THE WATER
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 1:28 pm

It was the water that had started a crisis in Thobani Dlamini’s home. There had been what had appeared to be a small water crisis
in the township that had eventually spilled into the happy Dlamini family. A pipe or tank burst that the Municipal Council could
not fix had led to water shortages in the area. As a result Thobani had to drive a long distance in his Golf Velociti to
collect water from a neighbouring township in two large buckets.
The trouble started when Thandi, his gorgeous wife of eleven years, refused, according to Thobani, to use the water he had
sweated so much for sparingly. She still insisted on filling her bath with three buckets full of water in two baths a day.
She still insisted on doing their washing, including the blankets three times a week. And as the cherry on top, complained
Thobani, she still insisted on drinking her two litres of pre-boiled water everyday. Water was good for her skin, Thandi
argued, Thobani was still to learn the therapeutic effects of water.
The last serious fight they had had was over the fact that Thobani had used all the cooking and bathing water to wash his car.
Thobani felt he could still enjoy this little luxury; after all he was the one who collected the water. It was essential
that his car was clean; a clean car said something about a man’s character. He had after all been taught by his parents that
cleanliness was next to Godliness. His wife felt water wasted on a car was just water down the drain. After all, this
was the rainy season, why could Thobani not wait for the rain to come before he could wash his car?
Had the local council not after all, on the community radio urged the residents to save water by not washing their cars?
Thobani, a former teacher and small time business man who ran his own recycling company, felt strongly he could not take
any advice from government idiots who could not fix a little problem like a pipe burst. This friction continued until
Thobani refused to collect any more water until his stubborn wife came to her senses. In turn, Thandi refused to cook
him any food or wash his clothes until he became reasonable.
Thobani insisted he would not be blackmailed and for the first time in eleven years of marriage, he had not slept at
home preferring to drown his sorrows at Sis Thoks’s Tavern two blocks away and crashing at his bachelor friends place
Vusi. It is said in the township that news do not sit still.
Phaphama, a second year student of law at Wits found this story that had spread all over the area rather amusing.
He was known to be argumentative and liked to throw around big words when talking.

“So Bra Thobani, I see we still have not found ourselves out of our little quagmire” he ventured shouting from another table.
Thobani shot a threatening look at him as if to say he was going to eat him alive if he did not shut his little mouth.
“What is the meaning of quagmire my learned friend? inquired one patron with a beer
belly who worked in town as a clerk of the court.
“It’s a marsh or serious mud caused by a lot of water” another patron, who was an English teacher at a local high school
explained. The whole tavern broke down into laughter at the insinuation.
“Do not worry Bra Thobani, your problems are just a drop in the ocean, wait until your wife closes your eye with a right
hook” The tavern broke into laughter again.
With this statement, Phaphama had hit two birds with one stone. He was now extending his cheap shots to include another
patron Thabiso who had a swollen eye after he had been beaten by his wife who had found him cheating with another girlfriend.
Thabiso menacingly informed Phaphama the he Thabiso was lucky he could see with one eye, Phaphama was about not to see with
both eyes if he did not mind his own business. With the attention diverted from him, Thobani, in a drunken slur said to his
friend Vusi across the table “Listen my broer, I want you, I want you to accompany me back to my house to collect my belongings,
I am leaving that stubborn woman”
They both gulped down their pints of Hansa and left hurriedly.
Back home, Thandi had been patiently boiling a pot of water in the kitchen. When she heard the gate crinkling she rushed
into the sitting room to peep through the curtains. She sighed as she saw Thobani through the curtains trudging drunkenly
into the yard with an intoxicated Vusi tagging along. As soon as Thobani entered the door she was ready. She threw a
bucketful of water splashing Thobani all over the body. Vusi never entered, he closed the door quickly behind Thobani
and rushed back to the tavern breathlessly to inform everyone Thandi had just burnt Thobani with water.

The whole tavern jumped up and rushed into Thobani’s house. They were joined by other curious residents on the street
who were quickly informed of the water incident as they inquired. “Good Lord, a woman known as Mamgobhozi exclaimed
joining the crowd “I always knew those two lovebirds would one day kill each other with love” Some people debated
whether they should call the ambulance or the police. The whole street jostled each other for positions as they
flocked into Thobani’s house forcing Thandi, who was still in her night gown out of the way. They filled every room
as they searched for Thobani. Someone finally shouted, “He is in the bedroom”.
But he blocked the way with his hands as they tried to enter. They all stood in the doorway with bated breath as they
watched Thobani sprawled on the double bed lying on his back with a large towel covering his face and torso.
He slowly removed the towel and had a look at everyone as if he was seeing them for the first time. He was still
wet but he did not have a single burnt mark on him. Disappointment, mingled with relief fell on everyone’s faces.
Thobani, with an illuminated look at his face as if he had just seen a vision spoke “Bakwethu, this woman really
loves me, she could have killed me today but I am still alive, I want to invite you all to my wedding”
“Oho, he is still drunk” someone dismissed him “he has forgotten he is already married”
“No, I mean I want to renew my wedding vows” he explained
At that moment there was a big sound of water forcing itself out of the open taps in the kitchen and the bathroom.
“The water is back! Someone announced excitedly.
“I left my taps open! Someone else panicked.
“Me too! Soon everyone was rushing back to their homes to attend to one chore or another. As they talked excitedly
to each other on the street Phaphama suggested Vusi should be arrested for spreading false rumours and disturbing
public peace.
“No he should be arrested for drinking and talking” someone else suggested.
“I have a practical suggestion, why don’t we fine him a case and a bottle of brandy”
“Elethu! They all agreed in chorus. When everyone had left a smiling Thandi stood at the doorway with a towel
draped over her. “Honey, would you like to join me in the shower? She asked seductively.” In a minute, Thobani
responded rising up, “but first let me call Babu Mfundisi about our wedding date.

A SMALL MATTER
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 10:50 am

The Nkambule’s were a lovely glamorous couple. Their family name was held in high esteem, not only in their lovely suburb of their spacious
and luxurious double storey home in Diepkloof Extension but in the greater South Africa. Their spectacular wedding seven years ago had been
billed by the media as “A marriage of empires” and had been one of the most awaited events in the year calendar. It had even been
prominently featured in the Sunday Times and City Press society pages.
They had recently appeared in a documentary series flighted on the SABC called Power Couples about successful partners who could balance
a hectic and challenging business environment with a solid family life. Advocate Nick Nkambule was a successful lawyer who regularly
represented powerful politicians in high profile cases and boasted his own column in a national magazine. Doctor Nelisiwe Nkambule was
also a celebrity General Practitioner who hosted her own television show on medical issues whilst simultaneously running a successful
practice from her own backyard.
When asked how they managed to keep their marriage intact they both agreed the most important ingredient was honesty and complete faith
in each other. “At the risk of sounding immodest” Advocate Nick Nkambule had explained “one of my biggest strengths is that I have no
insecurities about my wife, we are so independent of each other and yet symbiotic, we are complete soul-mates”.

The Nkambules were known to occasionally throw lavish parties where expensive wine and whiskey collected all over the world would flow
freely as high profile guests engaged in high flown discussions ranging from politics, the economy, religion, sport and the environment.
Nick Nkambule was a confident and assertive man who was not afraid to flaunt his opulence. He had recently bought himself the latest
Chrysler Executive in addition to his fleet of luxury cars. He was known to occasionally enjoy a round of golf with the President where
later they would sit down to enjoy the finest whiskey and Cuban cigars after the game.

One Saturday afternoon they sat sharing jokes in their spacious lounge entertaining two couples who were guests for the day. Mike Rabani
and his wife were successful property agents while the other couple were the soon to be married struggling musician Big Willie and his
fiancée Nandipha. The dinner also served as a farewell party for Big Willie who was leaving the following day on a tour of France.
Big Willie was an ex high school boyfriend of Nelisiwe but the good advocate was not a bit perturbed by this minor fact and he gladly
welcomed him to his home as a family friend.
Willie and his fiancée were to spend the night at the Nkambules before he was to leave the following day to embark on a musical tour.
After a sumptuous meal the men retreated to the bar outside to enjoy some drinks. Big Willie could not hide his admiration for the
achievements the Nkambules had made and expressed his earnest wish that one day he could be favoured with such fortune. A proud Nick
Nkambule assured him it would all come in time with hard work and perseverance.

After some few drinks Big Willie excused himself and requested to speak to Nelisiwe in private. They slipped into the backyard which
served as Nelisiwe’s consulting room. A rather embarrassed Big Willie explained his little problem. Some five years ago before he met
his fiancée he had contacted an STD which he had thought had been fully treated. He had recently conducted some medical tests which
had proved he was HIV negative but He now had to deal with an irritating problem of blisters that sporadically appeared on his penis.
They always started as an itch which would develop into blisters and disappear again in a few days. Over time, the blisters had left
little scars on his penis. Last night while he was performing on stage he had felt the little itch and knew the blisters would be
coming in a few days. He wanted to know if they can be stopped and if they could endanger his health.
“Okay pull down your pants and let me take a look” Nelisiwe advised.
“You mean like here? Big Willie asked reluctantly.
“Willie, you came to me because I am a doctor and a friend, this is my consulting room and there is no need to be ashamed, or do you
want to wait until you get to France?
a reluctant Big Willie pulled down his pants and looked away as Nelisiwe inspected him.
“It’s a minor infection which cannot be cured but is manageable, it is totally harmless and you can apply some ointment I am going
to prescribe for you every time you feel the itch developing. As the relieved Willie pulled up his pants Nick came in and apologised
profusely for the disturbance. He had come to give his wife her cell phone which had been ringing incessantly. As Nick and Willie
went back to the bar Willie tried to explain what had transpired but the advocate assured him whatever he saw his wife about was
completely confidential and between the doctor and the patient. “It’s a small matter, nothing to worry about” he assured Willy

After a few more drinks the inebriated Nick and Mike decided they enjoyed passing water in the outside rather than in the lavatory
and both stood on the wall pissing excitedly like two naughty school kids next to each other. They called on Willie not to be shy
but to come and join them. Reluctantly he came between them and whipped out his very long and thick manhood. Nick and Mike stared
down at him with mouths agape. Willie left while they were still zipping up their pants and went back to the bar.
The two astonished men were left gossiping to each other about the size of his manhood.
“Did you see that? Mike exclaimed “That brother is truly blessed down there”
“I know, how big do you think that was? Nick asked.
“Thirteen fourteen inches I suppose” Mike replied.
“How big do you think yours is? Nick asked conspiratorially
“Nine tenish” Mike replied uncertainly “and yours?
“Nine tenish” Nick replied without conviction. He was quiet for a moment as if in deep reflection.
“Do you think women worry about sizes” he finally asked.
“They never worry until they have been with a real black man” he laughed aloud at his own joke and Nick laughed reluctantly not sure
if he really understood what Mike had said.
“A brother like that can make a man feel inadequate” Mike commented just before they entered the bar.
They found the women had joined Willie as he sat stroking his guitar with a particular affection. They clapped widely as they
listened to his melodic sounds. As the evening set in a highly intoxicated Mike said his goodbyes with his wife and left. It was
only Nick who looked distant and seemed to have miraculously sobered up. Nick complained of a minor headache and after taking
some Panados he politely asked his guests to excuse him as he wanted to retire early. Nelisiwe showed the visitors to their guestroom
downstairs and went up to join her husband who seemed to be already snoring softly.
A restless Nick, who had pretended to be asleep, woke in the middle of the night when he was sure his wife was fast asleep to go to
the bathroom. After passing some water he decided he did not have enough sleep so he went downstairs to watch some television.
On the way to the lounge he passed by the guestroom and heard faint sounds of a woman moaning softly. He passed by slowly
but something told him to go back and listen carefully. He listened with his ear glued to the door. The moans grew louder as he
stood by the door. Realising the lights were on he decided to peep in through the keyhole.
He saw two figures frolicking passionately in bed. Having been caught up in a momentary rapture of madness, he sobered up and felt
ashamed at his schoolboy antics. He quickly went to the sitting room and watched the television set in the dark. He sat there for
about forty minutes staring blankly at the TV as he kept seeing images of Willie with his monstrous manhood. He must have dozed off
for about ten minutes and when he woke up he switched off the television and set off for his bedroom. On his way back to the bedroom
he heard again the haunting sounds of a woman moaning in ecstasy. He listened for another five minutes with his ear on the door.
“Did the guy ever get tired? He wondered to himself.
He tried to count the hours he had been at it. It was definitely more than an hour and a couple of minutes. He went back to the
bedroom and as he opened the door he realised his wife was wide awake. He rolled into bed and slept on his back with his eyes fixed
on the ceiling. “What’s the matter honey? His wife asked reaching out with her hand to caress his chest “can’t get any sleep?
When he felt her hand reaching down his crotch there was a sudden rising in his loins.
She rolled over to kiss him but as her face came down to him an image of Willie pissing on his lawn and standing in front of his
wife dangling his manhood.
His penis suddenly went limp. He gently pushed her aside and rolled over to sleep on his side with his back turned on her.
Nelisiwe was shocked at this strange and inexplicable behaviour.
“So you had to make a quick consultation in your office today” he began in an accusing tone.
“You talking about Willy, why yes he had a small problem he wanted me to look at” she explained puzzled.
“And you just could not wait to take a quick look at his problem, and he just could not wait to whip it out”
“Nick, what’s the matter, are you accusing me of something?
“Big Willie, you never told me why you call him that”
“It was just a nickname, everyone at school called him…she suddenly stopped and faced him “Nick, why do I have to explain myself
to you about all this?
“Do I satisfy you sexually? He finally asked the question that had been bugging him.
“Nick what’s got into you, why all these questions all of a sudden? Nelisiwe asked
Instead of responding to the question, Nick rose up and put his hand on his head as if he had a pounding headache. “I think I will
sleep in the other guest bedroom today” and softly closed the door behind him.
Comments (3)

THE DRIVER
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 1:27 am

On a sunny Friday I was in my favourite white shorts with matching white sneakers and a black tight fitting sleeveless t shirt
when I boarded a taxi to Sandton at the busy Johannesburg Noord Street Taxi Rank. I was feeling confident in my attire as I felt the
shirt displayed my well toned muscles. I confidently took the front seat of the fourteen seater minibus but my comfort zone was
rudely interrupted by the uncouth queue marshall in leopard vest and big incisions on his face when he violently opened the door and
demanded that I take a seat at the back.
‘Hey wena ndoda, ucabanga ukuthi unamathanga amahle yini, awuboni ukuthi imoto ayigcwele emuva? He demanded.
With my bubble burst, I tried to explain meekly that I had a short destination and I did not want to disrupt other passengers
when I alighted.
‘This is not a train, it is a taxi and it stops anywhere” he explained in his rude form of communication.
He unceremoniously bundled me in the second seat behind the driver with three large women with big bags and two toddlers. “Four, four
masihlalisane, close your legs wena mama, you will open them at home for your husband.” I was deeply shocked; the woman was old enough
to be his mother.
“This is not a hotel” was the rude reply when other passengers protested the taxi was designed for three people per seat. Two young
beautiful girls in short school uniforms which left a lot to be desired had the privilege of taking the front seat beside the macho
looking and bushy bearded driver. With his bushy beard, clean shaven head and large golden chains dangling on his neck, he looked like
a cross between Isaac Hayes and the Mr T character in the A Team. Within minutes, the fourteen seater now overcrowded with eighteen
passengers was in full motion.
Soon the bushy bearded driver with a hoarse voice, in high speed, was negotiating different lanes in the heavy Hillbrow traffic whilst
counting money from passengers and fiddling with the car stereo. “Mama wami”, the famous hit by the Soul Brothers came into life and
filled the car in full blast.
I felt suffocated as the women in my seat squeezed me between their hips and the loosely closed door. Sweat was forming on my face
because of the heat. The window on my side could not open and I politely asked the woman on my extreme right to open the window for
some fresh air. She politely declined and saying she did n’t want the children to catch a cold.
“Short left” one passenger shouted behind me as we entered the leafy suburb of Houghton and the taxi stopped abruptly which forced
the car behind us to screech into a halt. The driver of the car behind showed our driver the finger as he overtook us prompting the
taxi driver to retort in unprintable expletives broadly describing the anatomy of the private parts of other driver’s mother.
When the man got off he banged the door so loudly I thought my eardrums were going to burst.
The driver responded with more expletives about the private parts of the alighting passenger’s mother as he hit the road again.
The next man to alight did not close the door which prompted the driver to shout at him “Ujwayele istimela yini wena”. The taxi
broke into peals of laughter as everyone caught the joke: it was only in a train where you are not required to close the door.
With more people getting on and off the seating arrangements had changed. while I had been saved from the three big hipped women
by moving into the seat behind them I found myself in an unfortunate position of being sandwiched between a woman who was fiddling
with her cell phone endlessly making irritating sounds and a drunkard who was drinking a Castle can of beer and was striking all
sorts of improper conversations with me. When the two schoolgirls alighted he asked me if I had noticed how beautiful their legs were.
I tried to evade the question by claiming I did not care for those things as I was a saved and born again Christian. “Hawu mfowethu”
he exclaimed, “what do you do when you get an erection, do you kneel down and pray to Jesus Christ?
Most passengers found the question both hilarious and relevant and soon everyone was offering his or her opinion on the matter.
A cool looking woman with a copy of Daily Sun entered the discussion on my side and encouraged me to continue on my righteous path.
I was saved from this embarrassment of having my sex life discussed in a taxi by a woman passenger at the back who was complaining
to the driver she had not received back her change of fifty cents. Meanwhile, another woman at the back shouted “after robot”.
The driver did not seem to have heard her as he passed the traffic lights at high speed. He finally stopped as the woman shouted
on top of her lungs that she was getting off.
“Are you ears sealed with wax? The woman demanded as she was getting out.
“How am I supposed to hear you when you are talking from your stomach? The driver defended himself.
“How are you supposed to hear with that tractor of a radio going on” shouted the woman as she stepped out.
“Mfazi ndini, don’t talk to me like you are coming down a tree, I am not your man and I have never slept with you” shouted
the driver.
“And you will never sleep with me mageze mpompini” shouted the woman as she slammed the door. Mageze mpompini is derogatory
township slang for taxi drivers to indicate they wash from the tap as they wake up at ungodly hours and sleep very late at night.
“Ngifuze unyoko, I took after your mother” retorted the driver as he stepped on the accelerator violently.
“Lomfazi umanzi te, she is dripping wet, her man did not give it to her well this morning” went on the driver fuming with anger.
The sky was gradually gathering clouds and the weather suddenly changed into gloomy.
“Ngicela imali yami, can I have my change back” shouted the voice from the back again. A big debate broke out about what had
happened to the change as the driver insisted he had returned all the money. Some people claimed the money had disappeared in
the middle seats while others suggested it had been stolen by one of the alighted passengers. Meanwhile the woman would not be
soothed with any explanations as she continued to demand her money from the driver.
“Demed woman, how many times must I tell you I don’t have your money, useskhathini kanti, are you menstruating? Shouted the driver.
“Mina ‘ngifun’ ukuthi omakhelwane
“Basibone sixabana”
Sang the Soul Brothers in their timeless classic Mama Ka Sbongile.
“It’s my right to demand my money” the woman stood her ground.
“Konje uMandela waninika amalungelo, well there are no rights in Gubhela’s taxi” he demanded as he pulled the car to the side of the road.
Mama Ka Sbongile
awuyek’ ukuthi
mawusuphuzile
bes’ uyangiphoxa
“Okay fine, you can keep the money, but it won’t make you rich” reconciled the woman.
“Udelela ngempela kanti mfazi ndini” the driver said as he reached for his stick underneath the seat. The rain was now pouring heavily.
“I can give you your fifty cents” I offered to the woman trying to salvage some peace.
“I don’t want your money” the woman refused stone faced.
“Why do you want to give her the money, are you the one who took it in the first place? The driver demanded.
“Cha baba, I was only trying to help” I explained seriously regretting my intervention.
“Do I look like your father? He asked.
“Get out of my car together with your girlfriend”
I did not move, not out of courage but in the earnest hope that he was bluffing. Did Jesus err when he said “blessed is the peacemaker”
I wondered to myself. I thought about the Zulu saying: umlungisi uzithela isisila, the one who tries to help becomes the target of attack.
“Get out of the car, otherwise we would be late for work” said a little man who reminded me of a peacock. When we both refused to move
the driver switched off the ignition and stepped out into the rain with his big stick.
“Lock the door, otherwise this Zulu man will beat you up” said the cool woman with Daily Sun.
“Call ten triple one” said the woman with a squeaky voice who had been fiddling with her cell phone.
I quickly reached over the locker and pressed it down before the driver could reach the sliding door. He grabbed the door handle
violently but found it locked. He tapped on the window furiously demanding we open the door as the rain came down heavily on him.
Pandemonium broke out in the car as two women at the back began crying in fear. After some moments of banging on the window he
remembered the front passenger door and tried to open it but the man in front reading Ilanga Lase Natal quickly locked it.
At this point he was dripping wet from the rain and he banged the windows with rage demanding we unlock the doors. He quickly ran
back to his door but it was locked by the schoolboy in the middle front seat. He threatened to smash the windows open with his stick
as the woman at the back screamed hysterically. He went to the back of the car and banged on the big window with
the legend: EMERGENCY EXIT NOODUITGANG to no avail.
“Don’t worry, he is not going to break his own window unless he is really crazy” the woman with Daily Sun assured us all.
“How do we know he is not crazy? Asked the woman with a cellphone.
“Let’s take the car and drive away” the drunkard suggested.
“Who will drive, do you have a licence? Someone asked to no one in particular.
“I can drive” offered the schoolboy excitedly as he jumped on the driver’s seat.
“Please, please don’t take my car, I wont beat you up anymore” pleaded the shivering wet driver wiping the rain dripping down his face.
“Throw away your stick first, and we will open up for you” said the woman with Daily Sun in a cool tone. The defeated driver threw the
stick miles away. The schoolboy, sensing his chance of driving was slipping away, started the car and revved it loudly.
The driver panicked and went down on his knees into the pool of water pleading with the passengers not to take his car away.
To the astonishment of everyone, he suddenly broke down and cried.
“You people think I am the driver, but you are the ones who drive me, you drive me mad, with your complaints, your noise, your demands,
I am only trying to work for my kids too, but you people drive me crazy” This large hulking man looked so small as he knelt there
crying like a little baby, it was a sorry sight to behold.
“Open the door for him” instructed the woman with Daily Sun.
Reluctantly and disappointedly, the schoolboy opened the door slowly and moved back to his seat. Amazingly, the sky suddenly cleared
and the sun came out as if it had never rained. The broken driver humbly took his seat and we continued with the rest of the journey
in utter silence.

THE LAST WORD
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 2:46 pm

Thabo Mdlalose died exactly like he had lived, silently. In the language of the African people south of the equator, he had woken up
quietly or cold. As scores of people were to vouch in his memory, he had lived his entire life like a sheep.
The controversy of Thabo started at his birth. From his first yawn, it became clear he was much lighter in complexion compared to his
siblings who were of a darker hue. Grandmothers in the family, who were known to be harbourers of deep family secrets, after carefully
inspecting his tiny feet, concluded his toes resembled those of a great ancestor who had ascended to the spirit world many generations ago.
No one could dispute this claim of the grand old ladies because no one was old enough to have known this great ancestor.
A dark cloud seemed to shadow his life as he grew up. Not being the brightest of his peers, he dropped out of school after
repeatedly failing to go beyond standard five at an advanced age of seventeen. He only stopped peeing on his bed at the age of twelve.
He was not fortunate when it came to finding work as white people in the kitchens felt he was not good enough to till their gardens.
The elders in the community asked “what kind of bird sang to that boy? Though the family knew there was something amiss about him they
could never put their finger on it. So they sought divine help from the seers of note. After consulting his bones, the traditional
healer suggested a ritual ceremony should be held for Thabo which would require the slaughtering of a white goat and the brewing of
traditional beer.
He also alluded to the fact that the boy should be given his proper surname but no one seemed to understand what he meant. Thabo’s mother
dismissed the seer as a charlatan, while his father, who had been against consulting the inyanga in the first place, maintained they were
a family of believers who did not subscribe to the backward notion of ancestral worship.
So Thabo grew up in a haze. But he was a lively and likeable fellow of humble spirit. He was ubiquitous and known all over the township
for his humble nature and generosity of spirit. Some people claimed, and indeed they repeated this claim in the funeral, that he was more
popular than the money lenders who provided a valuable service to the community.
Thabo was always eager to lend a helping hand where it was needed. Whenever there was a goat or cow to be slaughtered he was the first to
arrive with his knife with the legend Okapi inscribed on it. Whenever there was a cigarette to be lit he was always on standby with a box
of matches so he could pull in a few smokes. In any funeral he could always be relied on to do the spadework zealously. He was never short
of money as he performed all sorts of odd jobs like washing people’s cars for a tip rather than a salary.
At local taverns he cleaned and polished tables so he could guzzle half empty beers from patrons. He could be seen occasionally pushing a
wheelbarrow to the bottle store to buy a few cases for the shebeen owners. People said he was much better than his loafer friends who
manned street corners in the township called “tollgates” asking for money donations from passers by.
Every man and woman has needs. Thabo was also rumoured to console divorcees, widows and other women not so fortunate when it comes to men
in more ways than one. For in all honesty, he was quite a look-able fellow. In the night vigil people wailed uncontrollably. And widows and
divorcees wailed even more as if there was prize money at stake. For it is part of the rich township tradition that people should cry in
order to console the bereaved.
Beer, traditional and western, tea accompanied by cakes flowed freely inside and outside the camp. Old women wearing doeks and draped in
scarves cried and sobbed softly underneath the blankets. And community members paid their last respects in heated testimonies.
“When I saw this boy my fellow brethren, I used to be happy, I used to be happy my fellow brethren because this boy was forever laughing,
not once did I see him frown and not once did I see him raise his voice to anyone. I never heard this boy say nxa to anyone bazalwane,
amen! I used to be happy bazalwane when I passed that corner everyday and I would see this boy smoking the shadow of chickens with his
friends. I used to be happy my fellow brethren because young men these days including girls smoke all forms of drugs from cocaine to
heroin to ecstasy, I hear these days there is even a new drug called Taiwan, and another one called tik tik because it makes your mind tik
tik like a clock, but all this boy ever did was smoke his green grass in a pipe” To which all the congregants in the tent will shout a
spirited Hallelujah! Uyingcwele Jehova! A woman would take up the song “Izulu, indawo, yokuphumula, alungen’ uvalo!
Another spirited person would stand up in fired testimony: As I stand here in front of you my fellow brethren, having entered this yard
of the Mdlaloses, I say to you the Mdlaloses, it is true, the soil is never fattened up, you must find consecration in the Lord Jesus Christ
who said to us all of you who are hungry and thirsty, come to me I will carry your load for you amen!
As I stand before you my beloved in the Lord, I feel jealous, I feel jealous because I envy this young hero, who has finished his journey,
and now the issue is between me and you my fellow brethren, we need to ask ourselves, have we sorted out our controversy with Jesus Christ,
because he promised us he will collect us one by one and he will come like a thief at night.
Someone, perhaps to cut a long testimony short would interject with a chilling song: Lemini iyeza nakuwe. A woman would rise up to speak:
This boy was like a son to me bazalwane bami, I knew him before he was born, I used to send him on errands and he would run so fast he
would come back before the spittle has dried out on the ground. He would come to me for a visit and we would laugh about nothing.
The night before he passed away he came to my house and we shared jokes as usual and he left shortly after that, little did I know bazalwane
he had come on that day to say his goodbyes” and the woman would break down and cry.
Someone would console with a song again: Ningakhali bazalwane bami, sahlukene umzuzwana nje, ezulwini sobonana futhi. It is said that people
laugh even in the midst of death, occasionally, a township idiot or a drunkard would provide a humorous moment with a statement like:
Nami bazalwane I am just standing up, I have nothing to say really, I just wanted to stress on what has already been said…to which his
friends would pull him down in hushed tones.
On the day of the funeral the pastor gave a spirited sermon. People said he was fired up by the bottle of Mellow Wood that he had been
drinking from the previous night. The pastor stressed to the mourners they should never lie to the children but always tell them the truth
because people have a tendency of coming back demanding the truth even beyond the grave. He told the story of an uncle who assured his dying
nephew that he need not worry because he was going to haydes to rest in the chest of Abraham. The departed boy came back to his uncle in a
dream saying he cannot find the resting place of haydes and the chest of Abraham.
‘He was a nice guy’, commented the clean shaven man in dark sunglasses to a beautiful lady in a black veil and hat.
‘Kunjalo, it is so’ responded the woman, ‘did you know him well?
“Ngisho nakwaMadala ejudeni, I did not know him at all” the man said.
“I did not know him either” the woman said.
None of the mourners found this conversation strange. For it is common nature in the township to attend the funeral of a person you have never
known in their lifetime. At most times, knowing one member of the bereaved family is enough but very often one does not even have to know the
bereaved family for as the Zulu people say: you do not pass by when you see a house under construction, you come in and give a hand, so it is
with feasts and funerals.
After all the proper rituals had been observed the time came for the coffin to be lowered down the grave. The strangest thing happened, the
coffin would not move from the ground. Stronger and brawnier men, in an effort to expose the weaklings were called upon but still the coffin
would not budge. Scores of men tried their luck in lowering the deceased but the coffin would still not move an inch. There was a huge murmur
and suppressed gossip amongst the mourners. Some thing like that had never been seen amongst these shores though others vouched it happens all
the time when the deceased is angry about something. An impromptu family meeting was called but did not yield any positive results. Incense was
burnt to plead with the ancestors to tone down their anger but still the coffin would not move. It is said that that which fails men must be
reported, so the matter was brought before the community elders. A sagely greying old man was convinced the truth lay with the mother of the boy.
The mother screamed and squealed uncontrollably. Many people, convinced they had diagnosed the root of the problem, pleaded with her and then
demanded she talk the truth about the paternity of the boy. Thabo’s mother finally relented and confessed the father of the boy was Khumalo opposite
their house. A shaken Khumalo was called to intervene. He went to speak to the coffin, calling on the Mashobanes, the mzilikazis, the mntungwas to
tone down their anger. He pleaded with the ancestors, apologising to his son by praising him with all the family clan names. The weather suddenly
cleared. People easily lifted up the coffin and lowered it into the ground. Finally, Thabo Khumalo had spoken the last word, people said.

THE INTERVIEW
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 9:04 am

“First impressions last”, Khanyisa thought as he adjusted the rear mirror of his blue BMW 3 to catch a glimpse of himself. On this Monday morning,
as part of his cautious preparation for the big interview, he had meticulously chosen a black linen suit over a silky white shirt and a brown tie.
A nicely trimmed moustache and a small beard gave his toned skin a youngish look which belied his age of thirty eight years. Even though he was
pretty confident of his chances as the new Chief Executive Officer of the company Anti Corruption Monitor, he still aimed to impress.
As he slowly approached the stop sign of his local road that would take him straight to the main highway he noticed an old greying man beside a vintage
Mercedes Benz waving him down. Reluctantly sliding his window he quickly gathered the man had experienced a problem with his car and urgently needed a
lift into the city centre. There was something about the man, perhaps his dignified appearance that bestowed on him an air of confidence and wisdom
that comes with old age that forced Khanyisa to suspend his strict rules on picking up hitchhikers. The man threw his leather briefcase on the back
seat and confidently took his place at the front. He duly fastened his seat belt but Khanyisa did not follow suit. He found seat belts an unnecessary
irritation.
When they found themselves stuck in a traffic jam the old man advised Khanyisa on an off ramp that was a short cut to the city and was not usually
congested. “The off ramp had been a good idea” he thought as he hit the accelerator while distractedly listening to the man’s conversation of running
an “Intelligence Consultancy”. Being a fast driver, he stopped abruptly at a traffic light that suddenly turned red as he was about to go through
forcing his passenger to jolt forward and backwards. Khanyisa became restless as he felt the traffic light was taking too long to let him through.
Looking on his left and right, and deciding it was safe “to beat the robot” he proceeded to drive through at high speed. The old man shot him a
look without uttering a word. He drove on slightly irritated, he really did not care how the old man felt, after all he was supposed to be grateful
he was being given a free ride to his place of work.
His high speed drive was finally disturbed by an old van that was so slow it appeared stationary on the two way road. Getting impatient with the van,
and after careful consideration, he squeezed in on a small route on the left side of the road and overtook the van.
Having safely overtaken the van, he was gaily cruising at 160 km per hour in excess of the 120 km per hour speed limit. His passenger was stealing
another accusing glance at him. “Sorry about my driving” Khanyisa said, though he did not particularly feel sorry. He merely said it out of politeness
and to keep the conversation going.
“Well it just reminds me of the conversation we had at work the other day” the old man said.
“And what was that all about? Khanyisa asked with his eyes glued on the road ahead.
“It was about how a man’s driving is an extension of his personality and how it reflects on him as a human being”
“Interesting theory, please elaborate” he was finding his passenger an amusing fellow and he wanted to be indulged.
“The theory suggests if you don’t respect the rules of the road you are also not likely to observe other social rules that govern human relations,
be at work, in the stadium, at home and so on”
“I see, so what does my driving say about me?”
“A newspaper article I read says this involves all aspects of driving, how smooth you are when you change the gears, how tender or aggressive on that
brake and accelerator says a lot about…” The old man’s exposition on the subject was rudely interrupted by the sound of a siren of a traffic officer
pulling them over.
“Did you check the speed limit in this country before embarking on your murderous spree sir? Asked the cool looking metro official in stylish Ray Ban
sunglasses as he stood beside Khanyisa’s window.
“I was in a bit of a hurry officer, I did not…” Khanyisa was stopped by the officer with a slight wave of the finger.
“And what happened to your seat belt, did you cut it off so you could use it as a belt for your pair of trousers?” the officer asked. Great just what
I needed, Khanyisa thought, a traffic officer who is a comedian. He did not wait for Khanyisa to respond.
“Let me see your licence and registration and please step out of the car sir” the officer instructed in a polite but firm tone. Khanyisa followed the
officer to his car. They conversed for a brief period and after some minutes Khanyisa came back to his car and drove off cursing silently.
“What was the damage? The old man asked.
“I paid him a quarter of what the ticket would have cost me” Khanyisa replied satisfied.
“I see, you both take what is due to Caesar and everyone lives happily ever after, talk about highway robbery” the old man moralised.
“Well hello, its called the death of conscience, morality is dead, finito, kaput, this is another ploy by the government of extracting more money from
the already overtaxed citizens, who knows, if I had paid the ticket the money would probably have been embezzled by some unscrupulous civil servant”
Khanyisa was surprised at his own heated response. When there was no response from his passenger he continued unabated
“The politician and the rich have stolen from the poor, and the poor dreams of taking the place of the politician and the rich. In the workplace the
employer steals without shame from the employee and the employee steals from the employer without blinking. It’s a rat race, everyone wants to steal
as much as possible and get out because if you don’t someone else will, conscience is dead, greed and crass materialism has taken over”
Khanyisa was expecting a similar heated response from his holier than though passenger but he found him pointing at an accident ahead of them by
the roadside.
“Can we take a look at that? The old man requested.
“In as much as I would like to, I have an interview to attend” Khanyisa replied icily with his hands firmly on the steering wheel. He was seriously
beginning to regret offering the strongly opinionated and self righteous old man a lift.
Finally the old man muttered the words as if to himself “Death of conscience”, you are right he said again speaking more louder “and when the
parademics arrive they would first ask the casualties if they have medical aid, if they don’t they leave them to die”
“I almost forgot, where do I drop you off, this is the entrance of the company I am going to” asked an irritated Khanyisa not prepared to engage the
old man in any further discussions. He had deliberately not asked so he could dump his passenger at the gate. As they pulled over the electric gate
the security guard was approaching.
“Thank you very much, this is where I work too” replied the old man taking his briefcase from the back and stepping out of the car.
“I have been thinking, with regard to the roadside accident, your prospective employer would apply the average man’s test” the old man said peering
through the window.
Khanyisa was now convinced he had picked a madman for a hitchhiker. First he claimed to be also working here and now he was talking about an average
man’s test.
“And what do you do around here” he decided to indulge the old man as he waited for the security guard.
“According to this test” the old man continued ignoring his question, “an average man is not expected to regard the lives of other people as more
important than his job interview, it’s been a pleasure” the old man said as he opened the small passenger gate. Khanyisa was even more surprised by
the strange behaviour of the security guard who was bowing his head to the man in great respect.
“Good morning sir” the security guard greeted the old man.
“Good morning Zungu, it’s a lovely day indeed” the old man replied rushing past him to the reception.
“Who is that man? A confused Khanyisa asked the security guard.
“Mr Zwane? Replied the security guard perplexed too, “That is the big boss of the company, I heard he would be coming today for a big interview,
who are you, are you his driver, are you going to park in his space?
There were rumblings in Khanyisa’s stomach, he felt sick.

MY UNCLE CHINA AND THE LESSONS
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 9:44 am

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 tolose 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 up at me. I stopped and looked back at him too.
“Now let’s 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 team-mates 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 civilian 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 can’t 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 let’s 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.
Then 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.

THE GREATEST MAN I HAVE EVER KNOWN
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 12:26 am

He never made front page news and his uneventful passing away was never flighted on the obituary pages but Mandla Khuzwayo is
undoubtedly the greatest man I have ever known. He flaunted his large frame of body with so much ease he made being obese
look fashionable. He had such unsurpassed charm and charisma I always thought he should have been a politician. He spoke without
a hint of hesitation in his voice and even in his sleep, he slept with so much confidence even his greatest enemy will not
dare touch him. He always boldly introduced himself as “I am Mandla Khuzwayo from Wasbank”.
Now Wasbank is an obscure little village in Ladysmith but Mandla Khuzwayo always made it sound like the most glamorous place
to ever happen to KwaZulu-Natal. Such was his flair for the dramatic he had a way of making people feel special. The first
time I met him he said I reminded him of Jesus Christ. I asked him if he had ever seen Jesus, he said no but we will when we
get to heaven and he will be proven correct. Mandla was a great storyteller. He had a way of telling the same story as if he
was telling it for the first time. He would regale us with humorous stories from his hometown. One of my favourites was one
about his brother in law who used to drive around in an old motorbike. One time, when he was enjoying a ride in a small
one way road, the motorbike ran out of petrol.

He rushed to the nearest garage with a petrol can and left the bike stuck in the middle of the road. When he rushed back to
his bike from the garage he was greatly surprised to see scores of children gathered over something like flies to a carcass
on the side of the road. “Izingane zezifebe, children of bitches, kuhlatshiwe yini, what are they doing as if a cow had been
slaughtered” he cursed as he came near. He soon found out the slaughtered cow was his very own motorbike which had been
flattened out and thrown off the road by a passing tractor. “Fuck the tractor” the brother in law lamented “what am I
going to do now with this petrol?
His stories were so humorous I wished he could write as well as he spoke. But his spelling and grammar was terrible.
He was a late comer at university having started at the ripe age of thirty four. Though he was not doing well on the
academic side, he was much more successful at a social level. He liked to wear shorts for primarily three reasons
he explained. The first one was that they displayed his beautiful and slightly hairy legs.
The second one was that he liked the feel of fresh breeze as it touched his legs. The third and the most important one
was that it made him look young. I knew this to be true because he liked to keep company of younger people around him.
We were best friends even though he was fifteen years my senior. He also liked to go out with younger women because he
said you can never find anything new from an old woman. His popularity with women also rubbed off on me. Though I was
quiet and had a laid back demeanour, I found myself a hit on and off campus.
One day he accompanied me to check on my girlfriend Tshidi in Mankweng Township outside Turfloop. After we had waited
for some time outside the gate Mandla got restless and decided he was going inside to fetch the girl. Against my better
judgement he went inside the house and spent about thirty minutes. When he finally emerged from the house he not only
had my girlfriend Tshidi with him but both parents who were engaged with him in an animated conversation.
They happily introduced themselves and gave their blessing for me to take their daughter back to campus. Also, next time
I was not to stand outside but I should go right in to see Tshidi. To this day I still wonder what Mandla said inside
that house. His slippery tongue saved us from many sticky situations.
One time in the city of Polokwane we managed to get free of charge forty eight cans of Black Label beer from one of his
girlfriends who worked in a bottle store. On the way to the taxi rank on that hot summer day, Mandla decided he was
too thirsty to wait until campus for a drink. So we found a park and proceeded to quench our thirst with the beer.
“M’shoetsi, he began as we sat sprawled on the green grass enjoying the beer “I have been to many parts of South Africa,
but the beer in Pietersburg is the coldest, the secret must be in their ice.”
As we continued enjoying the beer two policemen appeared threatening us with arrest for public drinking. After some
brief conversation with Mandla he offered them a drink which they duly accepted. After a few drinks with us the cops
offered us a ride back to campus and after that became some of our most regular visitors.
He could also be deep and philosophical. One time over a drink he said to me “between you and me, I don’t think Jesus
is coming back” But he warned me not to tell anyone about this because it was important that people continued going
to church. Mandla was also a great teacher. He taught me a lot about women. He said to me “Son, never allow a woman to
have more money than you, you must always fight for your right to be a man” He maintained a woman who thought she was
clever always ran out of ideas. “Angikaze ngimbone utsotsi ofake iphenti” he insisted. Despite his radical views on
women he was still very popular with them. I attributed this to the fact that people like an honest person even if
he was bad. Mandla had no room for politically correct views.
As a matter of principle he never bought alcohol for women unless he was sure we would get lucky with them. He always
maintained “Angilifidi ihhashi engingaligibeli, ngoba malibona abantu liyathimula, likuwise, bakuhleke abantu bathi,
hawu! lamwisa, kanti akulona elakhe! In loose English he meant that you must never feed a horse that you don’t ride
because when it came across other people it would throw you out making people laugh at you saying, the horse has thrown
him out, it does not belong to him! But the English translation does not do justice to the moral of the story which
is this: if you buy alcohol for a woman who is not your girlfriend, she would dump you when she sees other men with more
money turning you into a butt of jokes.
He said to me “Son, women are like babies, never allow a woman get bored, once a woman gets bored for a minute, you
have lost her for a lifetime”. To illustrate this point he referred to the story of Adam and Eve in the bible.
He explained the reason Eve had strayed was because Adam had stayed too long in the fields allowing her time to
talk to wrong people. “The biggest mistake God did was creating Eve, then the devil worsened the problem by
creating money” he preached.
He was also big on bible verses. He always warned his girlfriends “you must have no gods before me, for I am a jealous god”.
When one girlfriend complained he had too many girlfriends he would simply assure her “In my father’s house there are many
rooms, if it were not so I would have come back to tell you.” When a girlfriend complained he was too harsh in his decisions
he would simply say “I only baptize with water, the one who would come after me would baptize with fire” He was also a good
strategist when it came to women. He advised me: If you want to score with beautiful women, you must start with the ugly ones
first. The ugly ones will boast to the beautiful ones about what a great lay you are. In jealous rage, the beautiful women
will throw themselves at you.”
I almost forgot to tell you, Mandla Khuzwayo, the greatest man I have ever known, died a broken man. His heart was
broken by a woman.

THERE IS ALWAYS MORE THAN ONE REASON TO CRY.
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 7:32 pm

“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 centres 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
rumoured 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.

COMRADE KOMISSAR FINALLY WEARS MY UGLY SHOES
Filed under: literature, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 10:09 pm

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 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 channelled 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
were 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.