kagablog

SIXTEEN

Nandi has a powerful aura about her which grabs you by the throat the minute you come across it and leaves you choking for more. She is aptly named. She is named after the mother of Shaka Zulu and she looks royal and elegant. She is a queen. She looks like she is fit to give birth to princes and princesses. Legend has it that after the death of his mother King Shaka almost destroyed his kingdom by issuing a decree that anyone who was found not mourning the death of his mother should be put to death. The nation mourned until they could mourn no more. So thousands and thousands of subjects were killed in one of the darkest periods in the Zulu empire. It took one brave man to bring King Shaka to his senses. And now Nandi looks fit to be celebrated and mourned with passion even in her own lifetime.

She has a sunny disposition about her that makes people want to bask around her vicinity. Her skin is soft and bronze. Her tender neck is thin and finely chiseled as if it had been inserted much later after creation to enjoin her head and body. Her body is thin and light as if it is too tiny to carry the power of her enormous spirit. She has an aura of antiquity about her that reminds one of Queen Nerfetiti.

She is dressed in a flowing fine linen dress that goes up to the hem of her knees courtesy of Trish. Her sandals which display her delicate tiny feet are made up of fine leather. She has a light denim bag wrapped around her shoulders. She wont take it off even at a table, it is part of her look. She reminds Graphit of the words he once had to recite on a stage play from the proverbs of Solomon:

“She makes herself coverings
Her clothing is fine linen and purple
Her husband is known in the city gates
Taking his seat among the elders of the land
She makes linen garments and sells them
She supplies the merchant with sashes
Strength and dignity are her clothing

Graphit has never felt this way, he is overwhelmed by her. He wants to get married to her and take his seat among the elders of the land and be known in the city gates.
He sits mesmerized on the carpet with Trish and Deep listening to Nandi read from Deep’s manuscript. Graphit watches Nandi like a star-struck kid seeing a movie star for the first time. Never in his entire life had he been taken by a woman, he is convinced. She had been reading undisturbed for a full thirty minutes. They sit on the carpet leaning on the walls.
“All the characters have no names” Trish observes.
Nandi stops and looked around the table as if to remind herself of their names.
“Its because Johannesburg has a way of stripping you of your identity” she responds “people become descriptions, mere labels”

Graphit is amazed. The woman knows the book better than the author. It was as if she had read the manuscript in a previous life. He tries to guess her star sign. His work as a stage performer had required him reading a lot of star signs to get an insight into characters and their behaviour.
“And all the characters are so dysfunctional” Trish persists with her critique.
“The whole world is dysfunctional; does it cease to be real? Nandi asks.

“Johannesburg is sick” Nandi suddenly declared. “What Johannesburg needs is a health shop”
“A vegetarian shop? Trish asked and seemed to be thinking of something. “A vegetarian shop, of course that’s brilliant, you will feed Johannesburg and I will clothe her”

Deep is skeptical about the number of vegetarians to be found in Johannesburg. But Nandi is adamant it is better to cater for a few vegetarians who would live longer than feed millions of meat eaters who would die earlier.
“People need to be taught how to eat again” she maintains.
“Lets change the world into wine” Graphit suggests as if to himself.
“What was that about wine? Deep asked.
“Its something I read, no it’s something I heard from one of my directors, he said it was a line from some Nigerian writer, Ben something where they are talking about changing the world into wine or something” he explains.
“Do you know the name of the book? Nandi is curious.
“I remember the book because I liked the title, the book is called Dangerous Love” he searches her face a bit as if scrutinizing it for some untold clues, “ you are a virgo right? he asks his face beaming with new found revelation.

“How did you know? She is obviously impressed. Her whole sunshine turns to shield Graphit who basks under her glory. Trish smiles knowingly at Deep who just sighs in relief, hoping Graphit would finally stop sleeping with his maids. Graphit rises up and takes Nandi by the hand leading her to the balcony. She follows like a docile horse being led to water.
“I read that most Virgo’s are vegetarians, that they are tiny and intelligent, that they love reading and writing. But there is something else they did not mention about virgos”
“What is that? Nandi asks eagerly.
They are now standing on the balcony holding hands and facing each other. They are so close to each other they could feel each other’s breath.
“That they are beautiful beyond measure” Graphit says searching her eyes. Nandi is bowled over and feeling weak in the knees. She wishes he could pick her up and take her to the sunset.
“There is also another line from that book by Ben something, the line goes like this: “something has been stolen from all of us”
Deep and Trish, who had followed them halfway through the balcony watch in fascination. Deep feels like an intruder in his own flat.

SEVENTEEN

Trish is surprised Deep had gone to church.
“What on earth did you go to church for?
“I don’t know, I guess I was bored”
“I find Sundays boring too, next time you go to church you must take me” Trish says.
Deep does not take only Trish. He takes with him also Graphit and Nandi. They are all in their best clothes. They all enjoy the church proceedings. Deep had warned them to carry notes for donation. At the end of the service the pastor stands at the door with his wife where he is shaking hands with everyone.

When he comes to Deep he recognizes him. He seems to have a strange sense of humor.
“I remember you” the pastor says “you ran away with my donation money last week, but I forgive you” he says to much laughter.

He takes a particular interest in all of them. He enquires about everything concerning them. They also find out a lot about the pastor. They find out he was engaged in a number of community projects. He ran a soup kitchen that fed street kids in Hillbrow. He also collected old clothes that were donated to the poor. He tells them he was interested in saving people in their lifetime. He was also a rich man who drove an SLK Mercedes Benz and a 4*4 Cayenne. He informs them they were also going to be blessed with wealth. He encouraged his congregation to get rich. If it was only the pastor who was rich, it ceased to be a church, it became a cult he said.

The next Sunday he has a business proposition for each of them. From Deep he wants a slot at the station. He could come in once a week where people would phone in about their various spiritual problems. Deep has to propose the slot to the management and he would be paid personally for the slot.

From Graphit he wants a novel way of attracting more flock to his church. He wants Graphit to advertise his sermons through graffiti on the walls outside the church. He would paint bible verses outside the church walls at a certain fee. He would give Trish a contract of designing uniform for the church choir. The uniform would have the face of the pastor in front with the church logo. The pastor was to have a share in their profits. He was also going to give Nandi a contract of catering for all the church functions where he was also going to have a share in the profits. The soup kitchen was to be made of vegetables only because a proper diet was necessary for the nourishment of the soul.

“And behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, and every tree bearing seed which is upon the face of the earth, to you it shall be for meat” Nandi quotes from the bible
“Exactly, that is man’s original diet, people need to go back to genesis”. They need to understand that man is created from the minerals of the earth. And for him to live he needs to go back to the source of his own origins, which is vegetables that come from the belly of the earth” the pastor explains.
“I did not know the pastor is also a vegetarian” Graphit says.
The pastor takes him by the hand and places another on top his shoulder.
“Son, don’t do as I do, do as I tell you” he says with a firmness in his voice.
Everyone is happy with the pastor’s ideas except Deep. He feels there is something fundamentally wrong with the whole business.

“And where is the place for God in all this? He asks.
“You seem to confuse the building structure with the church son” the pastor explains. “People don’t come to this building to worship, they come here to escape. They come here for the music, to show off their latest clothes, to ease their guilty feelings and to socialize with friends. Sometimes they come to donate their ill gotten gains. They come here so that they can get buried when they die. They come here so they can have a pastor who can tie them into holy matrimony when they get married. They want their children to be baptized when they are born. People do not need to come to church to find God. The church is much bigger than this building. It is a way of thinking, a collection of ideas that govern this world. It is about money, power and influence”

Deep thinks about a movie he had seen once called the Godfather. In the movie a catholic bishop talks about a stone that has stayed in the water for a long time but remains dry on the inside. He had compared the stone to the people in Europe. They had been surrounded by Christianity for centuries and yet Christianity had not penetrated their hearts.
“Enough of this talk about God, lets get back to business” the pastor says to much laughter.
So they all happily agreed to go into business with the pastor. As he slept in his flat Deep dreamed he was a very rich man. He was sitting inside the church in Hillbrow and he was a moneylender. People came and bowed down at his feet. They borrowed money from him so that they could donate to the church coffers. He was loaning them money at a high interest rate and the pastor was happy. He lifted up his head to look at Graphit. His friend had grown in influence.

The church was littered in a graffiti of bible verses. But the one that stood out from the others was not a bible verse. It was written: “BORROW DEEP TO PAY PASTOR”. The pastor was a picture of bling bling in expensive jewellery designed by Trish. While he was busy preaching in the pulpit a cellphone rang. Everyone including the pastor went quiet. Finally he reached into his coat pocket to take out the ringing cellphone. Deep woke up to find it was his phone ringing. He was glad the cellphone had saved him from a nightmarish dream. It is Graphit calling. He had received a business offer from the mayor. His party wanted to use popular culture for their election campaign and had decided to use a series of graffiti to reach the people. It was a big campaign and he wanted Deep to help him with the business and financial side.
“I don’t know Graphit, artists and politics, not a very good combination” Deep says.
“Some time the artist has to eat”.
“Eat at the feet of politicians? I would rather eat the politicians themselves” Deep says. They agree they would take up the offer on condition Graphit wrote in one of Deep’s t-shirts : AND GOD CREATED POLITICIAN, HE SAW THAT IT WAS BAD.

Graphit has other big news, they are getting married with Nandi and he wants Deep to be his best man. Trish does not take kindly to the news. She should have got married before Graphit and Nandi, after all she is the one who brought them together. The wedding is a sweet small affair and the dinner takes place at the new vegetarian restaurant they co-own in Newtown called Divinity Diet.

EIGHTEEN

WE ABORT BABIES CHEAPLY CALL 011 443 7566 BETWEEN SIX AND NINE EVENINGS” is the first sign that goes up in the Deep, pastor and graphit partnership. Callers are shocked to find the number is that of Newtown FM. Curious callers want to know things like “Do you kill grown up babies? Other callers are not amused. They think it is a perfectly legitimate question. They argue life begins in conception, if it can be terminated at birth it can also be terminated after birth. The pastor serves as a counselor to those who want to abort life. The debate shifts to condoms and contraceptions, others maintain these are also forms of abortion aimed at the termination of life. People who oppose abortion should also oppose condoms and contraception. They call this hypocrisy.

Others talk about the spirituality of sex whose consequences should be accepted. “WHAT IF ADAM WORE A CONDOM? A grafitti by Graphit heats up the debate. Others feel it is blasphemy while others argue it stretches the limits of the freedom of speech. It becomes a hot topic in the newspapers drawing in more listeners for Deep and raising the profile of the pastor and Graphit. Others call Graphit a criminal who vandalises property and who should be arrested. Undeterred, he puts up another grafitti that asks “What if Jesus was aborted? Listeners are interested in knowing if they would have been saved had Jesus been aborted.
“Jesus was not aborted, so let us not speculate what might have happened or might not have happened if he was aborted, he was part of the plan of salvation” the pastor responds.
“The question is misplaced, because Jesus was not a product of sex, he was conceived of the holy spirit, you cannot abort the holy spirit” another listener argues.
“ABSTAIN FROM SEX, CONCEIVE FROM THE HOLY SPIRIT” goes another comment by Graphit. Some Christian groups are outraged. They consider this statement sacrilege and a direct attack on their faith. Others lodge a complaint with ICASA. Icasa upholds the right to freedom of expression. The FXI and the Human Rights Commission also defends his right to freedom of speech.

Christian groupings hold a protest match outside the Newtown FM studios. The station apologises while protecting their DJ. Bad publicity is good for business as the listener ship figures grow. Deepface is headhunted by national radio stations who want to offer him a breakfast or an evening shows. Graphit is subcontracted by a big advertising agency that wants to incorporate grafitti into mainstream advertising. The pastor builds a bigger church in the suburbs where he holds three fully packed sermons every Sunday. Societal problems pay handsomely for everyone.

Pangs of sadness overcome Deep. He feels somewhere they have all lost their moral compass, if they ever had one. Visions of the future begin taking shape in front of him. Money would ultimately taint all their dreams.

Graphit’s farm in the northern suburbs would be raided by the police in cowboy style and they would confiscate tons of marijuana. The lawyers would breed him dry as he struggled to stay out of prison. Nandi would remain beautiful and an uncrowned queen in appearance and in spirit, she would stick by Graphit to the bitter end. Their children would not become vegetarians, they would deviate from the path of their parents and they would struggle with obesity. He would forever wonder where did the rot begin, the rot would look back at him with a sympathetic eye and say “I know where you come from brother, I am there”

The pastor would build a franchise of a church, he would record an award winning gospel album with these words on the cover: pastor dressed by In Flew Enza and fed by Divinity Diet. He would form his own political party and take a second wife in addition to his trophy wife. He would save many but he would fail to save himself.

The maid would act in that famous soapie and in silence she would cry out for help but no one would listen. She would end up in an acrimonious divorce and would die in a cocaine overdose after an orgy of drugs with her celebrity friends.

The mayor would be indicted on a corruption scandal. He would win it and make a huge political comeback. He will never believe wrestling is fake and he shall be buried with so many in the grave of lies. The nephew would never become a rap artist, he would struggle with alcoholism at varsity and would come back to be a loyal servant of the public in the civil service. The patience of the years would tone down his anger. He would stop being a cynic and would finally join that massive cult of the believers.

Manchild would permanently wear his perpetual sad smile as his trademark. Because, like the smell of death, sadness has a way of rubbing off on all of us. He would record a jazz hit called, “the years, oh how they have overtaken us”. It would not make him rich. He would be respected but not particularly adored. Record companies would demand he sings more commercial music and he would lose the spark in his voice.

Zinger would continue making people famous while he himself would not become famous. He would never leave Newtown.

The pimp would never know he had a son who would become a famous deejay and who would reinvent himself with another stage name to completely cut off ties with his past.

Deep himself would become a famous talkshow host and his wife Trish would edit a glossy fashion magazine. He would become normal and hold shares in a regional radio station.

He would drift away from Graphit and he from him. He would forever wonder what happened to the caller called Chris and his voice would always linger on his mind. He would look at his own image in the mirror and see the man. The man he had spent his early years trying to spit on his face, the man would embrace him from the mirror and taunt him with his cocky smile and a heart that says “I always win in the end”.

He would finally launch his long awaited book “Blood Sex” All the people that had touched his life would come back to unwittingly insert themselves on the book. The book will begin like this:

CHAPTER ONE

The pimp had smiled gleefully after killing his first man at nineteen. The killing was a fulfillment of a lifetime dream. He had dreamed of killing his landlord when he was ten years. He had rehearsed the murder repeatedly in his mind with the skill and passion of a dedicated actor. From a tender age, killing the landlord had not only become his obsession but his sole objective. When other children dreamed of getting a new soccer ball or new shoes for Christmas he dreamed of killing the landlord.

He had first resolved to kill the landlord after walking in unexpectedly into the kitchen to find his elder sister sucking the landlord’s penis. This was shortly after the death of their mother from tuberculosis and the disappearance of their father leaving him with her eighteen year old sister to fend for themselves.

They had not seen him. His sister had sucked the man until he had sprayed all over her face what looked like milky mucus. That night his sister had cried herself to sleep. She slept with the landlord so they could have a roof over their heads. It was around that time that she developed headaches and would use her last money to buy aspirin. The nightmares had started shortly after their father had left.

“That boy is always staring at me with those dead eyes, one day he would bore a hole through me with his eyes” complained the landlord. He never knew himself why he was always staring at people with a fixed gaze.

His sister had tried to defend him meekly saying “he is just a kid”
One day the landlord had shooed him away with his hands “Go away, I don’t like your eyes. So at the age of twelve he ran away to stay in the streets of Hillbrow where he survived by sniffing glue and pick-pocketing. At the age of seventeen he had impregnated one of the girls on the street and ran away. The girl had dumped the one week baby outside an orphanage where the young baby boy had been christened Jacob.

On the neck of Jacob had been tied a locket with the picture of his father with the tormenting eyes. He was to locate his father but never disclose who he was after dropping out of university in Hillbrow where he was a resident deejay. He would later change his name from Jacob into DJ Deepface…

THE END

Ungazibonela ngokukhala kwesicathulo
Ngiyinsizwa eyisoka, anginasikhathi ses’camtho
Umcul’ uyashisa, nesimame s’yashisa
Kudala bedlala ngami kusukea ngazalwa
Kodwa manje k’lungile, kuqondile
Noma ungangilahla umqondo
Singazama ukuqonda

Umthelela wabezindaba endodeni
Ungaba umfowethu
Ungaba umama wethu
Uyohlalal’uphila, uyohlalal’ uphila

Izwa nje idolobha lonkana liyanyakaza
Nabantu bonkana bayanyakaza
Sohlala s’phila, sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila
Sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila

Okwamanje ngishona phansi, ngishona phezulu
Mangihluleka kuloku ngizama ngempela
Nginenezimpiko zezulu ezicathulweni zami
Ngiyindoda yendlamu, angikwazi ukuhluleka
Uyazi kulungile
Nakusasa ngisazophila
Singazama ukuqonda
Umthelela wabezindaba endodeni
Ungaba umfowethu
Ungaba umama wethu
Uyohlal’uphila, uyohlal’uphila

Izwa nje idolobha lonkana liyanyakaza
Nabantu bonkana bayanyakaza
Sohlala s’phila, sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila
Sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila
Impilo ime ndawonye
Ngicela ning’size
Ngicela ning’size
Impilo ime ndawonye
Ngicela ning’size
Sohlala s’phila

Ungazibonela ngokukhala kwesibhathu
Ngiyinsizwa eyisoka, anginasikhathi sesicamtho
Umculo uyashisa, nesimame siyashisa
Kudala bedlala ngami kusukea ngizalwa
Kodwa sek’lungile, kuqondile
Noma ungangilahla umqondo
Singazama ukuwuqonda
Umthelela wamaphepha endodeni
Ungaba umfowethu
Ungaba umama wethu
Uyohlalal’uphila, uyohlalal’ uphila

Izwa nje idolobha lonkana liyanyakaza
Nabantu bonkana bayanyakaza
Sohlala s’phila, sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila
Sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila

Lempilo yize, ime ndawonye
Ngicela ning’size.
Ngicela ning’size,yeah
Lempilo yize, ime ndawonye.
Ngicela ning’size yeah.
Sohlala s’phila
Lempilo yize, ime ndawonye.
Ngicela ning’size.
Ngicela ning’size, yeah.
Lempilo yize, ime ndawonye.
Ngicela ning’size.
Sohlala s’phila

click here

Ungazibonela ngokukhala kwesicathulo
Ngiyinsizwa eyisoka, anginasikhathi ses’camtho
Umcul’ uyashisa, nesimame s’yashisa
Kudala bedlala ngami kusukea ngazalwa
Kodwa manje k’lungile, kuqondile
Noma ungangilahla umqondo
Singazama ukuqonda

Umthelela wabezindaba endodeni
Ungaba umfowethu
Ungaba umama wethu
Uyohlalal’uphila, uyohlalal’ uphila

Izwa nje idolobha lonkana liyanyakaza
Nabantu bonkana bayanyakaza
Sohlala s’phila, sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila
Sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila

Okwamanje ngishona phansi, ngishona phezulu
Mangihluleka kuloku ngizama ngempela
Nginenezimpiko zezulu ezicathulweni zami
Ngiyindoda yendlamu, angikwazi ukuhluleka
Uyazi kulungile
Nakusasa ngisazophila
Singazama ukuqonda
Umthelela wabezindaba endodeni
Ungaba umfowethu
Ungaba umama wethu
Uyohlal’uphila, uyohlal’uphila

Izwa nje idolobha lonkana liyanyakaza
Nabantu bonkana bayanyakaza
Sohlala s’phila, sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila
Sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila
Impilo ime ndawonye
Ngicela ning’size
Ngicela ning’size
Impilo ime ndawonye
Ngicela ning’size
Sohlala s’phila

Ungazibonela ngokukhala kwesibhathu
Ngiyinsizwa eyisoka, anginasikhathi sesicamtho
Umculo uyashisa, nesimame siyashisa
Kudala bedlala ngami kusukea ngizalwa
Kodwa sek’lungile, kuqondile
Noma ungangilahla umqondo
Singazama ukuwuqonda
Umthelela wamaphepha endodeni
Ungaba umfowethu
Ungaba umama wethu
Uyohlalal’uphila, uyohlalal’ uphila

Izwa nje idolobha lonkana liyanyakaza
Nabantu bonkana bayanyakaza
Sohlala s’phila, sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila
Sohlala s’phila
Ah, ha, ha, ha,
Sohlala s’phila

Lempilo yize, ime ndawonye
Ngicela ning’size.
Ngicela ning’size,yeah
Lempilo yize, ime ndawonye.
Ngicela ning’size yeah.
Sohlala s’phila
Lempilo yize, ime ndawonye.
Ngicela ning’size.
Ngicela ning’size, yeah.
Lempilo yize, ime ndawonye.
Ngicela ning’size.
Sohlala s’phila

“There is always more than one reason to cry” Miss Mkhize taught us one day in class as she explained how one object can be used for various purposes. In the middle of that lesson which I was struggling to grasp a dry bone from an unfortunate dead cow shattered through the school window almost…

Okay, scratch, let me start this from the beginning as if I was writing a school composition.

One good thing about being eleven is that you experience first things twice as much. So when I was eleven I thought Adelaide was the most beautiful girl I had ever loved. When she laughed dimples would appear on her tomato like ripe cheeks. My love for her had no precedence, it was pure untainted and devoid of any lust.

I loved her from a distance even though she sat just in front of me in class. My love for her consisted of mainly of dreaming about saving her from imaginary school bullies like our classmate Mshini who terrorized the centers of learning. As he dragged her kicking and screaming I would emerge out of nowhere to beat him up with the karate kicks I had acquired from the Bruce Lee films. As he laid down writhing in agony on the ground I would take Adelaide by hand and lead her into the sunset where we would live happily ever after. No one knew about my secret love for her except my dear friend Advocate. As I sat behind her in class breathing down her tender neck I would be disturbed by the melodic voice of Mistress Mkhize as she called my name and instructed me to read from a book for the whole class.

Now Miss Mkhize was my other first love that was completely separate from that of Adelaide. She was everything beautiful about an older woman with her big black wig, big eyes, doll like face, two piece suits and high heeled shoes. Everyone in class knew that she had a soft spot for me and as a reward she sent me around to do all kinds of errands like buying her vetkoeks and polony from the tea room at the corner of the school. At primary school being the errand boy was a special privilege reserved only for the privileged few and the most intelligent.

I was particularly proud of being the errand boy of Clernaville, a school, situated in an area affectionately known as Tigers in the township of Clermont. I had earned the privilege of being the errand boy for my constantly good marks. In the June half yearly examination I had topped the class, again, by coming out first for which I had received a golden star certificate and a pat on my clean shaven head from the school principal in full view of the entire school assembly. My friend, Advocate, on being berated by his mother for failing his exams had responded in his defence “how could I pass mom, Desmond takes away all the marks leaving the other kids nothing”. His mother had responded jealously it was convenient that I Desmond, should come out tops, after all my father was an ex boyfriend of Miss Mkhize from their high school days.

Though I felt this was just sour grapes from a jealous mother a lot of things suddenly made sense to me. During recess and lunch breaks Miss Mkhize would shower me with gifts like biscuits and scones which I would happily wash down with a glass of Oros which we called squash for reasons unknown to me. In that process of eating and drinking squash she would ask me a lot of strange questions like how my father was doing and if he was still married to my mother.

I would innocently reply that yes my father was doing fine and yes he was still married to my mother. At home, my mother was also very curious to know about my beautiful mistress. She would ask things like “does she still wear those crimplene suits? On finding out about the occasional lunch I received from Miss Mkhize she was enraged “You must tell that whore of yours Pretty Mkhize to stop feeding my son rotten food, she will poison him with her love for you”.

My father, who was by nature a calm person just sighed and muttered “women” as he continued reading from his Daily News. At times I found adult talk very strange, how could anyone poison you with love? And why did adults always conversed as if children were not around? I wondered. Through these conversations I soon gathered my father and Miss Mkhize had once been lovers at high school and at one time they were even engaged to be married. But my father, a talented saxophone player and stage actor at the time who was also very popular with women had broken off the engagement. He had suddenly left with his band on a tour of Europe leaving Miss Mkhize heartbroken.

When he came back a more matured and worldly man he had married my mother who she had impregnated while they were acting in the same drama group. When I heard this I was temporarily devastated. I could never understand the logic of my father dumping a mistress for a housewife. Had they been married with Miss Mkhize, I would have been the son of a mistress.

“There is always more than one reason to cry” Miss Mkhize taught us one day in class as she explained how one object can be used for various purposes. In the middle of that lesson which I was struggling to grasp a dry bone from an unfortunate dead cow shattered through the school window almost hitting one of the classmates. Chaos broke out as we ran around screaming. We were to soon find out that some naughty kids, playing outside the school gates had been throwing various objects at each other one of which was a dry bone that came in through the window.

In the commotion that followed I found myself slipping the bone into my plastic which served as a school bag for no apparent reason and soon forgot all about it for some few weeks.

One day my friend Advocate who was five years older than me, (Advocate had herded cattle in the rural areas of Nongoma for five years before going to school) and was more experienced when it came to girls decided I should do something about my love for Adelaide. He suggested I write her a letter. So I quickly scribbled a letter with some good tips from him which read
“Dear Adelaide, the address is love street, when I think of you the gates of Jericho are opened and my heart jumps like a frog, to me each day starts by thinking of you and ends by dreaming of you, I always miss you like sugar misses water”.
I passed on the letter to Adelaide with a trembling hand as Advocate looked on approvingly. She was a still reading the love letter with a hidden smile on her face when Mshini, the feared class bully snapped it away from her.

He quickly read it and gave it to his friend Polite who passed it on to Felicitas who gave it to Goodenough (pronounced Goodnough) who handed it to Wiseman. Soon the letter was like a ball being passed on from one player to another in the whole class. I moved swiftly to try and intercept the ball from a boy called Psychology, but the letter was soon flying all the way to Miss Mkhize’s table. She had a good laugh before giving me five hot strokes for playing adult games and throwing the letter into the bin. During lunch break, Advocate decided the letter which now resembled a tissue paper was now fine enough to be used for toilet purposes. He rescued it from the bin and flushed some of my very first writings down the toilet.

After school, with the Bic pen I had used to write the letter to Adelaide I boldly stabbed Mshini in the back. But the sadistic bully, looking unhurt was not to be rushed to war. Mshini was a tall athletic figure who it was rumored did not feel the cold. He never wore a jersey and would walk bare footed for the whole year, winter or summer. He would kick stones with his toes just to show off his well trained feet. When I first heard the definition of the word ogre he immediately sprang to my mind. He simply challenged me to an open fight on Friday after school. The Friday after school battles were legendary. They were called “pero” for reasons unknown to me and the whole school would gather at the gates cheering on the winner. They were also called “fair fights” pronounced as “fear fight” as no weapons were allowed in the duel.

On the scheduled Friday of the fight Mshini dropped me so many times I lost count. But I rose up every time he dropped me until everyone stopped cheering and begged me to stay down. A defeated Mshini finally gave up and walked away. With a swollen eye and blood oozing from my nostrils Advocate and Adelaide nursed me with an ice block and saw me home. I was really proud of myself and hoped that Adelaide would be impressed by my courage in the face of the adversity called Mshini. When I told my parents I had hit a pole playing soccer they gave me a knowing look that said we have been there done that.

As the year was drawing to a close it was time for all pupils to be busy with handcraft which went to the final year examination marks. Through some stroke of inspiration I remembered the bone in the plastic bag. I simply wrapped beads of all colours around it and wrote my name Desmond with the beads. I was particularly proud of this name since my father had named me after a famous priest he liked who had gone on to win the Nobel peace prize. I tied the bone and let it hung loose like a necklace with a string. With a little help from my father I created a wooden frame for it and hung it like a work of art. It was beautiful.

The bone that had been some poor cow’s limb, one man’s meat and another’s poison, then some naughty boy’s weapon of war and some creative genius’ work of art was now Miss Khumalo’s end of the year gift. I had finally understood the lesson: There is always more than one reason to cry. When I finally presented my handcraft to Miss Khumalo she burst down and cried. “You are such a poet, just like your father” she said clutching the work close to her bosom and walked away. Me I thought anyone who cried over a decorated bone was a poet.

The protesting pupils had brought 111 Arcade in Commissioner Street Johannesburg to a standstill. The two adjoining streets of Joubert and Eloff had also been cordoned off by the police as the chanting and toyi toying kids taunted them. The toyi toyi, the struggle dance, the dance of death. Flashbacks from the eighties crossed my mind as I stood watching the dancing kids from my window on third floor. I shook my head cynically. Compared to the toyi toyi of the eighties; this was a Sunday school picnic. I had flashbacks of youths dancing over charred corpses, the smell of teargas, burning flesh and tyres. I saw running battles between youths in stones and petrol bombs with the police and soldiers in casspirs and kwela kwelas. No this could never compare to the eighties, these copycats paled in significance when compared to yesteryear revolutionaries.

But what I found very strange was that they still sang struggle songs after thirteen years of freedom. They had on t-shirts of the ANC, Cosatu, Cosas and the SACP. I went out of my office to go to the bathroom. As I walked in the corridor I thought there was a colour conspicuous by its absence, the dominant yellow colours of the United Democratic Front. That organization had been such a dominant factor of the eighties. And today it was not part of that struggle. As I entered the bathroom I was surprised to see a middle aged man trying to nurse himself in the mirror. He was trying to remove an egg yolk planted on his face by the protesting pupils. There was also a large map which had been created on his white silk shirt by a rotten tomato. I offered him some tissue paper and he thanked me without removing his face from the mirror.

“They called me a government fat cat” he said as he stared on the mirror. “Who? I asked trying to roll out some more tissue paper for him. “Those kids, I was trying to address them and accept their petition, can you believe…” he turned around to me and stopped mid sentence “Meneer! He exclaimed. I was taken aback by surprise; it had been more than twenty years since someone had addressed me like that. I looked at his face closely trying to recall him. He extended his hand to shake mine “Patrick Mngadi, I was in your standard nine class, don’t you remember me? Did I remember him? He had grown old of course with some fat on his cheeks and belly, he now wore glasses which gave him an intellectual look but did I remember him? How could I forget him, he was Comrade Commissar, the boy who had effectively put an end to my teaching career.

*********************

The year was 1987 and South Africa was burning. I was a teacher at Tholimfundo High School at Osizweni in Newcastle. Patrick had been a rather intelligent but insolent teenager who had a passion for reading newspapers in class during lessons. I was an Afrikaans teacher and since the language was not the most popular among black students my confidence levels were not very high. Afrikaans was regarded as the language of the oppressor aimed at reminding Africans they were a defeated people. The learners claimed it was difficult but my observation had been that they felt it was difficult simply because they resented it.

We were busy in one lesson trying to analyse with some difficulty a poem in Afrikaans about a flower called the protea when Patrick suddenly burst out reciting another poem I was to learn later belonged to Don Mattera.:

“The Protea is not a flower
It is a dome of fluttering white flags
Tombs of Afrikaner relics
And monument of ox-wagon
Dipped in blood

And so the protea
Can never be a flower
Not while the Soul of South Africa
Struggles to be set free

To my dismay, the whole class erupted into wide applause. Unbeknown to me and other teachers, Patrick was running political classes after school disguised as a cultural group. In this class they also recited poems by famous figures like Don Mattera and Ingoapele Madingoane. In these political classes he and his comrades distributed banned political material like literature and other pamphlets. Because of his sharp and incisive mind he had earned a nickname of Comrade Commissar pronounced with a K. Through some other clandestine workshops provided by MK operatives, Commissar had quickly graduated into a seasoned political activist with an uncanny ability to sway the mass of pupils.

Though his voice was full of anger and passion, surprisingly, he spoke with an alarming clarity of thought. And despite the many books he read, he strongly felt education was delaying the revolution. His statements were heavily peppered with political rhetoric and he always spoke as if he was addressing a mass rally. He walked with purpose and urgency as if he was already marching on the battlefield. His strong emphasis of words and slow ay of speaking made him very articulate. He said one day addressing a meeting to cries of “viva:

“Comrades and compatriots, this Verwoerdian, inferior Bantu Education system was designed so that we would not rise above certain levels of labour. It was designed so that we can see the green pastures but we would never reach and graze in them. Through this Bantu Education system, the African people are condemned to be being perpetual hewers of wood and drawers of water, forward to people’s education forward!

He seemed hell bent on putting a stop to our very lives. He once stopped a soccer practice where I was the head coach by claiming there could never be a normal sport in an abnormal society. Besides, he said, there was no time, just no time, for a black man to fool around with a soccer ball. He spray painted a wall at school with the slogan “Tell the people no lies, claim no easy victories” by Amilcar Cabral

As a person who had been entrusted with the future of these children I was left impotent. I was faced with a dilemma, whether to continue teaching or join the marauding pupils. I loved their anger. But it was too rushed and too misdirected. I felt it could be better channeled towards construction rather than destruction. All the buildings and bridges the young people had burnt would need to be rebuilt one day by the new government I tried to reason with the youth leaders. And it would be difficult then, because it is easier to start a fire than to stop it, it is easier to destroy than to build. Commissar tried to argue with me not to collaborate in our own oppression. He said the first step would be to stop teaching useless languages like Afrikaans. “Every time you speak that language, you spit and trample on the graves of the seventy six movement” he said angrily to me.

“I wish you were in my shoes” I argued with him lamely.
“I will never wear the shoes of a collaborator” he resolved vehemently “your shoes are too small, ugly and they stink of cowardice”
“Patrick, you may have read big books and we may differ politically but I am still your teacher and elder” I shouted back at him.
But he felt strongly I had surrendered my right to be respected if I sat on the fence. Disrespect for order and elders was my biggest gripe against the struggle. I felt struggle leaders had started something that would come back to haunt them for generations. The children who had been taught to disrespect everyone who differed with them would come back to disrespect them one day.

Shortly after that there had been a class boycott and the school was burnt down. Comrade Commissar was detained without trial for more than six months and when he came out he soon skipped the border. I had heard later he had gone on to join Umkhonto weSizwe. I had resigned later as a teacher that year when I felt my services were no longer appreciated to join the private sector. About two years ago I had come back to work for the new government in the department of education where I felt like a useless bureaucrat.

*********************

And now Comrade Commissar stood before me like a condemned man. In exile he had furthered his education after undergoing military training and had earned quite a number of degrees. He was now a member of some important portfolio committee that advised the minister on education. And now when I looked at him I felt a sense of delayed victory. It was more than twenty years late but I felt victorious nevertheless. He stood looking at me like a man ready to hang himself. I might as well go ahead and give him the rope. I passed on another tissue and smiled. Comrade Commissar had finally worn my ugly shoes.

When father and son
Go to war together as allies
They cease to become father and son
They become soldiers in arms
They address each other as comrades
And when they return home
To share the spoils of war
They have become equals earned in war
They have both tasted the blood of their enemy in equal measure
They have spoken the same language of war
The father can no longer lay down the law of the house to the son
And the son cannot receive the law of the house from the father
Is it not a democracy?
After all, have they not all tasted blood equally?
It is difficult to move from a relationship of equals to unequals
Such was the tragedy of our revolution

our lullabies have lulled the world
into insomnia

we have sung so many dirges
we have kept the dead wide awake

our melodies
sound like stuck records
our mournful cries scarred with indelible scratches
out of tune with the harmony of nature

monsters and mummies
have danced and gyrated
at the cacophony of our voices

it is not easy to sing with a lump in your throat
nor a gaping wound in your vocal chords
it is not easy to sleep with cold feet

On the 13th of march 2008
Walking down a bridge from Braamfontein to Johannesburg
I was mugged
They gripped me by the neck from behind
The night labourers
They emptied my pockets
Of my wallet and cellphone
But left my notebook and pen
In an act of unconscious generosity
Foolish me I was to think later
I should have hidden my wallet and cellphone
In my notebook
Or better still
I should have hidden myself
Behind my lines

Though the shack is not furnished
We are not famished
We are spiritually nourished
For we refuse to become the shack
That merely houses our limbs and lack of property
Our hearts roam free beyond the shackles of the shack
For in these shacks we have conceived pregnant dreams
That give birth to rising hope
And multiple orgasms

In these shacks we have nurtured life
And cherished laughter
That can ignite old mansions
And castles of antiquity

The shack does not define us
Inside these squatter camps
Our minds gallop without cramps
For we refuse to be shackled by the shack
That houses out mere limbs and lack of property

Inside these shacks that stand limping on crutches
We sleep with our heads held high
And stand with bowed heads
Not to worship the god of squalor
But to accommodate the space
Smaller than us

On the walls of the shrine of your soul
Build me a prison of freedom
Like a university
I will arrest you
Throw away the keys
I will barricade the walls
With the fires of your passion
Even your infectious smile
Shall not escape
My chains of liberty

Your laughter is arresting
My love is colonizing

I will curse you with my love
My caresses will leave fingerprints on your tender skin
Stolen love bites on your neck shall tell of our love
I will stain your heart with memories of summer

In an island of paradise
I will fly your flag
At full mast
I will chant your name
My silent mantra
With eyes wide shut
Counciousness wide awake
In this march
Of the zealots

I will celebrate you
I will build you a statue
With the tantalizing traits of a tart
I will titivate you
Till you titillate
And tilt
To my tricks
Tinkle tinkle little star

I wear your love
A proud banner in my forehead
Like a colourful tattoo

Your laughter is arresting
My love is colonizing

I stand on the edge of a cliff
Teetering on the brink of collapse
Hovering, wavering

I lift out my leg
With fury
Punching gaping holes in the air
This is not about me
This is about the world
This issue I have with God
I cannot pass on
At least not now
Before I have filled that void
In the hole of nothingness
I am indebted
I owe this life, bigtime
Somewhere in there
The sand has not felt my giant strides
My feet have not shaped the soil
The earth has yet to quake
Under my immense weight

There is a fountain of water
That is yet to be grazed by my skin
Out there is a flowing river
Yet to be washed by my hands
Waves wait
To jump beneath my body
You aint seen nothing yet
I am the missing link
In the totality of life

After all has been said and done
I have not had my say
Nor done my bit
The heavens can wait
I am coming
In time with time
I cannot pass on
At least not now
This is not about me
This is about the world
This issue I have with God

Was it not I ask?
God’s expectation
That parents should live long
And eat
The birds of their children
And the birds of their children’s children
But now
Birds outlive us
Our wings are clipped
Before we crawl
Our feathers plucked
In the morning of our lives

Was it not I ask
The teachings of the African sages
That parents should live long
And eat
The birds of their children
And the birds of their children’s children
But now
Birds outlive us
They soar to the heavens
Free
While we sink deeper
Six feet underground
Dead as cold

Have you dished out the food for Spotty? Malume China asked just after we had finished supper and I was washing the dishes.
“Eish I forgot malume” I said scratching my head in regret.
“oh no mshana, now we have broken the pledge” malume said in a worried tone.
“what pledge? I asked anxiously.

“Mshana, come and sit here, there is a lesson I need to teach you”
I came and sat next to Malume on the sitting room sofa.
Malume opened his mouth to teach “Once upon a time, a long time ago, before the sky was choking from too much smoke, when the rains were still generous, and the word drought was still not known, this was the time when the grass was still greener on all sides, and winter came at the right time. Now that was a long time ago, before this generation and thousands of generations before it could come into being and man still lived in caves and animals could still talk”
“Wow malume, animals could talk? For a moment I felt like I was sitting on the fireplace of storytelling I had read about at school.

“Yes animals could talk once, but not in big words because there was no need to show off then” he paused as if digesting his own words, “anyway that’s a story for another day”. In those days man and animals were all still vegetarians and they would compete for best fruit and vegetables in the best trees of the land. Because this was a struggle for the survival of the fittest, man and animal began to hate each other, they did not only hate each other they began eating other as meat”
I grimaced at this thought of man and animals eating each other.

“now dog was a very intelligent animal, his intellect was second only to that of man. Dog realized that man never starved because he had developed powerful weapons and shields for his hunting missions. And on top of that he had found a brilliant way of making sure his food does not decay. Before the fridge could come into picture, man had found a way of freezing the cold and storing his food there for days so he did not have to hunt everyday. This was like storing winter for summer days. He had found a way of freezing the cold by using the heat from the sun, just imagine that kind of intelligence mshana!”
I found it hard to imagine that kind of intelligence but I wanted Malume to go on with his fascinating story.

“He ate his food warm and soft by cooking it on fire. He also used the fire to protect himself from his enemies by leaving it burning at the mouth of his cave for the whole night. So dog decided to come into an alliance with man. He would be man’s friend and hunting partner in exchange for generous access to his food.
“You have won yourself more than a friend my friend, you have won yourself a king” man announced authoritatively. “But to win something you have to lose something, so you will lose all your freedom and the ability to make decisions, I will think for you and I will domesticate you, while I sleep you will stand guard at the entrance of my cave.

I was glad this story had explained the relationship between Spotty and the family. But I was still not sure of the lesson and I was afraid of the next question.
“Now what was the lesson of the story mshana? Came the question eventually.
“That is why dogs sleep during the day? I ventured.

“Close mshana, but close is not enough. You see there are many important lessons to learn mshana from the story, the other ones will come naturally to you as you grow older, but the most important lesson from the story mshana is that dogs are servants. He paused a bit as if to make sure I digested the lesson. “and to serve you have to lose a little bit of pride. Now there is nothing wrong with serving mshana as long as you are preparing to lead. But dogs do not serve with any ambition of leading one day.
But the point I wanted to make mshana is that man made a promise to dog that he would feed and take care of him as long as dog keeps his promise of watching over him. In return dog asks of us that we never lead him down the valley of the shadow of death. Now by failing to feed Spotty, we have broken our promise to him.

“That is the ecology of life mshana, we can never be full in our stomachs if Spotty is empty in his. That is one lesson the rich have not learnt, we are each other’s keepers. The rich can never be full if the labourers are hungry”

“Ecology of life, I kept saying these words to myself as I fed Spotty outside the door that night. He snuggled on my ear and I could feel the warmth of his fur as he brushed me. I was fascinated by the story malume had told me. I had not been aware man and dog shared such a long history. I had also gained a lot of respect for Spotty. Malume had spoken of him as if he was human. “I am sorry about what happened today Spotty, I promise my stomach will never be full again if yours is empty. Spotty began licking me as a way of saying he forgave me.

When I was busy locking the door I heard the water running in the bathroom and I knew malume was taking his evening shower. He came back to the sitting room barefoot wearing a towel over his waist. His whole body was dripping with water. Mom and grandmother always complained about him not wiping his body but he always argued he wanted to feel the effect of water sinking in. He sat next to me and switched off the television set with a remote control. When I opened my mouth to protest he closed it with his finger and continued to look at the television as if it was still playing.

“Shut up and don’t complain, people who don’t pay the rent should not complain. He looked serious for a moment and suddenly burst out laughing. One thing good about malume was that he could really laugh out well. When he laughed his small eyes closed and tears would stream down his cheeks. His eyes were so small people nicknamed him china. I started laughing too, more at the fact that he was laughing than at the joke itself.

I had heard this joke before. Once malume had come back from university after they had boycotted classes in protest against increased fees. Grandmother had been very angry. She threw anything she could find at him. “you complain about fees, who pays for those fees? What do you know about fees? you don’t even pay the rent in this house” malume and my mother broke out laughing at her outbursts and he had to run out the door still laughing as she threw all sorts of things his way. “you don’t know how it is like to be robbed by the government! She screamed. And now every time malume tried to change channels on tv grandmother would tell him to shut up he did not know how much it cost to pay for a tv license.

After a long time he stopped laughing and looked at me. I stopped and looked back at him too.
“Now lets sit back and reflect, think about what happened today”
First of all I thought about how nice it was when malume was back at home for holidays from university. This time it was just the two of us as my mother and grandmother had gone to the rural areas for the holidays. He was a student in the US and he seldom came home. Malume had been at university for a number of years because he did not want to pay tax, my grandmother said.

I closed my eyes to think about a morning that had started with a dream. I had dreamed that I was flying and later we were playing soccer. Then I asked my teammates to go out for a break so I could take a pee. Then I was peeing but I woke up before I could pee on the bed. I realized it was morning and my penis was hard and full of urine. I rushed to the bathroom and closed my eyes in ecstasy as the urine went out of my system and I was spraying it all over the floor. After wiping the urine off the floor I found malume already in the kitchen singing his favourite song “you make my heart sing, you make everything groovy”.

When he saw me he gave me what he calls his “colgate smile”. “The dream boy is up, what did we dream about last night mshana?
“I dreamed I was flying” I told him.
“A dream about flying is a good dream, it means life, now lets look at our life today, the weather specialists say it is going to be a good day, now we cannot let a good day like that go to waste”
malume checked his diary.
“Now lets see what we have planned for today, first we have breakfast, then we clean and scrub the floors till we can see ourselves on them, then we water the garden and play a little, now that’s very important mshana, work a little, play a little so we can find a balance”
I was impressed, Malume planned everything and even included playing in his diary.

After we had finished the gardening, Malume decided we should trim our hair so we could look nice for the women.
“Now lets see which comb size we will use for trimming your hair, too big, too small, and yes this one is just perfect”
I realized this was an important decision which could not be taken lightly. A man’s head was really important. I took off my t-shirt and sat on a chair in the garage. Malume wrapped a towel around me and his hands and the buzz of the machine felt so good I wanted to sleep.
“Which music do you listen to malume? I asked with my eyes closed.
He counted a lot of different music I did not even know existed.
“I also like kwaito and house, but hip hop is my favourite” I said simply.
“Hip hop is good, but hip hop has also been used as a weapon of mass destruction in the whole world, you must be careful of hip hop mshana, it threatens to wipe out an entire generation”
“And Fifty Cent is my favourite artist” I said not understanding what he was saying about hip hop.
“And Fifty Cent drives a hummer” I added further to impress Malume.
“Now what civillian in his right mind would drive a car that was built for the army, that is a man with a destructive mind, mshana”

After we had finished, I gathered all our hair together and wrapped it on paper.
“Now here is an idea mshana, maybe we can put some chemicals in that hair and sell it so other people can wear it. Just imagine mshana, other people wearing our hair and spirit. You know we must be the only people in the world mshana who buy other people’s hair but do not sell ours to anyone, even fake hair”
I also thought the idea of selling our hair could be good business.

After cleaning the house we had played soccer on the yard with malume soon after cleaning the lunch dishes. He had bumped the ball on his feet for over fifty times without it landing on the ground. Then he had bumped it over his head over twenty times. Then he had bended a bit and allowed the ball to rest on the back of his neck. Then it was on his spine. He said a player called Professor Ngubane used to do these tricks with the ball. Then we had dribbled past each other after which he said he was tired. We had played a bit of casino after that. I realized that it had been too much and I had been too happy

And now he wanted me to read something from the paper out loud. I read some few stories but the one I found most interesting was about the man who ran around the neighbourhood stealing women’s underwear from the line. He corrected me as I made a lot of mistakes with my spelling. Finally he took the paper away from me.
“Its time for you to sleep mshana, you have made enough mistakes for one day”

He came to check after me after I had prayed silently and slipped inside the blankets. I had left the light on because I was afraid of the darkness. Someone always switched the light off after I had fallen asleep. Malume stood at the doorway and smiled at me.
“Did you pray before going to bed? He asked
I nodded my head.
“What God stole your voice?
I prayed, why cant we sleep in the same room malume”
“Because we are lucky enough not to be poor, many people sleep in one shack as a family”
I was surprised other people could be so unlucky. Is that why malume was always complaining about the government? When I looked at him I wished I was as tall and big as him. It was so nice being an adult. You could work for your own money and did not have to go to school or do homework. Adults were tall and could reach for things that were high up in the cupboard. Adults knew everything. They were also not afraid of the dark.
“Are you ever afraid of anything malume? I asked.

He came over to the bed and sat next to me leaning on the pillow. He seemed to think for a minute before speaking.
“of course I am afraid sometimes, I am afraid of failing you”
“How? I asked
“Because you expect so much from me, because you have raised the bar so high for me sometimes I am afraid I will never be able to reach it. I am afraid sometimes you will realize I am not a god but I am only human. I am afraid of the real darkness, the darkness of the spirit”

I felt sorry for malume, I knew his problem perfectly. Grandmother had spoken about it a lot of times. The big books malume had read sometimes made him crazy. That is why he sometimes spoke in a language no one understood.
“Its okay malume” I assured him, I will pray to God that you do not fail me”
“Thank you mshana, that’s really kind of you, you know what I no longer feel afraid already, now can I sleep next to you a bit?. I nodded my head sleepily.
“Now lets close our eyes and dream”

I did dream that I heard voices coming from malume’s bedroom. I woke up in a dark room and malume was not there. He must have woken up to go to his bedroom. Who was he with? I tiptoed to his bedroom door. I heard voices giggling. When I put my ears on the door I could not mistake the voice of the woman. She was madam Madlala my class teacher. What was she doing in Malume’s bedroom at night? Where was her husband? I heard her talking about going to the bathroom and I ran back and slipped into my bed.
I pricked my ears as I listened to the doors opening. I heard the toilet flushing and she went back to the bedroom. I could not sleep anymore, my heart was beating so fast.

The I heard a loud bark from Spotty outside followed by a gunshot. Then there was a violent bang in the front door. I met malume on the passage rushing to the kitchen. He told me to go back to sleep. As I went back I bumped into madam Madlala also rushing into the kitchen. Apparently it was her husband. I could not hear clearly the argument that was going on. Moments later I heard another gunshot. Madam Madlala screamed hysterically. I rushed over to the kitchen stoop to find malume on the floor bleeding, Spotty lay dead beside him. I knelt down to look at him. Malume looked at me with the eyes of a condemned man.

Taken as a separate entity, the ANC succession debacle might not merit a footnote in one’s personal diary but taken from the perspective of the totality of life and the interconnection of things, possibilities abound. In my opinion, (bearing in my mind of course that opinions are cheap), filmmakers as storytellers need to be equipped with that uncanny ability of approaching stories in a holistic manner. Let me expound on this theory by digressing a bit:

ANC members have always been passionate about their political standpoints. In fact they have been known to be prepared to kill or be killed to uphold their moral high ground. They have always been proud of their vibrant culture of debate, which they have fought for within their movement and in South Africa as a whole. Disturbingly enough, of late they have shown increasing signs of being prepared to take the debate outside. It has been interesting to note that recently in quite a number of incidents they have chosen funerals and memorial services of struggle stalwarts to engage in their running battles with each other.

And so daggers are drawn, comrade is pitted against comrade as 4000 thousand delegates descend on Limpopo in December to chart the way forward in a conference that would affect the direction of South Africa and its more than forty five million citizens including filmmakers. As a storyteller I have often assumed the luxurious role of a grandstanding psychologist in trying to dissect the minds of the various forces at play.

Which brings me to the question of political films. If one was to make a film on the nature of the succession debate, will it be a political film or just riveting human drama that has opted for a political stage as its setting? For me the latter seems the most obvious answer.

Also, as a storyteller, I have often asked myself: what happens after the December conference? Political commentators have ignored one minor fact: that after Limpopo, no matter which camp prevails, these comrades would still have to belong to the same party. When the comrades have settled their political scores with each other how will they deal with dissent in the broader society? If party cadres can display such levels of hostility and intolerance towards each other what more of simple minded creatives from outside?

There are various factors to note here: Artists as a conscience of the nation have always had an uneasy relationship with the politicians. The powers that be have always regarded artists as a constant irritation and an unnecessary evil they can do without. This largely stems from an erroneous, paternalistic but well intended assumption that they know what is good for the masses and they do not need mirrors that would reflect society.

Filmmakers operate best under a climate of free speech. Once party cadres have purged the political opponents within their own party it becomes easier too deal with political dissent outside. And we know that truth and freedom of speech becomes the first casualty in this eventuality.

South Africa at present enjoys one of the most liberal constitutions the world has ever seen. But there are some within the ruling party who are already feeling freedom of speech is exaggerated. What will happen when leaders call for more “patriotic films.” Will there ever come a time when funding is tied to political allegiance? Will we still have the luxury of debating whether we should or should not make political films after December? Is it possible for filmmakers to find a good story with regard to this historical event and still maintain their impartiality? Time will tell.

Msizi Moshoetsi is a storyteller and a pursuer of dreams. He is a virgo and a failed vegan vegetarian. One of his dreams is to own a piece of land where he can grow fruit and vegetables. He is a law graduate from the University of the North, has worked as a freelance reporter and editor for various magazines which are interestingly all defunct like Kitso and jozzi.com. He trained as a candidate director with Kevin Harris Productions and studied film at Big Fish School of Digital Filmmaking.

A social commentator, he is presently in production as a director for a documentary Amazing Grace commissioned by the SABC and in post production for a documentary called Rebirth of a Rolling Stone. He has just finished post production for a PSA on storytelling.

Yesterday we got hired
And today we got fired
Because tomorrow we got tired
Of being nothing but hired hands
In the execution of our very souls

This is his master’s voice
By a special decree of the ruling class
We interrupt your victory celebrations
To inform you
A black future has been cancelled
Until further notice
And your 1994 freedom has been delayed
By another thirteen years
Because the wabenzis and yengeni drivers are on strike
And your retired revolutionaries
Are still on holiday
During this period
In between caviar and champagne and socialist cigars
They shall sign binding freedoms
With the IMF and the World Bank
On your behalf
And the Esteemed Governor of The Reserve Bank
Shall reserve the right
To withhold your wealth
In the interest of foreign capital
And good governance
Martyrs
Shall be killed again
Without being resurrected
In the meantime
You suckers can continue binging
In your orgy of self-mutilation
To feed your hunger for true freedom

we need to find ways
to double-cross the one ways
and criss-crossing by ways
they have carved for us in different ways

they must not lead us sideways

there is either their way
or the right way
to ascend the heavenly high way

more is yet to come
we have not yet become
the expected outcome
of our messiahs coming
and our generation’s shortcomings

the death of mortality is still coming
heaven awaits our great homecoming

if all else fails
we will not give up the ghost
we will try dying

This is my season
I need to reason
And be seasoned
I must multiply
And procreate
For sometimes God blesses you in spring
And curse you in summer.

the dragon comes dragging history into the present
the present is not so fluorescent
and the past is so much effervescent

too much lies have been sold
too much truth has not been told

too much iron
has been drained from the lion
in this march to zion

even if we have no meal
we must tell our story with zeal
for the wounds to heal

a people without a history
shall forever remain a mystery
from north to south, from east to west
the beast is having a feast

a people without a culture
have acted like a vulture
and left us with nothing to nurture

the dragon drags the past from the private space
into the public place
the dragon spreads her tentacles
and we watch without spectacles
the past is so much with us
what is the future without us

a people without a history
shall forever remain a mystery

too much lies have been sold
too much truth has not been told
too much iron
has been drained from the lion
in this march to zion

when a poet is not true
to him no benefit shall accrue
so may I say
without further delay
on this day
which is not of may
a poet of rhymes
is a poet of crimes
his message is lost
to them who cheer most
the audience moves with the rhythm
but the audience cannot be redeemed
a lie is furthered
when the truth is murdered
those who play to the gallery
condemn art into mockery
so may I say
without further delay
on this day
which is not of may
a poet of rhymes
is a poet of crimes
those who live for the stage
shall be condemned into a cage
and their bright lights
will not burn through the nights
poets not adorned with medals
shall leave with no scandals
unfillable would be their sandals
those who live for fame
shall leave with no name
they shall spring from the womb
straight into the tomb
the words must glow
so the notes wont stoop low
it does not add spice
to be nice
mouthful of rice
when there is so much public lice
too many Macarena
have danced in this poetic arena
when the truth is not told
the centre cannot hold
so may I say
without further delay
on this day
which is not of may
a poet of rhymes
is a poet of crimes
who must elicit cries…