my common-law wife
(for mavis)
i'll be many things to you but i'll never marry you
late @ night i'll call you will spend my money on you
that you fulfill me leaves me feeling indebted
& that someday you'll hurt me makes me count my every move
i got a 1 way ticket to your heart i'm reluctant
i know 'til i draw my last breath i'ma adore you
you my common law wife don't need papers to validate us
forget the preacher & his altar we gon' marry in the bedroom
when all the shes in the world finally break my heart
when your lies unfulfilled vows finally make me distrust
i renewed my love affair with weed smoke & alcohol
try to save me be careful don't drown with me
i'm on a suicide mission & i'm moving fast
destination freebase finally settle down
with my hallucino wife this is joint abuse
got expectations of how you'll like it to be
bazaruto cayman islands & you know you ain't dreaming
remove the veil & the cake they don't feature in my plan
still don't mean i love you less think of you all the time
when i lay down to sleep the last prayer to your health
to the very end i'ma be yours i ain't cheating with no bitch
i'll be your boyfriend to the grave never give you a ring
since i was young & infant been denied some love
growing up heart lacerated for i tried to love
came back full of hatred but i was born to love
'til the day i found you & i knew you'll be mine
i never had any dime so i shied away from love
& today i make a vow that i know i'll live by
i'ma love you forever like the tip of my dick
Friday, December 15, 2006
IS YOUR LIFE WORTH SAVING?
The Founder
Deeper Touch Foundation
083 3350 856
busy@magicmail.co.za
22 September 2006
To The Reader at Large
Anywhere in the World
Anytime, Anyhow
Dear Sir/Madam
Is your life worth saving?
There was a young boy in hospital, dying of leukemia. The paeditrician looked him in the eyes, realising his desperation to live. He asked him what he wanted to do with his life in the event that he could be saved from the deadly disease. The young boy looked at him with reasonable doubt, he didn't know how to answer the question. He had never thought about it, he just wanted to live.
Right now as you are reading this letter, hospitals are full of sick mortals, just in the same way that prisons are brimming with criminals. These hospitalized mortals are very sick; they are looking for immediate medical attention. Most of them are at the verge of losing their lives if unattended. Dedicated doctors and nurses are busting their backs 24 hours trying to save these endangered lives. However a serious question begs to be raised. Why should medical practitioners try so hard to save a life? You are invited to ask yourself this question while you let me touch your life on a deeper level.
What is so important about a person’s life that it has to continue? The answer doesn’t lie in a hospital bed however. It lies in the sanctity of the lives that you and I live, or fail to live. It lies with us who are currently well and are not sick to death. What is it that makes our lives so important that the day we get sick somebody must help save us? Why should doctors even bother to resuscitate and bring us back to the arena of the living?
We need to interview this situation thoroughly. We need to ask constantly: Are we living our lives or just wasting breath and medical efforts to keep us in the game? Are we players or spectators? The day we get sick will the dedicated doctor and nurse be wasting their overtime trying to save our lives? What is the inner value of the lives we are living that it must be kept? What are we doing to deserve the privilege of being alive? Are we abusing death’s leniency or are we taking this chance seriously?
To be brutally honest there are mortals among us who deserve to die because they are a problem and not a solution. Look at the rape statistics of our country and the related HIV infections. Do these perpetrators deserve a saving needle in the ass when they are sick or a bullet in the head? Do they deserve the right to life? I doubt it and I hope you do too. Why? Who are we to judge? Maybe we are just mortals who are brave enough to step in the shoes of the doctors and nurses responsible for saving these sickos. They are given the task to put together lives that are breaking apart. But we cannot really force them to put together poisonous
individuals, or a public nuisance like a man who rapes children.
Honestly hospitals are full of some constructive mortals who deserve a chance. These hospitals are housing hope and despair. They are often understaffed and the available doctors and nurses are overworked. The question is: Should these dedicated humans attended to a car crash "victim" who chose to drive under the influence of alcohol? Or should they attend to a dreamer whose life, if saved, will alter society for the better? Imagine if the inventor of the computer I am using to type this letter had died in a hospital years before he came up with this brilliant and useful idea… The world would probably be some years behind in communication and technology. Imagine if Nelson Mandela had died from an acute case of bilharzias as a young boy... Imagine if you were to die tomorrow. Would we miss you? Should we? Is your prospective obituary worth writing? Is your vision worth dying for? If you were never born, what piece of the puzzle of life would be missing? How different would life in general be without you? How meaningless or
meaningful would the lives of others be without yours?
Next time you go to the hospital, should the dedicated doctors and nurses send you to the ICU or straight to the mortuary? Should you be nurtured back to life or should we start funeral processions? What difference would it make? Would you be worthy of a second or twelfth chance?
You can only prove that you deserve a chance now, by living your life to the full and touching many other lives. You need to start living your life for a worthy cause. Give your energy to something valuable. Start having a dream. Start spending every hour of your life for a valid reason. Stop being negative and start being positive. Stop enduring unattended emotions and start expressing yourself clearly. Stop being ignorant and start reading. Stop free-styling and start planning. Stop being lazy and start investing your energy in hard work. Stop waiting for a call all day; start making calls. Stop begging; start giving. Stop making selfish prayers and start being the answer to the prayers of others. Stop being the problem, become the solution. Stop being a losery and become a winnery. Stop being a patient; become the healer. Stop being the poison; become an antidote. Stop being the statistic; become the statician. Stop being the slave; become the master. Stop being just a voter; become the candidate. Stop being the joke; become the joker. Stop buying everything and start selling something.
You must agree, hospitals are truly full of dying mortals; you need to become a living legend. Live. Always keep in mind that tomorrow holds nothing for you, but you hold something for tomorrow. This is my opinion yes, however, trust me, your life is meant to be lived. Live it.
Deeper Touch Foundation
083 3350 856
busy@magicmail.co.za
22 September 2006
To The Reader at Large
Anywhere in the World
Anytime, Anyhow
Dear Sir/Madam
Is your life worth saving?
There was a young boy in hospital, dying of leukemia. The paeditrician looked him in the eyes, realising his desperation to live. He asked him what he wanted to do with his life in the event that he could be saved from the deadly disease. The young boy looked at him with reasonable doubt, he didn't know how to answer the question. He had never thought about it, he just wanted to live.
Right now as you are reading this letter, hospitals are full of sick mortals, just in the same way that prisons are brimming with criminals. These hospitalized mortals are very sick; they are looking for immediate medical attention. Most of them are at the verge of losing their lives if unattended. Dedicated doctors and nurses are busting their backs 24 hours trying to save these endangered lives. However a serious question begs to be raised. Why should medical practitioners try so hard to save a life? You are invited to ask yourself this question while you let me touch your life on a deeper level.
What is so important about a person’s life that it has to continue? The answer doesn’t lie in a hospital bed however. It lies in the sanctity of the lives that you and I live, or fail to live. It lies with us who are currently well and are not sick to death. What is it that makes our lives so important that the day we get sick somebody must help save us? Why should doctors even bother to resuscitate and bring us back to the arena of the living?
We need to interview this situation thoroughly. We need to ask constantly: Are we living our lives or just wasting breath and medical efforts to keep us in the game? Are we players or spectators? The day we get sick will the dedicated doctor and nurse be wasting their overtime trying to save our lives? What is the inner value of the lives we are living that it must be kept? What are we doing to deserve the privilege of being alive? Are we abusing death’s leniency or are we taking this chance seriously?
To be brutally honest there are mortals among us who deserve to die because they are a problem and not a solution. Look at the rape statistics of our country and the related HIV infections. Do these perpetrators deserve a saving needle in the ass when they are sick or a bullet in the head? Do they deserve the right to life? I doubt it and I hope you do too. Why? Who are we to judge? Maybe we are just mortals who are brave enough to step in the shoes of the doctors and nurses responsible for saving these sickos. They are given the task to put together lives that are breaking apart. But we cannot really force them to put together poisonous
individuals, or a public nuisance like a man who rapes children.
Honestly hospitals are full of some constructive mortals who deserve a chance. These hospitals are housing hope and despair. They are often understaffed and the available doctors and nurses are overworked. The question is: Should these dedicated humans attended to a car crash "victim" who chose to drive under the influence of alcohol? Or should they attend to a dreamer whose life, if saved, will alter society for the better? Imagine if the inventor of the computer I am using to type this letter had died in a hospital years before he came up with this brilliant and useful idea… The world would probably be some years behind in communication and technology. Imagine if Nelson Mandela had died from an acute case of bilharzias as a young boy... Imagine if you were to die tomorrow. Would we miss you? Should we? Is your prospective obituary worth writing? Is your vision worth dying for? If you were never born, what piece of the puzzle of life would be missing? How different would life in general be without you? How meaningless or
meaningful would the lives of others be without yours?
Next time you go to the hospital, should the dedicated doctors and nurses send you to the ICU or straight to the mortuary? Should you be nurtured back to life or should we start funeral processions? What difference would it make? Would you be worthy of a second or twelfth chance?
You can only prove that you deserve a chance now, by living your life to the full and touching many other lives. You need to start living your life for a worthy cause. Give your energy to something valuable. Start having a dream. Start spending every hour of your life for a valid reason. Stop being negative and start being positive. Stop enduring unattended emotions and start expressing yourself clearly. Stop being ignorant and start reading. Stop free-styling and start planning. Stop being lazy and start investing your energy in hard work. Stop waiting for a call all day; start making calls. Stop begging; start giving. Stop making selfish prayers and start being the answer to the prayers of others. Stop being the problem, become the solution. Stop being a losery and become a winnery. Stop being a patient; become the healer. Stop being the poison; become an antidote. Stop being the statistic; become the statician. Stop being the slave; become the master. Stop being just a voter; become the candidate. Stop being the joke; become the joker. Stop buying everything and start selling something.
You must agree, hospitals are truly full of dying mortals; you need to become a living legend. Live. Always keep in mind that tomorrow holds nothing for you, but you hold something for tomorrow. This is my opinion yes, however, trust me, your life is meant to be lived. Live it.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
WASTED SOBRIETY
THE WEATHERMAN DID not say it would be hot on Monday. He said, "it will be partly cloudy and warm with isolated showers in the escarpment". Mahlomola didn't care much about the weather as he walked out of the living room and faced a cloudy sky with no isolated showers. As long as Wanderers Cricket Oval, 340 kilometres away in Johannesburg's suburb of Birnam, next to expensive Melrose was hot it served him well. He blinked, retreated back into the room and lounged on the sofa. Pakistan was playing India on at Wanderers and on television. The score was still 62/1. Mahlomola pushed off his sandals and relaxed. The electricity went off again, another interruption, the third one that morning. He took to his feet, angry and disappointed and proceeded to the kitchen to fix himself some Kool-Aid.
TWO BLOCKS AWAY the phone rang. Father Nicholas felt that it was disturbing him from watching television. Even though he was not really watching anything but sitting bored infront of the grey television set waiting for the electricity to supply to be fixed. It was soon on as his television signaled for him since he didn't turn it off when the outage occured. India was chasing Pakistan's target of 276. They were struggling at 101/2 on the 25th over. On the same over Pakistan were 123/1. It was his sister calling from Bloemfontein. Nicholas growled, excited, "of course she will be welcome. Been a long while since I last saw my favourite niece. She's now grown up right?" Nicholas's sister was informing him that her daughter, his niece had requested to visit him in Nelspruit where he headed a parish. He laughed and picked a branded pen from a pile of papers on the table, "ah you know what the lord said, 'the kingdom of heavens belongs to suchlike ones" he rattled. He peeped at the obscured TV set as he heard an appeal for a run out. India were 127/2.
"Yes, a bus will take forever, why don't you book her on the first plane flying out of there tomorrow morning?" he asked. He listened attentively then smiled, "Yeah of course, she will be here in say, one and a half hours' time and I will pick her at the airport". He put the handset ontop of a telephone directory and said with finality, "tell her, uncle Nicholas misses her too. Okay Sis, I will see her then. May God bless you"
THE GAME ENDED with Pakistan winning with six wickets. Mahlomola was now standing infront of a large mirror, applying finishing touches to his looks. He was dressed in an expensive pair of jeans, a mercerized T-shirt, a sporty and tekkies. He hung a gold necklace on his neck and a diamond bracelet to match. He stared at his reflection with narcissistic obsession, satisfactorily picked his wallet from the dressing table and made for the door.
THE OLD WOMAN did not understand why television news were suddenly dominated by cricket results. They were the first news item on the main news and even on the sports bulletin. For the first time since she liked TV she had never seen people being so enthusiastic about the outcome of a cricket match. Sitting on the sofa, busy knitting a scarf she only raised her head when Mahlomola appeared from the passage and sat next to her. His maternal grandmother. He picked the TV remote controller. She stared at him as he changed channels. "What now?" she asked.
"I want to watch some wrestling Ma"
"You still want to watch that violence Hlomo, what did I tell you bout God and sinners?" she asked. Mahlomola smiled, went ahead and switched channels regardless.
"I know what you told me Ma, but it's not violence, this is entertainment, these folks are only acting," he reasoned and gestured, "look at them Ma, look".
She was far from amused, she protested, "What has happened to good old entertainment of Mshefane and King Korn?"
"Huh Ma, you don't expect us, the X generation to enjoy Tarzan and The Ninjas. Ma give us some credit," Mahlomola responded, his eyes focused on a wrestling match.
She cautioned, "Now Ninjas are violent as well, including Tarzan, God does not like those things you know".
She paused, after a long silence Mahlomola retorted, "I know Ma, you taught me right okay, always remember that". She turned, looked at him with fondness. He blushed, she stroked his palm lightly. "Now, can I make you some tea Ma? Your favourite Rooibos with a slice of lemon"
"No, thanks Hlomo ngwanake, I've just had one right now. I think I'm coming down with flu, you know," she complained.
Soon, a hooter blurred from outside. She turned to look at Mahlomola suspiciously. He surrendered the remote controller and composed himself. "What is it now?" she enquired. Mahlomola took to his feet and peeped through the curtains. "Some friends Ma, don't worry"
"Don't tell me not to worry, I'm worried Mahlomola, since you came home from varsity you've been acting strangely and I'm worried about that", her concern was showing.
"Come on Ma, don't evoke your hypertension now, I'll be back in an hour or less, before you even notice that I'm gone. We're going to meet this guy who promised me some bursary from Eskom", he lied.
"Hlomo, do I look stupid to you? Bursary arrangement at half past eight. Why can't these friends of yours come in the house like everyone else?" The hooter intensified. Mahlomola made for the door. She stared at him with lots of concern. "Wait, where is it today?"
"What?" he enquired, thought hard and laughed. He reached into his T-shirt and pulled out a Rosary. "Ah, how can I forget my angel Ma. The Lord is my shepherd and I always carry him in my heart"
She was amused, "okay, take care Hlomo"
"I will, goodnight Ma". He disappeared into the darkness.
THE OLD MISSION house that Nicholas lived in stood proudly that morning. The only new thing around was the charcoal brown BMW sedan. In the kitchen Nicholas was preparing breakfast, pacing between the microoven and the stove, not saving ESKOM's electricity. The dietician advised him to follow a low fat diet with lots of fruits and gallons of mineral water.
WRESTLERS, BODYBUILDERS AND athletes made lots of money preaching the benefits of a balanced diet, coupled with an exercise regimen. They forgot to mention protein supplements and testestorone shots in the unholy trinity of diet and exercise. Mahlomola was not bothered. His exercise regimen of press-ups and stomach crunches worked well - with a balanced diet. No supplements, what with his natural testestorone. He was working out in his celebrity-poster-infested room when grandmother entered. He yielded, "morning Ma, how's the flu?" Silence.
"So, three o'clock in the morning was your one hour. You lied to me Hlomo", she spoke emphatically. He took to his feet, breathing heavily. He sat on the bed, "I'm sorry Ma, it took quite longer than I expected". She sensed an alien smell in his breath.
"Come here Hlomo, look me in the eyes", she demanded.
"Why Ma?"
"You even smoke dagga these days you. Look at your eyes, bloodshot and weary. Come, let me smell your palms", she said, approaching him.
"Me dagga, no Ma, it's not true"
MAHLOMOLA SUDDENLY REMEMBERED the night before. He was leaning with a red BMW at a street bash. Mathata, with whom he was bingeing, had suddenly passed him a zol. He took it, inhaled hard until he coughed. His friends laughed. Hard.
"AAGH HLOMO, I thought as much. Why do you have to destroy your life like this", grandmother enquired while throwing up after picking the smell of marijuana on Mahlomola's fingers.
"I don't know Ma, it's just that when they took away my student grant…", he paused, stared at her, "mama I'm sorry". She stared at the Rosary that was dangling on his well-developed chest.
"Agghh Hlomo, you disappointed me. Bring that cross, you'll get it back when you decide to be a child of God. I can't believe you smoked while the son was painfully crucified on your chest", she demanded. Mahlomola held on to it for dear life, he was reluctant to surrender his angel to her. "Mama please, don't take it away from me, the Lord is my shepherd ma"
"You broke my heart Hlomo, come, give it to me". He protested. He really regarded it as his guardian angel. "Mama it's just that I put all my trust in this degree," he pointed to scores of books lying open on his bed. "I think it's unfair that education should only be for children of the rich. I planned to make this work Ma, finally take you out of here and settle you in town. Mama you didn't have to still be here. We didn't have to live like this Ma. I'm not a criminal, I don't need to hustle, I didn't need to be a drop out Ma, just because rich people saw the potential in me and decided to sabotage me. This is not how to stand in the way of a man's destiny. Tell me Ma, why did they give me the student grant in the first place?" She was touched.
"I can't answer that but you should learn to leave these things to God my son". He interjected.
"No Ma, I've been leaving things to God since I was six and what happened? I'm still your Hlomo. You are a pensioner Ma. Do you think I feel good expecting you to feed me, clothe and give me pocket money all the time?"
"Don't talk like you mother Hlomo"
"I guess my mother was right, she got tired of asking from you and God who I doubt He listens to our prayers, she took things into her own hands…"
"Got AIDS and died?" grandmother interjected. Mahlomola slowly removed the Rosary and handed it to grandmother. He took to his feet, put on a T-shirt and frowned, "yes, got AIDS and died. She died for something right? If I die now what will I be dying for? Faith. Well, it's not worth dying for Ma", he whispered, made for the door and exited. "I'll see you later Ma," he shouted.
"There's a Thursday prayer today, come with me Hlomo and share your problems with Him." she responded.
"Pray for me Ma", he shouted. She gazed at the repossessed Rosary with interest.
NICHOLAS LIKED TO hang a Rosary on his BMW's rearview mirror. He was prejudiced and only played gospel music on his car stereo. He despised how young men in his township of Kanyamazane drove their cars like maniacs. As he had come to expect, an old red BMW drove past his at high speed just as he negotiated a speed hump. Drunken young men were hanging from its windows, playing a kwaito CD at high volume. He reminisced about how he came to have Kanyamazane as part of his parish. All the priests were reluctant to relocate to Kanyamazane, a crime hot spot, a Presidential node. He surprised everybody at the crisis meeting where they had to elect when he offered to go without coercion or a mandate from the majority. He had said, "God's flock is being held hostage by the organs of the devil at our parish. With the very same vigor that Apostles Peter and Paul preached to the Gentiles, I today declare, 'here am I Lord, send me". The other priests had clapped their hands and gave him a standing ovation. He smiled when he reminisced about that time.
THE NEWSPAPER VENDOR at the airport who was shouting 'Daily Sun!' even though he did not have it held another newspaper up high, "INDIA STUMPED", a headline which fascinated Nicholas. He bought it, drove slowly, found a spot and parked his car next to the parking meter.
AT THE CARWASH Mahlomola and friends downed 750 milliliters of beer while Sol's old red BMW was receiving attention from two young boys. The group was also passing zol around each other. Three girls in mini skirts, who seemed to love red ghetto-synonymous BMWs came through. They also received attention and cellphone numbers. Mahlomola was unlucky.
"Hlomza, tell them you are a varsity drop out. That you belong to a very exclusive elite class of guys like Phat Joe and…" Thapelo was stuck.
"And who?" Mahlomola asked angrily. "My tragedy is not something to joke about. I'm still trying to get money, go back there and learn".
Sol put down the bottle, "what were you studying for Hlomza, lawyer, gynecologist, pharmacist?"
"Must be gynecologist, he loves nudity, my friend", Thapelo spoke. Mahlomola looked at him angrily. "Don't talk about shit you don't know. When I was little I wanted to be a gynecologist. But looking at it now, I would have dropped out after my first practical", he responded, out of context. Sol repeated the question.
"I don't remember, this beer is playing tricks on me. My brain is swimming in alcohol these days", he fumbled. He then saw a group of women walking along the street. "Thaps, hide the joint, adults are coming this way"
"Ah fuck, none of them is my mother, they won't do shit"
"Okay, bring it here", Mahlomola demanded the zol, Thapelo gave him, he stubbed it out.
"You, you can't always charm these fat ladies by behaving in some goody-goody way", Thapelo paused, "I tell you, that fat one who looks like a frog, she got more sins than all of us"
"Shut up, I'm telling you for the last time now, don' talk shit you don't know".
THE BOYS WASHING Sol's BMW suddenly complained to him that the hoover machine was off because the electricity supply had been interrupted. "It's your uncles, izinyoka, always stealing the wires. I'm not going to pay you if it's not cleaned", Sol shouted.
"But my uncle is a policeman"
"Yeah he should have arrested these izinyoka a long time ago, he's taking bribes that's why"
Mahlomola took to his feet and volunteered to check what the problem was. He switched it off and on. Still no power supply. He went back and sat down. Soon the power supply was back and the boys continued hoovering the car, smiling broadly.
TWO MINUTES LATER, Thapelo picked up his argument with Mahlomola. "But Hlomza Joe, that old lady is the chief of backstreet abortions."
Sol interfered, "come on gents, let's not playerhate now. Respect adults and your days will multiply"
"Hallelujah!" Thapelo yawned. "What? Playerhating? Who's a player amongst those bible-cradling haters? Okay, that granny there is one hell of a gossipmonger. You see, her goggles are magnifying glasses. I tell you, she sees bigger than us. Radio Gogo. She's a scorpion".
Mahlomola angrily took to his feet, holding the beer bottle, "now that's my granny and nobody talks shit about her, hear me?"
"I'm sorry Joe, hard luck bra", Thapelo said, rubbing his palms together. Mahlomola sat down and took a sip.
A minute later silence died, "Hlomza Joe, all of a sudden you behaving like some pussy, you become deep and caring just to charm these mamas. You aren't deep Joe, you are as shallow as us. You can act deep like a whore but as long as you don't grip and sweet you ain't shit. You ain't shit"
The testestorone in him responded and Mahlomola turned aggressively, violently landing a full bottle of beer on Thapelo's head, breaking and lacerating him in the process. Sol and Mathata struggled to break the fight. Thapelo, seeing blood flowing down his face reached for an empty beer bottle and threw it to Mahlomola who ducked just in time for the bottle to land on the red BMW. Silence. Sol went to inspect his car. The boys who were washing it stood by with their buckets. Sol ran his palm on the surface and felt a dent. He turned to Thapelo. "You didn't just inflict my car its first dent mfana, no you didn’t"
"Agghh, don't act like you bought it or something", he reasoned.
"I'm not the one who said your family must be poor", Sol retorted.
STARTERS WERE SUDDENLY served, boiled chicken livers with hot peri-peri sauce. Nicholas and his niece Lesego loved everything hot. "Look at you, you've grown. By the way how are you mchana?"
"I'm fine Malome, you look a little older from the last time you visited us"
"Ah, are you saying I should apply for pension now?" Nicholas joked, she nodded. "I'm older than your mom you know. By the way, how is my sister doing?"
"Ah, she's as mean as ever, since Papa was transferred to Dar es Salaam, she's been whinging"
"Ah my poor Sis, is she okay anyway?" he asked. Lesego nodded while dipping her fork in the hot sauce.
ONE-HOUR LATER Nicholas and Lesego were driving towards the township. Lesego, reading a magazine while Nicholas hummed a song. Five minutes away from Kanyamazane at Tekwane South Lesego saw a bleeding man hiking for a lift. She requested Nicholas to help. He stopped, settled the man in the back seat of his charcoal brown BMW and took a U-turn to the hospital in Nelspruit. "What's your name son?" Nicholas enquired.
"Thapelo Moloto"
"What happened Thapelo?"
"I fell from a coal truck, the driver sped off"
"Maybe he did not see you", Nicholas said. Thapelo was grimacing in pain.
Lesego spoke, "Malome is right, he did not see you". Silence.
"Do you know what your name means Thapelo?"
"Yes, prayer"
AT 21HO6 THAT night Nicholas' BMW parked infront of a house in the township. He killed the engine. Thapelo was sitting in the back seat, his head heavily bandaged. Nicholas turned to look at him. "Be good Thapelo, and thank this young girl. She's the one who saw you after I had passed you in obvious rush". Thapelo shook Lesego's hand. "Thank you. And your name is?"
"Lesego, he is my uncle"
"Thank you again Malome, thank you" he said, took some advice from Nicholas then exited the car.
"God bless you son," Nicholas said.
MAHLOMOLA WAS HELPING his grandmother prepare dinner. She commended him. He was taken aback. "I saw you working at that car wash today, who owns it?"
"I was just helping out Ma. So you saw me?"
"Yes, and MaKhumalo was impressed with you. You are not like these other boys who spend their days smoking and drinking. At least you learnt something from your mishap of last night. It will be soon before you earn your cross back Hlomo", she proudly echoed. He apologised for his earlier behaviour, she said it was understood. He reasoned that there was no excuse for it. She sat down and held his free hand.
"We learn from our mistakes Hlomo, don’t be too hard on yourself. Plus some mail came for you today", she said. Mahlomola hurriedly took to his feet, wiped his hands with his T-shirt. "Where is it, where did it come from, Eskom?" The power supply went off.
"Another outage?"
"No, must be izinyoka. I think they cut the copper wire"
"Could it be, it can't be hear since we bought topped up on Tuesday". Suddenly the power was back again. He looked for the mail, it was ontop of the fridge. He reached for them. Timid.
NICHOLAS AND LESEGO were up early to prepare breakfast. He had confessions to take later on the day. "You know Lesego ngwanake, when me and your mom were still little she used to say I can't cook but now you are my witness"
"Who taught you to cook Malome?"
"Your grandfather. Now I'm a three star chef"
"If yesterday's dinner was anything to go by, I'm schooling here next year." Silence. Nicholas was concerned. "Not in this township, kind of rough here. Somewhere in town, yes", he paused. "And your mom will crucify me for making you fat with my high cholesterol meals"
"I can never be too fat Malome, I inherited your figure". They laughed hard until Nicholas coughed. "Which reminds me, I bought you something. Stay here". He disappeared down the passage. In his absence Lesego gazed at their photo, shot some time ago, pasted on the refrigerator door. He was soon back with a parcel. A gold Rosary which he took the pleasure of putting around her neck. Lesego blushed. "Thank you Malome"
"God bless you ngwanake."
MAHLOMOLA WAS ON his way to the library when the red BMW stopped next to him. Sol jerked the window, "Hlomza, did you see Thaps today?"
"I've seen a lot of whores mzala, but none with that name"
"Maybe he bled and died you know. And you might be up for murder", Mathata joked.
"Bitches bleed every month and don't die, why should he?" Sol stared at Mahlomola's books suspiciously. "And what about those books? What's the scam, 419?"
"Nothing, see you later gents", Mahlomola teased and retreated.
"Us, it's Black Labour 'til we die, let the Whites feel the Guilt", Mathata shouted, raising a beer bottle. They drove off.
TOPLESS THAPELO GENTLY navigated his facecloth through his face's twelve stitches. After successfully wiping it dry he went to the mirror, looked at them, touched them, grimacing. Paining.
FATHER NICHOLAS SAT in the confession box, waiting for a voice from the other side. He yawned. Suddenly, "Bless me Father for I have sinned"
"When was your last confession my child?"
"Long long ago, I can't quite remember"
"Have you been making prayers since your last one?"
"Yeah, I talk to Him sometimes"
"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost you will be forgiven. You should understand that your confession must not be a cosmetic exercise to cleanse you of guilt. You also know that it does not cleanse sins. It must be preceded by repentence if it is going to be received with grace. Now what did you do?"
"A sin of the flesh Father"
"Adultery?"
"Yes"
"Okay, let's hear it. Confess to the Lord your trespasses my son", he said.
"TODAY ON RICKY Lake," greeted thirteen-year-old Lesego as she turned on the TV to watch boring midday soaps. She wasn't watching though but busy perusing her uncle's photo album. What fascinated her most were portraits he took with her, at her first birthday, christening and her first day at school. She gazed at them and smiled alone. She loved him.
A FEW BLOCKS away Mahlomola's bespectacled grandmother was studying the Bible. Like Lesego, she also had a framed portrait of innocent-six-year-old Mahlomola on the coffee table.
THAPELO'S MENTALLY DISTURBED and paraplegic mother received a disability grant, which his unemployed-alcoholic father spent with friends at the shebeen. He exhausted his wife's money, that is if he was not recycling stolen copper-wire at Recycle To Live run by a fat round Afrikaner from Ventersdorp, otherwise called 'Vito Terreblanche' or 'Boer Mafia'. Thapelo strolled in to find her passively watching Ricky Lake. He told her that he went to church and confessed and that he was leaving for Kwazulu-Natal.
"Tell your aunt I said hi", she retorted with sarcasm.
"Ma, I'm not coming back," he shouted. She stared at him then continued watching TV. Soon his drunken father staggered in and stared at him with annoyance. Drunk. "Tell you father what you told me," she mused. Thapelo knew him well. The father waited. She waited in anticipation too. "Tell him, say it and get whacked", she shouted. Thapelo painfully looked at both of them and left the living room.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Thapelo, cradling his beloved baseball bat and a suitcase walked down the street. At a corner, next to a collapsed but working ESKOM line the red BMW was stationary, with Mahlomola and friends gulping beer and smoking zol. Thapelo noticed them and slowed down, stared and filed past. Silence. A taxi came and whisked him away.
***************
TWENTY-ONE DAYS since Pakistan humiliated India a tearful Father Nicholas paced restlessly inside his office. He was sobbing. A day earlier the saints at his church gave evidence in a criminal investigation. The suspect-congregation was summoned to give clarity in a child kidnapping and raping case. What happened was that the victim was Lesego.
"My beloved niece Lord", he passionately echoed, clutching a framed photo of Lesego and himself. He smiled, a painful smile, an old man's sarcastic smile, "for Mary, mother of God's sake she's only thirteen, thirteen Lord". He cried hard, sounding as if he wanted to say 'or did you forget Lord?'. "Lord forgive me, I can't forgive". He suddenly left the portrait on his desk and headed for the confession box.
IT DIDN'T TAKE time for the first sinner to arrive. Barely forty-five seconds in the box a voice humbly echoed. "Bless me Father for I have sinned"
"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost you will be forgiven. When was your last confession my child?"
"I don't quite remember Father, but I'm just here to confess my new sins"
"Is it okay if we set the ground rules first Father?"
"Can you be clearer and more precise on what you mean my son?"
"I mean is it true what I heard that every sin confessed in this box is guaranteed forgiveness?"
"Yes, as long as your confession is followed by whole hearted repentance my son"
"Is it also true that what is said here is confidential, that the only people who have access to such a secret is you, me and the other father, I mean the man upstairs?"
"That's also true my son"
After a long sigh. "See Father, the thing with me is that I was raised religious, and believes in the redeeming power of Jesus Christ’s sacrifice. But then father is it also true that what I say in this box today can never be held against me in any court of law?"
"Yes, it cannot be accepted as evidence"
"It will be considered technical in a court, what I say I mean?"
"Inadmissible "
"So, there is some justice left in this world?"
"Yes son"
Breathes heavily, "Then father here's one last question. This is not like the TRC heh, where full disclosure might mean either retribution or forgiveness? I mean this here is forgiveness guaranteed heh?"
"Yes, my son"
"Do you read the newspapers father?"
"Yes, why?"
"Do you remember that pregnant woman who was stabbed to death with a piece of bottle last week? So, is it safe for me to assume that her killers might have come here to confess their sins and were forgiven?"
"Yes, possibly my son"
The sinner gets angry, "I would never have forgiven that son of a bitch Father, I guess that's miscarriage of justice on the part of the Lord. Would you have forgiven them Father?"
FATHER NICHOLAS SUDDENLY remembered when he was leaning with his car at the airport, waiting for Lesego to come through the domestic arrivals. When all of a sudden he saw her at the very same time that she was also noticing him, Lesego drops her bags and rushes to him. He rushes to meet her, hugs and lifts her to the air. He tightly holds her, kissing her on her cheeks.
HE FROWNS, "I guess so, yes"
"Again Father, even the sons of bitches who killed that old man for his R750 pension last week, the one who hemorrhaged and whose blood later dried on the pavement, they might have come here and begged for forgiveness and received redemption, which means possible salvation?"
"Possibly, yes, my son". A a long silence.
"Finally Father, are you sure that when I walk out of here I'll be redeemed?"
"Most certainly my son"
"I don't believe this, this is way beyond my expectations. Do you mean that I walk out of here, I happen to die, I’m going straight to heaven, no visa, no aptitude test, nothing? Wow, God is great."
"What did you do my son?"
"Father, I don't know where to start. I sin a lot and confess a little these days. But then I'll start with my latest sin, it's something I didn't do alone. That's why I'm here on behalf of me, my boys and everybody I've led astray in the past. I hope I can find favour in the Lord's eyes and get my trespasses forgiven. They will be forgiven father, won't they?"
"You most certainly will my son"
After much silence, the sinner's shaking voice confessed, "Father the thing is, yesterday me and my boys abducted and raped a young girl". A pregnant silence. A pen fell from Father Nicholas’ hand, a church bell sounded once. Darkness befell the confession box as the electricity supply got interrupted, again. It was soon back. A column of pigeons flies away hastily as the church bell sounds.
"Father, are you still there?"
"Yes, my son I'm still here, tell me what happened?"
"It was this Sunday, yesterday when this young chick rolled down the street, I guess she was like late for Passover or something. Me and my boys jack rolled her to this run down building with no ownership outside the township. It used to belong to that man who died of TB last year, but now it's our fuck-house, excuse my language. So father, we took this young whore there".
"Then what happened my son?"
"Like it's a ritual at the fuck-house, she had to first blow four horns until they sprayed her cheese soft face with nectar to swallow, then we took turns sexing her. She was crying and bleeding profusely, but it doesn't matter does it, we all bleed sometimes in our lives for no apparent reason. After we were through with her we drove her to this isolated spot and left her there", the sinner spoke in a relaxed mood.
The Father became emotional, "What happened to her now son?", he paused. After a long pause he repeated the question, "What happened to her from there?"
After a long silence, "I don't know, and I don't care. What I know is that I need forgiveness. Is it granted father?"
The church tocsin sounded again, this time for no reason, "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, you are forgiven my son"
"Really, it’s this simple, can I go now father? Am I really forgiven that I can walk out of here and turn a new leaf in my life?"
"Yes, you are forgiven my son"
"So, it's safe, I can bounce out of here and tell my boys that we are redeemed, through the blood of Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour?"
"Thank you Father, May God bless you too and your family"
"You too my son"
SECONDS LATER THE sinner stands on the stairs and kisses his Rosary, relieved. He puts on his sporty and reaches for a cigarette. He finds one, searches for matches, finds it and torches, the first match blazes then blows out before the filter catches the fire. He strikes another one, it blazes, then he inhales the smoke hungryly. As he exhales a bullet comes from nowhere and punctures his chest. He never heard the sound - a bad sign. He clutches his chest, blood flows, his face twists in an expression of disbelief, anger and an unforgiving frown. Suddenly he coughs, thick blood. He involuntarily kneels on the steps, collapses and dies. Mahlomola was lost. Forever.
-ends-
Translation: mfana - boy
Mchana - niece/nephew
Malome - uncle
Ngwanake - my child
Mzala - cousin
By: Goodenough Mashego
THE WEATHERMAN DID not say it would be hot on Monday. He said, "it will be partly cloudy and warm with isolated showers in the escarpment". Mahlomola didn't care much about the weather as he walked out of the living room and faced a cloudy sky with no isolated showers. As long as Wanderers Cricket Oval, 340 kilometres away in Johannesburg's suburb of Birnam, next to expensive Melrose was hot it served him well. He blinked, retreated back into the room and lounged on the sofa. Pakistan was playing India on at Wanderers and on television. The score was still 62/1. Mahlomola pushed off his sandals and relaxed. The electricity went off again, another interruption, the third one that morning. He took to his feet, angry and disappointed and proceeded to the kitchen to fix himself some Kool-Aid.
TWO BLOCKS AWAY the phone rang. Father Nicholas felt that it was disturbing him from watching television. Even though he was not really watching anything but sitting bored infront of the grey television set waiting for the electricity to supply to be fixed. It was soon on as his television signaled for him since he didn't turn it off when the outage occured. India was chasing Pakistan's target of 276. They were struggling at 101/2 on the 25th over. On the same over Pakistan were 123/1. It was his sister calling from Bloemfontein. Nicholas growled, excited, "of course she will be welcome. Been a long while since I last saw my favourite niece. She's now grown up right?" Nicholas's sister was informing him that her daughter, his niece had requested to visit him in Nelspruit where he headed a parish. He laughed and picked a branded pen from a pile of papers on the table, "ah you know what the lord said, 'the kingdom of heavens belongs to suchlike ones" he rattled. He peeped at the obscured TV set as he heard an appeal for a run out. India were 127/2.
"Yes, a bus will take forever, why don't you book her on the first plane flying out of there tomorrow morning?" he asked. He listened attentively then smiled, "Yeah of course, she will be here in say, one and a half hours' time and I will pick her at the airport". He put the handset ontop of a telephone directory and said with finality, "tell her, uncle Nicholas misses her too. Okay Sis, I will see her then. May God bless you"
THE GAME ENDED with Pakistan winning with six wickets. Mahlomola was now standing infront of a large mirror, applying finishing touches to his looks. He was dressed in an expensive pair of jeans, a mercerized T-shirt, a sporty and tekkies. He hung a gold necklace on his neck and a diamond bracelet to match. He stared at his reflection with narcissistic obsession, satisfactorily picked his wallet from the dressing table and made for the door.
THE OLD WOMAN did not understand why television news were suddenly dominated by cricket results. They were the first news item on the main news and even on the sports bulletin. For the first time since she liked TV she had never seen people being so enthusiastic about the outcome of a cricket match. Sitting on the sofa, busy knitting a scarf she only raised her head when Mahlomola appeared from the passage and sat next to her. His maternal grandmother. He picked the TV remote controller. She stared at him as he changed channels. "What now?" she asked.
"I want to watch some wrestling Ma"
"You still want to watch that violence Hlomo, what did I tell you bout God and sinners?" she asked. Mahlomola smiled, went ahead and switched channels regardless.
"I know what you told me Ma, but it's not violence, this is entertainment, these folks are only acting," he reasoned and gestured, "look at them Ma, look".
She was far from amused, she protested, "What has happened to good old entertainment of Mshefane and King Korn?"
"Huh Ma, you don't expect us, the X generation to enjoy Tarzan and The Ninjas. Ma give us some credit," Mahlomola responded, his eyes focused on a wrestling match.
She cautioned, "Now Ninjas are violent as well, including Tarzan, God does not like those things you know".
She paused, after a long silence Mahlomola retorted, "I know Ma, you taught me right okay, always remember that". She turned, looked at him with fondness. He blushed, she stroked his palm lightly. "Now, can I make you some tea Ma? Your favourite Rooibos with a slice of lemon"
"No, thanks Hlomo ngwanake, I've just had one right now. I think I'm coming down with flu, you know," she complained.
Soon, a hooter blurred from outside. She turned to look at Mahlomola suspiciously. He surrendered the remote controller and composed himself. "What is it now?" she enquired. Mahlomola took to his feet and peeped through the curtains. "Some friends Ma, don't worry"
"Don't tell me not to worry, I'm worried Mahlomola, since you came home from varsity you've been acting strangely and I'm worried about that", her concern was showing.
"Come on Ma, don't evoke your hypertension now, I'll be back in an hour or less, before you even notice that I'm gone. We're going to meet this guy who promised me some bursary from Eskom", he lied.
"Hlomo, do I look stupid to you? Bursary arrangement at half past eight. Why can't these friends of yours come in the house like everyone else?" The hooter intensified. Mahlomola made for the door. She stared at him with lots of concern. "Wait, where is it today?"
"What?" he enquired, thought hard and laughed. He reached into his T-shirt and pulled out a Rosary. "Ah, how can I forget my angel Ma. The Lord is my shepherd and I always carry him in my heart"
She was amused, "okay, take care Hlomo"
"I will, goodnight Ma". He disappeared into the darkness.
THE OLD MISSION house that Nicholas lived in stood proudly that morning. The only new thing around was the charcoal brown BMW sedan. In the kitchen Nicholas was preparing breakfast, pacing between the microoven and the stove, not saving ESKOM's electricity. The dietician advised him to follow a low fat diet with lots of fruits and gallons of mineral water.
WRESTLERS, BODYBUILDERS AND athletes made lots of money preaching the benefits of a balanced diet, coupled with an exercise regimen. They forgot to mention protein supplements and testestorone shots in the unholy trinity of diet and exercise. Mahlomola was not bothered. His exercise regimen of press-ups and stomach crunches worked well - with a balanced diet. No supplements, what with his natural testestorone. He was working out in his celebrity-poster-infested room when grandmother entered. He yielded, "morning Ma, how's the flu?" Silence.
"So, three o'clock in the morning was your one hour. You lied to me Hlomo", she spoke emphatically. He took to his feet, breathing heavily. He sat on the bed, "I'm sorry Ma, it took quite longer than I expected". She sensed an alien smell in his breath.
"Come here Hlomo, look me in the eyes", she demanded.
"Why Ma?"
"You even smoke dagga these days you. Look at your eyes, bloodshot and weary. Come, let me smell your palms", she said, approaching him.
"Me dagga, no Ma, it's not true"
MAHLOMOLA SUDDENLY REMEMBERED the night before. He was leaning with a red BMW at a street bash. Mathata, with whom he was bingeing, had suddenly passed him a zol. He took it, inhaled hard until he coughed. His friends laughed. Hard.
"AAGH HLOMO, I thought as much. Why do you have to destroy your life like this", grandmother enquired while throwing up after picking the smell of marijuana on Mahlomola's fingers.
"I don't know Ma, it's just that when they took away my student grant…", he paused, stared at her, "mama I'm sorry". She stared at the Rosary that was dangling on his well-developed chest.
"Agghh Hlomo, you disappointed me. Bring that cross, you'll get it back when you decide to be a child of God. I can't believe you smoked while the son was painfully crucified on your chest", she demanded. Mahlomola held on to it for dear life, he was reluctant to surrender his angel to her. "Mama please, don't take it away from me, the Lord is my shepherd ma"
"You broke my heart Hlomo, come, give it to me". He protested. He really regarded it as his guardian angel. "Mama it's just that I put all my trust in this degree," he pointed to scores of books lying open on his bed. "I think it's unfair that education should only be for children of the rich. I planned to make this work Ma, finally take you out of here and settle you in town. Mama you didn't have to still be here. We didn't have to live like this Ma. I'm not a criminal, I don't need to hustle, I didn't need to be a drop out Ma, just because rich people saw the potential in me and decided to sabotage me. This is not how to stand in the way of a man's destiny. Tell me Ma, why did they give me the student grant in the first place?" She was touched.
"I can't answer that but you should learn to leave these things to God my son". He interjected.
"No Ma, I've been leaving things to God since I was six and what happened? I'm still your Hlomo. You are a pensioner Ma. Do you think I feel good expecting you to feed me, clothe and give me pocket money all the time?"
"Don't talk like you mother Hlomo"
"I guess my mother was right, she got tired of asking from you and God who I doubt He listens to our prayers, she took things into her own hands…"
"Got AIDS and died?" grandmother interjected. Mahlomola slowly removed the Rosary and handed it to grandmother. He took to his feet, put on a T-shirt and frowned, "yes, got AIDS and died. She died for something right? If I die now what will I be dying for? Faith. Well, it's not worth dying for Ma", he whispered, made for the door and exited. "I'll see you later Ma," he shouted.
"There's a Thursday prayer today, come with me Hlomo and share your problems with Him." she responded.
"Pray for me Ma", he shouted. She gazed at the repossessed Rosary with interest.
NICHOLAS LIKED TO hang a Rosary on his BMW's rearview mirror. He was prejudiced and only played gospel music on his car stereo. He despised how young men in his township of Kanyamazane drove their cars like maniacs. As he had come to expect, an old red BMW drove past his at high speed just as he negotiated a speed hump. Drunken young men were hanging from its windows, playing a kwaito CD at high volume. He reminisced about how he came to have Kanyamazane as part of his parish. All the priests were reluctant to relocate to Kanyamazane, a crime hot spot, a Presidential node. He surprised everybody at the crisis meeting where they had to elect when he offered to go without coercion or a mandate from the majority. He had said, "God's flock is being held hostage by the organs of the devil at our parish. With the very same vigor that Apostles Peter and Paul preached to the Gentiles, I today declare, 'here am I Lord, send me". The other priests had clapped their hands and gave him a standing ovation. He smiled when he reminisced about that time.
THE NEWSPAPER VENDOR at the airport who was shouting 'Daily Sun!' even though he did not have it held another newspaper up high, "INDIA STUMPED", a headline which fascinated Nicholas. He bought it, drove slowly, found a spot and parked his car next to the parking meter.
AT THE CARWASH Mahlomola and friends downed 750 milliliters of beer while Sol's old red BMW was receiving attention from two young boys. The group was also passing zol around each other. Three girls in mini skirts, who seemed to love red ghetto-synonymous BMWs came through. They also received attention and cellphone numbers. Mahlomola was unlucky.
"Hlomza, tell them you are a varsity drop out. That you belong to a very exclusive elite class of guys like Phat Joe and…" Thapelo was stuck.
"And who?" Mahlomola asked angrily. "My tragedy is not something to joke about. I'm still trying to get money, go back there and learn".
Sol put down the bottle, "what were you studying for Hlomza, lawyer, gynecologist, pharmacist?"
"Must be gynecologist, he loves nudity, my friend", Thapelo spoke. Mahlomola looked at him angrily. "Don't talk about shit you don't know. When I was little I wanted to be a gynecologist. But looking at it now, I would have dropped out after my first practical", he responded, out of context. Sol repeated the question.
"I don't remember, this beer is playing tricks on me. My brain is swimming in alcohol these days", he fumbled. He then saw a group of women walking along the street. "Thaps, hide the joint, adults are coming this way"
"Ah fuck, none of them is my mother, they won't do shit"
"Okay, bring it here", Mahlomola demanded the zol, Thapelo gave him, he stubbed it out.
"You, you can't always charm these fat ladies by behaving in some goody-goody way", Thapelo paused, "I tell you, that fat one who looks like a frog, she got more sins than all of us"
"Shut up, I'm telling you for the last time now, don' talk shit you don't know".
THE BOYS WASHING Sol's BMW suddenly complained to him that the hoover machine was off because the electricity supply had been interrupted. "It's your uncles, izinyoka, always stealing the wires. I'm not going to pay you if it's not cleaned", Sol shouted.
"But my uncle is a policeman"
"Yeah he should have arrested these izinyoka a long time ago, he's taking bribes that's why"
Mahlomola took to his feet and volunteered to check what the problem was. He switched it off and on. Still no power supply. He went back and sat down. Soon the power supply was back and the boys continued hoovering the car, smiling broadly.
TWO MINUTES LATER, Thapelo picked up his argument with Mahlomola. "But Hlomza Joe, that old lady is the chief of backstreet abortions."
Sol interfered, "come on gents, let's not playerhate now. Respect adults and your days will multiply"
"Hallelujah!" Thapelo yawned. "What? Playerhating? Who's a player amongst those bible-cradling haters? Okay, that granny there is one hell of a gossipmonger. You see, her goggles are magnifying glasses. I tell you, she sees bigger than us. Radio Gogo. She's a scorpion".
Mahlomola angrily took to his feet, holding the beer bottle, "now that's my granny and nobody talks shit about her, hear me?"
"I'm sorry Joe, hard luck bra", Thapelo said, rubbing his palms together. Mahlomola sat down and took a sip.
A minute later silence died, "Hlomza Joe, all of a sudden you behaving like some pussy, you become deep and caring just to charm these mamas. You aren't deep Joe, you are as shallow as us. You can act deep like a whore but as long as you don't grip and sweet you ain't shit. You ain't shit"
The testestorone in him responded and Mahlomola turned aggressively, violently landing a full bottle of beer on Thapelo's head, breaking and lacerating him in the process. Sol and Mathata struggled to break the fight. Thapelo, seeing blood flowing down his face reached for an empty beer bottle and threw it to Mahlomola who ducked just in time for the bottle to land on the red BMW. Silence. Sol went to inspect his car. The boys who were washing it stood by with their buckets. Sol ran his palm on the surface and felt a dent. He turned to Thapelo. "You didn't just inflict my car its first dent mfana, no you didn’t"
"Agghh, don't act like you bought it or something", he reasoned.
"I'm not the one who said your family must be poor", Sol retorted.
STARTERS WERE SUDDENLY served, boiled chicken livers with hot peri-peri sauce. Nicholas and his niece Lesego loved everything hot. "Look at you, you've grown. By the way how are you mchana?"
"I'm fine Malome, you look a little older from the last time you visited us"
"Ah, are you saying I should apply for pension now?" Nicholas joked, she nodded. "I'm older than your mom you know. By the way, how is my sister doing?"
"Ah, she's as mean as ever, since Papa was transferred to Dar es Salaam, she's been whinging"
"Ah my poor Sis, is she okay anyway?" he asked. Lesego nodded while dipping her fork in the hot sauce.
ONE-HOUR LATER Nicholas and Lesego were driving towards the township. Lesego, reading a magazine while Nicholas hummed a song. Five minutes away from Kanyamazane at Tekwane South Lesego saw a bleeding man hiking for a lift. She requested Nicholas to help. He stopped, settled the man in the back seat of his charcoal brown BMW and took a U-turn to the hospital in Nelspruit. "What's your name son?" Nicholas enquired.
"Thapelo Moloto"
"What happened Thapelo?"
"I fell from a coal truck, the driver sped off"
"Maybe he did not see you", Nicholas said. Thapelo was grimacing in pain.
Lesego spoke, "Malome is right, he did not see you". Silence.
"Do you know what your name means Thapelo?"
"Yes, prayer"
AT 21HO6 THAT night Nicholas' BMW parked infront of a house in the township. He killed the engine. Thapelo was sitting in the back seat, his head heavily bandaged. Nicholas turned to look at him. "Be good Thapelo, and thank this young girl. She's the one who saw you after I had passed you in obvious rush". Thapelo shook Lesego's hand. "Thank you. And your name is?"
"Lesego, he is my uncle"
"Thank you again Malome, thank you" he said, took some advice from Nicholas then exited the car.
"God bless you son," Nicholas said.
MAHLOMOLA WAS HELPING his grandmother prepare dinner. She commended him. He was taken aback. "I saw you working at that car wash today, who owns it?"
"I was just helping out Ma. So you saw me?"
"Yes, and MaKhumalo was impressed with you. You are not like these other boys who spend their days smoking and drinking. At least you learnt something from your mishap of last night. It will be soon before you earn your cross back Hlomo", she proudly echoed. He apologised for his earlier behaviour, she said it was understood. He reasoned that there was no excuse for it. She sat down and held his free hand.
"We learn from our mistakes Hlomo, don’t be too hard on yourself. Plus some mail came for you today", she said. Mahlomola hurriedly took to his feet, wiped his hands with his T-shirt. "Where is it, where did it come from, Eskom?" The power supply went off.
"Another outage?"
"No, must be izinyoka. I think they cut the copper wire"
"Could it be, it can't be hear since we bought topped up on Tuesday". Suddenly the power was back again. He looked for the mail, it was ontop of the fridge. He reached for them. Timid.
NICHOLAS AND LESEGO were up early to prepare breakfast. He had confessions to take later on the day. "You know Lesego ngwanake, when me and your mom were still little she used to say I can't cook but now you are my witness"
"Who taught you to cook Malome?"
"Your grandfather. Now I'm a three star chef"
"If yesterday's dinner was anything to go by, I'm schooling here next year." Silence. Nicholas was concerned. "Not in this township, kind of rough here. Somewhere in town, yes", he paused. "And your mom will crucify me for making you fat with my high cholesterol meals"
"I can never be too fat Malome, I inherited your figure". They laughed hard until Nicholas coughed. "Which reminds me, I bought you something. Stay here". He disappeared down the passage. In his absence Lesego gazed at their photo, shot some time ago, pasted on the refrigerator door. He was soon back with a parcel. A gold Rosary which he took the pleasure of putting around her neck. Lesego blushed. "Thank you Malome"
"God bless you ngwanake."
MAHLOMOLA WAS ON his way to the library when the red BMW stopped next to him. Sol jerked the window, "Hlomza, did you see Thaps today?"
"I've seen a lot of whores mzala, but none with that name"
"Maybe he bled and died you know. And you might be up for murder", Mathata joked.
"Bitches bleed every month and don't die, why should he?" Sol stared at Mahlomola's books suspiciously. "And what about those books? What's the scam, 419?"
"Nothing, see you later gents", Mahlomola teased and retreated.
"Us, it's Black Labour 'til we die, let the Whites feel the Guilt", Mathata shouted, raising a beer bottle. They drove off.
TOPLESS THAPELO GENTLY navigated his facecloth through his face's twelve stitches. After successfully wiping it dry he went to the mirror, looked at them, touched them, grimacing. Paining.
FATHER NICHOLAS SAT in the confession box, waiting for a voice from the other side. He yawned. Suddenly, "Bless me Father for I have sinned"
"When was your last confession my child?"
"Long long ago, I can't quite remember"
"Have you been making prayers since your last one?"
"Yeah, I talk to Him sometimes"
"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost you will be forgiven. You should understand that your confession must not be a cosmetic exercise to cleanse you of guilt. You also know that it does not cleanse sins. It must be preceded by repentence if it is going to be received with grace. Now what did you do?"
"A sin of the flesh Father"
"Adultery?"
"Yes"
"Okay, let's hear it. Confess to the Lord your trespasses my son", he said.
"TODAY ON RICKY Lake," greeted thirteen-year-old Lesego as she turned on the TV to watch boring midday soaps. She wasn't watching though but busy perusing her uncle's photo album. What fascinated her most were portraits he took with her, at her first birthday, christening and her first day at school. She gazed at them and smiled alone. She loved him.
A FEW BLOCKS away Mahlomola's bespectacled grandmother was studying the Bible. Like Lesego, she also had a framed portrait of innocent-six-year-old Mahlomola on the coffee table.
THAPELO'S MENTALLY DISTURBED and paraplegic mother received a disability grant, which his unemployed-alcoholic father spent with friends at the shebeen. He exhausted his wife's money, that is if he was not recycling stolen copper-wire at Recycle To Live run by a fat round Afrikaner from Ventersdorp, otherwise called 'Vito Terreblanche' or 'Boer Mafia'. Thapelo strolled in to find her passively watching Ricky Lake. He told her that he went to church and confessed and that he was leaving for Kwazulu-Natal.
"Tell your aunt I said hi", she retorted with sarcasm.
"Ma, I'm not coming back," he shouted. She stared at him then continued watching TV. Soon his drunken father staggered in and stared at him with annoyance. Drunk. "Tell you father what you told me," she mused. Thapelo knew him well. The father waited. She waited in anticipation too. "Tell him, say it and get whacked", she shouted. Thapelo painfully looked at both of them and left the living room.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Thapelo, cradling his beloved baseball bat and a suitcase walked down the street. At a corner, next to a collapsed but working ESKOM line the red BMW was stationary, with Mahlomola and friends gulping beer and smoking zol. Thapelo noticed them and slowed down, stared and filed past. Silence. A taxi came and whisked him away.
***************
TWENTY-ONE DAYS since Pakistan humiliated India a tearful Father Nicholas paced restlessly inside his office. He was sobbing. A day earlier the saints at his church gave evidence in a criminal investigation. The suspect-congregation was summoned to give clarity in a child kidnapping and raping case. What happened was that the victim was Lesego.
"My beloved niece Lord", he passionately echoed, clutching a framed photo of Lesego and himself. He smiled, a painful smile, an old man's sarcastic smile, "for Mary, mother of God's sake she's only thirteen, thirteen Lord". He cried hard, sounding as if he wanted to say 'or did you forget Lord?'. "Lord forgive me, I can't forgive". He suddenly left the portrait on his desk and headed for the confession box.
IT DIDN'T TAKE time for the first sinner to arrive. Barely forty-five seconds in the box a voice humbly echoed. "Bless me Father for I have sinned"
"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost you will be forgiven. When was your last confession my child?"
"I don't quite remember Father, but I'm just here to confess my new sins"
"Is it okay if we set the ground rules first Father?"
"Can you be clearer and more precise on what you mean my son?"
"I mean is it true what I heard that every sin confessed in this box is guaranteed forgiveness?"
"Yes, as long as your confession is followed by whole hearted repentance my son"
"Is it also true that what is said here is confidential, that the only people who have access to such a secret is you, me and the other father, I mean the man upstairs?"
"That's also true my son"
After a long sigh. "See Father, the thing with me is that I was raised religious, and believes in the redeeming power of Jesus Christ’s sacrifice. But then father is it also true that what I say in this box today can never be held against me in any court of law?"
"Yes, it cannot be accepted as evidence"
"It will be considered technical in a court, what I say I mean?"
"Inadmissible "
"So, there is some justice left in this world?"
"Yes son"
Breathes heavily, "Then father here's one last question. This is not like the TRC heh, where full disclosure might mean either retribution or forgiveness? I mean this here is forgiveness guaranteed heh?"
"Yes, my son"
"Do you read the newspapers father?"
"Yes, why?"
"Do you remember that pregnant woman who was stabbed to death with a piece of bottle last week? So, is it safe for me to assume that her killers might have come here to confess their sins and were forgiven?"
"Yes, possibly my son"
The sinner gets angry, "I would never have forgiven that son of a bitch Father, I guess that's miscarriage of justice on the part of the Lord. Would you have forgiven them Father?"
FATHER NICHOLAS SUDDENLY remembered when he was leaning with his car at the airport, waiting for Lesego to come through the domestic arrivals. When all of a sudden he saw her at the very same time that she was also noticing him, Lesego drops her bags and rushes to him. He rushes to meet her, hugs and lifts her to the air. He tightly holds her, kissing her on her cheeks.
HE FROWNS, "I guess so, yes"
"Again Father, even the sons of bitches who killed that old man for his R750 pension last week, the one who hemorrhaged and whose blood later dried on the pavement, they might have come here and begged for forgiveness and received redemption, which means possible salvation?"
"Possibly, yes, my son". A a long silence.
"Finally Father, are you sure that when I walk out of here I'll be redeemed?"
"Most certainly my son"
"I don't believe this, this is way beyond my expectations. Do you mean that I walk out of here, I happen to die, I’m going straight to heaven, no visa, no aptitude test, nothing? Wow, God is great."
"What did you do my son?"
"Father, I don't know where to start. I sin a lot and confess a little these days. But then I'll start with my latest sin, it's something I didn't do alone. That's why I'm here on behalf of me, my boys and everybody I've led astray in the past. I hope I can find favour in the Lord's eyes and get my trespasses forgiven. They will be forgiven father, won't they?"
"You most certainly will my son"
After much silence, the sinner's shaking voice confessed, "Father the thing is, yesterday me and my boys abducted and raped a young girl". A pregnant silence. A pen fell from Father Nicholas’ hand, a church bell sounded once. Darkness befell the confession box as the electricity supply got interrupted, again. It was soon back. A column of pigeons flies away hastily as the church bell sounds.
"Father, are you still there?"
"Yes, my son I'm still here, tell me what happened?"
"It was this Sunday, yesterday when this young chick rolled down the street, I guess she was like late for Passover or something. Me and my boys jack rolled her to this run down building with no ownership outside the township. It used to belong to that man who died of TB last year, but now it's our fuck-house, excuse my language. So father, we took this young whore there".
"Then what happened my son?"
"Like it's a ritual at the fuck-house, she had to first blow four horns until they sprayed her cheese soft face with nectar to swallow, then we took turns sexing her. She was crying and bleeding profusely, but it doesn't matter does it, we all bleed sometimes in our lives for no apparent reason. After we were through with her we drove her to this isolated spot and left her there", the sinner spoke in a relaxed mood.
The Father became emotional, "What happened to her now son?", he paused. After a long pause he repeated the question, "What happened to her from there?"
After a long silence, "I don't know, and I don't care. What I know is that I need forgiveness. Is it granted father?"
The church tocsin sounded again, this time for no reason, "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, you are forgiven my son"
"Really, it’s this simple, can I go now father? Am I really forgiven that I can walk out of here and turn a new leaf in my life?"
"Yes, you are forgiven my son"
"So, it's safe, I can bounce out of here and tell my boys that we are redeemed, through the blood of Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour?"
"Thank you Father, May God bless you too and your family"
"You too my son"
SECONDS LATER THE sinner stands on the stairs and kisses his Rosary, relieved. He puts on his sporty and reaches for a cigarette. He finds one, searches for matches, finds it and torches, the first match blazes then blows out before the filter catches the fire. He strikes another one, it blazes, then he inhales the smoke hungryly. As he exhales a bullet comes from nowhere and punctures his chest. He never heard the sound - a bad sign. He clutches his chest, blood flows, his face twists in an expression of disbelief, anger and an unforgiving frown. Suddenly he coughs, thick blood. He involuntarily kneels on the steps, collapses and dies. Mahlomola was lost. Forever.
-ends-
Translation: mfana - boy
Mchana - niece/nephew
Malome - uncle
Ngwanake - my child
Mzala - cousin
By: Goodenough Mashego
fantasy lines
we moved from calling collect to blueberry cellphones
all enabled with blue tooth & countryside carpet signals
from PCs to 40 gigabyte 500 grams laptops
& BMX bicycles traded for 3 series beemers
we cruise the autobahns doing 240 getting orgasms out of speed
we live the good life every evening we toast to success
three ships whisky is now standard this is triple malt spirit
no longer smoking homegrowns cuz the past is gone
get the freshest supply of weed we smoke @ golf courses
incinerate bank notes as sacrifice to the god of wealth
weekends for carnivals appease the ghetto - beer flows like river nile
we here still believing there must be more to life than this
live
i never shied away from dying
though my resolve's to be a rider
when i tried suicide twice
i was given my reason for living
i was shown proof of a higher calling
soldier to soldier
i value the simplest things about life
cuz i never had them growing up
i love my ghetto kings & queens
cuz i was a ghetto boy growing up
i share the littlest of things, even my bhudda joint
with everyone that ever shed tears with me
sometimes i drink & pass out helps me see another day
sometimes i pray 'til i shake for every member of my team
i have a dream like martin luther king jnr
can you please share yours with me
when i had a baby my world changed started living for her
wonder if she'll live for me when i turn 65
i live my life the way i like
but ain't no future for me
got diverted from the path of salvation
i reap rewards of being curious
i got love for this ghetto that jacked me up
but i'm gon' dump it like a bitch if it cheats again
got given deep scars
that today i expose
adore every gash & its stitches
i have a wish i repear 7 times every day
in my prayers in my fits activated by gin
plus i love all those who out facing the cold
got respect for my soldiers with bruised elbows & white knuckes
cuz once in a while i was that soldier - & i am today
we moved from calling collect to blueberry cellphones
all enabled with blue tooth & countryside carpet signals
from PCs to 40 gigabyte 500 grams laptops
& BMX bicycles traded for 3 series beemers
we cruise the autobahns doing 240 getting orgasms out of speed
we live the good life every evening we toast to success
three ships whisky is now standard this is triple malt spirit
no longer smoking homegrowns cuz the past is gone
get the freshest supply of weed we smoke @ golf courses
incinerate bank notes as sacrifice to the god of wealth
weekends for carnivals appease the ghetto - beer flows like river nile
we here still believing there must be more to life than this
live
i never shied away from dying
though my resolve's to be a rider
when i tried suicide twice
i was given my reason for living
i was shown proof of a higher calling
soldier to soldier
i value the simplest things about life
cuz i never had them growing up
i love my ghetto kings & queens
cuz i was a ghetto boy growing up
i share the littlest of things, even my bhudda joint
with everyone that ever shed tears with me
sometimes i drink & pass out helps me see another day
sometimes i pray 'til i shake for every member of my team
i have a dream like martin luther king jnr
can you please share yours with me
when i had a baby my world changed started living for her
wonder if she'll live for me when i turn 65
i live my life the way i like
but ain't no future for me
got diverted from the path of salvation
i reap rewards of being curious
i got love for this ghetto that jacked me up
but i'm gon' dump it like a bitch if it cheats again
got given deep scars
that today i expose
adore every gash & its stitches
i have a wish i repear 7 times every day
in my prayers in my fits activated by gin
plus i love all those who out facing the cold
got respect for my soldiers with bruised elbows & white knuckes
cuz once in a while i was that soldier - & i am today
PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG BLACK MAN
"If we want to make any progress at all, we have to squeeze the slave out of us"- Martin Luther King
A young black man, once fancied as a potential instigator of positive change and balance in his community and the private sector, is today busy subjecting himself to humiliation by accepting token positions which he is very aware that they are plain window dressing and detrimental to the whole idea of a developed black society. In Medieval Africa men were deservedly perceived to be heads of families, chiefdoms and tribes due to their unquestionable foresight, vision and wisdom. However such is questionable if modern young black men. Questions are being asked about their competence, their willingness to be responsible and about if, even by a long shot they qualify to receive the buck from their fathers. If somebody's conduct does not reflect responsibility it looks unsafe to hand them the fragile baton, since the next thing they do might be to drop it, only to lose a good run started by their forefathers many generations ago, often at greath human sacrifice.
Most of the young black men who accept token positions are being misled by a malignant tumor of selfishness and shortsighted thinking. For them, as long as they are being made part of the face of a changing South Africa they are content and do not mind the damage their callous conduct is causing to the whole Affirmative Action initiative of government and some progressive previously all-white businesses. They think with their stomachs, which is exactly what the racists want them to.
If calls for self-introspection when a young black man doesn't find fault with being a "part of the face" of an institution. The question they need to ask themselves repeatedly is, who is also part of that face? The young white man whose father was a liberal and marched with the blacks to guarantee that the police didn't use teargas, the coloured woman whose mother was in exile advocating for sanctions and the Indian woman whose father was a trade unionist and did time on Robben Island. The rest are still blanke Broenderbonders who make it a point to mention at every strategic planning session at the Kruger Natinal Park that National Sorghum Breweries (NSB) and Dr Mohale Mahanyele are the best examples of where (white) business would be if the body (not the face) was allowed to be black.
For the young black man accepting such positions makes it difficult for government to audit the success of Affirmative Action since everywhere one looks is a young black man who it is not even known that he doesn't wield the smallest amount of power. The only moments they are allowed to shine is on SABC 3's News at 10 interview with Morafe Tabane or Moneyweb with Alec Hogg whereby their mandate is to create an impression that the business sector is opening up to young black men with skills and a willingness to work. It hurts when that man knows only too well that such is not such but continues to lie to Ms Tabane or Mr Hogg about how his consortium's acquisition of 30% of the assets of a traditionally all-white company means that more black people are better positioned to take over the economy of the country. If only he goes ahead and emphasises that in his six minutes of fame without mentioning that his consortium obtained a loan from a white bank to acquire the stake, of which the same bank wouldn't have authorised the facility to them if they wanted it as capital for their own venture other than to partner with a white company, he has done more damage to the prospects of his fellows to advance than Dr Hendriek Verwoed ever did to black education in many years. The equation simply implies that it is the white majority shareholders that guaranteed the loan and not the business expertise of the young black men in the consortium. There should be an act against such lies. The fact that promissory notes can only be guaranteed by whites should be legislated against.
In the media industry there are more young black Features editors who have no power to make a decision as simple as whether an article will be used in the upcoming issue or not. They have to first run it through a shadowy closeted figure (not the editor) who is the real power, and later report to a fellow darkie that, "we don't think we can use it". Who is we? Interesting enough is that some white guy in the same position will go through the same piece and report, "I don't think it suits our present editorial needs". Precise and satisfactory. Why can't darkies be allowed to be as assertive?
Admittedly the temptation is huge for young black men to sell out. Everyone who's been poor for long can easily fall for the temptation that money brings. Sometimes they get given positions because they can not adjust to modern realities as is the case in the advertising industry. Advertising honcho Happy Ntshingila once said in an article in the now defunct Tribute magazine about racial parity in advertising, "It intrigues me that after a meal white people give me coffee after offering me alcohol. When black people get together to drink, that's all we do".
The statement simply means that townhsip mentality might not be market friendly when it comes to product positioning and promotion in the white dominated corporate environment of advertising. Young black man has to learn to accept that caffeinated coffee after alcohol because there's no way white people will go ghetto fabulous and drink 'til they drop without a thought of what they will do first the following day. Tomorrow to them is as important as today and you plan for it the day before.
However, in the same course of studying and accepting positive change from those who got to big business before the young black man, he should never be found to have climbed the corporate ladder by default. Sadly today, this is mostly how the new face of black business and its black lieutenants was assembled. And with the slave still inside of us, there's no progress to report about.
"If we want to make any progress at all, we have to squeeze the slave out of us"- Martin Luther King
A young black man, once fancied as a potential instigator of positive change and balance in his community and the private sector, is today busy subjecting himself to humiliation by accepting token positions which he is very aware that they are plain window dressing and detrimental to the whole idea of a developed black society. In Medieval Africa men were deservedly perceived to be heads of families, chiefdoms and tribes due to their unquestionable foresight, vision and wisdom. However such is questionable if modern young black men. Questions are being asked about their competence, their willingness to be responsible and about if, even by a long shot they qualify to receive the buck from their fathers. If somebody's conduct does not reflect responsibility it looks unsafe to hand them the fragile baton, since the next thing they do might be to drop it, only to lose a good run started by their forefathers many generations ago, often at greath human sacrifice.
Most of the young black men who accept token positions are being misled by a malignant tumor of selfishness and shortsighted thinking. For them, as long as they are being made part of the face of a changing South Africa they are content and do not mind the damage their callous conduct is causing to the whole Affirmative Action initiative of government and some progressive previously all-white businesses. They think with their stomachs, which is exactly what the racists want them to.
If calls for self-introspection when a young black man doesn't find fault with being a "part of the face" of an institution. The question they need to ask themselves repeatedly is, who is also part of that face? The young white man whose father was a liberal and marched with the blacks to guarantee that the police didn't use teargas, the coloured woman whose mother was in exile advocating for sanctions and the Indian woman whose father was a trade unionist and did time on Robben Island. The rest are still blanke Broenderbonders who make it a point to mention at every strategic planning session at the Kruger Natinal Park that National Sorghum Breweries (NSB) and Dr Mohale Mahanyele are the best examples of where (white) business would be if the body (not the face) was allowed to be black.
For the young black man accepting such positions makes it difficult for government to audit the success of Affirmative Action since everywhere one looks is a young black man who it is not even known that he doesn't wield the smallest amount of power. The only moments they are allowed to shine is on SABC 3's News at 10 interview with Morafe Tabane or Moneyweb with Alec Hogg whereby their mandate is to create an impression that the business sector is opening up to young black men with skills and a willingness to work. It hurts when that man knows only too well that such is not such but continues to lie to Ms Tabane or Mr Hogg about how his consortium's acquisition of 30% of the assets of a traditionally all-white company means that more black people are better positioned to take over the economy of the country. If only he goes ahead and emphasises that in his six minutes of fame without mentioning that his consortium obtained a loan from a white bank to acquire the stake, of which the same bank wouldn't have authorised the facility to them if they wanted it as capital for their own venture other than to partner with a white company, he has done more damage to the prospects of his fellows to advance than Dr Hendriek Verwoed ever did to black education in many years. The equation simply implies that it is the white majority shareholders that guaranteed the loan and not the business expertise of the young black men in the consortium. There should be an act against such lies. The fact that promissory notes can only be guaranteed by whites should be legislated against.
In the media industry there are more young black Features editors who have no power to make a decision as simple as whether an article will be used in the upcoming issue or not. They have to first run it through a shadowy closeted figure (not the editor) who is the real power, and later report to a fellow darkie that, "we don't think we can use it". Who is we? Interesting enough is that some white guy in the same position will go through the same piece and report, "I don't think it suits our present editorial needs". Precise and satisfactory. Why can't darkies be allowed to be as assertive?
Admittedly the temptation is huge for young black men to sell out. Everyone who's been poor for long can easily fall for the temptation that money brings. Sometimes they get given positions because they can not adjust to modern realities as is the case in the advertising industry. Advertising honcho Happy Ntshingila once said in an article in the now defunct Tribute magazine about racial parity in advertising, "It intrigues me that after a meal white people give me coffee after offering me alcohol. When black people get together to drink, that's all we do".
The statement simply means that townhsip mentality might not be market friendly when it comes to product positioning and promotion in the white dominated corporate environment of advertising. Young black man has to learn to accept that caffeinated coffee after alcohol because there's no way white people will go ghetto fabulous and drink 'til they drop without a thought of what they will do first the following day. Tomorrow to them is as important as today and you plan for it the day before.
However, in the same course of studying and accepting positive change from those who got to big business before the young black man, he should never be found to have climbed the corporate ladder by default. Sadly today, this is mostly how the new face of black business and its black lieutenants was assembled. And with the slave still inside of us, there's no progress to report about.
DATING NELSPRUIT
DATING NELSPRUIT
"I've met the most wonderful girl through this site, was skeptical at firist about internet dating". This are the words of a satisfied customer on an online dating service that prides itself of having more people from Nelspruit than anywhere else in the country. You are not going to be told the name of the dating service, because they simply need to advertise with us but it is intriguing how many lonely Nelspruit men and women are flocking to the internet to advertise themselves to potential customers.
Oops, maybe they are not called customers because they are not buying but hooking up. Any person who have been in love would confess that at some stage the temptation to free-fall and get whomever promised a stable relationship, a good body, healthy habits and income has turned them on. There's been stories of men coming from as far as Jozi or Cape Town to sample some of the Lowveld nectar, and do they really cut to the chase like rabbits? You tell me.
What's more, with the discreet service that comes with the internet you can be certain that Nelspruit is indeed loving, across the racial divide. You are not going to be told about who is lonely today because they could easily be the wo/man who showed no interest at the Riverside Mall when you tried to chat them over the weekend, or it can be your neighbour or the person sitting next to you in the taxi. For all you know it can even be your boss, the one with a wife and three children? Or your moral compass, what/whoever it is.
Messages posted on the Success Stories site of the page are encouraging. The prelude came from Mark, while Yolandi posted this one, "Boy, was I surprised at the number of stunning people I met on this site! And that's how I met Willie in November 2005. The subscription fee was the BEST investment I have ever made in my future - I mean, just look at the return on my investment!!!! Stunning stunning site!!!!" It is said that some of the loyal visitors to these sites are brothers and sisters from the Northern part of Africa who just want some magic, or some citizenship, or some validation, or some forbidden fruit, or something something, or just a moment of madness.
Who knows, maybe internet dating is the way to go in this busy world of making money and networking. Maybe people don't get enough time to do the simple, chat the person you like, ask them out and let it grow from there. Probably future marriages would have been found on the net.
As a consolation or a freebie from your newspaper it might make sense for you to post information and a picture of yourself on www.thunderboltcity.com. "Thunderbolt City provides a secure, hassle-free environment where people can meet to form new online relationships. Whether you're looking for new friends, a quick soiree in the world of online dating, or the love of your life, you're sure to find someone special amongst our thousands of personal ads. Using Thunderbolt City is quick, easy, safe and completely anonymous", they claim.
There are equally lots of interesting people to meet and to meet you on www.datingSA.com. A beautiful woman named Phlox posted this message, "I think the only reason why a person would want to know someone or me in this case, is pure interest... I am an interesting person because I have a different personality to..." Good luck!
DISCLAIMER: We are not encouraging anyone to use the internet to kickstart relationships. Do so at your own risk and bear sole responsibility
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