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?