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.  

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.