The
next great moment was when we rocked into a birthday song, my wife and I, for
my sister, Mamothibi Motaung. Yes, she and I share a birthday. I do not know
how my parents pulled that one off.
Later
on the same day, my niece, Puleng Motloung, was getting wedded to her charmer,
Victor. We had a great time watching her arrive by boat on the banks of Vaal
River. We were in those areas which we call "di-plot" in our common
lingo. The white people own that stretch of land and they are raking in good
money maintaining the area to provide events entertainment by the river. How is
land reform coming along? But I digress.
Weddings
never go without drama, even if everything may be going according to plan,
someone will suffer a fate of sort. It happened to me. I was given the task to
deliver the flowers at the venue. I sped off to the venue, only to miss the
turn and get lost for a good 35 minutes.
On two
occasions I stopped to ask the petrol attendants for directions. They pointed
me 7 kilometres away from where I was supposed to go (the punishment you get for not working out the address in advance.) And they did it with that
air of certainty they demonstrate when giving out direction. Giving directions
to motorists while also filling up a motor tank should be declared illegal.
At one
point I found myself pulling off and walking into a lonely store beside the
main road. I was making my way to the reception when a large dog appeared from
the corner to literally “stop” me. I think I murmured something between ‘hello
dog’ and ‘oh shit.’ I cannot recall. All that I know is that my heart raced and
I could feel the sensation leading to me wetting my pants beginning to build
up. I was lucky that my bladder held on.
Any
property belonging to an Afrikaner whom you are there to ask for directions
emits a particular assault about it. Two guys emerged from under a shed where
several boats were being kept. They were talking. It was only then that I
understood why bulldog refused me entry inside the office – there was nobody
inside the office. I stood next to the car, waiting for them, and trying to
keep a safe distance from bulldog, who literally shepherded me towards the car.
They
stopped right next to me and continued to speak to each other, in their
language. It was like I wasn’t there. The assault. Thing is, my mind was
brainwashed inside a human resources class therefore it reasoned to me that
what I was witnessing was possibly cultural diversity at play or that the two
men were just conducting pure business. But as I looked at this “customer”, I
got the feeling he was just dragging the conversation on just to spite
(assault) me.
After
about five attempts to interrupt, and having considered getting into the car
and leaving, not before having looked around me, to notice that it was only me
against two not-interested-in-my-story men, and their cheeky bull dog, I
finally surrendered to fear.
‘I am
sorry to interrupt you, gentlemen.’ ‘Yeeeees?’ said the man whose Afrikaans-speaking train of thought had just been rudely interrupted.
‘I am looking for a place called Little Winds,’ I said.
‘Whaaaaat? There is no place like that here,’ said the shop-keeper.
‘Okay, thank you,’ I said before driving off, relived that the psychological assault was over, for now.
Finally
I found my way to the venue. I was angry with myself, thinking that I have
messed things up for my niece. To my relief, African time bailed me out. The
guests were rolling in, looking swanky and entertaining. The Black guests
outclassed their White counterparts in that department, including on the
numbers stakes. We dress to kill, ek se.
Moruti
Moleli, the priest who officiated, was amusing for the most part. One moment
the groom cleared his throat and quietly pointed out that him and bride
actually want pre-nup... or I think he said so. Moruti was rattled by this, and
admitted that indeed the couple were destabilising his (pre-conceived) way of
doing things.
By the
end of the day I was physically exhausted. And I am putting the blame on a 2
and half year old guy called Boitshwaro Motaung. The boy spent the entire day
running around the park, forcing me to look for him in the midst of the crowd,
if not having to run after him and his equally pesky friends who, at one point,
were trying to retrieve something which had fallen into the river. Imagine the
mayhem that could have ensued had one of them dared the river. When I finally
hit the bed, I passed out until 8h30 the next morning.
At
10h20 we proceeded to Heilbron. The bridal motorcade was guided to a house in
the suburb. It is a Afrikaans-speaking neighbourhood, with some upwardly mobile
Blacks having occupied several houses over there. The suburb looked rather
dull, as if reeling from nostalgia of its former Apartheid glory. The bride was
to change into her white dress. We literally parked the cars in the street, in
front of other houses. People formed sporadic groups of about 3 to five to chit
chat, and to laugh. Some were already pulling cold bottles out of the coolers,
and looking into the sun as they drank. But that didn’t bother them because
they had shades of all sizes and shape on them to bar the sun rays, and to
complete their swag. The younger women exploited the waiting period by reviving
their make-up.
I was
curious to observe the behaviour of the neighbours upon noticing our presence.
A certain neighbor came out to lock up her gate. Moments later a band of white
kids and two elders (parents, maybe) came out of the car which had just pulled
into the driveway. They waved in our direction. Nobody took much notice. A
certain Ntate Mkhaba (not his real name - it's just that he had a belly to
rival that of Gwede Mantashe) was walking towards us when he noticed the
friendly gesture from the white family. He took it upon himself to
"hala" back and to find out ‘Hoe gaan dit?’ from them. None of them
waverers bothered to reply. It was that awkward.
Wearing
a very broad smile on his face, yet without anyone having asked him, Ntate
Mkhaba told us that those people were actually waving at him. ‘They are my
friends and they love me very much.’ We were stunned by this unsolicited tale.
We behave like that when our minds have been assaulted by white supremacy. It
does not matter how well dressed, or educated, or how rich one may be. The
assault is deeply ingrained in us; it seems permanent.
Entering
Phiritona was a spectacle. The bride and groom were driven in a BMW
convertible, with their feet resting on the rear seat. I prayed silently that
the driver will not step on the accelerator, or brakes, too carelessly. The
camera and video crew subjected us to two or three stop and starts - simply to
capture the perfect moments. There were about six maids of honour. They were
made to drive on the scooters. You should have seen how, poor 19 year olds
wearing skimpy but gorgeous traditional dresses, held on to the drivers for
dear life. Some of them, we are told, were even crying a little due to fright.
The spectacle literally flushed the people out of their houses. Some of them
drew to the streets to catch a good look of the couple. ‘Ke bo mang?’ they
asked.
There
were those of us who drove on high speed while swerving the cars this way and
that way in the narrow streets paved with bricks - something which we did not
do while we were in the tarred suburbs just up the road. The respect we showed
while up there was palatable. You should have seen how some township onlookers,
dogs included, were made to dash off the streets to evade possible accident. We
harass our own to good effect, in our moment of excitement. And nobody should
complain.
At the
groom’s house we were ushered into a large white marquee (we don’t say tent
anymore). There were great speakers, live performance and great food. One of
the speakers even told everyone that the groom’s family had slaughtered seven
cows. I could see a few souls lick their lips in anticipation. And we feasted.
What a weekend it was.
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