if you allow me to say. Like us all here in 207, except for D’nice, he is a dropout of that great institution of education we call university. University of the North, to be precise. It is a very sad black story and we can all tell it very well.
Herman Mashaba is the green shoot that pushes itself out of the heavy ash to greater heights. Remember, that was back in the days of . . . I take off my hat, my shoes and my balls to this exceptional darkie brother of the soil. To me, he is just pure inspiration. When I’m drowning, I just take a look at this brother and he gives me a hand, pulling me out, and I know everything will be fine. Everything will be all right.
This, the second Jesus: Che.
I hate all politicians, so I hated Mandela the politician, but I loved Mandela the freedom fighter and I miss that Mandela.
Not that I miss the past.
No.
Che was a guerrilla with an AK-47 in his hands. No history needs to absolve Ernesto Guevara de la Serna. “At the risk of sounding ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by feelings of love.” He did say that, breathed it and died living it, and I know what you are going to say: What a waste!
Greedy.
The wall of inspiration – these brothers are there for their spiritual and soulful support only.
This is the only photo of us, which we had taken in this city at Park Station – Parkie as it is known by the masses. It was Matome’s idea as we were walking out of his office. It was taken by one of those cameramen who hang around Parkie to capture one’s first moments in this dream city.
These paintings are originals, painted by Molamo, in the rare moments when he gets a painting attack. Then he has to paint his thinking. To me they are just pictures, but every female who comes in here gets caught by this one and they end up wanting it for themselves. To me it’s just a picture of a neglected, black baby boy taking his first steps unaided, with eyes that promise the world: “I’m here.” I fail to see why the visiting females fuss about it so much.
This one has a place in this heart. This is the African warrior. The Masai warrior. Standing tall and comfortable on one leg. I guess he is looking at . . . Well, he is enjoying whatever he is looking at. It makes him comfortable and at peace. But that too is coming to its sad end, for globalisation is hungry at their door, their resistance is finally crumbling and things are finally falling apart.
Only Molamo’s Tebogo finds this one alluring, but even she doesn’t want to have it. Look carefully for it is disguised. What you are looking at is not what the painting is about. If you can look carefully in this confusion of a painting, you will see that there is a nude couple with a baby. I was not aware of this fact until Tebogo pointed it out. I wondered why she didn’t want it. She gave the reason: she wants to be part of it and she feels it rejects her every time. Then I thought, well, she is too much somehow.
These are Molamo’s stickers. This one is a quote from a great man of the soil, Ali Mazrui: “We are the people of the day before yesterday.”
And this one! I don’t think even the Almighty can put this into practice; I always fail before I even start: “You should have twenty rands that you used the day before yesterday and used yesterday, use it for today and still use it for tomorrow and all the other tomorrows.”
This is our mirror. I have seen things in this mirror; I have seen people lose themselves in front of it. I don’t know if it is because it’s a big mirror, but come here very early every morning and you’ll witness what the mirror on the wall is witness to and reflects.
This is our safe haven here in Hillbrow. I like to call Hillbrow our little mother earth in Africa because here you’ll find all races and tribes of the world. Here you’ll find Europeans and Asians that by fate have become proud South Africans, taking a long shot or maybe even a short shot at a dream or dreams of their own.
It’s dream city and here dreams die each and every second, as each and every second dreams are born. However beyond counting the dreams, they all have one thing in common: money. Respect and worship are the ultimate goals; everybody here is running away from poverty.
Poverty. I have lived too much of it. But what really is poverty? Have I really seen too much of it? Lived too much of it? Can you really measure poverty? Can you measure suffering? Can you measure joy?
I once asked a question when we were having a poverty sleep. Matome and D’nice were sharing the double bed with Modishi. I was on the sponge with Molamo and the Zulu-boy was on the single bed. As always, the room was never really dark. I can’t really remember what time it was but it was after eleven. We weren’t talking much, maybe we were saving energy or maybe we were just mad at ourselves for drinking all the money over the weekend.
The Zulu-boy was and is always the one talking, talking about that day after the out-of-Hillbrow party, when the world will be worshipping us. Talking about that day like he knew the exact date, had peeped into the future and seen it all. Now, he is just killing the time between now and then – describing in detail the convertible that Modishi will be driving up the N1, chasing the African air with Lerato on his left.
This was exactly what we needed at that moment: reassurance that our venture, this dream-venture in dream city, would pay off, eventually.
Modishi smiled privately to himself and so did I, the hunger being consumed by our joy.
Then I asked a question, “If you die of hunger while sleeping tonight and wake up in heaven, what will you say to the big Man?”
I thought they were still thinking of what they would say. But they never answered me. I tried to think of what I would say to Him. My mind got stuck with the same overwhelmed feeling that the general masses get when they meet the celebrated of His green earth.
No one said a word and we drifted off to sleep.
Mortals
Mortals
2. Matome
Matome
Matome was always the first one to wake up: “People, I’m waking up.”
He always said that in a way that would make you think you were responsible; that you were somehow making him sleep against his will.
“People, I’m waking up.”
Then he’d slip into some sandals and get himself into the bathroom. He’d open the hot tap and there would be the sound of water filling the bath and being replaced in the geyser, then the flush of the toilet.
I don’t know why it was, but every time he got into hot water his manhood felt the warmth and hardened; every time he had a bath he had a full erection with it. But, that was the only place he ever got one – in hot water.
Medium height, dark skin and charming, he had something in him that made all people want to trust him.
I trusted him from the moment I saw him, and we had been together from that first week, in our first year in dream city. Thursday of that same week I moved in with him: I was studying broadcasting and he was doing sound engineering. The next day I had to give him R350, which he was supposed to add to his R350 for the month’s groceries. I don’t know if he ever did add his money, but when I came back that afternoon there was a party at my place (as he put it). It was my flat party, the first of the many something parties that I was to party in this city.
I was very surprised. I was overwhelmed that so many people came to enjoy a flat party for me. I drank and got drunk.
The next morning he woke me up, saying, “We are going to buy groceries now. I’m not your wife.”
We got to the friendly supermarket and he had a friendly talk with the security guards, like he knew them from long ago. Then he asked to have a friendly one-to-one with the manager, but he wasn’t there, so he took a trolley, put some plastic bags in it and we proceeded.
“Do you like this?” he asked.