Sound Bite

So on this one random Thursday night, through a series of unfortunate events, I found myself at Bonza Bay beach with an acquaintance of mine who was surrounded by about 13 beautiful women. It seemed that he had recruited me on his little escapade to occupy 12 of these lovely creatures whilst he focused on his one girlfriend.
I, being the cynic I am, bordering on mild schizophrenia, was rather unsettled by this whole setup. It was at night, it was chilly and there was just way too much booze flowing for anything constructive to come out of the evening’s activities. So I played Mr Shy Guy and decided to observe…
Anyway, back to the subject, it seemed that he had noticed that I was keeping to myself that evening so he decided to be accommodating. I appreciated that until he started his 15 minute monologue about himself, his money and his adventures. After those 15 minutes lapsed he went further, showing off his masculinity by the amount of noise his customized sound system could fart out of his Citi Golf 1.4. I couldn’t help but laugh at the clash of ironies that presented themselves to me as he aroused and stimulated himself with descriptions of his sonic grandeur: A very unusual ratio (2:13) of women to men; 12 of them were black and one was white who happened to be his girlfriend and, also, the only one who seemed to know how to dance; this seemingly educated gentleman with whom I was having a ‘conversation’ boasting about his sound system.

I know that ‘boys love their toys’ as is evident in my own lifestyle. I have a liking for chic, slick motorcars. I have a fetish for leather boots (as feminine as that may be). I have also recently acquired a mysterious fascination with beautiful cutlery and cooking utensils but that’s all just me. But what is it about guys and loud sound systems?
By loud, I don’t mean just upping the volume on any stereo – I’m talking about chaps who pay tens of thousands of Rands on amplifiers, tweeters, sub-woofers and all other things needed to make enemies of your white, dog-walking neighbours and that is not the end of it. You see, most of the affordable yet trendy cars like the Citi Golfs cannot accommodate such heavy vibrations so they have to be modified somewhat. The suspension needs to be altered to sustain the load, the windows need to be somehow reinforced so that they don’t fly away whilst you’re playing Metro Fm and, usually, the entire backseat is taken up by this monstrosity.
I don’t get it. I’ve tried, though, but I cannot derive any sense of satisfaction in getting a headache and mutilating my eardrums all in the name of fun or whatever you want to call it.
With most of these vehicles, you’d have to stand approximately 20 – 30 paces from the vehicle for you to actually enjoy the sound without sustaining injuries. Though, why would you want to do that, if you could lower the volume slightly and sit inside the car and maybe even drive whilst you’re listening to music?
Back to our conversation, I also realised that whilst his car was playing music, he had to keep the engine running otherwise the battery would be flat after about 30 minutes. That got me thinking. If, for example, we were having one of those typical all-night parties he’d have to be playing from his car for about 5 -7 hours straight whilst running his engine, revving it periodically. This would amount to about 10 – 15 litres of petrol consumed, which is the equivalent of about 120km of driving in the average Golf. If you then changed this into currency, you’d be looking at about R75 – R112.50 just to keep music playing for a few hours. I wouldn’t call myself a full-time cheapskate but would that be absolutely necessary?

My argument goes beyond racial divides.
I know that certain race groups from Durban and Cape Town tend to exaggerate my point for me and then go even beyond that so much so that the arm of the law has had to intervene by instilling decibel limits that could not be exceeded – and you thought that speeding was enough of a problem.
I once refused to board a taxi in Durban’s Point. Not because of the impressive graffiti art that decorated it and not because of the occupants. The real reason was that I heard and felt it approaching before I even saw it – it was no longer sonic, it was seismic. What bothered me even more was that there were some older folks who were obliged to board, for lack of better options, and bear all that madness. Of course, I would’ve boarded the taxi had the conductor offered me a sterilized pair of earplugs. Well, I would’ve thought about it, at least.

Since the creation of records or LP’s, I gathered that the point was to recreate a sound very similar to music being played live without the static or any ‘airy’ sounds in the background. Hence the development CD audio and MP3’s with varying bitrates. Alas, it seems that this is not the case. Sound clarity is no longer the commodity it once was with my people. The beauty of music without a destructive bass is no longer and we have to watch the chaps spending so much money on things that do not appreciate in value – but that is not a new concept as we still spend so much money on accessorizing so many other things that we see as extension of our selves.

This is still a learning process for me, part of my quest to understand my fellow man and maybe even understand myself better. Perhaps one day someone will help me understand and even convince me to cash in my retirement fund to build my own little monster so I can walk with my legs far apart as a man well-endowed should.

Big Minded Small Town-edness

So after all the drama of living in my nation’s capital for a decade or so, and deciding to leave for smaller (greener?) pastures where the animal fat has been chewed and the supposedly greener grass has been smoked, the romance of the ideal has settled.
The truth is not much has changed. The same people are still the same people or perhaps different people are still different people.
The nomad, who is myself (with a recently acquired hunter-gatherer spirit) has decided to settle in a town which smells of nothing in particular, but faint traces of sea-spray and complacency that can be detected by a very analytical snout.
In retrospect, there are still things I miss about My Nation’s Capital.
The serious-looking lawyers and barristers with huge briefcases oozing a post-modern kind intellectual testosterone on Schoeman Street in the mornings walking past Pretoria News head office with their wigs, the taxi ranks; my ‘magwinya and loose-cigarette mall’.
The petite TUT students in their naïve afro centricities with their portfolio bags and weed pouches and body piercings. The public transport system which, I’ve now realised, is seriously advanced. Busses that take you anywhere where the name Pretoria still applies.
The young professionals and job market stock in their Corsa Lites and Citi Golfs smoking Peter Stuyvesants and recalling, yet another, Sundowns’ fluke of a victory and the chaos that followed.
The Rastafarians, the fake Rastafarians and the genuine Trustafarians. The Asian Marabastad community. The astounded and dazed feeling I’d get after having spent, yet another night in Sunnyside.
The heritage-rich skyline with haunted Edwardian-styled buildings now inhabited by ‘fatcat’ city officials whose gravy-enriched farts feed decades of apartheid’s ghosts of corruption.
So I am this man, still possessed by the contradictory yet authoritative charms of My Nation’s Capital but somehow bedding this simple virgin with round cheeks who obtains the greatest pleasure from missionary positions and grilled porkchops by the seaside. She, besides her name, has absolutely nothing to do with the advertised spontaneity of London.
Though, I must admit, I’m content in her complacent arms. This is the city of my upbringing of which I have very little memory of. It’s like meeting someone for the first time again, this time in the waking life.
That confuses the natives though.
“Khanyo, where are you from?” one asks.
I reply “I’m from Pretoria”.
“So how is it that you speak xhosa?”
“..because I’m actually from here”
That usually ends the conversation as I feel the label of “Madman” sticking to my oily forehead.
Sometimes to the contrary:
“..so how’s that dude?” they continue, to my dismay
“I grew up here then I left for Witbank when I was a laaitie…long story..”
“aw, cool. I want to also go to Joburg. Apparently it’s quite happening there.”
“Well, the thing is, Pretoria and Joburg are not the same place..” I add in futile ‘patriotism’.
“Yeah, well, you know what I mean..”
With that, I concede. I’d then be followed by a barrage of questions about celebrities and concerts and the party scene and fashion and all things glamorous to a small minded bumpkin in a small town.
So all in all, I guess the real lesson I’m learning from all of this is Humility. It’s funny how life’s situations can force you out of one ideal into another. And the manifestations of each ideal can be even more interesting.
The manifestation of my kind of humility is solitude. And by solitude I’m not referring to being a recluse. Solitude, by my definition, is freedom from any tangible association with acquaintances. So that’s what I’m trying to maintain.
This came to me whilst I was sitting in a pub aptly named Brittania (?) with an unidentified cousin of mine and his entourage. So over a dozen milk stouts or so, I listened to their conversations drifting between their former headmaster’s new house and Sarah Comley’s new drug habit. She, in actual fact, was no-one they’d met personally or even went to school with but she was known. A questionable reputation followed her, I presume.
By the end of that night I was perplexed, disoriented and frustrated; I found nothing enriching the personality or even the brain in a whole night’s drinking. Instead I felt as if I was going insane and that something had been taken from me!
You see, it is the solitude that now helps me to detach myself. If I wanna go for a beer, company is not a prerequisite. If I wanna go to the beach, I’m happier doing it alone. It keeps my brewing narcissism in check. It dissipates the urge to enlighten, to rise above what I diagnose to be chronic small-mindedness in the people I’ve met.
But is this not narcissism on it’s own? I mean it is somewhat judgemental – not everyone can be the same right?
I guess that’s how we are as human beings with our left-brained logic. You take a sample from a certain number of people from different parts of a controlled area and divide the results per capita in that area. What you get is a representation of the general populace obtained by a ratio.
In that, regard, I may be a little bit judgemental. But may I remind you that prejudice is merely a survival instinct we all have. It’s built into our formulae as heirs to this savage kingdom.
What makes me laugh is, historically, this region is the birthplace of some of our nation’s greatest thinkers and, yet, I am just not finding their legacy as much is I’d hoped. Maybe they were fed up for the same reasons and took their legacies to the Apartheid Museums, Jozi poetry sessions, street names in Soweto, State Libraries or Freedom Day celebrations funded by the inefficiencies of basic service delivery.
Maybe it’s just me.

Jungle Fever

I’ve never had a really bad case of Jungle Fever but sometimes I feel I tend to display certain symptoms. I love my black women, don’t get me wrong, I seriously do.
Nowadays, though, I find myself walking through a shopping mall, wondering when white girls became so pretty. Damn! Blame it on the media or pop culture or whatever you want but this democracy has borne some fruit, in my opinion. I would date a white girl. In fact, I’m curious to the extent that I can say with conviction that I’ll grab the first opportunity that would present itself – forgive me, Mama – but I’d even marry a white girl (as long as she’s willing to learn isiXhosa).
Yet some conservative types have said that it’s improper, it’s unnatural; “The children will have an identity crisis”. This confuses me somewhat. Unnatural? As improper as a woman copulating with a horse, maybe? Perhaps ethnic cleansing is a little more natural. Anyway, who says that there must be a line drawn? I don’t think that ‘mix-breed’ offspring should have any confusion. They’d have just as much black blood as white. The choice would be theirs as to which race they belong to (or would benefit by belonging to). I’m the product of a Xhosa gent and a Zulu lady. I see myself as a Xhosa man, largely due to my upbringing but I acknowledge Zulu culture as a part of my heritage. Yes, I know you’d say it’s not the same thing but think about this carefully. Where do you draw the line? Look at the closest white person to you. How white are they really? Is there a barometer to measure a person’s ‘whiteness’ or ‘blackness’? How thin are their lips and nose? How flat is his or her arse? Are they blond, ginger or brunette? Would Hitler have thought they were white (not to say he was a knowledgeable source on this subject)? All this time I thought that we all descended from a common ancestor.
Over a couple of smoothies or so, a coloured friend of mine proposed that each race has its own distinct odour. I can be a sensitive soul – at least I try to be. I don’t believe in classifying people according to stereotypes, skin colour, religion, sex etc. So one would understand why it is that I found this proposal so repulsive. Alas, my friend is my friend because he’s of common interest, commonly good stock and has opinions I respect so I humoured him.
Apparently – I’m still in the process of researching this – the human being has a set of ‘glands’ in their backs. Now these glands are developed differently for each race, secreting various hormones that turn into odours exuded from the pores – especially in times of stress. These odours can be disguised by your ordinary eau du toilettes and body lotions but only temporarily due to the bodily processes of sweating and skin absorption.
So, according to my friend, white people have a “rubbery” smell, Indians have a “herbal” smell and black folk have a slightly “pungent” smell. He’s still working on the Chinese elements of his theory. But, of course, he neglected to describe the coloured smell. I can deduce, though, that it’d be something between rubbery and pungent. Unfortunately, I cannot take this opinion which sounds like it may be scientifically sound but lacking in facts seriously.

Why would it be more acceptable for an Indian individual to date a white individual than if I was dating a white girl? Is it because the product would be a solution that isn’t as diluted? How much closer to white are they, than us? Just because they weren’t previously as disadvantaged as we were does this make them whiter?
Who then says I can’t marry and reproduce with a white woman and have offspring who’d be more South African than we both are?
Maybe I’m insane. Maybe I’m an Uncle Tom. I don’t know. I don’t think I’m the only one who shares this sentiment. Businessman/Politician Tokyo Sexwale shares my sentiment and, as a result, he made an astute career move by marrying Judy. Look at the former Botswana president Sir Seretse Khama.

I find Afrikaner women most attractive out of all these beautiful Caucasians. Mostly because they resemble black women with their physiques – the big thighs, waist sizes that are inversely proportional to their hips and usually big booties. It’s like getting the best from both worlds, only different. On the flip-side, I would find it difficult to be content with black women who have traditionally ‘white’ physiques. Which would you prefer?
I also like Afrikaner women because of their generally confrontational demeanor. I am always certain of where I stand with them – they either like me or hate me or are indifferent.

If this all seems somewhat superficial and maybe slightly judgmental then perhaps I am fickle. I know it’s all about who we are inside as people, that’s why I wouldn’t marry an airhead of a white woman who thinks that Zuma is a brand of shower gel.
Yet, even as our society still frowns upon the vanilla/chocolate combination we still have the pioneers who brave the waters and blaze trails for us who have the fever and, also, our descendants. I salute you guys and girls. Have your porkchop and eat it!
Word is bond.

Fits Of Mirth

dimples and laugh lines - evidence of the journey i embarked upon for a particular kind of madness that i created on your skin, hair and teeth. you collapsed,
twitching, clutching at your seams venting all your colliding thoughts as if you were consummating seismic encounters with the earth and erupted, effervescent tears, in fits of joyous mirth.i watched you giving birth to vibrations of euphoria as i spoke on, giving you the tiniest details of those rose petals that once popped out of my eye...
to this day,
you still describe to me how it felt when i ejaculated into you those sweet and sour seeds of humour and, with a pensive face, i tickled your sole with a moist, wiggling tongue.
how you struggled for breath in between my descriptions of that one Tuesday night when i fed myself love with a teaspoon through my belly button and felt the guilt of a glutton...
that, my dear, is one of my joys of livingthe gift of receiving and the sanctity of giving...

Notes on self-homicide

Suicide. A word that has now been equated with other words like ‘incest’ or ‘bestiality’, words that carry a particularly unpleasant stench where morality nose it all.
Not many a man would admit to having have contemplated or entertained the idea of ‘self homicide’. More people would probably admit to having had sexual desires or intentions towards close relatives or household pets.

Sylvia Plath, a famous 20th century poet wrote about her incomprehensibly intimate relationship with suicide. How that relationship had grown with her from adolescence to her 30-odd years of living. The growth in complexity and the development of her maturing reasoning behind her 4 or five attempted suicides in her life and how she wished so much she would, one day, succeed. In some of her poetry she expressed her sadness upon realization that yet another attempt had failed and the hate she felt towards those people who, she felt, were responsible for her ‘coming back’ like the doctors, the paramedics, those people who prayed for her survival and such.
Eric Miyeni in his book, “O’Mandingo: The Only Black at a Dinner Party”, writes of how, in apartheid South Africa, there were just so many reasons for a black man to commit suicide – well, more reasons to than in Mr Mbeki’s South Africa, at least. Yet he speaks of his contemplations and dissatisfied curiosity on suicide; the euphoria he’d feel when he thought about it, the “warm glow” all over his body. He would be encountering these feelings and thoughts at good times in his life, when everything is going well. Maybe on his way to a book launch, sitting in a plane seat and looking out the window. But for some like Plath, though, suicide came as a result of clinical depression. One of my favourite authors - K Sello Duiker - killed himself during a time when he was just about to become a household name and his career was on an upward spiral.

I will not be going to into the intricacies of clinical depression, polar disorders and anxiety right now but suffice it to say that I know enough about it.

I used to wonder, when I still interpreted Bible school teachings literally, if God could create such unholy people well aware that they would one day commit murder on themselves. Would he create someone and then lead his life to hell? We were all taught that a person who takes his own life goes straight to hell, with no trial. All major religions see suicide as something weak people do and deserving of punishment.
Maybe one would have to make his peace with God first. Maybe he’d have to be a firm believer in reincarnation. Perhaps only atheists could kill themselves with a clear conscience, so to speak.

I suppose the real question who’s fat I should chew is this: Am I in that minority that has had the gall to entertain such vile and abominable thoughts?
The answer is yes. Many times, in fact. Even though I must point out that I still adhere to the principles of Stoicism when I can – but these two elements of my personality are totally unrelated.
I’ve sometimes wondered what it would be like to be dead. What a bullet entering the cranium feels like. What would go through my mind whilst my body accelerates towards the earth from the 54th storey of a building. Is the transition from life to death a sensual experience; is it painful; is it aphrodisia?
Whatever the answer might be, it doesn’t do much to quell my curiosity.
There are a couple of things that stop me from going all the way.
Firstly, I have an insatiable desire to leave an immortal legacy on this planet. So maybe I’d have to wait until that’s been accomplished. When I know that the next ten generations of scholars, wannabe intellectuals and academics will be reading about Mjambaism as a school of metaphysical thought in textbooks, or knowing my descendants are attending school in a building named after me.
Secondly, I believe that living and dying can be interpreted by a mathematical equation: 1 + (-1) = 0, where 1 = living and -1 = dying. Add 1 here and its 1 less elsewhere. 1 there is 1 less here. So what I’m trying to say is that I believe that from the very moment a person is born, he starts dying. So, in fact, we’re all dying right now. Of course some are dying at a slower pace than others. I don’t feel I will accomplish anything by taking a shortcut toward the inevitable.
The very same idealism that Shakespeare’s Brutus represented and eventually betrayed in Julius Caesar is also residing in my psyche; the best kind of sufferer is the silent one. Grit your teeth and bear the pain is the way towards enlightenment. There is no louder statement of the experience of intolerable suffering than suicide. The Japanese call it Seppuku or Harakiri - from when one of the samurai had suffered some sort of shame and dishonor, he would disembowel himself as a method of preserving that honour, subtle references to Brutus's reasons. So culturally, suicide has an honourable but somehow dramatic appeal to it. That's maybe why it is so common amongst those of the creative fraternities: it's so expressive.

Well, I guess some of us are being chased by demons or by the past. I don't judge the suicidal. I'm pretty certain there's always a good enough reason to take one's own life but I just don't understand why a person would take a shortcut to the inevitable. It just reeks of cowardice.

Letting out the bunny

On this day, this Easter eve, when Jesus became a martyr so that Ray McCauley could become a millionaire and the Klu Klux Klan could have a cause, i seem to have different things on mind.


I have a rabbit in my hat. Or a bunny. But no Easter eggs.





The more I try to be like all the other church-going 'Unbelievers', the more I realize that, to me, this is another opportunity to let the bunny out - and fuck like his cousin, the rabbit.


All the gig-guides on this internet thingy are confirming what I have always suspected: we are a sentimental people.


Don't get me wrong, i mean, i respect the teachings of most religions and participate - as much as my capacity will allow - in the grandioso and celebratory rituals like eating fish and buying new clothes for Christmas but the fact remains: we are a sentimental bunch of people.





I guess i should explain myself...

Firstly, I find growing criticism at my refusal to do the whole church affair on these Public Holidays that commemorate White Jesus. It doesn't bug me much but it does make me somewhat curious. An uncle once asked me if I am atheist. I was taken aback. Does going to church on these occasions make you a believer? In turn, does going to the gym make you a fitness fanatic?

The reasons behind my boycott of the holy ground on these auspicious occasions largely entail the sentimentality I feel and see at the whole ritual. Let's be serious. Unless some new 'Truth' has been discovered about The Immaculate Conception or what really happened in the tomb, you will be getting the same Bible verses that have been read to you every Easter/Christmas/Passover for your entire church-going life. So why go? This is the sentimentality I speak of.

What is sentimentality? It is defined, in most instances, as a literary device used to induce a tender emotional response disproportionate to the situation. In laymen's terms, it's an exxageration causing one to feel things that don't really belong to the situation.

How is the crucifixion of Mr Christ related to a bunny? I don't know. Was Santa Claus related to Christ? I doubt it.

Yeats wrote, "Rhetoric is fooling others. Sentimentality is fooling yourself."

So, I tend to watch my peers in their reveries of sentimentality and, honestly, I've been the scapegoat for many a 'sinful' thing that's happened to myself, as a result. "You will never succeed in anything because you're a heathen".

I'm no heathen but my religious beliefs are undefined. I do have some semblance of a relationship with a supreme being. Should there be more than that?