My endless run to 5 Years Later

I have been running around the whole year. There were times when I succeeded. And there were times when I failed… to make a living. So, to rest, I have stopped running.

In the place of running, I took up running to places where I can blow away what I have earned. So I have been eating. I have been drinking. I have been driving, and dressing... I have been showing off.

And I have been travelling, sober and drunk. And I have crashed. I have died. I have survived. I have recovered. I am back, running faster, harder, for there is no much festive time left.

I have been going all out to make “this period” special for those I love, and to prove my pedigree to those who don’t matter to me. Even in my moment of select few days of annual drunkenness – literally and figuratively – I have been careful to keep some means in order to “cut” the year with a bang! I hope to live through it, given how I have been over-doing everything.

Then I will stop running, and start thinking about the running I will be doing in 2015. It will not be such a pleasant moment. I am trying to delay it. So I hang out. I drink. I eat. I forget. For now, I will wish everybody a happy new year. I will embrace those who remember to return the wish, and curse those who will not do so.

Soon I will be angry at those who will not lend me money for my ride back to work – back to “reality.” To the list I will add January and her long and slow 25 days or so before pay day. But that is if I have a job to return to. If I am unemployed, I will take my anger out on anyone – government; politicians!

Hold it! There is no stopping from running. That teenager whose school work I neglected, because I was too busy running in 2014 to care, is running around searching for a newspaper. It will confirm if Mme Angie [Motshega] is handing him/ her over to Doctor Blade. If so, we will soon be combining our last pennies, before we set off running across the country, sleeping in awkward places, standing in long meandering queues, in the blazing sun, and occasionally dispersing to hide from ruthless January downpour.

We will crawl through the high gates, avoiding stampedes, and shimmy from chair to chair, in and around tall buildings, begging officials and academics for mercy, paying bribes to charlatans who have their eye on our savings, as we vie for the spot in the Blade train to 5 Years Later.

If Teenager manages to board, (s)he might blow away the last cent I gave him/her on a drinking spree. They have seen what I do with money when I am celebrating. If they don’t make it, just like those who did not see their name in the newspaper a week or two earlier, they might take their life, while the more hopeful succumb to the prospect of joining the young masses already pounding the streets aimlessly… hopelessly.

Only a few will reach 5 Years Later. They will… might, join those like me who will be hobbling - not running, yet - through January 2020. But that does not matter now. What matters is that beyond January I will be running through 2015. And when December comes around, I will be back here, doing the last lap in style, so that 2016, which will of no real consequence resemble 2015, 2014, 2013…can repeat itself, through 2017, until 2020, and beyond.

Hobbling from a weekend of whipping and lights-out

It is Saturday morning.

You wake up early to do few errands. A day like this is short. What with the banks who slam their doors shut at 11 am, and some retail stores at 1 pm.

And, there is the Soweto derby coming up. The build-up to it is raising your blood pressure. Kaizer Chiefs is running amok, undefeated. Orlando Pirates is teetering somewhere in a lousy position. Although it is obvious that Pirates will come out second best today, the usual belligerence of a Buccaneer keeps you hoping for a surprise result. After all, this is a derby.

You have gone through the week telling the Chiefs supporters that their impending demise was nigh. They remind you that you are coming to this game an underdog. You refuse to back down, for even the analysts have been appearing on radio and TV the whole week, putting their money on neither of the teams.

There is a problem. Andrew Etzinger of Eskom has been has been delivering bad news lately. Only gutsy and belligerent people are fit for this kind of job. So there you are, running around on a Saturday morning, holding your breath, hoping that by the time they pull down the switch, it better be around 5pm.

It is 10h30 am. The bank teller at the enquiries desk guides you with a pen in her hand, that you must join the “correct” queue if you are serious about getting help from her. Damnit! You have been standing in the “wrong” queue for 29 minutes. When you joined the damned thing at the entrance there was nobody to show you the correct queue. You protest their madness. They back down.

Everybody is looking at you. You are wondering if they admire your gutsy protest or your belligerence, because you are wearing an Orlando Pirates t-shirt. Was it not Vladimir “you know” Vermezovich who jumped ship ahead of the derby? And for chrissakes there is no indication that one of the Bucs players will manage to kick or head the ball past Khuzwayo. It must be your belligerence they are marvelling at.

Some “nice” Kaizer Chiefs supporter drags you into a verbal brawl about who of the two teams will come out unscathed – as if such eventuality is not already obvious - points out the obvious for you to see. “Mhlongo is bleeding goals.” “Your defence is leaking.” The brawl shatters your optimism. You stubbornly stand your ground, and you leave. Outside you meet those who are wearing black and white, and red t-shirts. A surge of optimism returns.

At 2:15 pm you rush home. You wonder why you did not pick the tickets when you were passing Computicket counter. Eskom is imploding and… who knows what is coming. It is a risk mitigation measure. You want to see it with your naked eyes when Pirates turns the corner at the expense of arch rivals. ‘We are going to win today,’ you tell yourself. When optimism is overstated, belligerence is inevitable.

You are relieved to find that the TV is on. A misguided (because he supports Chiefs) sibling is sprawling on the couch. He is wearing black and gold. He clearly owns the day. He cannot wait to break some bones. You feel your stomach wanting to run. You drink water; you make sure that you are not too far from the bathroom, and you hope for the best.

Seeing that the lights are on, surely the people at Megawatt Park are soccer-loving messiahs. Maybe the ruling party has warned them against plunging the masses into a blackout on a day like this. You cannot “put our people through so much the whole week, forcing them to arrive late from work, forcing them to eat bread and peanut butter for supper, and washing it down with warm cool drink (no pun intended), and still deny them their opium on a weekend. Thank you, Minister Mbalula, for your random outspokenness. You are a bunch of winner on this one.

Hang on! The aerial view of the calabash shows motorists crawling slowly towards the parking. It is mayhem. The vuvuzelas are blurring. The game begins, and ends. In between, Pirates players are huffing and puffing. There is hardly any clear-cut chances in front of Khuzwayo. You are blaming the coach for not pairing Majoro with Erasmus. Everyone is a coach on a moment like this.

It is second half.

The Kaizer Chiefs eleven are clearly out for a kill. Yeye is a nightmare. He is tearing through the middle and defence of Buccaneers, leaving them to chase shadows. Parker peels off to the right. Shabba sneaks in. The calabash is a hive of frenzy and nerves. Shaka drives an iklwa into the hearts of nervous Buccaneers. It is like he is accusing them of invading the forbidden land of his forefathers – the FNB stadium.

You cannot stand this. You walk out of the house, hobbling. Blurring vuvuzelas by annoying neighbours deny you breathing space. You have nowhere to go. You go back inside. It is over. Trompies had predicted a draw. Legs of Thunder had predicted 2-1 in favour of Pirates. Such belligerence by him.

With defeat so fresh, you are surely looking for something to take the edge off. But what will that be? The lights go off. Thank you, Eskom. Here is something you can take your frustrations out on; and on Vladimir who left us in a crisis, like he did with Chiefs not long ago. And that trigger-happy idiot who took Senzo Meyiwa’s life… #ef# you too!

It is Sunday morning.

Cooking begins as early as 6:30. Church or whatever else, something tells you to bath and cook now, to avoid bad body odour and starving, on a glorious Sunday.

You are still licking your derby wounds. Eskom strikes the blow again. You are ready to organise a tyre-burning street protest with a handful of angry Pirates supporters. But sanity prevails. You hop into your trainers and go for a jog. Yes, on a Sunday. It feels better than cursing those Chiefs supporters who have been jamming facebook and twitter with bone-breaking jokes directed at Pirates.

You’ve been going well for 40 minutes. You are feeling so good that a thought comes to your mind, ‘If Pirates carry on like this, I will personally introduce myself to Tinkler… to demand immediate inclusion into the starting eleven!’ You reach home, ready to collapse. After a lukewarm shower, you eat cold supper, in candlelight. How romantic. The weekend is over.

It is Monday morning.

You have managed to drag yourself out of bed. Up the N1 you take the Rivonia off-ramp and you join Witkoppen. The traffic lights are working. Well done, Eskom. ‘It’s Monday morning… #hiss# good morning,’ says John Robbie. You switch. Bob Mabena and Kuli Roberts are in stitches about something which McFarlane Moleli said. You switch. Just-Ice is greeting the whole of South Africa, and readies himself to mock the belligerent Buccaneers. Switch.

The news on Lesedi FM is of teachers who sleep with schoolchildren, who fight amongst themselves at school premises. Ramatsoso Mokebe reports that Eric Tinkler has said that Orlando Pirates can still win the league. The belligerence of Tinkler is admirable. Switch.

Sakhina Kamwendo welcomes Andrew Etzinger on air. ‘Andrew, is it true that it is getting darker within Eskom?’ she asks. Before Etzinger hops to his usual deny-deny-and-deny, you come to a halt at a red robot. Witkoppen ends here. You are facing the entrance of Megawatt Park. As Etzinger’s PR roll on, you take it upon yourself to inspect things inside the imposing yard. Cars are driving in without any interruption whatsoever. The occupants look determined and in control.

There must be a misunderstanding. These guys who work here don’t look like people who are messing up the country’s blood pressure grid. Oops! You have to turn right, into Maxwell Drive, and leave Etzinger to carry on putting out the fires, for about why they are switching off the lights. Before you reach Woodmead Drive, you make a silent prayer, and hope for a brighter Monday. 

Speed does not kill, we do

It is 10 November 2014. We are hurtling at a varied speed of 100 to 140 up the N1 North this morning. Yes, 140 km/h. Mosiuoa Lekota, Julius Malema, DJ Sbu, and Steve Hofmeyr have done better than that. 

A silver VW polo, which I did not notice coming in the rear distance, flies past me. If the law-abiding motorists were clocking 120 km/h, you can guess what the polo was clocking.

Do keep in mind that “expert” law-makers have issued everybody with a 120 speed limit. Forget that some political leaders and other prominent people do not follow the very rules they encourage us to obey; not to mention that they all drive cars which exceed 120 km/h, and have the latitude to clock beyond that limit. Isn’t that a bizarre traffic rule?

We have the 120 speed limit, yet all the cars give an option to exceed the limit. So we stretch this “option” by 140+ to see where it gets us. We live in a free country and therefore we are free to risk ending up in a ditch, in the media headlines, or in the hospital, in jail, or to go meet our Maker. We are free, to kill. But I digress.

Another silver grey car whose make I could not pin down appears from the on-ramp. This is near Diepkloof. In the most spectacular fashion, the driver of this car cuts across all lanes at high speed until he is in the furthest right lane. He literally cuts right in front of the fellow flying in the right lane.

At this moment I have succumbed to the eventuality of witnessing carnage and injury. The driver who is flying from the South had the enough time to avoid ramming into the maniac out of Diepkloof, who, in a blink of an eye steps on the accelerator. His car disappears into the traffic ahead.

Pheeew! That is me as I my heart rate goes up by notches. I catch up with the guy who was forced to come down from (what I think was) 140 to 60 km/h in few seconds. He is fastening the seatbelt.

He is wearing the shades. So I cannot read his emotional state through his eyes. Yes, it is 5h54 in the morning and the fellow is wearing shades, in this overcast and sporadically wet Johannesburg weather, and he is flying up N1 to God-knows-where.

So here we are, flying up the highway, at 120 km/h + speed, before 06h00 am. And it had to take a Pablo Montoya coming out of Diepkloof, who treats the freeway like it is some race track in Kyalami, to remind us, after a close shave with fatal injury, that we must put on our seat belt.

How come we are saying that “speed kills”? Can speed drive?

Dear Parole Officer

Thank you for adding a much needed spark to a drawn-out Oscar Trial. Although I have not been a keen follower, I happened to be listening on the day you were recommending a non-custodial sentencing along with a fine as an “appropriate” sentence. I have no idea why I was doing this. But accidents do happen. Oscar has taught us this.

As you were stating your reasons in court, you also used the opportunity to bash our Correctional Services facilities. It was such a revved up performance by you I rocked into full wakefulness!

If it was not by the grace of brakes, I’d have stepped on the accelerator and my rickety jalopee (a hand-me-down VW Beetle) would have ploughed into the schoolchildren who were crossing the road from school, thus facing the inevitability of employing the services of Advocate Barry Roux, and possibly yours at a later stage. But here I am, relieved that I will not be mixing with JubJub and Oscar any time soon. But Oscar is safe, isn’t he?

I wish to pledge my solidarity with you. Oscar must not go to jail. I agree with you when you say that those facilities are beneath him.

I know that many people misunderstood you because Oscar is, you know, conveniently disabled. The argument that he’s been out-running many able-bodied athletes for years already and therefore he can hold his own alongside tattooed, ready-to-take-the-edge off outlaws in orange overalls does not stick.

We must not subject Oscar to below-par correctional facilities. You are correct when you imply that we must keep Oscar safe, and beg him not to tamper with guns anymore; that we must orientate him to not hop into his fatal rage which culminates into him releasing (four) bullets whenever something he cannot ascertain makes him to panic.

The officials of the said government department must wake up and build prisons fit for the likes of Oscar and many like him who, as precedence, will soon be evading jail time by the “skin” of their blades! But no, that sounds like contradiction of your argument; they must just carry on mismanaging them to sustain your argument.

It is my hope that, in show of support to the State’s stance on the case, the Department of Correctional Services and of Public Works will not suddenly work out a revamp budget to spruce up one of the facilities to make them livable for Oscar. I agree; that will be racist on all fronts!

You are saying that if our prisons were 5-star facilities you’d be happy to accompany Oscar tonight. How nice.

The offenders who are already serving time must learn to use lawyers who are smart enough to employ the services of privately run parole organisation to save them from “blading” behind bars.

Enjoy the money you’ve earned from Barry Roux team.

Yours

Honourable Health Minister, rope in the believers

Dear Minister Aaron Motsoaledi

I have just learned that a South African medical team has returned from a mission in West Africa where they went to help deal with the Ebola tragedy.

I am not sure why they have already returned, given that Ebola is still wreaking havoc and leaving destruction in its wake.

Is it possible for you to send several of our faith Pastors over there to give a hand? No pun intended.

I know that this might be a tough ask but, chances are that some of our Pastors, including those in the rest of Africa, are willing to go.

Let us do what we can to stop this tragedy.

Yours

Attending church in this age of miracles

One of my brothers, who is very outspoken about his plans to meet and date a church-going girl, revealed to me this week that he will be attending church service at Rabboni this weekend.

I was rather concerned about that, considering that some of the congregants over there have miraculously added new items to the food family of late.

As a result of his revelation by him, I have been toying with the possible changes we'd be witnessing after Sunday. And all I can see with my imaginary eye is lawnmowers being made redundant; garden flowers disappearing and car petrol going missing inside tanks.

So I had been wrecking my brains trying to come up with a rather smart plan to discourage him from... not from attending church per-se but... but from "going all the way" once Pastor You-know-who and his ilk start doing their "thing."

It is Friday. He told me about his Sunday plans on Monday. I still haven't figured out the plan. Then something more miraculous than we've seen happening at Rabboni happened.

A fellow with very advanced abilities to fore-see the future wherein Rabboni Church is doling out food menus with unprecedented efficiency and precision posted something on facebook. It is exactly what I have been hoping to come up with to reverse, if not to manage, my brother's since-that-Sunday business. I swear this is what I am going to point out to my brother on Saturday evening as he prepares his Sunday's best.

Dumisane Welcome Mahlangu posted this:

'It's hard to date a Christian girl these days. Imagine taking her on a picnic and she eats the grass. You buy her flowers and she eats them. Suddenly you can't drive back home because she drank your petrol. Haai kubi bazalwane'

Confessing beautiful problems

I am here to make a shocking confession.

I have a serious problem. This problem started a long time ago. But I will not bore you with the detail. What I want to say right now is that this M-LP is destroying me.

I was going through my “things” yesterday. I was pleasantly shocked to discover that my problem has not gone away.

It had been over a year since I’d last seen them. About two times in my life I have been made aware of how silly and attention-seeking I am. Even Ausi Mmatshilo Motsei slammed me with this truth on facebook when, on two occasions, she told me to stop whining about losing my CD copy of Afrocentric (Jimmy Dludlu). ‘Get yourself a new copy, Fusi,’ she said.

A certain sleek, progressive and funny man by the name of Abuti Nymbeleni Tshindane told me to get a life. He didn’t quite put it that way. He said that I must get myself an iPod and all my problems about CDs that go missing will be a problem of the past.

I still don’t have the iPod, which means that my problems are still with me. I guess I love my problem. So I am here to confess exactly that.

And to say that I jumped with joy yesterday when I opened a box to find the CDs which I thought I had lost over 2 years ago. You will not believe this. I found Jimmy Dludlu in there. There was Sakhile. There was Paul Hanmer, Wessel van Rensburg (that track called “song for E”, Laaawd help me) and Oliver Mtukudzi. There is “motseredende” in that album; imagine how serious this problem I am having is.

To reunite with my long-lost darlings, I decided to play ‘Tales from the South’ by Themba Mkhize. No, wait! You are younger than 30, or you are older enough but you think Jonas Gwangwa and Judith Sephuma are the only greats in the land, do not judge me as yet. Instead, hang around for a brief intro to what you’ve been sorely missing...

I said I have re-united with Tales from the South today. Ngwaneso, it was “Ngaliwe” (first track) which rocked me through a morning of peace. Yet I knew that track number 9, “Inner peace,” in which Sibongile Khumalo lets her voice glide over Themba’s hypnotic keyboard and Vusi Khumalo’s drums like a butterfly sampling breath-taking flowers, was in the offing. But I am a person who is mostly in no rush, as you are about to see.

But getting past songs like “Ilanga” in which Kelly Petlane’s flute and Fana Zulu’s bass make me want to drive to Cape Town at a speed of 60, for no apparent reason, was to be an entertaining problem indeed. Not to mention “Ikhwezi”. Ngwaneso, Bra Hugh Masekela is involved there. He is there to blow me away with his flugen horn, while Themba Mkhize’s keyboards take the magical back seat typical of his (I think) shy demeanour.

Next on the list for the entire day is Afrocentric by Jimmy Dludlu. Oh, the excitement I am in right now. God I love my Music-Loving Problem! To think that Themba Mkhize is still waiting to offer me his brilliance through ‘Lost and Found’ (which I think rings true of my M-LP) and ‘Hands On.’ That song which makes you weep non-stop when you think of our past is there – “shosholoza.”

But I will have to get past that beautiful “east meets south” number before I greet Jimmy Dludlu, whose “inyoni iyaphapha” reminds me of my lone and long travel to Venda, not to mention “river of dreams” which frees a poetic Duma ka Ndlovu to tell us what a genius Moses Taiwa Molelekwa was.

I am enjoying my music-loving problem. I hope that you are not shocked.

In honour of your vote, I thee razzmatazz you

There is a Minister in this cabinet of our beloved country, South Africa. His name is known to many. He is the only one who stands out on this one. Yes, I admit, that there are many now and before who've blasted us with hollow speeches and left us transfixed with big words. But I doff my hat to this particular one.

He is Minister of bombastic words and dizzying phrases. You know, he reminds me of those of us who used to attend SRC and Student Body meetings with dictionaries in our hands. Let me take you back in time...

...When somebody would raise the hand to be noted by Chairperson in that round of questions (that is if they did not smuggle themselves into the discussion by calling an in-appropriate "Order.")

Once noted by Chairperson, the comrade would bury his head into something he’s holding under a desk, raise his head every now and then to follow the points coming up from those speaking ahead of him, while impatiently waiting for his turn to ask a question, or to make a point.

You'd not be so sure of what it is he is busy with under the desk until the platform has been accorded to him. Then the moment would arrive. Comrade would sting everybody with big, big words, and not really make sense in the process.

No-no-no, If comrade was asking a question, he’d begin with a 75 second-long preamble. By the time he got to asking the question, it’d be time-up. Rival comrades would call Order, demanding him to sit down. Comrade Preamble, not wanting to be undermined, would call a counter-Order, ‘Chairperson, can I be protected here from these howlers?’ he’d say.

I keep saying “He” because mostly it would be guys doing this. Women often cut to the chase, and mostly left the comrade they were talking to bleeding, in a political sense, and the rest of the Student Body rolling on the floor. They hardly had time for rhetoric and stroking of egos. A lot of time got wasted in those meetings. How do you explain a Student Parliament which started at 17h00, only to end at 00h55, and even then merely because the students need to sleep ahead of another grueling academic day?

I have witnessed these speak-oxford incidents many times. One day, Comrade Jasibaya put his Oxford what-you-call-it in his chair, pulled himself erect, slid the right hand inside his pocket, used his left index finger to punch the air, and asserted that if we did not challenge management's unilateral decision to increase academic fees, "the status-quo shall remain the status-quo!"

Yes, we sat there, wandering, which status-quo is which? Another comrade, confused by what we’ve just heard, called "Order." 'There is order from Comrade Neheti,' said Madam Chairperson.

'Chairperson,' he said, with all the seriousness he could muster, 'I think I want to call Order on Comrade Jasibaya... to say that he is forcing us to bring our own Oxford dictionaries to SRC meetings.' The boardroom became a scene of full-on guffaw.

Today I look at some of the up and coming political leaders who were part of these shenanigans back in the day, and I shudder to think that they will soon be very influential leaders in various capacities. They will be “razzmatazz-ing” us to no end. And these are the leaders who want a vote from the people, some of whom have no idea what "decayed rogues with dubious means of subsistence and of dubious origin…” means.

The bang-bang nerve of striking down dreams

Yesterday I read a story in the newspaper titled “Black youths becoming less skilled.” Pali Lehohla of Stats SA was reading the report on youth unemployment. ‘Black youth between the ages of 25 and 34 lost out in acquiring skills through the 20-year period, and that is the crux of the issue of youth unemployment,’ he reportedly said. 

As I was reading it, my mind raced back to the day in 2012 when a very irate HR Consultant phoned me. She felt that she needed to talk to someone. I pulled the car to the side of Golden Highway to listen to what she had to say.

‘I have just come out of the HR Committee meeting,’ she said. ‘An executive who came to address us gave us a real dressing down.’
About what, I asked.
‘Apparently we are doing nothing to transform and the business is feeling the pinch.’ She went on saying ‘Every year we chase the targets to recruit and employ Black talent from graduate level to senior management.’

‘Okay,’ I urged her to continue.

‘But our frustration is that every time you talk Employment Equity line (managers) tell us that there is no skilled Black talent; so the people come here, get frustrated, or if they stay until the end of graduate programme, they don’t get appointed and therefore they leave!’

‘Hold on; why is this happening?’ I asked.
‘They reject Black talent, and then they have the nerve to come to meetings to grill us on our dismal failure to help the organisation to transform!’

Where does your (Black) HR Executive feature in all of this? I asked her.
‘Ooho! That one has no influence whatsoever.’
‘But…’
‘No one knows how she got to that position,’ she said, nullifying what I was about to say.

When I lifted my eyes, two boys were signaling at me to give them a lift home. The Ipelegeng Bus droned noisily and stopped right in front of me. The Caller said something about being “so angry and tired of this nonsense I am even prepared to resign.”

The bus ejected Black talent and swallowed some, and sped off its way towards Orange Farm, Evaton and Sebokeng. The passengers in the bus are those I usually see at the bus stops around Johannesburg every afternoon. They wait there for the bus ride back home. Most of them have been plodding like this for fifteen years and more.

I figure that the boys who are “interrupting” my phone conversation have shunned nearby schools (some are overcrowded; some are dysfunctional; some have closed down) to find better education far away. Perhaps some of them can afford school transport but they choose not to use it. Yet I have not seen school transport in that part of the world. So the learners risk their lives every day to get education.

The caller told me about two young people who came through graduate programme about two years earlier. They were fast-tracked through to HR management positions. My ears stood up, yet I followed the actions of the two boys by the pavement. I must have asked something about what qualified those two to even bypass her (a qualified professional with 7 years experience) to management level. I only regained full focus when she said ‘maybe it’s because they are White.’

It came with a bang. The gravity of this, my mind argued, is that the two inexperienced, newly appointed HR managers, who came through dubious means, will be replicating the norm of striking down dreams, given the power which has just been bestowed upon them.

If the school kids who are hitch-hiking down Golden Highway make it to graduation, and find a career job, they are likely to witness what the HR Consultant is witnessing in the plush corporate corridors North of Joburg. If they do not make it, they are likely to join the multitudes of youth who entered large corporate premises in the city through a promising Learnership or graduate programme, only to be let go after 12 months.

I think of this as I make a mental note of the fact that the highest unemployment rate is of people between ages of 15 and 24. Today the Stats SA is saying the Black youth of 25 to 34 years lost out in acquiring skills in the 20-year period, and are part of the 75% youth unemployment.

As a consequence, the future is such that the Black youth will hop in and out of buses to do unskilled jobs far from home, because they could not impress dubiously appointed managers who struck down their ambitions, because they were not “fitting in” to the company culture. And what of the irony of great BEE scores, obtained through hurried skills development programme of Black youth, that would have earned the company serious contracts during the financial year? It is a frenzied bang-bang of legislative compliance.

The mood of the phone conversation was turbulent. I was listening, but I was not commiserating; I was tracing the ramifications of what she was angry about. The bus, the passengers and the school boys who cannot afford a ride to and from school illuminated the conundrum. We ended the conversation, agreeing that we must explore the solution.

The school boys had suddenly disappeared. As I turned on the ignition, I wandered how the female school girls cope with this situation. Further down the way, I offered the lift to a father of 3 school-going children. He told me that he is working in Benoni. ‘The company car drops us at Eldorado Park; so I hitch-hike everyday to get home.’

‘Haibo, ntate!’ I exclaimed.

‘Yebo, mfana wam’; I have been working in Benoni for 18 years.’

I write what I like, on Biko Day

On this very important Day, I want to write what I like by saying...

Given our white supremacist world order that ranks the value of life according to race (which means that Reeva's life ranks slightly higher), and patriarchal culture which renders women the servants and punching bags of the psychiatric ward we call world order, White dude gets what promises to be a lenient sentence for murdering a woman. Patriarchy wins.

And because the Judge is Black, and a woman, patriarchy and racism collaborate towards victory. As a result of this, every hierarchy of human species has the universal "right" to tear Judge Thokozile Masipa to pieces. It is free for all attack, despite the legal brains attributed to her, under the circumstances of this psychiatric ward we all live in. There can be no consequences for this attack on her. The assault is literally top-down. Nobody in the ranking order cares. We are all above the object of our fury.'

#OscarTrial#

Well, good morning to you, Hala (Gorani) at CNN Studios…

The news that is coming from South Africa is that Oscar Pistorius will walk.

Given that this is South Africa, where somebody else must take the blame for the mess of important people, it’s only a matter of time before Judge Thokozile Masipa takes the blame for what became the outcome of this case of murder.

A racist idiot (pardon me, Hala, but this is a common name here in South Africa) in the streets of Johannesburg was heard saying as he walked past the TV set showing the Oscar trial inside Bradlows store, ‘Masipa, what were you doing officiating in the white man’s failed romance?’

The other news coming through is that the reaction of the ANCWL, who’ve been missing in action on hundreds of cases of women murdered by their men – except this one, interestingly - is highly anticipitated, especially by everybody that still takes politics seriously in the country.

Somebody who admires what goes on in the offices at 187 Bree Street (Public Protector headquarters) was heard saying she will be laying a complaint with the Public Protector. According to those who were within earshot, the woman wants the PP to investigate why the ANCWL did not come to her defence when some Deputy Minister called her a CIA Agent.
But some argue that this is not necessary, given that the Idiot has since apologised.

In other news:
The number of legal experts in South Africa has increased phenomenally in one day. It is expected that many of them will be getting their legal degrees by midnight. Dr. Pallo Jordan will be officiating the ceremony, with Mr. Hlaudi Motsoeneng delivering keynote speech.

David Kibuuka
Reporting live

Pretoria, South Africa

Have we chosen presidential opulence over country's wealth?

The Julius Malema-led EFF squared up with Jacob Zuma in parliament. They asked the president, ‘When are you going to pay back the money?’ The president responded to the question, by not answering it, and all hell broke loose.

In a fit of rage, Gwede Mantashe remarked that parliament may have to relocate because the WC police don’t take instructions. Don’t ask ‘whose instructions?’ Maybe the Farlam Commission on the Marikana massacre will reveal that, in a way. That is if the Commission is not yet another façade of our democratic dispensation.

Thami ka Plaatjie entered the fray. He ordered the Public Protector to “learn to wait”; and reminded her that she is “not a law unto herself.” A barrage of irate remarks ensued, some ordering Thami to sit down, while others urged him to keep the missiles flying into 187 Bree Street.

The Chairperson of the MK Military Veterans Association, who is also Deputy Minister of Defence, (just think about this combination), Kebby Maphatsoe, took to the podium at a weekend event to get a few things off his chest. He has since been made to swallow his words; for “insinuating” that Thuli Madonsela is a CIA agent. And while you hold that thought, is this not an act of misleading parliament, that a Minister refutes claims inside parliament, and apologises later for saying what he refuted?

How did we get sidetracked like this?

Should we be shouting "pay back the money"? Should those of us who oppose Public Protector’s finding descend to parliament to protect “our president” from the EFF? We are sidetracked, and we seem to be enjoying our off-track descent.

Here we are, clogging our arteries, and sustaining blinding headaches, shouting at the president, to pay back part of R250m spent on Nkandla, because the Public Protector has said so. Yet, we have not made any demands to an endless conveyer belt of foreign-controlled, racist, and exclusive programme which has been taking from our land, and beneath it, for 3 centuries.

I thought that the miners in the platinum belt were onto something. The death of 34+ people in Marikana is a loud message of where the politics are. I thought that after the Die Doorns strikes we'd all say: Enough with this greed!

I thought that we’d show that our way out of poverty is to reclaim equitable ownership of what makes others so wealthy. And I was under the impression that we will be weeding out the politician-cum-rogues from the garden patch while we are at it.

But no, we are fighting for space in parliament in order to shout at the president. Are we supposed to throttle each other, as black people, just because the president, whose party was voted into power 3 months ago, is refusing to pay back part of a mere R250m?

Yes, R250m is nothing. How much money have we wasted, looted, in the public sector, before and during the time when the president watched with bewilderment as his Nkandla home rose from the ground? How much is being wasted now as you are reading this piece? And how much will still be stolen?

Will paying back a fraction of the money by the president solve the problems we are having? Seeing that we are bent on seeing the president return some of the money to government coffers, for what use will that money? Do we want the money to be paid so that it can be stolen again using different methods, or do we want politicians and oligarchy to find a way back to being human?

If the answer is the former, then what we are seeing today may worsen tomorrow. But if the answer is the latter, then we must all deliver dishonest politicians and oligarchy from their evil ways. It is in the interest of humanity that we help them to be human again. And the only way for them to gain acceptance to humanness is to pay back the wealth, and surrender it to the nation.

Distracted from demanding humanity

Is there a country in the world where politics and comedy coexist like it is in South Africa? Not long ago we witnessed "pay back the money" demands in parliament. Over the course of last week it has been "give us the tapes," outside the court. These are two political demands of no real significance.

We want the president to pay back part of the R250m which went into building his Nkandla homestead, and then let him go live up his retirement in peaceful splendour. Yet we have said very little about the continuing looting of the real wealth of the country. Trillions of rands are siphoned on daily basis by Mr. and Ms. Foreign Investor.

Granted, the EFF is demanding nationalisation of the mines. But this is not revolution. It is a cry for Oligarchy to hand over control of their interests to the politicians who, arguably, are their historical and institutional employees any way.

When those who stand up to revolt against injustice meet the wrath of the State, we cry crocodile tears, on media platforms and smaller social circles, and leave the matter to a Commission of Inquiry, set up by the employee of Oligarchy. As expected, the Farlam Commission is letting the real culprits off the hook. The Lonmin executives and shareholders - are they not the people who preside over daily exploitation?

We giggle ourselves silly, watching a side-show spectacle, as Adv Mpofu vents at a Deputy President who owns minority share of Lonmin. As it is to be expected, those who take the side of DP make hollow speeches and irresponsible threats at the podiums. Then it is loud silence afterwards.

Once the dust has settled, shareholder instructs executives who walk scot free to ramp up profits and prevent the costly incident of labour strikes. Massive retrenchments follow. Politicians make few noises, just to contain the narrative. But everybody who is affected will certainly live with the consequences. At times we protest, by stealing from and murdering one another, all in pursuit of survival. Politicians call it a crime. They promise to stop it yet they do not have solutions. Even they are busy avoiding abject poverty. So, they carry on appeasing Oligarchy - a crime of their own. They apply gloss on the norm; they call it crafting legislation. The elite continue to rake in super profits. It’s a vicious cycle.

The leaders who must’ve descended to Marikana to demand real answers from the real culprits, and to prevent a massacre, were missing in action. Some of them have denied culpability to the massacre, at the very Commission set up by their Boss to uncover the truth, despite the fact that they were in charge of state police machinery which pulled the trigger. ‘We are all responsible for what happened in Marikana,’ says one of them. And nobody is asking the question: Who is “we”? Not all of us own Lonmin shares.

Today we are reading that the same leaders have requested a meeting with Mfundi Vundla. He is allegedly exploiting a cast of few actors, by paying them an average of R50 000 per month, to keep the daily lullabye called soapie rolling for the entertainment of the wretched masses. The cast are not his employees, yet a labour federation is demanding explanation from him. The leader of a federation is calling for a boycott of the soapie, because the matter must be resolved, so that the lullaby can go back on the screen. Are we ever going to boycott exploitative mining companies?

Somebody, please compare the Generations cast to thousands of miners who were at first ignored by the “leaders”, then later mowed down by the state police for wanting R12 500. The soap stars are not employees, in a sense, but independent freelancers. The essence of their work is steeped in the culture of earning in order to purchase the bling, amongst other things, from Mr. and Ms. Investor, in order to flaunt it, for the masses to keep “dreaming”, instead of demanding justice. Generations is hardly a contributor of 18% of GDP, which is what mining sector is contributing. But hey, Mfundi Vundla is not Ian Farmer (former CEO of Lonmin); so we will take him on! We are bullying a small boy here. What about taking on the big boys?

If this is not an obvious example of how people are being distracted from demanding humanity, then there can be no better examples.

The Generations cast have a right to demand their dues. And so do the miners who risk their lives working deep in the belly of earth, bringing up precious minerals to enrich a few greedy elite, and their chosen gate-keeping politicians. To think that most miners live in squalor, and on poor diet; that they barely afford good education for their children, when the mining licenses granted by government place social responsibility on the investors to create decent livelihoods for the miners and their surrounding communities… It is real shame!

The attention politicians are giving to Generations, in the aftermath of their absence in the platinum mining sector showdown, goes a long to reveal what they think the priorities of running a country are.

After the Democratic Alliance has obtained convenient evidence to force the president to face charges, and to “probably” go to jail, what will the country gain? I will not be surprised if what is in the spy tapes is nothing but inaudible conversation between people about nothing of real earthly significance. The distraction of people who are demanding real justice is in full swing.

Perhaps nailing the president will give the nation hope. But a clean president is not the solution to the man-made human suffering we are confronted with. This humungous system of hoarding resources and amassing wealth is exploitative and thus produces corruptible servants of itself with swift efficiency. A president will go, another one will come. The system maintains itself in this way.

As long as you have Mr. and Ms. Foreign Investor looting, and using greedy politicians to keep the attention away from the real crime, grand opulence and heart-breaking poverty will keep people divided forever.

http://www.pretoria-news.co.za/nathi-mthethwa-fights-to-save-generations/

http://www.miningweekly.com/article/mining-sector-core-to-sas-gdp-growth-2014-06-04

http://enca.com/da-gather-pta-spy-tapes-handover

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=620300908055965&set=vb.113344868751574&type=2&theater

Progress, show some respect!

I visited a con artist yesterday. ‘We are selling nice food here. Come over to see,’ the man said. ‘And since you owe me (an apology), be ready to buy me a large burger when you get here.’

That didn’t sit well with me. So I removed the R50 note in my wallet and headed to Bedworth Park, penniless. I wasn’t going to let Progress to con me without a fight. The guy can sell you a stone when he’s in great selling form.

I found familiar faces there. Progress Sondlane, Desmond Mashele, Respect Sondlane and a likeable guy who preferred to introduce himself by his surname – Vilankulu. Did you note the first names? Yes, the parents in Bushbuckridge and surrounding areas give their boys names like Surprise, Knowledge, Sensible, Excellent and Salvation.

I was not necessarily thinking about this when I was shaking their freezing cold hands, but when my hosts started re-arranging their surnames into “sond-lane”, “masheley” and “villain-cool,” then I knew why great Tsonga names like Ntsako and Khensani were enjoying second class status in the country of their birth.

Those entertaining fellas talked about facebook, the country, politics, books, etc. I did more listening and less talking. I thank Progress who did the most talking, much to the irritation of his brother, Respect, and Villain-cool, who both teamed up to command him to "learn to listen.” As soon as Progress started practicing some listening skills, we seemed to make great progress indeed.

Respect would pull out of the circle to go sell a packet of chips to a customer. Whenever he returned, he’d respectfully (no pun intended) ask to interrupt us, and then take us back to a point we were discussing when he left. How rude is that? He also kept suggesting that I have nodded to his point of view, which for him it meant that he damn well had a right to carry on interrupting us after selling another packet of chips, or a white loaf of bread. That is how brave Respect is. He debates with friends whilst making money. This is a man who sold his car in order to finance the very food business his progressive brother was forcing me to support by buying him a large burger.

And then there was Desmond, who kept referring to his profession, IT, every now and then during the debate. The guy is passionate about his career, I tell you.

Vilankulu is that man who, after commanding Progress to “learn to listen”, the courage which we really appreciated, deserted us for a lady who’d come to buy a loaf of brown bread. Because I could overhear, the poor lady was made to answer silly questions like ‘between white bread and brown bread, which one do you like?’ Ag!

We closed the shop and called it a day. Thank you for a great afternoon, guys.

A phone call to the President

Atul: ‘Mr. President, please, before you go (to meet Russian president at his residence)...
President: 'But I must go, Atul!'

Atul: 'I was saying that you don't need to wait for Minister of Defence to brief you about the situation later. I suggest that you handle this matter the Mandela way.’

President: 'What do you mean?'

Atul: 'Of course Minister of Defence will still get involved but...'
President: (he is exasperated and whispering) 'But what?'

Atul: ‘Mr. President I do not really know who is in charge of the country in your convenient absence, seeing that I have been busy lately pulling Lesotho out of its economic cesspool, you know what I mean.’

President: ‘Atul, I really must go… (Russians don't like cellphones at Putin's gates) what do you want me to do?’

Atul: ‘I’m saying that if you can give the reigns to Shenge right now – something which I can facilitate very fast - I promise you that this senseless mutiny happening in Lesotho will be over before President Putin’s wife has handed you a bowl of desert.’
President: ‘Atul, leave me to run my country.’

Atul: ‘What I’m saying Mr. President is; help me to run Lesotho.’

[President ends the call]

http://mg.co.za/article/2014-08-31-department-denies-sas-involvement-in-lesotho

Voting at the memorial service

An eloquent speaker who gave a moving eulogy of the deceased, a friend of his, received a standing ovation, which mutated into a powerful hymn. Modulasetulo, who had succumbed to its hypnotic effect, regained his senses, signaled for the singing to end, said a few words and welcomed on stage the next speaker.

A dark and short man stood up. ‘I just want to talk about reconciliation versus economic development,’ he said after uttering “all protocol observed” and informing everybody that he is commanding a senior position at the municipality. His maroon suit was gleaming. KK of Muvhango would have been jealous. His white shirt, with its thick decorated collar, clamored for recognition under a woolen scarf of the South African national flag.

Most of what he said flew past me. I was distracted by the commotion of people whom, at first, I thought were pressed and therefore they were consulting the bathroom. But they were not returning. Instead, more people were emptying the chairs.

Once or twice my ears were of good use. So I heard the speaker lambasting the financial services company (the employer of the deceased) for not doing their work of making the nation to invest money so that government could lead a wealthy society. ‘Government is being blamed for the things we are not responsible for,’ he said. I was curious to follow this intellectual speech. But once again I was distracted.

A man who parked a taxi right in front of the church came in towards me, folded his arms, stretched his neck this way and that way as if he was searching for somebody in particular, and prodded me with a bizarre question, ‘What is the occasion?’ The number of empty chairs was increasing. I had barely managed to say ‘it is a memorial service’ when he asked ‘Who is this guy?’ I did not know the speaker.

The banners of the company the deceased worked for expressly dotted the yard from the gate. The people who left their warm chairs to tremble in the cold outside were chatting in hushed tones. I was there to eavesdrop; to catch the hint of what led to them to doing this.

‘Daaiman wa bora man!’ said a very tall man with a sharp Adam’s apple as I squeezed past him. ‘What does he know about our company?’ asked a lady standing among those wearing corporate attire like her. The other one mused ‘So we are running the country down?’ Few of those who overheard giggled. I could hear Mr. Municipal Official still blowing hot air on the pulpit. And the people had run away from it, to complain about it.

I was still marveling at the 20-something minutes of a swelling church yard, a half-empty church building, a belligerent municipal official doing more damage than the reconciliation he promised to talk about – and not saying much about the deceased in his speech - when someone peeped through the door to inform everybody who was standing outside, ‘He is done.’ Immediately, scores of people filed back inside the church.

I followed them. I reached my spot to find that the taxi driver was thoroughly amused. ‘The guy was still going on,’ he told me; ‘Modulasetulo had to beg him to finish so that Moruti could speak.’ He giggled more. ‘Clearly, the Municipal Official did not get the hint when the people started voting with their feet,’ whispered somebody from behind us. 

The Republic of Angry South Africa

The police who assaulted Andries Tatane in full view of people have since been acquitted. There is not enough evidence, the court found, to jail the alleged perpetrators.

 In the many public protests over service delivery, many people have been killed after being nabbed, or being shot at, by the police.

The police dragged a Mozambican national behind the police van. He was found dead later in the police facility.

Several weeks ago, an EFF leader stood inside parliament to accuse the ANC of killing the people of Marikana and refusing responsibility. He was chased out with his comrades.

Last week, a 22 year old woman in Alexandra died from assault injuries in the hands of the police. Her crime, it seems, was that she is a lover to a criminal who is at large.

Today, the former Police Minister is putting out fires in the Marikana Commission. He is emphasizing that the strike in Marikana had become criminal. Before this, a certain Mr. X gave a chilling account of the striking miners who killed and used limbs of the deceased for muti, to avert bullets from the police.  

Across the country, public protests over service delivery have evolved from singing and chanting, to barricading the roads. There is burning of tyres, damage to property and ransacking the shops to make off with convenient necessities.

Things have become more dramatic. If we are not torching the property, and rendering the Councillors homeless, we are delivering feaces from one place to dump it at the other.

It does not end there. While the place we have just trashed is going up in stinking smoke, we pull down undergarments and show those holding their noses our backsides. If you won’t smell it, see where the stink came from.

Depending on whether you are involved, affected or unaffected by this bloody row, sometimes you are alarmed, sometimes you are angry and sometimes you are simply in stitches. Indeed life, in its endless moments of seriousness, is shocking, annoying and hilarious.

This time round you are giggling. Somebody is scaling a fence with amazing deftness. Warrant Officer Mangmang ran with all his might to nab him, only to fail dismally. If only Comrade Cele was still around to effect a “stomach out” turnaround strategy, Mangmang would not be lying inside the Inyala, fighting for his breath, and fantasizing about the two cold ones at the end of this grueling shift.

Just two towns away, someone else is driving outside her area. The attempt is risky. The road is adorned with rocks and burning tyres. The black refuse bags, since being relieved of their fill, have taken cover by the pavement. Left-over food, tins, pampers and what have you, have connived to pledge solidarity with the faeces drama unfolding in places like Zilleland. Finally she realizes that it was only a matter of time before the smell of her angry country caught up with her.

Hell is awaiting as you approach the workplace. Your colleagues, with whom you carry the burden of earning peanuts while petrol, food and other necessities are fast becoming unaffordable, are baying for your blood. They feel betrayed by your decision to do your shift. The prospect of them facing the shame of hospitalizing you seems like a non-issue to them. They want their 12% wage increase and they are willing to chop limbs to get more people on their side.

Things come to a head when, in the peak of the morning rush to work, you see the cars ahead of you slowing down. You cast your eyes further to see what is in the distance.

You are drifting deeper into a crowd. It is a mob of school-going kids. The teachers are, by that time, cupping their waist on the side walk. They are clearly trying to catch their breath after one or two chants up and down the road.

You cannot do a u-turn. You roll the car window down. ‘What is happening?’ you ask a nearby kid. He looks thoroughly entertained by the unfolding mayhem. ‘Boko Haram! Bring back our girls!’ he exclaims with a clenched fist. As the question ‘kid, do own any girls’ rolls past your mind, John Robbie, or Sakina Kamwendo, depending on your morning radio taste, is screaming from the radio set. Boko Haram have abducted more girls.

Suddenly the car or taxi you are travelling in is tilting sideways. The kids are making their demands, and they are slapping the cars with their bare hands to make a point. ‘Kids,’ you are thinking out loud, ‘did you know that Goodluck Jonathan has been chasing down Boko Haram suspects, and jailing some of them for months already?’

But now that Big Brother from West has threatened to send his sleek army in the mould of Wesley Snipes and Jason Statham to Nigeria, and has whisked Her president to Europe to parade him like a boy who needs reinforcements to take on his bullies, the school kids in South Africa are suddenly demanding their “girls” who went missing in the intricate Nigerian wilderness to be brought back. And they are assaulting cars and punishing motorists just outside of Joburg city for it.

What have we been teaching the children lately?

You start a short prayer. You are hoping that Miway have deducted their monthly debit. After all, your jalopee may be heading straight to the scrap heap at the end of this, and you to the hospital, if not to the police holding cell, to nurse broken jaws and ribs, if not a fatal wound, which only your loved ones may live to see.

What is in the bag?

It was in 2001. We were inside a Student Parliament at the Technikon. In the midst of everybody bludgeoning their political opponents with intellectual arguments, an SRC colleague lamented those who went around the campus carrying "mystery things" inside their bags.

'You are always carrying these bags everywhere you go. You speak in hushed tones wherever you are; what are you carrying inside those bags? We want to know!' Mpho asked forcefully. The parliament was in a raucous as everybody laughed at this lament.

It had become a norm that those who attended to the work of political organisations more than they did the lectures were coming to Student Parliament to push their agenda. Well, everybody did. If you are not following what I am talking about, think of how the name "academic ancestors" came about.

And when their agenda was challenged by the opposing political foes, they always threatened to pull out a "classified document" of Senate, of Technikon Council, or some very secret minutes from one of Minister Kader Asmal's very high-level meetings.

All those “important” documents, they used to say, were right inside their bags. You know those bags which you will get when you are attending a something-something Conference, or Congress, with a date and what have you? Yes, those ones. Those bags proved that indeed these particularly knowledgeable individuals go to very important places, and therefore they certainly have important information in there.

Many of us fell for these antics. We believed their convenient truths. As a result they wielded influence over us. There was a guy. People, when Francis (I forget his surname) stood up to speak, everybody became silent. Sekgowa sa daaiman ne se le blind, stru. I cannot remember him speaking his brilliant English whilst looking you in the eye. If we were inside a building, he’d be speaking to the roof. If we were outside, the sky, Baba.

And there was a famous culprit of "classified" documents inside emblazoned bags. Moatlhodi (I forget his surname.) I give credit to this guy for being the first one to break the news to us that the Twin Towers in the U.S.A have just been hit. It was 11 September 2001 when he came running down the steps of the Auditorium, rudely interrupting the Chairperson of Student Parliament, to effect ‘Excigency!’

Do not ask me how the news reached him. There was no facebook and twitter in 2011. Nokia 3310 (the best at that time) was still struggling with network and surely the international calls monopolized by Vodacom and MTN were exhorbitant. We also know that what happened today used to reach the nation tomorrow because Sowetan and The Star were still Gods of daily news. The least said about SABC radio, the better because when Osama allegedly “hit”, Metro FM’s drive-time show must’ve been playing Tamia and Boyz II Men, while Thuso Motaung was irritating the taxi drivers and owners with endless commuter complaints through Bua Le Yona Mokganni on Lesedi FM.

Those of us who were still wet behind our ears, politically speaking, and sweating heavily under our oversized SRC suits, were like, ‘#sigh# Why must I stop the presentation of my report midway to marvel at the two planes which actually flew into the high-rise buildings in the U.S.A?’ Do not judge me. Many of us did not know who Osama Bin Laden was until September 11 happened. And, to us, President Bush was just another American president with innocent intentions and big ears.

The terrible thing was that not only was our parliamentary business interrupted, but the sight of students ejecting themselves out of the library with their bags barely zipped and asking ‘what happened? Is the campus on fire or something?’ was great to behold.

Anyway, the U.S.A shock gradually wore off. We carried on lynching each other inside the parliament, much into the night. I forget whether the issue of “what’s in the bag” was responded to, suffice it to say that perhaps Moatlhudi used the Twin Tower mayhem to outmaneuver the question from Mpho. I also wonder if that culture of employing classified information inside the bag, to enforce a person’s credibility on the debate, is still continuing to this day of google and facebook. 

I was reminded of this "what's in the bag” incident when I saw the picture of a Kaizer Chiefs-supporting fella with a (Black people call it) paperbag on his head. Attached to the bag is the white (we call it) cardboard with the message LEAGUE IN THE BAG. He is sauntering in the grand stands and the fellow KC supporters, like some politically inept students that we were in 2001, look certainly impressed with his self-assured, and, if I might add, pre-mature frolics.

So if my former colleague, Mpho, was seeing this picture, surely he’d ask that famous question in a slightly different way, ‘Where is that bag now? What is inside that bag now?’ And of course I imagine that Moatlhudi, whom I suspect he is a KC supporter, will budge into the discussion by saying ‘Excigency, comrades! Motsepe has hit the twin gates of Naturena and he has, thus, made off with our PSL trophy!’