MAGAZINE
Akere in those days it was unheard of for boyfriends; prospective or not, to waltz into homes with the freedom of Gomora’s rodents and liberally behest temporary handovers of their sweethearts.
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Fast forward to High School, Mzwakhe Mbuli, The People’s Poet is taking his shot at interesting me in spoken word, entwining it with the ever-alluring potpourri of musical instruments but falls short as the turpitudes of our environs catch up with him and see him serve extensive jail time at the Leeuwkop penal facility. Needless to say, this was the end of his illustrious career.
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East Rand’s Tembisa, my then coal smoke misty locale complete with unforgivingly rough and dusty streets, was a perpetual hive of all kinds of activities and had no time nor place for extreme sports or outdoor activities. After all, life was already an extreme sport in these parts as my permanently judgemental childhood friend often quipped.
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Bra Dan had been discovered in a rather compromising position with one of his wife’s stokvel associates in a back room somewhere. His wife of fifteen years in the resident rummy aunt-Barbara plainly lost it as she chased after him down our dusty boulevard, pick hoe in hand, screaming obscenities. Clearly Sis’ Nancy was a stokvel member for reasons non-related to the stokvel.
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The last time I ever found myself trapped inside a people-carrying contraption of the taxi industry was shortly before the launch of the now demonized taxi recapitalisation programme that sought to reduce the number of a washed-out herd of Datsun E20s, the Toyota Super Series and the late 1970s favourites, amakatshibane.
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