Why I have a problem with your passing on

Sir

When I met you, we almost fought. Actually, we did fight, and you won the first round. No punches were thrown, but you did trip me nge “two feet” and I fell down, sprang back up, thrust my little chest into your stomach (because, of course, of your stature) and smiled up in your face.

You had that famous smirk of yours on – I couldn’t do shit, it said.

The details of the fight were arranged on the spot, of course. By onlookers. Onlookers always arrange everything. Seeing as the above-mentioned altercation had occurred immediately before the commencement of our evening studies (we were at JT, that world-famous boarding school), it was arranged that we meet after the end of said study session, in two hours, behind the ironing room.

Your entourage was relatively larger and very much fired up – they had a winner in you. You were the typical prize fighter – long, lean, strong and abounding with confidence. My entourage was quite small in comparison, not as confident in the victory but oh!, quite eager to witness the proposed pugilism.

Cut a long story short, the fight never transpired.

Until the last time that we were together, we would always argue about why that was. You said that you went to the ironing room but did not find me. I alleged vice-versa: I went, but there was no young man ready to kick two mounds of my mother’s breasts in the sand and rush me. This was a hotly contested debate which neither of us would ever win.

Well, the truth is the following, at least on my side:

I did not go to the laundry room.

I was not keen on fighting you. I wish I had told you this while you were still here.

Did you go, though? I suspect not…although your pride probably forced you to go “check” if I was available, and upon witnessing to the contrary, you then lacked the enthusiasm to pursue the matter further. I will never know, not in this lifetime.

You, however, have crossed over. You probably have asked God about it, and have learnt of my shaming cowardice. Well I am not ashamed, Sir. I feel that at that stage of life you were just too big for me. I would have conceded the following advantages to you: athleticism, height and reach. Strength could have been balanced, and your asthma may have slightly mitigated the athleticism advantage, but I do not think by much. You see, I happened to witness, a month or two later, your fighting pedigree on full show when you wrestled Clever and had him in an arm lock, pounding on his defenceless countenance. Clever was shorter than both of us, I admit, but he had more athleticism and had decent strength, not to mention an unbreakable passion for other people’s blood.

I therefore fear that I may not have been much competition behind the laundry room, Sir, and seeing as our respective dormitories were adjoined and our respective beds separated by a mere door and no more than twenty meters, I thank you for not seeking me out to honour the contract.

So, on that evening, we shared the spoils, or the lack thereof.

We would go on to share a lot of things. “Street smarts”, intellect, and a love for the unconventional. Adventurous spirits too, not to mention our dreamy nature. We never could get much done except for school and a few hobbies. You were much more of the action man, though, because you played sport. I never played shit. I was even too lazy for chess, which you were master of. Oh yeah I could catch you in checkers (draughts, or drafts?) always, and maybe that made you respect my cunning as well.

Our most shared “thing”, though, was an unexpected one: the library. Not, unfortunately, the technology section of that noble establishment, nor the history section (although we did our fair share of studying the subject, formally and informally), nor the science section, nor the maths section, nor any educational section. No.

Just the fiction section.

I would love to postulate that nobody ate up words like you and I, Sir. If words had been humans, we would be cannibals. If words had been meat, we would be carnivores. We got lost in there. We survived in there. We coped in there. From the great, refined Mr Dickens, Esquire, to the ofttimes crude and worldly James Hardley Chase, we read, exchanged, recommended and criticised. This was to be one of the defining features of our friendship.

Now, you know that you hold the record as the guy I spent most of my time with in the period of 1998 – 2009. I also hold the same record in your life, I believe. The schoolmate I spent the most time with.

Why? Well, because we were literally in one and the same class in that whole period.

Secondary school: Forms 1A, 2A, 3C and 4C; (1998 – 2001). You always sat somewhere near the back, I remember vaguely. We also shared a dorm in Forms 3 and 4.

High school: Lower sixth form and Upper sixth form, Maths, Physics and Chemistry (2002 – 2003). We sat close to each other in class and also shared a dorm.

Varsity: Bachelor of Engineering, Honours, in Electronics (2004 – 2009). You would sit at various areas in class, mostly close to the ladies, if I recall well. This is up for debate because I never paid much attention to anything at Varsity.

I think, based on these stats, we can safely say that you are a strong contender for the spot of “guy whom I have spent most of my time with here on earth”. No wonder I can’t let this go.

We did too much together. I knew you like the back of my hand, Sir, and vice versa. We could never bullshit each other. Maybe this is why I feel so guilty about being away from you after the end of Varsity – may I could have changed the course of our lives and we would still both be alive. However, none of us were gods in the divine sense, and therefore, it became what it became. I have faith that you are in a much happier place. If that faith falters, I force it, for what else shall I believe in? The sweet by and by is our, or my, only hope. You have done paid your dues, said the American.

In any event, the question may be asked, why today? You left earth in 2015, and here I am in 2017 typing this epistle. Am I not a bit late?

Well…you know the answer there – it’s relative J. You see, I last saw you in 2009, as alive as ever. I last spoke to you in 2012/2013. In 2015, I got the news that you were not with us anymore.  Things take time.

I have gone through a period of “denial”. It’s like my mind knows that the news is true, but my heart cannot, or will not, accept it. I have been dreaming of you almost daily since that time. You are with me always, with that broken front tooth always in my face, smiling, sometimes happily because we are together again, and sometimes sadly because you know that things have changed – you are not in the flesh anymore. Lately, I have not been dreaming of you. I have just been reminded of you in my own speech, actions and general life things.

I have felt you in my home. I have wanted to bump into you, and listen to your long-winded explanation of how you came to be thought of as “dead”, while you were gallivanting through the dusty narrow streets of Zambia, drinking warm beer and taking up random freelance jobs while enjoying the female talent in that country.

I have even desired to meet you as a ghost, having you scare the shit out of me until I become used to seeing your wispy grin, then enjoy many a night talking shit and remembering old days.

I have blamed you, you motherfucker, for not reaching out to me in your trials and tribulations, and not forcing my hand if I stalled. I have asked you time and time again; What the fuck happened that was so big that you could never call me and say bro, I am on my way to you right now, I need to let out some.

Well… time is past. So I shall tell you what makes me remember you the most, and then stop writing, because this is becoming too long and frankly, I need to work and make money.

Music.

That was us bro. Music connected us in a way that nothing could. We could sit and rap for hours on end. Remember you calling me your backup? What I listened to, you loved, and what you listened to became my gospel.

So this morning I was driving to work and playing Pac…

Literally, every song bro. I heard you through the speakers and felt you man. So without further ado, I hereby present you with lines that make you stand tall in front of me wherever I am….

****

****

Troublesome ‘96

“…me, a born leader never leave the block without my heater got me a dog, named him mob bitch nigga eater…”

“…young, strapped, and I don’t give a fuck – I’m hopeless! I live a thug life losing my focus baybe!…”

“…God forgive me cause its wrong, but I plan to die, either take me to heaven and understand I was a G, did the best I could raised in insanity, or send me to hell cause I ain’t begging for my life, ain’t nothing worse than this cursed ass hopeless life, cos I’m troublesome…”

Death Around the Corner

“When we were kids, belonging felt good. But having respect – the feels e’en better….”

“…I was raised in the city, shitty ever since I was an itty bitty kiddy drinkin liquor from my momma’s titty, and smoking weed was an everyday thang in my household, drinkin liquor till you out cold…”

“…I see death around the corner, gotta stay high while I survive in the city where the skinny niggas die…”

Teardrops and Closed Caskets

“…Will I, forever be alone…”

Do for Love

The whole fucking song buddy

Me Against the World

The whole fucking song bud. But lets just put it down and hear your voice again on this one

“…more bodies being buried, I’m losing my homies in a hurry they relocatin to the cemetery…the question is will I live? No one in the world loves me I’m headed for danger, don’t trust strangers put one in the chamber whenever I’m feelin this anger, don’t wanna make excuses, cause this is how it is what’s the use unless we shootin no one notices the youth it’s just me against the world baybe…”

“…could somebody help me? I’m out all here by myself seeing ladies in stores baby capons livin wealthy…”

“…cause ain’t no bucks to stack up, my nuts is backed up, I’m bout to act up, go load the mac up, now watch me klack up…”

“…riskin 25 with a L but oh well…”

And that last verse bro…

“With all this extra stressin, the question I wonder is after death, after my last breath, when will I finally get to rest through this suppression, they punish the people that’s askin questions and those that possess, steal from the ones without possessions, the message I stress, to make it stop study your lessons don’t settles for less, even the genius asks questions be grateful for blessings, don’t ever change keep your essence the power is in the people and politics we address.

Always do your best, don’t let the pressure make you panic and when you stranded and things don’t go the way you planned ‘em dreaming of riches, in a position to make a difference politicians are hypocrites they don’t wanna listen.

If I’m insane it’s the fame made a brotha change, it wasn’t nothing like the game it’s just me against the world…”

I miss you bro.

How do you want it

Our feel good song:

“How do you want it? How does it feel? Comin up like a nigga in the cash game livin in the fast lane I’m for real…”

“I love the way you gravitate your hips and push your ass out, got a nigga wantin it so bad I’m bout to pass out, wanna dig you, and I can’t even lie about it baby just alleviate your clothes it’s time to fly up out it…”

“…Forgive me I’m a rider, but still I’m just a simple man, all I want is money fuck the fame I’m a simple man, Mr international, playa with a passport, just like Aladdin b, get you anything you ask for…”

“…tell me is it cool to fuh..? you think I came to talk am I a fool or wha…? Positions on the floor it’s like erotic, ironic, I’m somewhat psychotic I’m hittin switches on bitches like I been fixed with hydraulics…”

I get around

The whole bloody song cuz

“…she tell me that she needs me, cries when she leave me and every time she sees me she squeeze me, baby take it easy, I hate to sound sleazy but tease me – I don’t want it if it’s that easy…”

“…your ass wide (you ask why?) don’t matter, my pocket got fatter, now everybody’s looking for the, latter. And ain’t no need in being greedy, if you wanna see me dial the beeper number when you need me, and I’ll be there in a, jiffy, don’t be picky just be happy with this, quickie.

When will you learn, you can’t tie me down baby doll – I get around”

“…Now you can tell from my everyday fits I ain’t rich so cease and desist with em tricks, I’m just another black man caught up in the mix, tryn to make a dollar out of 15 cents…”

“…Yo what’s up love how you doin? Well I been hanging slanging tryn to do my thang oh, you heard that I was banging, your home girl you went to school with – that’s cool? But did she tell you bout her sister and your cousin – thought I wasn’t?”

“Fingertips on her hips as I dip, gotta get a tight grip, don’t slip, loose lips sink ships as she trips, I love the way she licks her lips, see me jocking put a lil twist on her hips cause I’m watchin! Conversations on the phone till the break of dawn now we all alone why the lights on? Turn em off, time to set it off get your wettin’s off, somethin’s on your mind let it off.

You don’t know me, you just met me, you won’t let me, well if I couldn’t have it (silly rabbit) why you sweat me? It’s a lot of real G’s doin time, cause a groupie bit the truth and told a lie. You picked the wrong guy baby if you too fly you need to hit the door, search for a new guy, cause I only got one night in town, break down or be clown, baby doll are you down I get around…”

Temptations

“heh-ayyyy  heh-ay, yeaaaaaaah, heeeeeeh eh he ayyy…’

We just couldn’t figure this song out, but it was, and continues to be, a classic feel-good mean-fuckall song.

Brenda’s Got a Baby

What can I say Sir? We would wrap the whole bloody song.

“…now Brenda’s belly’s getting bigger, but no one seems to notice any change in her figure, she’s 12 years old and she’s havin a baby, in love with a molester who’s sexing her crazy…”

“…he left her and she had the baby solo, she had it on the bathroom floor, and didn’t know so. She didn’t know what to throw away and what to keep, she wrapped the baby up and threw him in the trash heap, I get she thought she’d get away, wouldn’t hear the cries, she didn’t realise, how much the little baby had her eyes…”

Live and Die in LA

That chorus boy…

***

***

Listen man, whenever I play Tupac, I feel you. Greatest Hits baba, that album. California Love…It’s All About You. Whenever I play Xzibit and Eminem (I still owe you those tapes from 2003) I see you. I Ain’t Mad At You, Say Goodbye Hollywood, X, Get your walk on…. That 50 Cent album, Get Rich. Nelly’s “Nellyville”, with Air Force Ones, JayZ’s Renegade…Nas “Got yourself A Gun”

And where would we be without Nickleback’s “…and I’ll stay skinny cause I just won’t eat…” and Linkin Park’s “Numb”.

I cannot exhaust the songs – our tastes were aligned, and that’s a whole lot of song in there. Our only point of divergence was that you said you hated “Life Goes On”. I don’t think that you did. I think you loved hating it because every casual Tupac fan loved that song. As a Tupac purist, you felt the need to just move out of that madding crowd and listen to songs less known. I am open to debate on this issue.

You also influenced my education and career man. I remember you and Drunken seating at our dorm in 2001, talking about studying Engineering, electronics as a major. At that point my head was firmly glued in the rectum of this great big entity called “medicine”, and I was intent on becoming a doctor. You guys gave me the second career choice. Electronic Engineering.

And here I am…

We talked at length about the company that we would start and run together, us three. That was the plan. What happened to the fucking plan bud? I feel like you did not keep your side of the deal here, so much changed after ’09. Unreachable motherfucker, available in spots, never replying to my emails…then bursting out in 2012 with some upsetting news, which we could have handled too but no, off you were again… One day you must sit me down and make me get it. I don’t get it.

I am tired now and shall stop writing. I wish to see you someday. I wish to trade war stories with you again. God bless you Sir, and God keep you safe, happy and entertained. Pepper the heavens with your unworldly tales. Give them something to laugh about – I get the feeling that things may be a bit on the serious side over there. They need you, you world famous raconteur you.

Till we meet again fanas.

Why Girls Should Celebrate Young Men’s Resistance to Commitment

Engagement-Ring-On-Black-Finger

Yes, I know how it sounds. Another write-up by a male chauvinist who is afraid of commitment and therefore seeks to justify his fear through illogical rationale.

Except that no illogical rationale shall be used here, nor will fear drive this discussion.

This is a piece written by a male of 30 or so who has accepted his lack of desire for early commitment (i.e. permanent romantic partnership of any sort), where “early” means “before the age of 40 or so”.

“Good men are hard to find”, is the general complaint lately. In fact, some people, as exemplified by a certain lady whom I follow on Facebook (details available on request), have even gone to lengths of encouraging sharing of these scarce “good men”. It is easy to dismiss these people as good-for-nothing home-wreckers.

But…are they?

It is a fact that our society has undergone rapid change in terms of freedom of sexual orientation and the expression thereof in the last decade or two. In addition to “normal” men (“normal” in the traditional sense), now termed “straight” or “heterosexual”, we have homosexual (“gays”) and bisexuals (basically every man who is either married to a lady or has a biological child conceived via natural routes, but which man occasionally “strays” to holding hands with another man).

What this results in is a factual reduction of men who are available to women. I will not discuss statistics from studies conducted by the University of Minnesota or its peers. Logic only shall rule in this discussion. Oryt.

Then of course we have our era of the “hustler”. The guy who practices the 2Pacalypse “M.O.B” doctrine, i.e. “money over bitches”. This guy gets aroused by money first, oestrogen later.

Then of course we have the incarcerated. These tend to stay locked in for a minute. Remember the guys who robbed the SABC journalists on camera? They each got 15 years. Robbery is the typical SA crime, so plenty of young men spend their first 10 to 15 years after attaining majority status, in jail.

So after gays, bisexuals, hustlers and convicts, we have a significantly reduced number of men in our society as compared to ladies. You may be thinking, hey, but ladies also have lesbians, bisexuals, hustlers and convicts. True. However, reason tells me that there is a significantly lower number of such as compared to men. Again, logic only shall rule the day, so we shall accept this logical conclusion (cos frankly, I’m lazy to google stats, so…).

Then we have the unemployed youth.

Then we have the nyaopes (druggies).

Then we have the already married, and happily so according to their Facebook posts.

The final number makes a sad unbalanced ratio of men to women available for marriage.

That final number is the number that is accused of being unmanly. “The men of today are afraid of marriage”, girls wail. “They will date you, cheat on you, break your heart, make babies with other girls, re-break your heart, love you, disrespect you, buy you trinkets, take you to clubs, make love to you – and at the end of the day never marry you. You end up marrying some other guy that you dated for a month, but you would have dated that other fucker for decades!”

True.

This final number of men (let us call these final men the “eligible bachs”) does not want to do the traditionally honoured thing of stepping up and marrying you as quickly as you would like. They baulk, trip and stall when the altar is mentioned.

However, consider the alternative. Imagine if each of these eligible bachs selected one girl and married them as soon as the girls liked. Imagine if the bachs never strayed, never cheated – just did their wives, klaar. What then?

Let me tell you.

Girls would starve out there. There would be zero booty calls, zero clandestine dates, zero second wives, zero baby daddies, and zero people to bring drama to. Ladies – you would starve.

Right now it seems bad that you enjoy men until you maybe get to 50, then because you are unmarried, you then spend the rest of your life alone. However, you do at least get to enjoy men until then, because they are unshackled and can be with you without much harm being done. If the men committed to one girl, plenty of you would need to enlist the services of your gay friends or spike married men’s drinks to at least get some human attention.

You would enjoy that, would you not? Yes, I’m sure you would.

All I is sayin’ is, by men defaulting from doing the honoured thing, ladies get more time to enjoy themselves – you get opportunity. If you do get to 50 without someone marrying you, then tough luck, at least you had 30 or so years of action.

However, I think that fate will favour you. I think that the situation is normalizing. Hustlers are getting old as well, so be it may work out that when the hustler eventually tires at 40, you are there at 30, sweet 30, ready to cradle his tired head. Or when the convict eventually gets released at 45, you are there at 35 or 40, sweet, fresh and ready to give him money, food, kids and a shopping trip to Dubai in exchange for his surname.

Meanwhile, you frolick and make money.

Is that not what life is about anyways?

Leukerbad

This little article is taken off a little page of a dear little friend’s little travel diary. May his curious little foot find a little peace. Amen. He has been based in Switzerland for the past couple of years, and is finally coming back home. We are merry. His prejudices, clearly displayed in his writing, I cannot share. His generalizations I shall not be a part of, save as a mere publisher on this instrument. To see more of his madness in pics, one could, if one was so inclined, follow him on Instagram and Twirra @ndle_nkosi.

Enjoy.

Leukerbad

With my departure from Switzerland drawing close, my flatmates decided to organise a farewell get-together/weekend. And what better place than in the famed Alps? While we tried to get all flatmates past and present together (our flat had a pretty high turnover, with 7 people in the space of a year), in the end only three of us could make it. We started planning this trip in January. Being Swiss, my flatmates were keen to discuss and decide on every single detail way ahead of time. Meanwhile, I was frustrating their anal retentive efforts through my habit of muting all Whatsapp Groups. Furthermore, I was not keen on spending a weekend in a freezing mountain cabin with no running water or central heating! Eventually, however, I convinced them to do a day trip – perfect!

The idea was to travel to Leukerbad – a small village in the Valais region – and hike (the Swiss would say walk because they all have the stamina of mountain goats) for a while before heading back to the thermal baths at the Walliser Alpentherme. The day before we left, one of my flatmates pulled out of the trip on the grounds that she had to work the following day. Interestingly, she is the one who had proposed this entire affair and kept pushing us to make a decision quickly. A few weeks before that, I remember saying to my other flatmate that when she gets all excited about plans, more often than not they go awry, and usually at her responsibility. Nevertheless, we ploughed on and invited another friend to join us.

That same night, I invited some South African friends for dinner. What was supposed to be a quick dinner and drinks before heading into the city for the Winter Carnival (Fasnacht) ended up being a raucous drinking fest. We eventually left at midnight – mostly because the last trams were running – and went dancing in the city. What possessed me to do this knowing I had a whole day’s activities planned for the Saturday beats me. In any event, we had a good night out and stumbled home at 3 o’clock. I had to set 4 alarms for 7 o’clock to make sure I would wake up in time to catch the train to our rendezvous. I was never ready for the hangover that assailed me when I came to! It took all of my will to get out of bed and shower before running to the train station. 45 minutes later, I was at the meeting point and my travel companions were nowhere to be seen. I cursed under my breath when they told me they were running late. Then I bought a coffee … and a little extra … hair of the dog as it were. Unfortunately, one cannot purchase painkillers at random convenience stores in Switzerland, so I had to deal with the pounding headache in a rather unconventional manner.

In due course, the other two showed up and we drove up to Leukerbad. We got there around midday and decided to walk around the village and the surrounding woods. It was snowing pretty heavily and snow was piled up everywhere. It was interesting to note that the gelateria in the village was open despite there being so much snow! While walking on one of the paths, we came across barriers with large warning signs about possible avalanches. Paying no heed to them, we jumped over a few and kept walking. In my head I was thinking, “If I die here, people will probably ask: why did he go through that way knowing full well that there were avalanche warnings?”. But, I made peace with this via the dolus eventualis of Pistorius fame.

Upon our return from the walk, we made a beeline for the baths. Prior to the trip, I complained bitterly to my flatmate about how I didn’t see the possibility of spending three hours immersed in a hot pool seeing as ten minutes in the shower have me gasping for breath. It did not help matters when we found out that the minimum booking time was 5 hours. I almost died at that counter! However, when my enquiry as to whether or not there was a bar inside was answered in the affirmative, I thanked my lucky stars and entered.

We had been told that there were saunas, cold pools, an indoor pool and one outside. To be honest, I was not particularly excited about the whole affair. In any case, back home talk of hot springs normally conjures up images of mermaids and other mythical creatures. However, this is what I found upon entering…

leuker

No words could describe the surprise I felt at the beauty that arrested us! Absolutely magnificent! Steps led directly from the main building into the pool, which was fairly big and had jets mounted in different spots for a Jacuzzi-type experience when not swimming. The clincher was the snow all around the pool and the cliff face as well as the mountain view.

I immediately turned to my flatmate and apologised for being dismissive and uncooperative in the lead-up to this trip.

Later that day, it started snowing again while we were in the pool. To experience the snow, fog and thermal baths while overlooking the mountains the way we did… NgesiNdebele bathi ukutshelwa yikuncitshwa (In Ndebele they say being told a story is being denied the experience). I will not bore you with details of the saunas, steam baths, ice water pools and ice bucket challenge, or even how I eventually spent 5 hours in there and could barely account for the time. Suffice it to say this:

The splendour of Leukerbad, quite literally, easily became my best experience of living in Switzerland!

Goals

rambo_ii_la_mission_rambo_first_blood_part_ii_1984_reference

When I grow up I want to be a starring.

I will kill people left and right and have a wife who always pines for me and whom I think of during my killing sprees. Bad guys are going to come and kill my sweet angel, and in wrath shall I wreak havoc upon the villains, laying their land to waste in a sorrowful rage.

During the destruction I shall partner up with a cute tomboy who has gifts of saving me just in the nick of time from certain death and whom I shall treat with the utmost disdain. As time goes on I shall learn to stomach her whining and pestering, and one day she will go and take a bath at some pond in a forest and I shall unwittingly follow her, to see her strip nude and get into the water.

My love for her shall thus be awakened and we shall spend the rest of the time distributing death to all infidels as a tag team. I will get injured and she will nurse me back to health, then she will get captured and imprisoned in some dungeon and in trying to save her I shall get captured as well and subjected to sticks, sjamboks, rifle butts and cold water. However, I shall suffer no concussion, broken rib nor ill-health or pneumonia. Instead I shall somehow unravel the knot on the rope which binds me, while my tomboy seduces the horny guard who keeps watch by batting her eyelashes. She shall kick him in the balls and somehow get the key from his pockets with her teeth as he lies writhing in eternal pain. She will flick the key to me through a tiny window on the door and I shall unlock, get in and save her.

It is at that point that we shall take the guard’s weapon, kill another, take his weapon, and proceed to wind up the destruction as we make our great escape!

However, one last snag shall await us. The main bad, evil guy will block our way and somehow all our weapons shall run out of ammo. Me and the bad guy will go at it with our bare knuckles. Oh, he will lay a beating on me so thickly I shall end up lying face up, blood oozing from the corner of my mouth, but defiant and telling him shit. He shall slowly walk to me, smiling and aiming to finish me. As he raises a stone to crush my head, while telling me his life story, my tomboy (who by now would have lost all her boyishness and transformed into a fine figure of a maiden) shall flick a miraculous dagger to me. As my worthy foe raises the stone with savage abandon, I shall drive the dagger through his heart. My worthy foe shall drop the stone and still have the power to dispossess me of the dagger and stab me on my shoulder (what fortune I shall have). As my worthy foe bends down to finish me, blood still pumping out of his heart and yet still having the strength of ten men, my tomboy shall find another dagger, leap with the grace of a young doe and put the dagger through my foe’s throat. My foe shall turn, smile, say something witty, like, wow John (that will be my name), you have been saved by a bloody bitch, and then keel over, stone dead at last.

Then shall we walk out in triumph, with an enthusiastic hip-hop song playing in the background and my tomboy supporting me with herculean strength on her arm, for suddenly I shall be too weak to walk properly. As we leave the enemy’s base, which surprisingly turns out to be a cave somewhere in the Arabian desert, the whole background shall explode in flames (whoosh!), incinerating all evidence of our presence.

We shall then get married, me and my tomboy, and live happily ever after.

Until they kill her, of course, and the sequel starts, somewhat as detailed above…

Corporate Kunta….or Toby?

The slightest of knocks on my door on a bright South African Monday morning, then she waltzes in. Or rather, she barges in. There is no grace in her movement – just force.

“How far are you now?” she asks, cocking her head to one side. It’s not a bad head, really. It’s nice and oval, and on a good day I would cradle it on my lap and stroke that silky-looking hair until she sleeps. No, it’s definitely not a bad head, I decide. It’s just huge. Oh God, but the size of it though…

I realise that I have been looking at her for some moments now. She frowns, her slit of a mouth beginning to downturn in annoyance. She is just not the most patient of people.

Finally it dawns on me what she is talking about. The van Tonder report.

“Oh”, says I, jumping off my chair, scattering my orderly arrangement of paraphernalia on my desk. I grab the relevant file, just behind me in the ‘outgoing’ cubicle. “Here we go”, I say as I hand it to her, smiling.

She utters the briefest, most silent of ‘thanks’, then she barges out, leaving my office door wide open. A smell of disinfectant immediately permeates my whole office space. I sigh. I get up and close the door. She knows that my office if directly opposite the loo. I keep it closed for that reason. I don’t think that she cares much though.

As I sit down, a brutal force kicks the door open again. If there had been the slightest bit of courtesy shown before, it has evaporated.

“There is nothing in here”, she hisses, throwing the file right at me. I catch it awkwardly, like a rugby ball. Her voice rises by ten octaves. “I TOLD you SPECIFICALLY that this rePORT is URGEN’. Have you started at ALL?”

If Goodluck Jonathan and his fellow countrymen don’t catch these booming words out there in West Africa, then I don’t know who does. I am very self-aware now. And a bit panicky.

“I did the report Annie”, I blabber.

“Well it’s not in here.” A painted fingernail taps my desk. “How many times have I told you to work with the file ALL THE TIME?”

I open the file. There is nothing in there. Real panic sets in. Did I imagine those three hours spent drafting that report?

Then I see the sticky note. It’s written in Zulu. It’s from myself to myself. It says something to this effect:

Update date of report, print and give to Annie.

Oh yes – I was going to do that at 10:00 today because it is only by that time that she is available to see me. She never wants to talk to me before 10:00.

I glance at my computer watch – 09:37.

“I was going to…” I start in explanation, then slide to a halt as she angily fixes her lazy right eye on me. I reach for my mouse, click click, and hear the whirr of the printer. Then I realise that I have not corrected the date.

“Oh shit, the date is still wrong”, I say, but she already has her hand stretched out.

“Just give that to me quickly?”, she snaps. I comply. That was not a question. “Send me the electronic version NOW?” says she. Still not a question.

She bursts out. The door is left wide open.

I sit and try to collect myself for a few minutes. The day has suddenly became drab. I don’t mind the toilet smell anymore. I have just been chastised. Whupped senseless. The reason is still unclear, but I have been ridden over in the most roughshod of fashions. You would think I would be used to this by now – even Kunta Kinte finally accepted the name Toby. But I am failing to. Why?

I breathe in deeply, breathe out, and then put my earphones on. I know I won’t do anything meaningful anymore for at least an hour. I start playing some 2pac. His anger makes me forget my own frustrations.

I think of the millions of us in the corporate world who take such bs day in and day out. All of us, paying our dues. Harbouring secret ambitions of grandeur as we hustle on, heads bent in acquiescence, posture one of humble servitude as we attend faithfully to the bidding of the master. In blind obedience do we scurry around, creating, mending, fixing, and tweaking at our master’s business. We are the grease, and our masters the cogs – they engage while we smoothen the process.

We must take it – it is our lot.

For if we quit, the question shall be asked: Bazodlani ndoda abantwana? What will the children eat?

Bored

`

This is official – Adam is bored.

It usually takes him about 3 months to be bored with a job. The learning months, where all is exciting and new. The period of transition, they call it. He calls it the period of heaven; when the adjustment is taking place. New colleagues, boss, paycheck, workplace, routes to and from the workplace, people on a new bus or taxi… To him it represents an umpteenth chance to find fulfillment.

But today he is bored. It has finally caught up.

Adam, Adam, bellows the boss. Where art thou Adam.
Here, my lord, answers Adam.
I see you not, my subordinate – show thy face, and hide not from thy gracious master.
Indeed my lord, yet am I naked.
What, again Adam?
Yes, my lord.
Adam, this is the seventh time that I catch you in the loo, purporting to relieve thyself. What doest though, Adam?
Hiding my face, master, for I am ashamed of what I have been doing for the past few days in the office which thou hast been so kind as to lend to me, on the computer which thou hast been most kind to allow me to use.
Oh Adam, what hast thou done, dear employee?
I have watched Game of Thrones during working hours, my lord.
Game of Thrones? Adam, who tempted thee to commit such a felonious act?
The lady who gave me her hard-drive, my master.
Oh, Adam. Wilt thou have me give up the ghost with vexation of the spirit?
Nay my lord, for I love thee.
Ay, and yet dost it sound wrong, when thou sayest the words in thy nudity. Here, take these thy clothes, and wear them, and leave these premises henceforth. I shall pay thee thy month’s salary in lieu of notice. Behold, I shall assign the guard to keep thee away from these grounds with a flaming sword, that thy deceptive foot never set print on the soil within this erf.
My lord, my cross is too heavy to bear, and thy austerity unusual. I beseech thee – keep me yet for a few more months. I shall serve thee well.
Adam. Fuck off.

That is how he imagines the conversations going if he ever gets caught. He is so bored, he has watched six episodes of G.O.T today. Will life be forever like this, he asks himself? Constant boredom, everywhere he goes? What a weakness, he sighs. What a bloody weakness.

He is a clever man alright, and could set himself up with a nice little enterprise trading in God-knows-what, but he suspects that he would be bored with that too. His "excitement" span is terribly short. He wonders how it took him so long to be bored with this one. A full year he has been here, and for the first time since arriving, he looks at the files on his desk and feels the bile rising at the back of his throat. Oh, there is a stench in the office, he knows that much. The stench of paper. The stench of print. The stench of order, deadlines, reports and documents. Once upon a time the very same smell was an aroma of freshness. Pure lavender. Now, it is rot. The mould has finally set in.

He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and sighs. Time to update our CV, chap. Bon voyage.

Khaleesi – A Human Embodiment of Heat

Khaleesi.jpeg

It must be a curse that I cannot have the Khaleesi.

Have you ever seen that woman? Seen her riding a horse? Seen her in all her blonde beauty (although off the screen she is supposedly a natural brunette. But who cares?)

The Khaleesi is one of those exotic women that only a dream can try and match – and fail miserably. She is a woman who is made out of fire – so the theme goes. But is fire alone enough? Is flame, on its own, a justifier of an existence of such heat? I do not believe that even the sun can compare.

The Khaleesi is a phenomenon of pure oxidation.

Game of thrones has introduced the world to true beauty. Oh, Spartacus tried. Spartacus laid a nice foundation, but have you ever beheld the Game of Thrones? It sets fire to the heart. Never in my life was a young man more intrigued by a display of flesh, on TV, as in the game of thrones. The Game of thrones makes one treasure existence – youth – life – now. You hold your breath from start to finish, and when at last the curtain closes on an episode, you exhale…and appreciate beauty.

The men. The women.

Khaleesi.