Following untold periods in self-Coventry to the bourgeois quarters of comfortable Johannesburg, I finally plucked up the courage to journey back to emakasana this past weekend for some R ‘n R with kith and kin, and some long-standing associates. Perhaps I should concede that the shaming phone call I received from aunt Marereza enquiring about the putatively loosened nature of my waist had much to do with this sudden courage. I had apparently been spotted at my peak the previous weekend steadfastly alternating between the head-vosho craze and ngwazi at Busy Corner as the best of South Africa’s music industry delivered one hit after the other on the decks. Marereza had shamed my sizable arse down to raisin proportions as she barbed ‘usungumajayvane Botsotso? Heheheeee!Wahamb’uMabhalane engekaboni lutho!’ then clapped once. I felt that single clap reach the depths of my reticent conscience as I wondered what my grandfather S’gwili Mabhalane Snr indeed made of my turn-up-loving tendencies. His bones were most certainly gathering for an awakening as in Orlando Pirates’ preferred Christian tune ‘Uyamemez’uEzekia’. I soon after dismissed the concern as I recalled hearing tales of his wife, my grandmother having been fetched from a lean-to party by her catapult and sjambok-wielding father back in the 1940s where she was reportedly a guest of sorts. Story for another day.

The deep throat whom I later learned was aunt Marereza’s septuagenarian neighbour with a secret life as Small Street’s kopi-dice knoxman going by the cognomen ‘Bra Sky’, had apparently been generous with information and statistics on my activities that weekend at Busy Corner. The philistine went as far as detailing the nature and dress sense of my date for the day to which aunt Marereza apparently spewed profanities that rhyme with ticket-line. Of course, I didn’t know Dimakatso, or was it Didimatso? Nevertheless, I didn’t know her well enough to can want to stand between her and Marereza, nor defend her virtue against Marereza’s projectiles. Hell, I couldn’t even defend her person from an apparent designation as a ‘Queen Slayer’ by the mendacious Bra Sky! Marereza is after all surgical with her tongue and is not known any differently elsewhere. Besides, that strapless Caroline Fassie get-up Dimakatso/Didimatso had on, did very little to help her or my case either. It left me with a barrage of questions such as ‘ubafunani ootiki-line bamabele alengayo wemfana? Khona angathini uyihlo? Mayeee!’.

Until this excruciating phone call, I had not seen my aunt for over two years. See, Marereza is the spinster black sheep of the family and the only elder left. The second born child of Ta S’gwili and Sta Beauty, she has outlived her parents and all of her eight siblings; that’s how tough as horsemeat she is; a Nongoloza if you ask me. She is also a blusterer of note to all and sundry in the hood. Being quite honest however, Marereza’s harrying tendencies are not the only reason I had not seen her or been to the homestead this long. Back in 2009 as a varsity student, I also practised as a Ben 10 and an adventurer of note in the hood, servicing age-old ducts with all kinds of protruding labia. While some still lived in the 1960s all-natural, others moved with the times. My favourite however was the struggle duct. While one day it embraced a dusty uncombed afro like it had just returned from a toy-toy in Soweto, on the next it arrived permed and looking forward to disco night at Kings Palace in Tembisa. This type of duct knew life. Every now and then it oozed aromas of i-special namachips while other times i-beef stew like only how kasi mothers make it. There were the odd bubble gum and Cadbury chocolate eclairs once in a while too. I would sometimes imagine it would one day open up and belch out Mbongeni Ngema’s Lizobuya. This duct truly blessed me.
Things remained this way until I landed on Bubu’s praying duct. Lord! Suave, moisturised and composed, it looked like umama womthandazo. Alas,I digress.

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. Twenty years my senior with not as much as a scar on her body to testify to this, Bubu was flawless; a kasi Dove model if you will. Jitas would often grumble ‘aboStyles badla kahle maan’ during a game of dice ekhoneni as she drove past and I’d put so much effort towards not adding ‘namingi-daar’ because in truth, I shared in Bra Styles’ joy. I knew how it felt like to lose oneself in flawless Bubu’s duct.

Two months into our situationship, Styles walks in on us all Sixty Shades of ebony in their double storied house. I would later hang from their bedroom balcony, clothes in hand with nothing but my ‘safety belt’ on – in full view of all kasi nondabas. All I could hear as I slid down were Bubu’s pleas for Styles to put down the razor sharp grass shears he was getting ready to use on me. I couldn’t however, pause and wait to hear exactly on which of my appendages the shears were going to be used.I applied for student residence accommodation the following morning and was never to be seen in the hood again.