He mostly wears shirts with formal pants. Sometimes
it is a t-shirt of a political party, or a trade union. He hardly parts with
his yellow cap; sometimes a red one.
A bundle of keys hang around his chest by a thread
around his neck. He droops as he walks, showing no signs of being in a hurry.
He spots his target from a mile away. And proceeds
towards “it” with impressive stealth. Once he is within range, he flashes his
charm to greet. He must have rehearsed this over a long period of time. His gaze
locks you in. His broad hands move about in a coordinated fashion.
His whole being smiles at you. His verbal charm is
like tentacles of a leering creature. Before you know it, he has weakened all
your defences. He compliments you, telling you that a person of your calibre
deserves to be president of the country. You fall for that, and you imagine
yourself sauntering around Union Building with no particular care in the world.
As he speaks, his right hand pats his chest, on
several occasions. Then he touches the keys. Flipping a card holder, he flashes
the driver licence at you. You look closer, he pats the shoulder of a
“president” while promising to pull out his ID document from his back pocket,
if you so wish; just to put you at ease that he is a legit citizen in this
country you should be running.
He is willing to let you hold on to them – the
keys, driver licence, ID document… even a Nokia with a cracked screen – if you
will lend him a R50 that he is in short of to pay for his tender document. ‘I
am submitting it at the “manucipality,” he tells you. But, for a student that
you are, this is a lot of money to part with. To think that you literally walked
about 3 kilos to town, to maximise the purchasing power of your paltry
allowance, thanks to Tito Mboweni’s cruel decisions.
You ask him to show you that tender document. It
has been withheld by security officials. Why? ‘They are preventing fraud,’ he
says. You don’t have the time to walk with him to the municipal office to
verify this. Neither do you have the interest to hold on to those “valuables”
he is exchanging to get the money he needs from you.
Sorry, I don’t have the money, you say. The future
president must demonstrate ability to sympathise with the plight of ordinary
people. Therefore, he will not take a “No” for an answer. Were you not
listening? He said he is running a tendering business; it is very profitable.
This is a big tender which he cannot afford to lose out on. He can give you
shares if you are interested. Shares? For a R50 note borrowed in the street?
Not knowing how to get out of this situation, to
continue on your way to grocery store, your eyes save you. They fall on his
shoes. Dusty shoes. They look like they have seen better days. Despite his dark
skin, the sun has surely baked him, and the sweat glands are surely 5 nil ahead
against a compulsory morning bath, and deodorant.
You feel the drizzle coming down your face. Didn't the
news reader forecast a no chance of rain today? What is happening in
Vanderbijlpark at 10:52 in the morning? You look up to inspect what is supposed
to be clear blue skies. Your eyes fail to go beyond his fat lips. A third
spittle shoots out and lands just below your lip. Now you see where the rain is
coming from.
‘Jerry, tlohella
ngwana eo a tsamaye (let the boy go!)’ says a woman who is selling
vegetables to taxi commuters by the pavement. Tsamaya o lo sebetsa! Tlohella ditjhele tsa batho,’she shouts while
swatting flies which persistently threaten to spoil her wares. You walk on, briskly,
relieved that Mam’ Bongi has saved you from a tenderpreneur who wins R50 worth
of tenders from unsuspecting townsfolk.
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