Month-end Special

It is the end of the month. Month end. The evidence is all over town. There are crowds of people moving up and down the malls and the streets, bumping each other. The spectacle resembles tadpoles swimming directionless in a pond.
There are loud chatters. This one man in blue overalls and a plastic bag dangling on his calloused left hand is talking loudly on the phone. He is asking what food supplies are short at home in the village. After a few moments he assures the person on the other side—the wife perhaps—that he shall buy it and come with it in the afternoon. His face beams a smile as he replaces his cell phone in his pocket.

   I spot another woman. She is carrying two heavy plastic bags in her hands, and at the same time she is trying to take care that the two children she is with do not get lost. She shouts every now and again, calling them to order. They listen, but only for a second. They then stray again, their tiny bodies disappearing in the mass of big bodies shuffling up and down, side to side. I can see the woman’s exhaustion from the weight of the bags. It is written all over her face. The children’s shenanigans only make it worse. But nonetheless, she is happy. She can buy something and her children won’t starve. At least for now. I wonder to myself, where her husband or partner is?

   I continue to press my way through the crowds. Then I find myself in the bus rank. There isa deafening cacophony of sounds. The buses are honking their horns, notifying boarders that they are about to leave. The kombis swerve dangerously in the crowded space, their engines revving up, and pedestrians duck from them. Occasionally, expletives are exchanged in loud angry voices between the drivers or with pedestrians, as if it were a casual “hello”. Next to the boondocks buses, the women have sprawled their kangas next to the platforms and are sitting there. They laugh out loud as they eat bananas, fried chicken, buns, and other what-have-you. All of these victualsare washed down with Coke and other fizzy drinks. They are having a ball of a time. One of them whips out her breast and begins to suckle her crying child. The child eventually stops crying, and suckles quietly. It is enjoying end-of-the-month breast milk.

   In the midst of all this, there are thugs, the pick-pocketers and the hustlers also hoping to get lucky by stealing these ordinary people’s hard-earned money. They mingle with the rest of the people, their eyes looking for slightly-opened bags, protruding wallets and cell-phones. They too must eat. In one of the platform shelters, a man shuffles three-cards as quick as a lightning bolt. He then drops them face-down on the concrete seat and dares the spectators to point out the Jack of Spades. ‘You point out the Jack of Spades, I give you this Two-hundred Emalangeni’, he says, as he waves it about the faces of the people. ‘If you fail, you give me Fifty Emalangeni.’ The deal is tempting. One man tries, but fails. His face contorts as he hands the man the Fifty Emalangeni. Maybe it was the last money he was supposed to buy mealie-meal for the children? I say to myself. But now it’s gone. He is tempted to play again. He sticks his hand into his pocket, but then he checks himself. He seems not prepared to lose the 10 kilograms sugar money. Then abruptly, he leaves.

   Then suddenly, my weak bladder tells me that I must go to the public toilet. Thither I go. In the men’s, I find that the month-end fever has spread its tentacles up to that far. A pantsula is ripping off an All-Star box. He takes out the black tekkies (sneakers) and stares at them as a mother would her long-lost child. Then he whistles in admiration and capers a celebratory dance. ‘Chuck Taylor, half-jack, the kasi way,’ he says out loud, praising his newest and proud possession. Thereafter he strips the old and dusty Converses on his feet and puts on the new ones. He then stares at his feet and smiles. Rearranging the Dickies hat on his head, he saunters out of the rest room, and dumps the old tekkies and the ripped box in the dust-bin at the door. He is happy.

   Needless to say, this is the month-end of the common people. It does not last because they hardly earn enough. Two days is the maximum days that most of them can live like “kings”. And it is that two days of living big that sustains them throughout the whole month, till the 30th, 31st, or 1st of every month. These are the workers. The people to whom politics do not mean much, except a bunch of people bent on stealing money and acting big. Politics to them is the game of the big men. It is of no consequence to them. Their politics is that of survival. Of feeding the children, taking them to school with a hope of making them better people. Therefore I take my hat off for the common people, who dare to live; to be happy when the situation hardly permits. I take my hat off for the mothers in the villages, in the kasis, and in the slums. You are the people that make life make sense. Your tenacity inspires me to get up and own myself.

Public Transport Blues

The sun is hot—terribly hot. I am standing in this long and winding queue to Mpolonjeni, my home area. Slowly, I begin to wonder if this sun is focusing all its rays on me. Just to spite me for something I did to piss it off—an old quarrel. But as far as I recall, there’s been none.

   There is incoherent chatter all about: people talking; the honking of horns; an occasional expletive hurled by one driver to another as if it is a polite greeting and; vendors arguing with customers, the former are insisting on higher prices and the latter are hell-bent on cheap deals. This is the bus rank—Mbabane bus rank.

   I turn, and try not to look at the sun directly. My mother has always told me not to, if I could. That is why she had shaken her head grimly when I got my first pair of eyeglasses. She was convinced I’d been staring at the sun in private. Well, that is another story altogether. Anyway, the heat continues unabated. Now it feels like I’ve a boiling three-legged pot strapped on my back.

   Such heat is probably not good for my back too, I say to myself. What if my back melts? And there and there, my whole torso disintegrates until my big head rests on my waist? Crazy thoughts I’m having. Thereafter I hear the unmistakable grumble of my stomach. Ah, hunger. That is why I’m having such insane thoughts in the first place; thoughts of my back melting and stuff. Then I try to rearrange my thoughts; to shift focus from the current untenable position I find myself in—lodged in an unmoving queue, under the merciless stare of the glorious torch of Heaven.

   I then begin to wonder when I’ll leave here. Mechanically I crane my neck forward, then slightly to the side, and I see that I might be lucky to be part of the next load of passengers en route Mpolonjeni. Presently, one kombi swerves into the hither-to empty get-on spot and boy am I relieved to see it! My relief comes not from its appearance or my belief in its road-worthiness. No! It stems from the fact that this particular kombi has never let me down before (if you excuse the pun). It has always managed to rattle all the way home. Thus, I am a happy man.

   The person at the front tries to slide the kombi door open, but up to no avail. Then the driver promptly works his magic from the inside. Voila! It opens. Lethargically, the passengers climb in, and patiently I shuffle forward waiting for my turn. Suddenly, two students cut in from the front and manage to get in. No! I moan inwardly. Dastardly teenagers!

   But, God willing, I manage to get the last seat and it is at the front, next to the driver. I haul my hull in and then proceed to give the two teenage girls that cut the line a stony stare that I feel adequately depicts the contempt I have for such behaviour. They are not moved. They look at me and then burst into one of those senseless hormonal laughters. Quickly, I turn to look forward, fidget on the middle-seat in a bid to find some comfort, and the kombi takes off with a cough and a spurt of dark fumes from its rear exhaust pipe.

   Along the way, I am disturbed by a few things concerning the mechanics of my trusted vehicle. Intermittently, the wipers screech on the dry windscreen for no particular reason. Then, after we’ve just joined the MR3 highway the taxi begins to gain speed and, concomitantly, the speedometer hand begins to twitch violently, like an epileptic patient. The sound it produces is like that of a clock counting in an unknown measure. At that very moment, the hand alternates violently from zero to eighty kilometres per hour. I am troubled. Then it sort of dawns to me why most people usually avoid the front seat of this vehicle: there are many distressing things that happen here.

   All the while, the other passengers are involved in passionate conversations. There is talk about the weather, politics and other inconsequential things. This is a taxi going to a small community; so everyone seems to know someone. As usual, there is that one man who has an opinion—expert opinion in his view—about everything that is being discussed. He turns his head sideways to comment about the state of the crops; then backwards to echo another speaker complaining about the state of the roads; and then looks to the front again, and continues to expand his discourse about all that is wrong about this country’s politics. Frequently he runs out of breath from the constant blabbering; but he seems to enjoy it. He enjoys the attention.

   Unexpectedly, we suddenly hit the gravel road and a cloud of dust rises behind the taxi. We are tossed back and forth inside as the vehicle tries to negotiate the pot-holes and rain-made furrows, in vain. Shortly, the driver makes a quick swerve to avoid an adamant cow on the road, and only misses it by a few inches. It is clear that he has absolutely no regard for life and I say a short prayer.

   The station at which I’m supposed to get off is still a long way. Anything can still happen. I vow to myself that I am buying a bicycle; that I’ll cycle to town.

Twists and Turns

There is a new character in town. A true man about town. He has a highly emotional and sentimental disposition and is dedicated to the service of other people. He is fervent, caring, and takes his job quite seriously. This character works for many a nongovernmental organisation. Sometimes he can be found flexing his muscles, throwing his weight about, in community development projects and other philanthropic causes that you may know of. He is also there at church; within those structures that seek to help the needy.

   Indeed, let me say that his determination is admirable but there is one problem that he has. He wants to be everywhere at the same time—I think the right word is omnipresent—and is not quite open to the help of others who are also willing to contribute to such meaningful causes.

   The moment you mention your desire to roll your sleeves up and getting involved in the projects he runs, Mr Helpfulton’s demeanour undergoes drastic changes: His face, until then wearing a smile, collapses into a frown; his hitherto sweet voice develops rough edges around and begins to somewhat crack. He becomes, on the whole, quite uneasy. You see, Mr Helpfulton is only happy with sucking in the praises for the hard and selfless endeavours that he engages in every day. And to him, such phrases as “the more the merrier”; or “unity is power” et cetera, are an anathema of sorts.

   It is one of the Seven Wonders of the World why Mr Helpfulton does not want any help. I have mentioned that perhaps he is a glory-lover. But there may be other reasons. Perhaps he benefits in materially from his role and hegemonic position. It may as well be that donors to such essentially good causes deal with him directly and he is tempted every now and again to pilfer some of the resources. So, to bring in more people would disturb him from benefiting. I should hope that it is not so, because that would be a disgraceful state of affairs. Yet that is what people strolling in the streets in town are saying; that he himself is corrupt as the government that he, from time to time, labels as a cesspit of corrupt activities. But Mr Helpfulton denies such allegations with every particle of air in his lungs and with every ounce of energy in his well-fed body.

   He calls such allegations, frivolous and jealous rants aimed at discrediting his glorious and spotless efforts. But he has never answered—nor do I remember such a question being directed at him—why he fights to the death collaboration in the pursuit to tackle some of our societal problems. Therefore, to me, he still remains suspect.

Buy Her Roasted Mealies

Buy her roasted mealies. Yes, I guarantee you, she’d love it. You might find these foregoing statements quite bizarre, but please do lend me your ears—or eyes. The thing is, gentlemen, we try too hard; and that is the problem. We find ourselves getting into unnecessary debt when we would have pleased our women for far less. You are probably asking where I was living for the past years; a cocoon? Perhaps. But that is not the point.

   I was in a local supermarket the other day, armed with my basket and Twenty Emalangeni note. I am not exactly a trolley kind of a guy, you know.  But that is just a matter of economics. I digress. So I was standing behind these two modern ladies who were chatting up a storm. The supermarket might have well been their private lounge. Anyway, these ladies sported the latest and expensive fashion trends; manicured finger-nails, high-heeled shoes, hair pieces—the works. So, one of them was talking about how most of the men she meets try too hard to impress her. ‘Girlfriend,’ she said, as she fiddled with the intricate lock of her designer purse, ‘I just don’t like men who try too hard.’ The other lady gave a nod, indicating that she clearly understood what her friend meant. ‘I just don’t understand a man who showers me with expensive gifts, like I can’t buy these things myself. Really?’ She ended, rolling her eyes in the process, as a sign of her displeasure of these men who think she hasn’t enough means to buy herself the desires of her heart. The other woman laughed and said that she too, wholly agreed. And then, the former went on: ‘Girlfriend, I would rather a man buy me roasted mealies. You know how I love roasted mealies?’ she asked her obliging friend, who promptly indicated her knowledge of such intelligence.

I was stunned.

   As I proceeded patiently to pay for the chicken hearts and bread I’d come to buy, and these women had long went out of the supermarket, presumably towards the car-park, their words (or should I say the words of the one who expressed herself the most) still rang in my fairly large-size head. Thereafter I made my way out of the shop, manoeuvring my way to the bus-rank to catch a bus home. In my mind, I then began to contemplate the conversation of these ladies in which I had been unintentionally a listener (in my defence, they were speaking rather loudly). And then it clicked; perhaps we chaps try too hard. No?

Instead of using your pre-paid electricity money to date our women in fancy restaurants, you could take her for a stroll in the dusty and pot-hole ridden streets of the township and buy her some good-old chicken-dust, or roasted mealies, or roasted chicken feet. Why, that would be quite interesting. Instead of starving the whole week to try and save money to buy her an expensive gift, you could take a pen and a paper, and write her a good-old love letter; therein spilling your most profound feelings for her.Seal it in a scented pink envelope and write outside, with the best handwriting your shaky hands can produce:

   “To so-and-so, the Love of my Life

                          Sealed with a tear, mingled with bittersweet emotions…”

   After you have written that, post it to her, or if you can, go to her house and shove it under her door. I’m not quite sure which one of these two methods of delivering the letter comes out as the most romantic. I leave the discretion with you my dear reader. Now the reaction to such heart-felt, yet not quite materialistic ways of displaying affection and love would be most interesting.

   I can imagine the reactions already. Maybe a few women—like the supermarket archetypal—would appreciate such. But I dare say, a majority of women would show you the exit door quicker than you can say, ‘But baby listen…” Such acts would no doubt be seen as buffoonery and nothing short of childishness and miser tendencies. And this would earn you all sorts of bad publicity, if you know what I mean; you would be the man to avoid—at all costs—around town.

   Therefore my unsolicited advice is this: Starve yourself; sleep in the dark, in order to shower your loved one with expensive gifts. No worries, this is only temporary—until you meet the “supermarket woman” I spoke about. My commiseration to the married chaps; there is no way out of that one gentlemen, as far as I know. Or you could be just like me; sit out the whole dating game until further notice. It’s that easy. No?