Not sure if Jacob Zuma is my father or president

When I was young, there were moments when my father used to piss me off!

Like when he'd look up in the Ha-Sethunya direction (which is where my school was) to check if the school was out. And then - I am imagining all of this - he'd quickly open the bonnet of a 1977 Toyota hilux, and proceed to dismember the engine. On a Friday afternoon; Imagine. He did all that – I  suspected – just to make sure that I spent the entire weekend, sometimes in a freezing winter season, handing him the vice grips and sockets.

Sometimes he'd even instruct me as I entered the gate, 'Hlobola kapele o tlo nthusa mona (quickly lose the school uniform and give me a hand over here!)' It was bye-bye to after school lunch, unless my stubborn Mother was around to insist that I ate before starting the grueling shift.

To rub salt in my wound, my playmates would bring the street football match right in front of our gate, and throw the eyes in my direction every time my father shouted, 'Ke itse boutu (bolt), e seng spanere sa 14! Ha o bone mahlong?' Sometimes my playmates (without provocative fathers like mine) would giggle. And I'd be so heartbroken.

Because if only I had had enough practice time with my playmates, I'd still be relegating Lucky Lekgwathi to the bench right now as we speak...

Fathers have pissed all of us off. And I think they have the right to because the okes have been feeding us. But then when your president starts to crate your nipples just like your father used to do, you end up wandering if Jacob Zuma is your father or president.

Choosing painless dreams

I choose to stay out of the Nkandla scandal. It is good for my health, but bad for my black life.

Hospitals are but long walls housing the neglect of medical treatment and care; the despondency of medical talent. Incidental mortuaries.

Schools are vandalised war zones and killing fields. Only the abandoned ones remain peaceful, but ghostly. Universities are institutions of implicit racism sweeping across academia, administration; the factory of in-equitable careerism and output.

Townships, which could have been demolished systematically to build humane communities with close by workplace nodes (to stem the chaos of traffic and racist exclusion), are a point of reference to what lifetime human concentration camp should be.

Mines are the killing plains of those who refuse to extract for continued exploitation.

What of the corporate South Africa, the habitat of the suit-wearing professionals, in the open plans and large corner offices? A band of racially abused but glorified success stories of racist industrial age.

And here we are, frothing in the mouth, stoking our national blood pressure, and inducing depression on ourselves over matters of two-tier convenience - private property built with public funds, and public road built for the pockets of a private (foreign) entity.

Only a gullible sycophant, wading in a sea of state patronage (state tender, deployment job, etc), may afford to remain joyous in this moment.

As for those who care, the ones who must remain positive and optimistic about this nation (the burden which they carry to give hope to 70% of our dejected youth) are feeling low and hurt.

We deserve this, until we chose differently. Let us dream of a positive South Africa. We deserve painless dreams.

My chance to get arrested is finally here!

I have to get this off my chest.

#clearingthroat#

I grew up harboring silly desires. One of them was to get myself arrested, by some powerful woman in the mould of Connie Chiume (Mosadi wa Kop on Rhythm City) and Petronella Sello (streets of mangaung).

In this fantasy, I’d be thrown in jail to be watched over by the all-women correctional services personnel in the mould of Portia Gumede (4play), Zenande Mfenyana/ Noluntu (generations) and Nomzamo Mbatha (isibaya). They’d be watching me like hawks the whole time, relentlessly chewing bubble-gum and blowing it into my face to provoke me.

I’d have a very competent legal team in the mould of Zikhona Sodlaka (montana) and Lindiwe Sokhulu (sokhulu partners/ isidingo) taking on this thoroughly prolonged, who-cares-when-it-will-end, case.

I’d have my real wife’s daily cooking, and messages of hope, delivered to me by a type like Maggie Benedict/ Akhona (generations). She will walk in and out in that Hernesto (chicken licken ad) fashion, with the ready-to-get-nasty officials in the mould of Queen Latifah (set it off) and Celeste Ntuli (LNN with loyiso gola/ isibaya) releasing the AK47 bullets into air for the simple pleasure of intimidating my messenger.

And what will be your crime, Fusi, you ask – driving on what is supposed to be a free road, in Africa, generally, and refusing to pay the e-toll.

Minister Dipuo Peters has just announced, stone-faced, that the etolls are going ahead starting 3 December 2013.

Minister Peters, see you anywhere between Maraisburg and Beyers Naude offramp from 3 December. Bring Commissioner Riyah Phiyega – suspended or not suspended - with you to effect the law (but she should not shoot to kill!) And be sure to request president Zuma to reshuffle quickly to have sis’ Lindiwe (Sisulu) replace bro S’bu (Ndebele) at my nkandla-type of correctional facility. My jail time should be fun, because that way I cannot be expected to pay the e-toll!

Nothing beats the smell of coffee and brand new book

I don’t know about you. As for me, I have silly reasons for hanging around bookstores. If you have been to CNA to buy a book, well not much happens there. But if you are buying at Exclusive Books, the smell of rich coffee would blow you dizzy. That’s if you are in Hyde Park or Sandton (Mandela Square). The Exclusive Books in Rosebank has gone through “not so cool” changes. The coffee shop is no longer there. The bookshop has moved into a smaller space not far from where it used to be.

It is always a pleasant feeling knowing that in Mandela Square, you can still grab a book from the shelf, find a couch, dig in between the pages whilst sipping the smell of coffee. It is not like I drink coffee when I am there. I sip through the nostrils instead. It is for those reasons that I wish my living room was near the African non-fiction section inside Exclusive Books.

Then what follows is that excitement you get while rushing home. But go gently on your accelerator or else Chris Ngcobo’s JMPD contingent will pounce on you. I mean how can you afford paying a spot fine of R200 (bribe), or a ticket bill of a R500 in the next coming months when you have just blown your last R300 in a bookstore a few minutes earlier? So an act of crawling on the M1 South at 80 km/h means that with the small change in your pocket, there is an incident-free chance that you will get a bottle of Four Cousins at the grocery store. I know what you are thinking... Fusi drinks a R39.99 wine. Well, try it and you will know that “kgoze” (rose’) goes down well while your eyes glide between the pages of a great new book. Ooh, the smell of wine and fresh pages… Mama yoh!

Then you get home. And you have to come up with tactics to keep the distractions to your book-and-wine moment at bay. For me it is a difficult task. Luckily I find that particular channels such as Mzansi Music sort of come in handy; they keep somebody distracted. But then there is an owner of the house. He is pushing 31 months this November. When it comes to the issue of me “reading and sipping” in peace, my son had better be sleeping! I mean it.

If it were not for his antics of violently dispossessing me of the books in my hands, I would not have delivered a brand new copy (Confessions of an Economic Hitman) to a likeable brother called Segopisho Mothibi in Klerksdorp this August. A long story involving some silly childhood friend of mine called Matela Mthwalo who unilaterally drove all the way from Potch to Lekoa to “lend” me a book that did not belong to him.

Things came to a head after about two months of reading the book – and wriggling as I followed line after line about the murderous greed of Western governments. Son had pulled his usual stunt and, as I finished blinking, Segopisho’s property was without the front cover! I was ranting about this disappointing incident on facebook the other day when Segopisho coolly informed me that the defaced book actually belonged to him, not to that swindler called Matela!
Truth is, I love my friend a lot. And the same goes for my son. But I don’t appreciate how they gang up on me, forcing me to buy new copies to build bridges with Segopisho Mothibi while I could be feathering my own nest of book collection, and sipping free coffee through my nostrils.

Surely you know who the Nigerians are around here

I was minding my own business outside the house when a man walked into my yard a couple of days ago.  I had not seen him before. As I was taking notice of him, he mumbled something like ‘Hi, Afternoon,’ and then he was silent.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and fixed his eyes on it. Then he turned round as if to check if he was at the right place. Then he placed the phone on his ear. I suppose he was making a phone call. Meanwhile, I am taken aback by this. I am wondering if I should ask him 'can I help you?' But then my Blackness tells me it might be rude for me to say so; I should let him do his business. Then he paces back to the exit, stops abruptly, turns towards me (I am holding a 22 month old in my arms; and I am thinking maybe I should rush the boy into the house and deal with the brother on my own.) As I turn towards the door to effect the precaution I have just thought about, brother paces back towards me.

Now I am caught between showing my back to him much longer than I feel comfortable to because I am trying to perch my son inside the house. At the same time I need adequate time – and possibly empty hands - to face the stranger who's doing weird things in my yard, but then facing him right now means I am placing a child between me and the guy.

He is closing in. Cupping a baby in my arms means that I cannot react swiftly should the guy take the physical challenge at me. At that moment I’m thinking, God I can’t even flee. Before I could say ‘can I help you?’ he looks into his phone again, presses it briefly, carries on at me, and then finally he says, ‘ehm... eh, what number is this house?’ By that time I am thinking, ‘broer, you are looking at the number.’ (It is the first thing you will notice coming in).

Then he says, ‘oh sorry, I’m uh... I’m looking for the Nigerians.’ Before I could say, ‘sorry?’  he said, ‘the Nigerian guys; where do they live?’ I am thinking to myself, How am I supposed to know the Nigerians you are looking for? But instead I say to him, ‘Did the Nigerians give you their address?’ Without looking at me but at the house in the opposite direction he says, “No, they didn’t. But they are Nigerians, you should know them.” I was speechless.

The challenges of workplace diversity

I had a sobering discussion with an HR Executive recently.

Workplace diversity was the issue on the table. ‘Senior managers need to be made aware that their approach to work, their hiring and management decisions and preferences are fraught with prejudices and bias,’ she said.

‘Transformation and Employment Equity legislation are impossible to implement without "conscious" executives and managers who value diversity of workers in the organisation.’ She added. It is even harder if you consider that executives and managers are where they are in their careers directly, and in-directly, because of the prejudicial and biased workplace practices.

The workplace practices mirror the socio-economic arrangement bordering on various ills such as racism, patriarchy, looking down upon, or feeling sorry for, people with disability. There are other issues which perpetuate discrimination and prejudices. The HR Executive concluded by saying that ‘It is crucial to work with the senior level of the workforce. They can inspire change if they are willing to re-learn.’

There is a misunderstanding about what workplace diversity entails. In his seminal book (100 Lessons in Diversity), Stanley Bongwe argues that ‘even though we had been taught throughout our upbringing that we should treat others as they would like to be treated, we must also learn, especially in a diverse environment, to treat others as they would like to be treated and not necessarily the way we would like to be treated or to treat them, for what works for us may not work for others.’

Below are some of the workplace diversity elements which top management need to be helped to deal with, and take the conscious lead on them around the workplace:

1. Race

Top management positions are predominantly white, and male. Management decisions on who to hire, promote, and how to evaluate performance, who to include in the succession planning, etc. must consciously open up the opportunities for the equally skilled and qualified individuals from other race groups to thrive;

2. Gender

There are few female managers and executives in South African workforce; even those who make it to the top are induced to perpetrate the prejudice... it is called "competence" and it is wrong. Deciding to hire people on the basis of their gender is discriminatory;

3. Age

The young and old workforce have different approaches to work. Conscious dialogue and deliberate collaboration is crucial;

4. Sexual orientation

Not all people in the workplace have similar sexual orientation. They deserve respect, they have the capability to work and we must suspend our judgement of them;

5. Religion

All the religions deserve recognition and respect; no prejudicial decisions based on religion must be welcomed;

 6. Political views

The political views of workers should not influence management decisions and practices. The attitude towards people based on this borders on prejudice and discrimination.

7. Ethnicity

Decisions and practices based on whether a worker is Afrikaner, Zulu, English, or Venda-speaking means that those decisions and practices are prejudicial and biased;

8. Culture

How a people’s culture finds expression in the workplace is not something for anybody to dictate. Everyone can and should do things the way their social ways require, of course within the ambits of mutual respect, decency, timing and reasonable workplace standards.

9. Marital status

Whether a person is married or single or divorced has no bearing on hiring and people management decisions;

10. Family responsibility

It should not bother anyone that somebody has demanding or no family responsibility. All persons have a right to attend to family responsibility within reasonable parameters and clear policy guidelines.

11. Social status

That certain persons are of this social status, that they can or cannot afford to have this or that; that their hobbies are this and they have social relations with other certain important persons (or not) should not dictate the workplace attitude and decisions about them.

12. Nationality

Denying people of other nationalities employment, or standard privileges and basic rights accorded to the country’s citizens, is discriminatory. Xenophobia finds expression here.

13. People with Disability

Denying people with disability employment and training opportunities, ignoring to make the workplace environment conducive for them to work and socialise effectively, thinking that those persons need our mercy and help (they will not cope with work)... all these things are unacceptable.

14. Health status

When we make decisions which affect other workers based on their health status, and on whether we think their health or body weight (also confused with the physical looks) bars them from working effectively, we are discriminating. We must distinguish between poor health and incapacity.

15. Conscience

Whether people think that they want to save the planet, to hug the trees to prevent others from destroying forests or whether they want to emancipate women or men, it is not the basis to decide how to treat them. We must respect what they think is important and be open to learning from them and help them to learn from us – without coercion or force.

16. Language

The ability or inability, or refusal, to speak a certain language is not the basis to decide on the treatment of the worker in the workplace.

17. Distance to work

How we make the decisions about what time people must start and stop to work, and on whether they must be involved or excluded from work activities and events of fun and team building, should be mindful of distance to work. The implication of this is when certain persons have to participate in the extended work hours, evening company functions, family responsibility which, often, is unexpected, and so on.

Workplace diversity is about valuing and harnessing the differences amongst people - building on those differences. It is not about ‘You are different from me,’ but ‘You are different like me.’

The downside of valuing workplace diversity is that it can be isolated from ordinary social practices... as if the workplace practices do not mirror the broader societal practices. Secondly, those who deal with diversity may “include” or “assimilate” the outsiders into the dominant group. Doing so perpetuates the stereotypes, sanitises the prejudices and sustains the social inequity.

 

We must have the courage to open ourselves to new lessons and experiences about other people. We must find out from those who are “different like us” how they want to be treated, and we must be willing to express our preferences to them openly.

 

www.moroloconsultants.co.za

 

Without their gadgets, men tend to do silly things

We don’t realise how accustomed to our gadgets we are until the damned things start to malfunction. When this happened to me recently, I spent the whole time walking aimlessly around the house, and marveling at the sudden wondrous beauty of an ordinary ceiling above me.

When there isn’t much to do, I find an escape through doing stuff on the laptop. But when it didn’t want to function on Saturday, I knew that my sanity would be tested. I was feeling useless. Then I looked for small things to do around the house just to keep myself busy, and sane. I tampered with the door handle. And I had a lovely time trying to fix it.

I remember how my father has been dealing with his domestic boredom over the years. Men like him (who don’t go out to drink with other men) hardly go out so they kill time doing silly things like walking around the yard, chasing a stubborn chicken or admiring their garden implements. And that has never really bothered my Mother, for obvious reasons.

But Mme would get quite worked up once Ntate starts messing the whole place. Imagine the front of the house adorned with engine parts and tool boxes. Yes, when he is seriously bored, Dad’s most famous coping mechanism has often been to dis-assemble the 1977 Toyota Hilux engine - just to wipe the pistins, blow at them, and then re-assembling the engine. I kid you not.

The antics would start on a Saturday morning, which meant that Dad would be expecting me to be up by 06h00 am instead of 09h00 am, and still be passing him the vice grip and sockets by 19h00 pm, sometimes in cold winter season. On days like those, I'd simply shrug with a long face, knowing that my weekend of kicking a ball with other boys, or going on a bird hunt, was ruined.

I experience domestic boredom just like my father. But for me, laptop and mostly phone take the place of chasing chickens, admiring garden implements or stripping old car engines. But when those gadgets are malfunctioning, then I have to find something to keep me sane. When my son was born, I thought that he would keep me busy and fill the gap. But he often gets tired of playing with me. And you should see me, looking like I am lost around the house.

Even the men who drink beer, and have all the reasons to be out drinking happily with other men in the local shebeen or pub, go through these sordid moments. I know this because even a seasoned beer-drinker like Ndumiso "Mapholoba" Ngcobo has since lamented, ‘Once my kids are tired of playing with me, I walk around the house rearranging my balls in my scrotal sack.’ It is not me who is saying this, it is Mapholoba.

You might want to check out his two hilarious books:

1. Some of my Best Friends are White
2. Is it Coz I’m Black?

The technology-savvy aliens have arrived

I shake my head in disbelief every time I look at these 2 and 3 year olds. These guys don’t think twice before they snatch your phone, fiddle with it and suddenly, Shrek and his darling Fiona are shouting at each other from nowhere.

Going for camera pics is often their starting point. We must be careful what photos we keep on our phones. These aliens are here to embarrass us. And we’d better take this warning seriously because Ntshebo (2) has started interrupting me when I talk even on the phone by saying, ‘hai, o leshano ntate (dad, you’re lying!’) Imagine. #WipingSweatOffMyBrow#

When we were growing up in the 80s, our toys were things like beetles with their cow dung, small stones or snails which we curiously nibbled on, oblivious to any dire consequences. (Of course we had car toys but those were mostly hand-me-downs from older cousins.) How we knew that we were flirting with danger was when some elder came screaming at you, ‘Hai! Tshwela ntho eo!’

We were even getting butt-kicked by the 4.5 year olds already because, truth be told, back then we learned combat as soon we had figured out that something like Mother’s… er, “bra region” (for lack of a precise word) belonged to you. Instinct told us that if another kid so much as showed up without his/ her Mama, your milk twin tanks needed guarding on the spot. So baby wars erupted out of such incidents.

These days it is baby against parent. Just last week I was trying very hard to subdue a clearly quarrelsome dude who, upon realizing that the computer was on, pushed me aside and took it upon himself to reply to an inbox from Thando Rathabe. ‘GGG,,FFXU G00*845<;FR,CCVV5’ was his reply.

I had my hands full trying to reclaim my spot in front of the laptop so that I could quickly send an apology to Thando. Hear this: That scuffle left me huffing and parched. Mommy had to literally come running with a glass of cold water because while my chest was burning, so was my throat. A 2 year old had calmly moved on to another thing - a TV remote - and demanding, ‘di popo ntate (switch to popeye channel, dad.)’ To think that I used to skip barbed wire fence to go watch Lesilo, McGyver and Mopheme from a Black and white screen next door, jerr! I do not remember bullying my father inside his house, never. He'd have spanked me into order within seconds.

Things came to a head last night when he confiscated my phone for a good 20-something minutes. When he was done, Yours Truly put the phone away, protested, ‘ha o na Shrek ntate (your phone doesn’t have a Shrek movie),’ and left me picking my ego from the floor. As I was leaving my hiding corner to check the phone, dude had made two wasteful phone calls, switched the packet data option to ON and I was down by R7 something… airtime-wise. The aliens have arrived!

Tshepo taught me a lesson at the Maseru wedding

Like when you have met a guy who effortlessly decodes bible verses and regularly wears suits to church. Right there, you conclude: This “church” guy does not go to parties; there’s no way in hell that he could know how to party-dance… maybe to a Joyous Celebration tune, yes; but not to ‘khona’ of Mafikizolo.

Life is supposed to teach us better, and harshly. My friends have been the generous teachers to me. Because of it, I can argue that first impressions last until someone shows you who they really are. In other words: do not judge the book by its cover. It is suicidal to assume that “pastor” cannot groove-dance. I know this because I have not seen the groom who dances the way Siphiwe Moyo was dancing a few years ago. The guy had us clapping for him even his bride looked surprised. My impressions of him were turned upside-down.

But people like me who crammed their way through school never learn. Back in 2003 my friend and I attended a wedding in Maputsoe. Ficksburg is on the border into Lesotho and Maputsoe is the first town in. It was June. The proceedings at the wedding were long and moving at a snail’s pace. The Roma church, with stone wall structure and corrugated iron roof, was absolutely cold inside. Basotho prefer a long programme and those who go up to speak tend to indulge. As a last resort, many of us slipped out to bask in the sun.

For the reception, the convoy sped off to Maseru. As we were eating, and those who go for broke when buffet they didn’t pay for is on offer were helping themselves to more dessert, the DJ pummeled us with great tunes. I remained glued to my seat. Courage stood between me and the dance floor. Tshepo Neito, a friend with whom we crossed the border from SA to support the bride, stood up, removed his jacket and proceeded to the stage. My jaw dropped as I watched Tshepo do what I think only Zakes Bantwini and Micasa combined can come up with. How could he have learned to get down like that, I wandered.

Until then I had known Tshepo to be a quiet fellow who for the most part appeared to be in deep thought. He effortlessly read mounds of university statutes and financials. He could use that ability to tear university management to pieces, much to the delight of the likes of us who feared thick documents yet pining for leadership positions. Tshepo was the type of guy who hardly missed church. No nights out; no beer with the guys. So on that day I was mortified by how I had boxed him into a confined "pastor" space.

As we were driving back from Lesotho, I was telling him how wrong I have been about him. Tshepo giggled himself silly, as if to say ‘I have taught you a lesson! Do not read a book by its cover.’ Clearly I had forgotten this elusive lesson when I attended Siphiwe’s wedding four years later. I just never learn… that my first impressions about a person will be challenged, and that I should judge the book by what’s in the pages.

Fire Tabita at your own peril

A lady got fired 6 months ago, from a beauty shop. Those shops where women go to get their nails done, or extended. Jobless and penniless, she waits for her outstanding wages (R1500) to be paid to her. All she got is R500. She is peeved. Her mother instructs her to sit the hell down and avoid causing trouble.

Within a week of languishing at home, one of the customers calls to find out why she is not at work. Long story, she replies. Customer demands her home address. She shows up to get her nails done. Within a month several customers of her former employer are tracing her, and rolling in to get their nails done.

Today, after 6 months of serious searching, a 50-something old woman (she was my senior at some point) who's been searching for the lady is animated. She shows me her nails,
'I just came from Bophelong (4 kilos from Vaal mall, where we are) to get my nails done,' she says after locking her mercedez benz.
'Wa tseba Fusi, I have been tracing ngwana oo for 6 months,' she says.
(By that time my lower jaw is hanging; I'm amased, and thoroughly pleased by the story...)

'I couldn't do my nails anywhere else; she is very good with my nails,' says my former senior. And guess what ngwana ka, I am not the only one who went to her house. Tabita says I am her 27th customer to come for service at her house.'

A very happy customer who has me spell-bound by Tabita’s tale goes on to tell me that the lady claims to be earning more money than she was earning while working for an employer in town.
‘She is now running the specials and I said to her I am going to send my nephew to her next week before her wedding day,’ she said before we could move to another casual topic.

Just look at what great customer experience can do. And judge for yourself how “word-of-mouth” is spreading this Tabita virus. Now who is benefitting from the firing of Tabita?

It is so hot in here I feel like I'm in Durban!

I had just sent an email to Mr. Mac Maharaj. He is at macmaharaj@icloud.com. This was just two days after president Zuma had made the statement 'We are not some national road somewhere in Malawi.'

In the email I impressed upon him that surely it must be so hot being the Spokesperson it should always feel like he is in Durban. He called me back instantly. ‘Hello,’ he said, breathing rather heavily.

Hello, I replied.

‘Hang on, let me loosen my collar and switch on the air conditioner.’

So I waited, wandering what was coming.

‘Hello Foozy,’ he said.

No, Mr. Maharaj, my name is F-u-s-i… Fusi!

[sound of another phone ringing]

‘Hang on again, Foozy…’

(‘Hello? Yes, comrade Vusi (Mona)… heh? Oh sorry, comrade Jesse (Duarte) hahahaha… I am losing my mind. It is so hot in here.’) He exclaimed.

[15 seconds of silence]

(‘‘Okay……………. okay……………… okay………………….. Okay, listen comrade, right? Tell the president I’ve got the situation under control. Tell him I will spin this one for him again, right.’’)

[Mr. Maharaj comes back to me]

‘Oh sorry Foozy, it’s hot in here. Look I didn’t say Foozy, I said Fusi. You have regrettably taken me out of context and blown my pronunciation completely out of proportion!’

Don’t we all like to do that these days, Mr. Maharaj, I muttered.

‘What is that supposed to mean? Anyway, I haven’t got much time. Regarding your e-mail, right… it’s not like it’s hot being in this job I’m doing, right. The thing is…’

‘Mr. Maharaj,’ I interrupted ‘the Malawi National Roads Agency are extending an invitation to Mr. President Zuma…’

[Growl from Mr. Maharaj] ‘What invitation?’

‘It is an all expenses paid fact finding mission for Mr. president… to go see how president Joyce Banda is running roads infrastructure over there,’ I said.

‘So there is a National Roads Authority in Malawi?’ he asked.

Yes, I replied.

‘Now I’m frying over here!’

Mr. Maharaj slammed the phone in my ear.

A gold-digger of literature in a bookstore did this to me

Nobuhle who works at Exclusive Books (Cresta mall) is the leading gold-digger of literature which is buried in the books right now. I kid you not.

'I have read 208 books in one year,' she said looking into my awe-struck face I nearly forgot to pay for Down 2nd Avenue (Es’kia Mphahlele) which I had gone in to collect. She mentioned books by Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiongo, Tsitsi Dangarembga and Zakes Mda. She praised Redi Tlhabi, McIntosh Polela and  Bonnie Henna for writing books she could relate to.

Even Dan Brown (The Da Vinci Code), about whom she proceeded to grab his newly released thick book, Inferno, from the shelf near the entrance and said ‘I knew long before it came out that he was writing it.’ To which I asked: How did you know that?
‘I google my favourite authors; I write to them; I ask them what they are working on,’ she said.
Nobuhle even introduced me to the likes of Waiting for the Rains (Charles Mungoshi) and Americana (Chimamanda Adiche) who also wrote Half of The Sun as well as Purple Hibiscus.

How did you end up working at the bookstore? I asked her.
'After finishing matric, I just wanted to be at a place where I could access many books.'
She is a first year law student at Wits. I asked her if she would like to write books.
'Nooooo,' she said with a shy smile, 'I prefer to read than to write. But I have published 6 short stories in Drum magazine... but that was a long time ago.'
I was clutching at the book shelves on my way out. Dizzying conversation I've had.

Daily Sun in Doctor's waiting room is customer service gone bad

There are plenty of reasons why I do not read Daily Sun.

The first one is that I often forget about the paper. The second reason is that, well, news of human horror and despair are addictive indeed. So if I can, I steer clear of them.

So I stumbled upon yesterday's (28 October 2013) copy whilst in the Doctor's waiting room (I'm not sick, so chill) this morning.

Front page: A sister stabbed her brother to death over an argument during the Soweto derby. According to the paper, Nkhatha scored (illegitimate goal), brother retorted that the goal was off-side. A Khosi-supporting sister took matters (and a knife) into her own hands, but forgot to get hold of her rage. She is languishing in jail.

In another news: our president visited a school in the Eastern Cape. His trademark broad smile was wiped out upon seeing the terrible conditions of the school - broken windows and doors, leaking roof. To make the learners feel good about writing the exams in that pig sty, Mr. President promised to slaughter one of his cheeseboy cows in that well-lit Nkandla kraal to celebrate once the EC piglets have passed their matric exams.

In another news: Daily Sun in the Doctor's waiting room is a bad idea. Black people go there to get healing, if at all, not tabloid-induced depression and then panado on their way out.

 

Fusi Motaung reporting live from a country of many bad jokes.

 

ording to the paper, Nkhatha scored (illegitimate goal), brother retorted that the goal was off-side. A Khosi-supporting sister took matters (and a knife) into her own hands, but forgot to control her rage. She is in jail.

ording to the paper, Nkhatha scored (illegitimate goal), brother retorted that the goal was off-side. A Khosi-supporting sister took matters (and a knife) into her own hands, but forgot to control her rage. She is in jail.

Trying very hard to listen at the party of 50 year olds

The people were hungry arriving.  Most of them came to the party straight from church. Even the MC admitted that the task before him was to steer the loud-mouthed, reckless-with-time black people through what could potentially be a 5 hour programme to a 90 minute chop-chop so that Bazalwane could eat, and be merry. He did not disappoint. And he was funny too. But I am not here to talk about the MC. Why are the listening skills such an elusive competence?

Ms Party was a MmaMoruti. The first speaker, MmaMoruti’s nephew, led the assault by revealing the childhood history of the couple. ‘Quite often I was made to accompany Ntate Moruti back to his home in the dead of night.’ He said. Apparently, Moruti was afraid of the dark. You know those people who sit on the passenger seat and are forever frightened that car accident may happen any minute? You hit the brakes, they grab the dashboard; you hoot or avoid a pothole, they scream! Moruti. It was also revealed that Moruti was adored by Mme wa MmaMoruti; that he was constantly sent to run errands for old lady. So, as the MC summed it up, old lady “groomed” her future son-in-law to be a loving gentleman he has become.

Many people spoke about what a straight-talker Ms Party is. Some even pointed out that 50 signified the year of jubilee. Amen, somebody shouted. A certain wife of another Moruti – you know mos, pastors are humans too, so they befriend other pastors -praised (not the Lord this time but) Mma Moruti for her kindness. ‘uMaMfundisi even welcomed me when I was uMakoti from Eastern Cape by organising the beds and other things for me,’ she said. Mr MC decided to indulge in that statement. He wandered why Mma Moruti had skipped the entire list of things on the kindness menu to end up single-handedly arranging a bed for the newly-weds to lay on it. Praise God.

Things got interesting when three boys of between the ages of 17 and 20 smuggled themselves into the programme. The first kid announced to us, ‘Ekshili (spelled actually), I’ve prepared my speech right here on my phone, right.' God knows what was going to happen had he received a phonecall whilst delivering the speech. I blame the arrival of iPad for what kids are doing these days. Mr. DJ, another young lad with heavy mop for dreadlocks on his head kept cheering people off the stage by throwing in songs impromptu. ‘You will get your chance to shine,’ said the MC. DJ started to behave henceforth.

Mr Ekshili injected some fun and rhythm into the proceedings. His entire speech was in English. A serious departure from the norm where the oldies were only throwing light English like “praise the Lord” and “oh Jesus” in between plain but corrupted Sesotho. I could see some of the old people grimacing at this. Some were tilting their heads as if to bring their partly functional ears closer to the speaker (ears begin to give up at 50, I think).

Although he was born of the older sister to MmaMoruti, Ekshili admitted that he preferred auntie better than his own Mom. ‘I am here to ekshili tell you auntie that I love you,’ he said. ‘My aunt is so cool; she’s on whattsup and stuff.’ Then he burst out laughing, ‘My aunt shocked me the other day; we were chatting on whattsup you know... I said something funny to her and... her response was like LOL.’ Giggles. He wasn’t done with us: ‘My mom is so old school you know... sometimes I tell her that she should have “made” (had) me earlier so that there was...like... a narrow generation gap between us... she doesn’t understand me, Gaawd.’ The tent was in stitches.

The one who followed Ekshili did not want to disappoint; He even giggled in English (don’t ask me how that is done). The last one – MmaMoruti’s son - castigated his parents for being so blatant with their romantic antics around the house. He just laid things bare. At that moment we roped in our (naughty) minds to assist our ears. You should try that sometime; listening is a full body and soul exercise.

The moment for Birthday girl to speak came. What was supposed to be a 10 minute thank-you speech dragged to a 30 minute orgy (God forgive foul language) of guffaw. She rebuked her sisters-in-law for not visiting her house anymore. ‘I know you don’t like me,’ she said ‘Empa I have been around your family long enough... so se ke le manganga (I have become stubborn!)’ Her trailing jibe ‘Ha ho sa na moo ke yang teng (I am here to stay)’ was shrouded in the uproar of chortle from everyone.

Things came to a head when – remember we’re talking about listening skills – the MC announced that the occupants of the main table and those near it should dish up first and let the order follow until the last table. The buffet was placed right next to the exit. By the time the third table was dishing up, everyone just picked their plates and proceeded outside the tent to form a long queue. What the hell is wrong with people and queues? Maybe we were already listening with our grumbling stomachs when the MC was announcing the proceedings.