deal to publish her poetry.

She quit her job and focused on poetry, every night she was out, in a month she would make about R10 000 to
R20 000, she saved all her money to take her sister Nomhle to varsity after graduation and help with Ntsiki’s medicine, Pam had never been so proud of her.

She was only 22 when her book ‘NOW’ was published, she was every where, on television, newspapers, radio, 400 copies were sold on the first night of her launch, she was now a celebrity. She went overseas, performed in places her mother dreamt of.

While she was traveling all over the country, performing and giving workshops to school children about not doing drugs, her sister Nomhle was becoming an addict, I guess she was feeling pressured by Noxolo’s success. On the day she had arrived from London, her sister Nomhle OD’d the night before, her mother was devastated. They buried her next to her father’s grave, her sister’s death traumatized her, she continued to perform but the spark in her eyes was lost. Then Ntsiki’s bedsores came again, two months after Nomhle’s passing and this time around they were worse than before, her left leg was amputated and cost the family a lot of money.

Noxolo had never had a boyfriend, so at 25 she was a lonely poet with past issues haunting her dreams, a show was held at the café she used to work in and she was the main attraction, that night was phenomenal, some people were crying, it was such a memorable night coz that was the first time I met your mother. Noxolo seemed distant the first time we spoke, I had to wait for a while until I could finally speak to her, everybody wanted to speak to her, then finally we sat down, she didn’t even drink alcohol then. We spoke about everything, she loved to laugh, she was a nice person.

We saw each other almost everyday, came to visit me at work, then, I was a financial advisor for Nedbank. She also loved talking about her past life and how she never forgave her father and how she missed her sister. The first time I met with your grandmother Pam, she was very happy that I was not an artist and that my job was money, she would always tell me how bright the future looked every time she looked into my eyes. Pam developed a sickness of the heart, it was weak and every now and then Noxolo would have to take her to hospital, two years after we had been going out, your grandmother, the strong Pam Mpilo, passed away and Noxolo was in America performing, I took care of everything. She was left with one more show when I told her the news, that night she cried before she went on stage and when she was on stage she performed her soul to the moon, that night she got a standing ovation. She got the first flight out of New York and came back home, her mother’s passing really affected her, she couldn’t perform or write for two months, and in those two months she spent her time with her youngest sister Ntsiki. Every time I came to see her, her charming smile was fading and she didn’t laugh as much.

She used to say that all her life she has been a child born to pain, that she was a stranger to sunshine.

I tried every thing in my power to bring her back, I managed to get her a deal with some publishing house to publish her second anthology but she would refuse until her sister Ntsiki said to her if she keeps on feeling sorry for her self, her talent will die then she would have worked so hard to see their last name go to waste, for a 20 year old I guess Ntsiki grew up before her time. And so Noxolo agreed to publish her second book of poems, ‘Here I Stand’, she was now 30 years old and felt like she had lived. One would think that fame changes people but Noxolo remained the same, went to open mics every Thursday, she never forgot were she came from but would always try to forget her own past. She began having an interest in spirituality coz her family were never into ancestors and sacrificing a cow or a sheep for the dead, a woman had told her about a traditional healer she must see, and that she had a dream about Noxolo asking her for help. Noxolo began seeing more and more of this lady, that day your mother came home depressed, it was the first time in months since her mother’s funeral I had ever seen her so depressed, she told me that the lady took her to a healer and the man told her that, she was going to die lonely, he told her that her father is not happy and that is why Pam and Nomhle were gone, Noxolo ran out of the old man’s room, he told him how her family was doomed. I was stunned, I mean I was shocked, how do you tell someone something like that, it was like, how could Morpheus put so much pressure on Neo.

Noxolo got a deal to publish another book of short stories about her life experiences titled ‘Write On’. After this book, you came, and that was her happiest moment ever to see her baby girl. We named you after her sister, your late aunt, Nomhle.

You came at a time when so many things were confusing to your mother, that is why when you were young, she wasn’t around much, always at hospitals, she became delusional after you turned 8, before she went to hospital she would wake up in the middle of the night, go check on you then talk while typing on the computer, your mother wasn’t crazy, she was going through episodes of her past life at that moment, I heard her talking to her father while she was typing. She was admitted to a psychiatric ward and I then send you to my parents in London and took care of your mother, oh, how I loved her so, when Ntsiki came to see her, she would cry then keep quiet and listen to her speak about her new boyfriend, how much he doesn’t see her as a disabled woman and that he proposed, and while Ntsiki was speaking I could see her eyes glow, it made me sad to see her like that, she couldn’t talk properly, her speech was slurred and she looked dazed.

I saw her everyday after work, her doctor once told me that, Noxolo had a tough time letting go and that her sister’s death really affected her coz every night she sleep talks and cries her name, and apparently she had a lot of repressed memories, the doctor said that was the cause of her delusions.

She was about 45 years when she died and that man was true, she died alone, blood was not properly reaching the brain, she died the day before her Ntsiki wedding, and so the wedding was postponed. I took all of her work to the same publishing house and wrote you down as the inheritor of her rights, they are your birthright so when you are lonely and feel like you cant breathe, look to your mother’s art and listen to her voice, she lives in you, you even look just like her. So you take care of yourself and enjoy your 21 birthday, your mother would be so proud of you and don’t you ever imprison or sacrifice your happiness. You are not a stranger to sunshine.

I love you baby.

Sincerely your father
Richard Alfred Jones.     


Rasta

RASTA
By Mak Manaka



This guy, what’s wrong with him? Does he ever get enough? Weekend after weekend he’s here, either with me or with that slut Thuli or one of these girls if he cant find both of us. He’s good for business though, but bad for my health, coz every time I am with him, it’s either he wants me to snot or pipe-up. Shit, he did it again, “Rasta, Rasta, wake up man”, fuck, “Chris! Chris!” eeish, this stupid Nigerian, where is he now, his fucken best customer is pasted out on my bed, “Rasta, Rasta wake up, Chris! Rasta is sleeping again!” Shit, he is not waking up, oh my god his eyes, “Rasta come on, wake up”. Jesus, he’s OD’ing, fuck, what do I do now? “Rasta wake up, please, don’t do this to me”.
Who could be calling him at this time, Lerato girl, just leave it and let it ring its none of your business. “Phew! thank god he is not OD’ing, Rasta can you hear me?” “Its me Lerato” he is too wasted to even hear me, “Chris, Chris, Rasta is finished, look at him he is useless, and anyway its late. Shh…listen he is saying something, he wants you to take him home”. Bloody Nigerian, he even knows where he stays, I wonder how long has Chris known Rasta, now I have to help him put Rasta in his car, eish. Prince and some other friend of theirs follow Chris and Rasta in Rasta’s car, but why all the trouble, anyway, “Ok, me I am going to sleep, take your keys”, Rossetenville at night or around this early, can be tricky, especially with the pigs being everywhere, taking money off these Nigers, and getting free blow-jobs from us so we wont have to spent a night in their dirty stinking cells.


Rasta’s wallet, he was married? Damn, so he’s real name is Nlhanlha, Nhlanhla Khubeka, born 1970 on September the 4th, no way, his birthday is today, well yesterday. No wonder he was drunk.

Oh shit, Rasta’s phone? Where is it? Who could be calling him at this time, ah, there we go, what the hell? Thuli? “Foetsek, sefebe, Rasta is with me, go fuck your self”. Crazy bitch, she wants to get high again, if only she knew where Rasta is right now, another phone call? “Wife?” don’t answer that phone Lerato, let it ring…………


Not again, he always does this on weekends. What’s wrong ka Nlhanlha? “Hi you’ve reached Nhlanhla please leave a massage”, “Nhlanhla ke na, where are you? We haven’t heard from you since Friday and its Sunday early morning, please answer your phone. We have to take the baby ko ma bitleng, to your father, remember?”


Good day Joburg, 12?, my god, I slept all morning, what a night.…………Chris’s car, and no noise in the house where are they, I wonder what time they came back. Ah yes, its Sunday, they at church, its funny that they are heavily religious and yet at the same time they are corruptors but anyway who is perfect……….20 missed calls damn, it’s a good thing I put Rasta’s phone on silent…

“………You have 13 new voice massages, to listen to your massages press 1…”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”
“Nhlanhla its me again, o bone ke nako manga, call me back”.
I hope its him calling, “Hello, Nlhanlha?, oh hi ma, yes, the baby is fine, we should be there before 9:30, he’s fine, see you just now ma, bye”, “If your father is not here in the next 30 minutes baby-boy, we are leaving without him. He was out the whole weekend having fun, I understand it was his birthday yesterday but he forgot that he has a family, don’t worry my love you will grow up strong and responsible not like your father, there we go, how does that feel? Clean and comfy, not wet and heavy right?” I wonder where could he be?

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”, “Nlhanlha…eeish…Nlhanlha, I am sorry baby, I am so sorry. I wanted to tell you on Friday, Nlhanlha, ngi zo hlala ngi ku thanda baby…Thandi speaking call me when you get a chance”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”
“Nlhanlha wake up man, we need you to cover a story, Holomisa’s daughter OD’d last night, she’s at J.G Strydom, not far from your house. Wake up man, we need you there at 10am for a live feed, peace”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”
“Rasta, my brother from another mother its Ike call me back, I got new stuff for you mabrada”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”
“Nhlanhla Mzilikazi Khubeka, mntanami, ukuphi? Your wife is worried about you. She was crying about how you spend less time with your family, your father and I never raised you that way, kwenzejani mfana wami. I remember when you had just turned 15 and we had just buried your father’s brother, remember what you said, you said you never want to be like him, abandon your family for alcohol and drugs. Remember when your father bought you that new bicycle, and you didn’t ride it for a week coz you were afraid to fall and hurt yourself, I remember how hard your father was on you. You are our only boy, my first and last born, your father was so happy when he found out it’s a boy. Nlhanlha mntanami, I have stood by you all these years, even when your father was against you marrying that sweet girl but after what she told me, I am so disappointed. Call me back my boy we need to talk”

“Hi you’ve reached Nhlanhla, please leave a massage” “Jahman, u sa lele, we still hooking up later right? Coz last night I tried some other dealer so, shit bra, zi ya buya mfo, anyway, call me back player, S’bu la”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Hi baby, I tried calling you last night and that bitch Lerato picked up, I told you not to see her, give me a call instead you know I will do everything for you. Anyway malove, I‘ll speak to you later, bye baby, Thuli here”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Nlhanlha, what’s going on man, its 11am now, and you were not at the Hospital covering the story, we’ve been trying to call you all morning, you’ve cost us brother, anyway I want you in my office tomorrow morning, bye”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Nlhanlha, its me, I am getting worried, u ko kae? I just got a disturbing voicemail, I thought…I thought you stopped, maara why Nlhanlha, we need to talk abut this when you get home. Your son and I are getting some stuff ko shopong, I hope you back when we get here. I love you no matter what”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Rasta my brada when are you paying me, I’ve been holding your stuff for 3 months, I am selling everything mabrada, call me dis is Richie”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Mshana hu malume la, ukuphi? Your mother is not happy about what’s going on with you, hamba ekhaya ndoda. You are a man now and not that quiet and naughty silly boy who used to follow me around and ask me for money, usuya sebenza manje and you have a family now, musa uku khathaza umamakho mshana, you guys have been through a lot. Remember after your father’s funeral, how your father’s family forgot about you guys and gave you none of his inheritance? Mshana you are a big man now take care of the only family you got. Call me back we need to talk”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Nhlanhla…….baby……I am pregnant. I wanted to tell you when we were together on Thursday night but I didn’t want to stress you coz you kept on going about your problems at home, anyway please call me back love, this is Elaine, I love you baby”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Nlhanlha this is Thandi, it was not my fault, please understand, Nlhanlha……eeish……I am infected and we’ve been sleeping without a condom, I found out this past Thursday, Nlhanlha please forgive me”


Damn, Rasta was messed up, he is a father, he is HIV positive, and the pregnant colored girl Elaine, eeish…..Rasta’s family, shame poor son. I don’t understand what happens inside of people’s heads or life or whatever, to just destroy the things they love most, I just hope he got home safe, his wife was so worried.


“……A well known award winning journalist was found dead in Westdene dam by a civilian, he had been missing since last week Friday. He drove off the road and went straight into the dam, his face was badly bruised and his chest had a deep cut, the police are investigating the murder, he shall be dearly missed, and in other top stories, Holomisa’s daughter is still in hospital after surviving a fatal OD at a friend’s house in Melville, and private detectives wipe out the entire drug world of Westbury, more than 50 people were arrested and amongst the 50 the majority were juveniles………


Oh my god, Chris, have you heard what happened to Rasta, what? He told you to leave him down the road from his house, oh, his wife, he wanted to sober up, but then how does he get to the dam then?


“Top story at this hour, the police have discovered that Nhanhla Khubeka, the award winning journalist’s death was drug related……”


Dear Diary, its been two weeks since he’s been dead and they haven’t found the culprit, let them write or say all they want, but Nhanhla was abusive, he cheated on me and his baby, and I know he was doing drugs but told me he stopped, and what even got me more angry was that colored girl Elaine, she had the nerve to call and tell me she is expecting my husband’s child. I am so sorry baby, I am sorry I had to do that to you, growing up without a father is tough but we will make it you’l see baby boy. But your father was a piece of shit, he deserved it, I should have burnt him instead of the dam but anyway…. I tried to make a happy home big-boy, lord knows I tried.

Monday, November 29, 2010

The Black Ford



By Mak Manaka


I first met her in the streets of Zone 6 Diepkloof, Soweto. No one knew her name but I called her Poetry. She would chill with chicks dressed in gossip, the type that does the hunting and then loudly with an irritating voice confess to the whole street about, ‘how he can’t get up’, ‘he is so weak in bed’, but when her ‘can’t get it up’ man shows up, she gets all over him like a bee to a jug of honey.
Every Sunday I would chill by the corner close to the church Poetry went to, just to see the face that healed my wounds every time she glanced at me, then she would just smile after noticing that I was looking with eyes pure as virgin love. After the service, I would quickly run back to the same spot and look at her, I was young and innocent then, dressed in dirty shorts and tight shirt that exposed how chubby I was.

Every school morning she sat at the back seat by the window in her mom’s car going to school, her mom and my mom became friends two days after they had moved in, so every morning they used to greet me with that ‘my car needs a fix’ type a hooter, the stupid hooter would wake me up every Saturday when I was having quality sleep.

One afternoon, all the girls and boys in my hood including Poetry got together and played a game of ‘Truth or Dare’ out side some skinny girl’s house who kissed ass just to be seen around girls who were supposedly cool so we can make our move but still, no one even gave her a glance yet alone a look, shame poor girl didn’t even know it, always wanted to be first. As night slowly came to the game it was now Poetry’s turn, “ truth or dare”, my younger sister Mpho questions her in anticipation of a ‘dare’ answer, and so Poetry fulfilled her expectations and answered “dare”, “I dare you to give my brother a soapy kiss, mouth open”. I was only ten when I experienced a tongue on mine, at first the idea disgusted me, her tongue on mine bull crap, but when Poetry gave that kiss I felt an internal ecstasy no words can describe, after all It was my first kiss. When we got home my big mouthed sister told both my parents about what had had happened and my pops is a strict conservative Christian, so what had had happened earlier was seen as an act of defiance to him, so they repeatedly whipped me while shouting, “You like girls ha, You think you old enough to kiss girls now ne? And next thing you’ll be talking about children”. As he continuously lashed my behind with a leather belt, I grew close to pain.


I was the only boy in the house, so that made me the only example to my sister Mpho, anything bad that would happen in the house, like, broken chairs, cracked glass or scratched CD’s was pinned on my head, you can imagine what would happen.

After that kiss, Poetry and I became close friends but not in front of our parents coz my mother told her mother what happened but Poetry’s mom was cool and always smiled at me every time she saw us together. Poetry and I grew close to each other as time grew with us.
I went to a different high school far from home coz father thought he was smart, separating Poetry and I, but what he didn’t know was that Poetry went to a school 4 to 6 blocks away from mine, so we saw each other everyday after school by the bus station in town, sometimes her mother would pick her up when it rained bad and she would find me there standing with her and kindly greet me with a mother’s smile then offer me a lift but the thought of my father’s hard palm across my face concealed my actions, no ways I was now 16 and in high school, no more of those lashes, so normally I would decline the offer.

My father became a stranger to me as I grew older, anything I wanted I would ask my mother, and my sister became more ‘n more spoiled but she had my back and I had hers coz after the day she had me whipped she some how feels responsible for how I turned out to be. In my parents eyes, Mpho was an angel, and when she was young my father washed her brain with lies, forgive me for not believing in fairytales, but why bring a child in a polluted world and still pollute her mind with how she came to be, we didn’t have Discovery Channel may be then she would have known that, an angel didn’t come to the house carrying a baby wrapped in white clothe saying ‘here’s your gift’, I mean who in their right minds believes that? My sister did and I think she still does, even after she got into a fight with some girl out on the street, this girl told Mpho the truth and she just couldn’t handle it, so she flipped the script and threw a fit, cat fight in a middle of the street, next minute all I hear is ‘I am going to kill you bitch’ raw haircuts and street designed skirts. I had to step in and dislocate the fight take her home to cool off, Poetry was there and she was mad impressed. Father sat down with Mpho and broke it down, “But you still my angel, daddy’s little angel” father pleaded her mercy.

The girl who etched her face in my dreams and left a mark in my heart untraced, was sitting next to me in the so called park talking about our vivid future, every body who saw us thought we were going out, but we were best friends or so I thought.

December times were the worst times of my life, coz every holiday my name was ‘Toby’, my home version of Roots. Father and I use to wake up almost every morning and do our long-day shores, Mother and Mpho would polish the floor with Cobra that still left it looking dry and when they were done, Mpho would always take a long bath and come out looking like ‘Miss Universe’ meanwhile mother kept on sending me back and forth to the stores, how I hated that, she did it every day and at times it seemed like she was enjoying it but anyway, I loved her. Father sat on his normal old brown chair in front of the TV covered with a face of authority, slowly reading the news and turning a page with one eye and the other on me out side, fearsome man he was, build like a gladiator, but he had issues which at times blinded his vision of things.

After looking and smelling like a swine, I would quickly wash up and dress to kill for my Poem. Just as when the sun was about to rest, we who live with the night were alive and walking with only one thing in mind, our loved ones.

I would chill out side her home with her mother bringing us biscuits and Coke-Cola, and would talk the night to sleep. We spoke about everything, from the Nigerians in Hillbrow to the terrorists in Cape Town, but what used to puzzle me was that every time the fatherhood topic surfaced, she would remind me of something I had to do like ‘when am I cutting my hair’.
When it was getting late and darkness was presenting itself on the monkey’s plate, she would walk me closer to home. We would always stand for 30minutes talking, laughing and flirting with a couple of chuckles, then give each other hugs. On the night of December 16 1999 was a moment printed in my memory in Cleopatra’s gold, I remember it like was yesterday.

We had just came from a jazz concert by the lake with a couple of friends, we both got off first and when we reached our destination, closer to her home, outside parked an unusual car, a black Ford Cortina, and suddenly something in her changed but I didn’t question it, this night was like the Cape’s four seasons in one day, I was so happy, excited to be in her arms yet saddened the same time. We didn’t even talk, she held me as if she was leaving for England the day after, I felt her heart pounding on my chest, thought of asking her what’s wrong but her tongue signaled a different feeling, her fingers had a life of its own with every grip I was alive.

Emotionally we massaged each other’s tongues, and her fragile fingers caressing my skin, eased down the pain I was going to feel when I get home, after leaving with a girl and no approval. Then in the mist of ecstasy she whispered, ‘I love you’ then walked away and grew smaller by the distance, my Queen, my light, my everything and I was only 19 years old, imagine me now. That night I couldn’t sleep, the black Ford outside her house kept my head running, ‘who’s car was that’, ‘Poetry is just like my grand ma, so secretive’, I had a funny anxious feeling when she looked back at me with half a smile. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow’s sun to show me her face, her laughter, her voice, her sent.

I woke up the next morning feeling like a lotto winner with a sparkling smile and the sun on my face, and for the first time as far as I can recall, that morning nobody woke me up. I quickly stole the house phone and tried calling Poetry but her phone was engaged, took a bath after breakfast, though with all the happiness something wasn’t right my mother was cool and father never ordered me to take out the trash, mhmm. Internal joy surrounded my whole being, ‘must see Poetry’, ‘Poetry, Poetry where art thou Poetry’ then just as I was about to walk out the dungeon and into the wonderful arms of my Poem, mother calls me back in, ‘what now, eeish.’ Go back in slower than a turtle and as I get inside mother sits me down and starts crying, ‘what’s going on’, then father decide to send me to the shops and buy bread, bread? Mpho could’ve done that, what’s going on? So anyway I ran out, and went passed her house just to catch a glimpse of her face damn, man I was in love, when I got there, there were cars parked outside her house, and that old black Ford was there too, but parked inside the yard, I heard a group of people singing gospel tunes, ’this is odd, it wasn’t even Sunday or Thursday’, so I quickly ran to the shops and when I got there, the store guy Thabo, whom barely, hardly talks to me, now he wants to know ‘if I am fine’, ‘how’s my day so far’ this dude kept asking me out-of-the way question, ‘sho man I am fine, see you later, got to go’. Hew! To Poetry, something’s not right. On my way there, my heart pounds faster after reading Sowetan’s shocking headline, “Father kills wife and daughter”.
And then it made sense why mother was crying, the gospel choir and Thabo at the shop, when I got outside of Poetry’s house my heart gave out, I broke down and cried a river then my sister came and sat down next to me and cried with me but she was the stronger one, she wept coz I was, she felt my pain, after all I had my first kiss with Poetry through her.

When the news hit my community it caused a turmoil coz the killer, Poetry’s father was not yet arrested, he survived suicide, apparently he ran out of bullets and tried hanging himself, he was found unconscious. He was in Baragwanath Hospital, so the community wanted to go finish him off, you might have read about it or seen it in the news, the Diepkloof police station had to send a couple of pigs to guard the weakling.

From what I had gathered later on was that, Poetry’s mother was about to divorce her abusive and alcoholic husband, they separated in 1992 a year before Poetry and her mom moved in my hood. They moved away from him but he would keep on showing up late at night in his black Ford, and sometimes she called the police on him to arrest him, but when did the police actually do some work?.
And when the divorce papers came to her father’s door step in some dump of a house in Mapetla, he couldn’t take it and so he took my poem and spilled her blood over papers that she had nothing to do with, some say I am biter but she was my everything and I was not there to shield her. The morning of December 17 1999 was a morning I first tasted anger, pain and the loss of a loved-one, I guess I became a man before 21.  

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Drunk Night


Drunk Night.
When the Fat lady…
By Mak Manaka


Three young teenagers, they were all virgins and they all loved to talk about females, but none of them had actually experienced tales they told. Every day they would sit under the blazing hot sun smoke a lot of what got them talking fables, ganja, they would go on about how they shagged them stinking asses zabo folhoza (KEMPIES), until one night they came across 3 voluptuous chicks.

They were in a club when they met the GIRLS (Destiny’s Child, the fat version), amagita were chilling at a corner of the club bumping only their heads scoping the steez and dressed up all commercial, so one of these dudes out of no where had the courage to visit the bar and while he was ordering drinks that’s when they struck him, he felt shell shocked glued at the sight of these fat ladies, he couldn’t move until he urged to breath out the letters, “HELLO” as if he was dying of serebos, the ladies responded so quick and pleasant as though they were begging for someone to socialize with, the now cool guy took them to the dudes who were still as they were when he left for drinks, they did that intro bull and danced the whole night.

These birds were so ugly even the mirror rejected their reflection yet alone their image, they were all dressed in tight minis and I mean isigqebezana, they looked as if they were taking pride in advertising their oversized silicone which seemed a bit explosive, but still mshito utswela pele, magenge hooked themselves up with these overweight two legged creatures.

One of these young teenage cats enjoyed ukudontsa iwire (wanker) every time he saw a phly bird passing by, he was the tallish slander bujwa looking type of brother with a feminine facial posture. He was the type that would land him self any girl he so desired, this dude had the looks that matched his walk and the clothes my god, this cat was off the hook but he had one problem though, nigger was afraid of pussy.

So after 5 straights of VO MARTELL and 3 bottles of VODKA the world seemed to be upside down, they were now drunk.

It was two for two outside the club “DA JOINT”, one of these ladies was home alone for the weekend, and so they all went there drunk and shit smelling like a bottle store, but everyone knows, that when drunk Amstel smells like a perfume and tastes like pizza.
When they got there, these cats chilled outside smoking cigarettes and were like “yeah tonight’s the night, we are going to prove our manhood” more like stepping into manhood from boys, as they went in the house, the girls quickly ran to the room as if they were planning something for the night, so amagenge laid back on the sofas talking about how they were drinking, kissing and squeezing these girl’s asses back at the club. They were talking aloud until the cloud of noise became part of the particles forming the thin air of silence caused by three half naked topless ladies with red, orange and green thongs.
Black men’s faces were full of smiles and starting to sober up as the ladies slowly spread their thighs and sat on top of them, kissing them up and down, until the first couple stood up and went to the bedroom and the other two couples followed and went to separate rooms.

The lady in the green thong was so drunk, just as when the dude was bout to ‘prove’ his manhood she passed out. The lady in the orange thong cautioned the cool cat, “stop I am about to puke” and so she did. For the other bujwa cat with the lady in a red thong, things were on the right track, the night was going as planned but with only one problem though, dude kept on missing the iron gates I mean he couldn’t locate his bearings and the lady continuously saying, “that’s not it”, shaking her head side to side.

When they got to the hood the next day back at the corer, they told of stories that never took place but at least they got to experience a woman’s thighs, tongue and tits, even though they were over weight.                

MY name is Mutambo


My Name is Mutambo
by
Mak Manaka

Edited by Prof. Mbulelo Mzamane.


My name is Mutambo Owere’u’Chere and I come from streets allergic to sleep, where men slave to impress cashiers at liquor stores and married women are forgotten tools left to rot.

Mafriend, I come from a place where children are drug lords and alcoholics, and where to be hip, mabrada, is to sign a contract of cancer, even though you are squared. Forget the Coca-Cola pop star, welcome to the local-street fashion pop-idol, where Diesel and Levi’s battle until eyes are blinded and original copies are no more evident, FONG KONG mabrada! You don’t know what’s FONG KONG? It’s fake man, common!   

Mafriend, I come from a place where ladies our age speak only when they see a cellphone and car keys. Figure this out. The other time I met this beautiful young, not-so-dark complexioned, tallish female, with the body of a model and hips to cause interminable traffic jams, just to look at that cat-work. With the eyes of a vicious wolf about to launch on its prey, I stared at the African princess as the phly sister approached, in broad daylight as if picking the perfect time to get me hot, women! Out of all these employed not-so-slim pricks, standing at the bus stop, she decides to approach me. As the most beautiful thing in this world approaches, walking ever so gently, I start to sweat, temperatures reaching improbable levels. When she urges out the words, ‘Sorry bhuti, ngicela isikhathi,’ my tongue feels missing and all I can murmur is, ‘My name is Mutambo.’

Then I quickly recollect pieces of my shattered pride and tell her the time. Just as when she is about to give up her name, some black stinking brotha rocking a Polina yomtchwatlho, driving an ‘inside story‘, steps out, and calls Miss Face of Africa over to him like he knew her. And wena mabrada, let me tell you, the chick even confesses that she doesn’t know le tsotsi, as the beamer slowly approaches. Next thing you know, she’s all over the man, just because she has seen a Nokia 8850 and a gusheshe, mabrada! Sies!

Mafriend I come from a world where public boozing and smoking are the only ingredients in a wonderful recipe of life, where a man is not judged by his actions but by counting the words he speaks, because you might earn yourself an ass-whipping if you miscount your words, wena mabrada! Like this other time not so long ago wena de outi, when I got caught in a ruff situation with some other danda-head at some urine stinking corner, blazing fire. Brotha is a good man, decent fellow with one problem, blackman claims a lot. Well you know me mabrada, I love challenging a man’s mind, so we argued ‘n argued. The argument was hot enough to melt cheese. Then disrespect for one-self gave birth to vulgar and offensive words. For a minute everything went dead quiet, until your friend Mr. Maclaimer spoke crab about me. Thought I heard nothing! Well, in less than two minutes the brotha had turned into a pillar of embarrassment, after he earned himself a flying brick over the face. He threw a punch across my face in return, but its impact felt softer than a baby’s heel, god-dem! Then a couple of guys stopped us before we got ruff ‘n tumble.

We are living in high and rough times mabrada, where smoking ‘marijuana’, ‘chronic’, ‘blunt’, ‘weed‘, ‘ganja‘, ‘intsango‘, ‘matekwane‘, ‘grass‘, ‘the green stuff‘,  whatever you may call it, is so hip even doctors think it’s cool mabrada, everybody smokes it to oblivion. But don’t think that’s the universal view, wena mabrada. You see, in these streets that never sleep, mabrada, the Tsipa Operation keeps people like you and me, mafriend, constantly under surveillance, you know. Ha! Ha! These Tsipa people are ordinary people from the streets like you and me. Some of them are neighbours and others rejects that have become volunteers because they have nothing better to do at home, so they chant the streets looking for someone to legally harass, mabrada, and embarrass over a spotja. Give me a break!

One time the Tsipa people nearly took us. Night time in the blistering cold at a corner, mabrada, so dark the eye could only admit a human’s simple shaped body. How they saw us, mafriend, till this day I still don’t know. They came from all directions, hidden by a corner shop, camouflaged by the night and soon they were all over us. All I heard, mabrada, was a deep voice with a very harsh tone, ‘Letha lentsango, seniboshiwe.’ They went with their procedure of assuming-the-position, you know, as we face the outside wall of an empty school we were leaning against, our hands in the air and our legs spread out open for a firm search. But the merchandise had already been escorted out the scene by Mr wind, but they still wanted our names. ‘My name is Mutambo,’ in a co-operative tone, no mistakes, because these volunteers have an ego problem.

Mafriend I come from a world where every township street has a history that’s buried at every corner. Around here there’s only one corner that keeps unforgotten files of heartless criminals that have walked the same streets you get black-outs on, every Friday night. But don’t worry ne, khululeka, these are my streets, even strangers at night know, you don’t cross lekasi without something bad happening to you. Forget the jacking or stealing, I am talking witchcraft, mabrada, one of the most valuable gifts to Africans from the almighty, given to us to heal ourselves but which revenge and jealousy have turned into an evil and destructive force. I tell you, mabrada, a black man is capable of anything, like you see the face of a dead man and bury the corpse, after 10 to15 years, out of the blue, a man you saw being buried shows up at the door, asking for a glass of water, because memories can never die, facial expressions of this stranger convince the eye that this is the man you last saw in a coffin, years ago, and he’s alive, has been alive for years working for the man that stole his mind, soul and body from his family, now the question is how? I don’t know mabrada, dintho tsalefatse that no scientist can explain.

You sit there in your luxurious home with a flat-screened top of the range TV and a fridge packed with food, and read newspapers about our fight for survival out here in this concrete jungle where monkeys only come out at night but wolves hunt for their prey in broad daylight and hungry lions fight each other over a bone. Please, mabrada, watch yourself when you are drunk and walking like a mayor, because labo tsosti abathandazelwanga.

One Friday, I was looted and planning to go crash the dollar in a pool of booze, mainly Gin, LEVI’S 501, makgona tsotlhe. I stepped in and scoped the steeze around with a binocular’s view, same-old faces, same old chickens I see in the morning before they act like models. In less than 5 minutes, already the gin was talking, and it was not even half way. We kicked the funk all night at this shebeen where young people, and sometimes, s-o-m-e-times! old-timers appear to steal the juice from the young not-so-full-of-silicone and fat thighs, fresh blood, mabrada!

My goal for the night done, all seemed to be fine for all of us, except this one brother who was so drunk, he was puking and walking, at the same time, disgusting ne? So we marched the streets at midnight, when walls have ears, street-lamps are eyes, and only then, the streets are alive, watching every move you make. We went to the sneymaan, mabrada! Got there at about 2am, when everybody was asleep, including the dealer, but when more than three men are drunk, forget order, corruption and havoc is reality, then we got hooked-up and proceeded with our mission to the corner. One of mapeople gets me informed about these local monkeys who followed us to the corner, hoping they can shut our phones down, dem! So we give our phones and bling-bling to maboy, and stash them in his crib, because he lives close to the corner where we were nearly victims of crime, so, like veterans of the block, we stand and show these local monkeys who followed us to the corner that we are not afraid of them, mabrada. A man you know, chilled with, smoked with and hooked up chicks with, turns into a stranger and asks a funny question like, ‘What’s your name, bra?’ Crazy people only show their true colours after dark. What’s my name? Kiss my ass, black man! Anyway, I say, ‘Mafriend you know me, everybody knows me, my name is Mutambo.’

Have you ever been to a hospital, mabrada? You’re asking, mabrada, what happened to land me in one of the biggest hospitals on the continent, near where I grew up? Well, one Monday afternoon of October, I got into a very fierce fight that took me to hospital for a whole term, my face was badly bruised and my ribs were injured to the point I was allowed to eat liquid. My friends and I were playing soccer, yes don’t be shocked, I played when I was a bambino, they used to call me Jomo. I was fat and chubby but made wonders on the pitch and was heading in many winning goals. My opponents began to take a trip down jealousy lane and started using my Nigerian accent, because back then it was thick, as a catalyst to start a reaction. Then one of them started to push me around, calling me names, calling me this and that, as I recall, after I had stamped my authority with a hard rock on his head. ‘Izonya lentwana, bafowethu, asiyilandeni, bheki ikhanda lami linjani!‘ It’s better to be safe than sorry, I ran, I ran so hard the sun was behind me, but my feet were not long enough. As I was about to take the exit and make it home free, one of them caught me by the shirt. ‘Bhi, uyaphi, sani!’ My home was still some distance away and so it was pointless to scream for mommy. They all came running, dem, they got me, they beat me up, bruised my face, drove their feet into my ribs and scarred my pride. That’s what got me to hospital mabrada.

Have you ever been shot, mabrada? You’re asking, mabrada, how I was shot? Doing nothing out in these streets might get you killed, so first year after I dropped out of concentration camp, you see, school was just never meant for me, I got mixed up in a heist. There were eight of us and we took a cab to get to the crime scene, hoping to leave in a car, Fidelity Guard, government’s cash retriever from banks, schools, businesses, hospitals etc. We were in the cab as individuals, people who are strangers to each other. Everything was going according to plan. 

8:45am we were all near the crime scene. 9am sharp the cash retriever from the government, a bottle-green van written in big, bold letters FIDELITY GUARD, takes cash out of the bank every Friday. It was there on time with money that can get me a jet specially designed by me. There was this white not-so-tall guy, wearing the normal brown uniform, with a face that shows he is not happy where he’s working, holding the bag that’s supposed to retrieve cash from the bank, and also packing a 357 black magnum close to his left hip, while two other men were guarding the root of all evil. Two of us mabrada went around the corner of the bank to attend the guard, after he came out with cash. We waited anxiously to shut him down, and while we wait, the others have already taken the cash out of the van into the other car and finished with the guards.

I have one of those faces that people recognise easily or mistake for someone they know. Some mad cow across the street from the bank calls me, thinking he knows me but actually doesn’t. Shit-head calls me just as we’re about to cripple the guard at 9:15am sharp, as he is coming back from retrieving the cash we dearly want. Maman with me is so shocked by this shit-head man who called me that he opens fire randomly. As I took the bag off his hand after he shot me in the leg, maman just got more mad, his fuse overheating. Seemed like one of the bullets had the guard’s name and that day’s date engraved on it, when it went for the guard’s head and you don’t want to know what happened to the cerebrum cortex, bra. Blood everywhere, so much, mabrada, the scene looked like a Tarrantino movie. Then maman helped me to walk the painful journey through town so we can reach the others in the getaway car, blood spilling in the street as we were walking, battling to try and keep up with the burning bullet in my leg. People we met were so terrified by the sight of blood that not even one approached to lend a hand and carry me across the street. Anyway, who in their right mind comes to the assistance of a killer and a thief?

The time was now 10:45am as we approached the car that had been anxiously waiting for us. Mapeople were shocked to see my shot leg, so they quickly took me to the hood and the nearest hospital. It took me eight long months to walk again, mabrada.

Eight months after, two men swing through my crib and start questioning my where about on this particular day, so I give them the answer they want to hear: ‘I was in town.’ ‘Doing what in town at that time of the day, and aren’t you supposed to be at school?’ Just told them politely that I had an appointment with the family doctor because I had hurt myself in school playing rugby. I had all the proofs, doctor’s note, x-ray, the receipt from the pharmacy for pain killers and anti-biotic pills, enough evidence to set me free from these detectives who only had one intention, to leave with me. But they didn’t, idlozi lami lingidele. ‘What’s your name, my son?’ they asked politely. ‘My name is Mutambo,’ I replied, outwardly cool calm and collected but boiling inside. ‘Sorry to bother you, young man, and we hope to see you as president of the country one day,’ talking with smiles on their faces and on their way out of my kingdom. President, me? Please! But what was annoying most was the nerve these guys had to budge in my dome and treat me like a suspect before they even asked for my name.

Sho! Mafriend, look at the time, I have to catch a jet back to planet Blunteck and cruise with trees, mabrada, see you around, budda, and watch yourself man, you might never know who is going to jack that platinum shiny wrist-watch of yours, laced with stuff that looks like diamonds. Are they diamonds for real? Let me see, mabrada, d-e-m they are, Africa’s treasure. How much did it cost? What! R10 000. Shit, give me everything you have, nja, NOW! Ang’sana ntliziyo tsotsi, quickly man! Mr. revolver has no patience and give me those shoes, its time you walked the earth bare foot, black man.