kagablog

My name is Sugar Man.
I don’t know where I was born.
My mother said one thing.
My father said something else.

I was born outside the law.
Illegitimate. A bastard. Me.
I’m keeping this diary so that you’ll know
exactly when things went wrong.

The lossie is Afrikaans.
She’s got enormous ears and a moustache.
Hair pulled back in a bun.
She looks very tense.
She could pass for Greek.
The moustache helps.

I was smoother than I thought.
Got her talking about herself straight away.
I needed this break.
It’s good for the ego
when they don’t struggle.

“I’m very religious. I have to be.
I feel very guilty about being white.
I’m neglecting myself.
Ancestrally I’m from Persia
where all civilization began.”
Hmm, ancestrally I’m from Roodepoort
where all civilization ended.

“Do you like this kind of music?”

I’m going to relax her.
Get into the inside of her insides
by the end of the night.
It’s a very big project.
She must be made to understand.
To see my point of view.
I mustn’t sweat. I must unwind.
I owe it to myself.
She touches me somehow.
I’ll touch her. I’ll get her drunk.
She’s giggling. Am I entertaining her?

“The music’s terrible.
Your cheapest handbag house.
Strictly cheddar.”

She’s solarising now. It’s quite liberating.
She talks in jump cuts which I slo-mo using
the dagga. I wish I had this on video,
I could watch it over and over again.
She likes me. She hasn’t stopped talking
since I said “Hello, what’s your name?”
I must remember that opening line.
A classic.

“So listen, can I get you another couple of
drinks?”
“I don’t drink gin….not without tonic.”
We laugh. We drink. We laugh.
We go out into the road to smoke.
We go back inside.
We drink. We laugh.

She’s from Ceres.
“You grow up in wine country you develop
gout by the time you’re 23.”
We don’t talk for a while. Steady drinking.
“I lived with a Pisces for a year.
Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m a rock ‘n roller.”
“Look away! Look away! I beseech thee.”
“When I get bored I’m lethal.”
“So what do you do when you’re not
bored?”
“Would you like to see my thing? It talks.”
“Let’s go to Forries first.”

We drive to the illustrious Forrester’s Arms.
Not my choice of pub, believe me,
but it’s too early in the relationship to
bother arguing about anything.
It’s best to leave that until after the dipstick gets oiled.

“That’s thirteen twenty.”
“Thanks.”
It’s not cheap here.
The fresh hake is R19,90. Calamari R26,90.
Chicken Trammezini R21,50.
Regret no cheques accepted.
Steak roll R22,90. Greek salad R16,90.
Forries Burger R17,90.
Pork Schnitzel R23,90.
“I shouldn’t generalize, some of my best
friends are Vegans.”
“The best thing you can do for the Vegans
is not become one of them.”
“What’s the definition of a South African
intellectual?”
“Someone who had to be forced to play
rugby.”
“I love the word “carvery.””
“A gomtor is someone with very bad taste.”
“Do you want to make a donation for the
blind?”
“Absolutely not!”

It’s time. I make my move.
Tongue down her throat and finger up her
skirt. Both get wet.
Now I’m sure she likes me.

Later, at home, after it’s done,
smoking the inevitable Marlboros,
she suddenly turns to me with a serious
look in her eyes and a deep frown
etched across her forehead.

“Nowadays it’s called Iran.
But it used to be Persia,
and before that Mesopotamia.”

She is my first Mesopotamian.