Monday, 04:34:58 PM




Love 10 000

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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Botsotso the Outdoor Pantsula

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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The wife of Bra Styles, a funeral home owner in BaSotho Section well known for chopping his enemies’ index fingers off, Bubu was no sugar mama. I’d fallen in love.

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Festive Hangovers

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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Taxi to Zonke

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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