kagablog

These days I wear my safety belt when I drive around Joburg. It’s a sign that I have grown up, I suppose. Like the way I am always fucking working. I used to do sweet fuckall, I’m not sure how. It would drive me nuts now. Anway, there was a time that I never wore safety belts, and one of those times was when I used to pick up street-walkers. It just didn’t seem appropriate to be buckled up when you knew that the makgosha was soon going to unbuckle your belt. It was somehow too lawful. In those days I also used to smoke, which made the whole interaction easier. I mean, have you ever heard of a prossie who doesn’t smoke? Like, they are worried about their health and complexion? And what would they do in between Johns – brush up on their literature? So I used to offer the makgosha a smoke after I had blown my wad, and it made the drive back to the pickup point just that much easier. Smokes are great for that – they ease the spaces up between and after things have happened, they mark the space with a little brown burn. You feel naked without one when you quit; you have to face the space all naked and alone. Life without filters and all that. So there was this makgosha who used to stand on a dimly lit stretch of road opposite the Brixton graveyard. Behind her was the old age home which was supposed to get a fence put up by council to keep out the night rabble, but that never happened. To get to this blonde, who was in her late twenties, one had to pass the flying squad headquarters. She would stand just a few meters down from where the squad cars emerged. I dunno why, I guess she felt safer knowing the cops were right there. She said they even knew her name, which I forget now, but I wouldn’t tell you anyhow. She said they knew her story, which was that she was raising a baby on her own. Well, not quite on her own, she apparently had her mum to help her, but no man. Her mother must have held the infant and fed it and shushed it up when it yelled, when its mother was out looking for Johns. I never knew if it was a girl or a boy, and I never asked. But I always gave her a little bonus, and a smoke on the way home, cause I felt sorry for her and her kid. If it was a true story. Somehow, I believed her. There were nights when I was bored and would drive past, just to see if she was there. If she was, it gave me a little thrill to know that I could have picked her up, but I hadn’t. If she wasn’t there, it was a relief to know that I wouldn’t have to make the decision. Either way, it made the trip home a bit more spicy. The blonde before her was a little bit shorter, and she had a great manner. She would make the whole transaction fun, which helps, because it’s always a bit nerve-wracking having sex behind someone’s house or in a park or a dark alley and not knowing who or what could disturb you. The little blonde was a crack addict. The faster she got you to give up your little bit of white semen, the faster she could score her little bit of white rock. She was really funny, and you felt really relaxed about all of the fifteen minute interaction, but she was a hectic racist. Anything black that drove past pulled a comment from her. The last time I saw her she was going to make a big score, one that would set her up for a while. Maybe something went wrong with the deal, because I never saw her opposite the graveyard again. Just the mother, who was a little taller, and always walked real slow and languid, turning to look at you as you drove past.