Text: Botsotso Mabhalane
As we all ogle defeated bottles of whatever poisons that tickled our fancy this past December, we also count our losses as we mosey around in a daze with stunned expressions that have been perfected by our lash-mowing tribeswomen. We walk around stunned at our now laughable bank balances that have been involuntarily espoused by plentiful frantic dials to the bank to address the dismal service provided by their automated teller machines.
Following several failed attempts to speak to an agent at the hands of the Diepsloot String Quartet’s automated melodies, you resort to marching into your nearest branch “stomach in-chest out” style, demanding an audience with the manager - mumbling obscenities in the process. Seeking to keep the service ratings up for his particular branch, the manager goes all out to accommodate your inexplicable predicament of oddly placed zeros before the number of cents left in your account. As your eyes roll up and down the detailed minute by minute statement of transactions, a voluntary voetsek rolls off your tongue. You did not intend for this endearing colloquial vulgarism to escape your lips but it had to be said to address your now penniless standing. You embarrassingly wonder what the bank manager thinks of your now broke self having thrown tantrums in his establishment demanding to speak to him as though you had substantial figures in your account. You feel an awkward knot fasten in your tummy when you realize that his eyes are somewhat mocking you as he goes, “Is there anything else I can help you with Sir?” and very unwilling lines of Mona and Son’s chart topper Helele Setlamatlama… ringing in your head.
It is all coming back to you now. Your New Year’s Eve ended with you having fallen profoundly in love like you have not since high school. Over dirty martinis, faint memories of sweet nothings and bitter ciders you’d had a series of supposed intellectual conversations that gradually and reluctantly deteriorated with the said intellect. As your brain matter condensed to pocket-size proportions on account of the inebriants, so did the tempo of your voice along with your bank balance. Now, you are about to tweet to your voluminous followers and it is not pretty. It borders somewhere between you having acquired a pulsating headache and your bank likened to Pierre Issa and Aaron Mokoena. Full of holes!
Truth of the matter is that we are loving beings. We are designedly compelled to care, have fun, fall in love and be loved back. The trouble however is that love today is certainly not what it used to be when I was snot nosed over emotional teenager. I remember the day dreaming, sleepless nights governed by heightened palpitations and a mild case of white knight syndrome. A life defined by a face, a smile or a scent of a recent crush, the days when nothing else mattered but my thoughts and feelings for them. Nights when I would toss and turn until all consciousness was lost, their memory still lingering in my head, days when I would read their horoscope before mine. These are the same days when I would spend a fortune in dodgy looking public phone containers to make calls to these loved ones. Ah… those were the days.
Today, I do not even have to work hard at finding a date – much as I do not work hard at losing all my hard earned pittance to sweet talking jezebels. All I need is a chipped bank card with a shimmering German hatchback and copious inebriants – a jezebel starter pack. I am as you read, dear companion, munching on my finger nails trying very hard not to remember this past December for it is the reason I will be having these finger nails for lunch today. I suspect there soon will emerge untold odours from the direction of my mouth if not already. The snooty flat backed office monger just asked me if I could smell the hound stool odour making rounds in the office, sardonic prick! My point I suppose is, fall in love if need be, enjoy life and embrace the good and bad that life has to offer. Have no regrets.