OPINION

Drag

words by Uhuru waga Phalafala

When a good male friend of mine who, need I mention, would break a leg if he auditioned for Pricilla, Queen of the Desert, invited me to a drag race, I immediately imagined a rehearsal of the Pride March. I conceptualised overtly genderised men with blue eye shadow that matched their belts and shoes. This prejudice I attribute to a few reasons—the outfit he was parading the day he extended this warm invite shouted drag queen more than drag race; and although I did hear race, I concluded they would be parading at a rapid pace, and perhaps the biggest reason was that I was, and am still itching for my friend to storm out of the closet.

Arriving at the drag race was like advancing towards a burning Dunlop Tryes factory. The smoke from the burning tyres added to my clouded moment when I realised that this is the weekly drag racing that the coloured community of Bosmount, Westburry and Riverlea engaged in on Thursdays. I had never been to one or seen cars spinning out of control without needing a tow truck shortly after. I had heard that thugs spin cars at the graveside when one of their own gets buried, but I’ve obviously never been to thugs’ funerals.

All my prejudices were out in the open and I tried to conceal them with confident strides, ubiquitous smile and a neutral look even when I was completely wowed. And hell was there a lot to wow me. Two hundred or so coloured folks of all ages stood around an intersection in a circular formation, leaving a platform in the middle for those who are experienced and flamboyant to showcase their skill and elaborately embellished cars. My friend intercepts, “for most a car is just a tool to get from A to B, but for these guys cars are an extension of yourself. They form part of your outfit”. I responded with my fixed, controlled smile.

I continued to survey the area surreptitiously. All the cars there were marvellous to look at. They had their silver wheel rims, dropped suspension and blaring sounds. They reminded me of music videos for gangster rap representing the West versus East frontiers. Walking past these cars was an experience. Every five or so meters introduces a new song that had no disruption on the previous one. The sound system must be so good, I thought to myself. What was even more shocking was the kind of music that came out of these masterpieces of automobiles. Kwaito. The

Kwaito that ushered in the new dispensation in the nineties. The same Kwaito that gave this genre a bad name because of lack of depth and monotonous beats. It was truly shocking. Not nostalgic but shocking. There was nothing to be nostalgic about because when that kind of sound was made I was still playing with my Barbie dolls and harbouring aspirations of studying medicine.

When a car enters the platform in the middle of a crowd, clapping and shouting marijuana induced poetics, the man behind the wheel is evidently fuelled with adrenalin and status. This man, in his BMW 725, complete with a roofless top and a topless girlfriend, started revving a car incessantly until the cacophony made some block their ears and others jump in jubilation. This man was probably going at 140 km/h but the car was at stationery. He then advanced to release what I imagined is the handbrake, causing the car to leap forward, upon which he skilfully manoeuvred the platform in circular motions. The car was spinning in control and the rubber and tar friction caused sparks between the road and the car, which had me thinking something must be going wrong. The smoke that was being unnaturally emitted supported my logic. I betrayed my neutral look and feigned comfort by moving back for safety. My friend found this satisfying to his ego. A real man would stand right there in the middle of danger and wait for the collapse. I started to doubt my suspicions about his sexuality.

This carried on for a good part of the night; cars spinning, others driving back and forth to display their colours, mechanics, sound systems and the little extras that make all the difference. I was totally exhilarated and impressed by these ‘cars of the future’, but I couldn’t help thinking, boys and their toys, they will always compare the prizes of their sizes. My reverie was rudely interrupted by that two hundred or so spectators dispersing rapidly and running for cover from the police. It did not click at first but when my friend followed suit I realised that we were at an illegal gathering. Now all my pretensions of nonchalance departed unceremoniously. With them, my suspicions of homosexuality and most importantly, my prejudices. I ran as if to save my life. We got in the car and quickly jetted off in a similar fashion to our drag racers.

LETTER

The Whole Truth, and Nothing But the Truth

Two weeks ago City Press ran an article penned by talented and award-winning poetLebo Mashile (Live, Love and Belong) once again exposed the high levels ofintellectual bankruptcy in our society and our ongoing celebration ofmediocrity. For anyone to have opted for Mashile to deliver such a flawedspeech during such an august occasion insinuates that South Africa has runout of history scholars with a proper grasp of anthropology – I protestthat Mashile carries such a mantle lest I proclaim our collective appraisal of mediocre intellectualism.

First; there is no ‘small’ nation in the face of the earth calledBapulane. There is a ‘big’ nation called Mapulana rooted not inBushbuckridge (as a matter of fact Bushbuckridge is in Mpumalanga and notLimpopo) but Mapulaneng which covers a sizeable chunk of Mpumalanga.Mapulana are found in every corner of South Africa, largely in Gautengwhere they have a footprint. This is information so in the public domainthat a first year anthropology student could have delivered a betterpresentation on. That Mapulana did not have their own Bantustan and arecognized (official) language does not make them less of a nation thesame way Palestinians are not less human by virtue of being denied landand self-determination.

Mashile should also understand apartheid’s (especially Bantustans) role incrafting the modern South African identity. Tribes and languages weredeliberately suffocated under the homeland system. I know not of a singleMoPulana who is “very comfortable referring to themselves as both Pedi(sic) and Bapulane (sic)”. The biggest insult one can dish against aMoPulana is to call them a MoPedi.To position Mashile’s flawed analysis within a cultural context I wouldprofess that identity is inherited and never chosen to suit a populisthegemonic agenda. Contrary to her calculated definition of her ownidentity the Mashiles are not Basotho (from Lesotho) but one of the fiveoffspring of the lion (Bana ba Tau Sethlano). They are royalty inMapulaneng.

They are in the same league with Mashego, Malele, Chilwane andMogane.Given that Mashile’s diatribe was during the World Summit on Arts andCulture one can sadly conclude that the world now carries that distortednarrow interpretation of our cultural identity as fact. It will beencouraging next time for the organizers to offer such a privilege tosomeone more qualified on the subject like Professor Pitika Ntuli or DrMathole Motshega instead of a poet.

All Mashile had to do was to Google ‘Mapulaneng’ and she would have endedup with more academic references, websites and Facebook groups aboutMapulana to assist in her speech instead of perpetuating a dangerousfascist analysis of Mapulana, a victorious and proud nation.

REVIEW

etc, etc – a review of wordsetc

Imraan Coovadia is a South African author with a vision that defies the use of binoculars and magnifying glasses. A literary visionary with storytelling skills reminiscent of greats such as bi-lingual poet-author Breyten Breytenbach and award-winning JM Coetzee. Interesting enough, Coovadia is the primary subject of the latest installment of wordsetc, that literary journal that aspires to take over where Staffrider dropped the baton – with a touch of touché.

The latest issue of wordsetc is packed with enough information I just pity that I read it during an economic recession, which means I couldn’t afford to take leave and indulge it sipping daiquiris while lounging topless on a hammock at a Maputo beach café – or alternatively some few miles away in Bazaruto.

First; I’m inspired by the fact that advertisers are now coming aboard, which I think will at some stage mitigate the R49,95 cover price, which comes across as steep even for a niche publication targeting a higher LSM. Well, as a literary reviewer I get it for free and hope it stays that way.
While being the only (I stand to be corrected) such literary publication on South Africa’s shelves right now the publishers should understand that it is still competing with 500grams of Bokomo cornflakes, two NO NAME one-litre pints of Skim milk and a bag of oranges. Throw in tagless teabags and sweeteners and you have two weeks of organic breakfast.

It’s either or. However, bread and butter issues aside, publisher Phakama Mbonambi has managed to stick to the formula he chose many moons ago when he called me with the concept for the journal, very enthusiastic, driven like a Ferrari and not about to be told anything on the contrary. Not only that, he was also giving me space to advertise – for free nogal; I can see these days that my spot has been snapped by a wine-selling patron.

Few years later Mbonani has stuck to his guns regardless of wine sellers now pouring money into lucrative pages to entice the thirsty reader. At some stage it might start resembling heavily subsidized in-flight magazines, which will be brilliant because at the end of the day they get read. Tell me of a person who takes 16-hours of flying to Heathrow or JFK and still remains a passive soul and I’ll show you a semi-deaf traveler who spent those hours watching in-flight movies or listening to music. Maybe its future is to target SAA and get every issue in the cabin – both classes, thus selling our literature and culture to the traveler who matters – with a few wordsetc issues for us on the ground.

Okay, this issue sees notable contributions from men and women who are authority in their respective fields and who share their insides uninhibited with the rest of the world. I meant to say they stand naked infront of us to critique ‘their sizes’. And do they all impress!

Multi-talented poet and prolific writer Malika Ndlovu shares a painful story [Grief is a Teacher] of a child that never was and who has been her passive muse for the better part of recent memory – which while the reader feels that its taunts her, seems to be developing into a useful writer’s (un)block(er) as she throws statistics around like a SAPS Commissioner on ‘that’ special day. “I don’t choose to remember her that way. I am able to see her now, in my own way, everywhere and in everything. She is an inner compass for me, a reminder of what matters in everything” she writes.

Another interesting contribution, which I want to believe is the first time such a confession has graced pages has to be Zachie Achmat’s frank delivery about his relationship (though handicapped) with his conservative Muslim father [My Father’s Touch]. The narration takes the reader into the interrogation tactics of the Fascist Security Police and reminds one why every South Afrikan should stand up to nip similar tendencies (of a police state) at the bud, at the mere mentioning of revoking Sections of the Criminal Procedure Act and re-introducing military ranks to civilian institutions like the cops. COSATU’s Zwelinzima Vavi once said that ‘dictatorship does not come with drum majorettes’

Zachie writes about his 1977 incarceration with the benefit of hindsight , “Not all policemen were bad, either. South Africa had invaded Angola in 1976, and many white youth did not want to fight a clandestine and dubious war against their neighbours. They could get out of compulsory military service on condition that they served their time in the police force. Many chose this option, not realizing that troops would soon be deployed in the townships to wage war against unarmed civilians”. This is crucial given that police these days are told to shoot service delivery protesters in townships and informal settlements with ‘rubber’ bullets and teargas [has anybody ever asked what goes into the making of a teargas?] and are now about to be granted a license to kill. Will those with a conscience within the SAPS ranks quit in protest?

Actually I could dissect the whole journal in this post but I will leave that to the editors, publishers and contributors to this publication to do that for you. They include journalist Kevin Bloom [The Realist], Victor Dlamini [Capturing Creative Spirits], Lindiwe Nkutha [Sheila’s Journey], Angelina Sithebe [Quest to make sense of the Present], Karina Magdalena Szczrek [Writers’ other lives], Andrew Herold [Grace notes, with a twist], Joy Watson [Her Story], Penny Urquhart [A rough landing], Alistair King [The Collector], Seni Seneviratne [Language of My Heart], M.Neelika Jayawardane [ Master of Ambiguity], Tia Marie Beautement [Alles van die beste] and Dalhma Llanos-Figueroa [Impressions of Barcelona].

In The Collector, King explores the not-so-much-a-hobby of many bookworms, which is travelling the world and collecting first issues of books. After reading that piece I rushed into my library and discovered some few real classics, some dating back to 1952 and I realised that I might be up to something big. I would have loved it if my Animal Farm and A Tale of Two Cities were first issues, huh.

Like all those that came before it, this edition of wordsetc carries probing book reviews of quite inspirational literature such as Moeletsi Mbeki’s reviewed-to-the-bone Architects of Poverty [go find out why post-colonial Afrika fails to tick], Dawn Garisch’s trespass, Aher Arop Bol’s The Lost Boy, Angela Makholwa’s The 30th Candle, Jabulile Ngwenya’s I Ain’t Yo Bitch etc. If you are not like me but are the movie buffoon type who waits for Barry Ronge to brief you about the storyline before hitting Computicket then get wordsetc to discover what is said about the aforementioned books before you go out and buy them.

However one of my friends is of the opinion that this installment of wordsetc has gone bourgeois, that it is sliding towards liberalism that might suffocate Native talent as Natives can’t be liberals since liberals wear two jackets and two caps and only one hand-glove. Well I reserved my opinion and sent the jury out to deliberate.

But what is observed is that the once small literary journal has grown, it now has a quarter inch spine and approaches 100-pages. It is well laid-out and readable without needing assistance from lenses and page-markers.

Oops, in the opening I mentioned Coovadia, yeah, there are seven pages dedicated to this talented storyteller and prolific wordsmith provided by Neelika. I ain’t touching on that inspirational profile but leaving it to you to lick for yourself and discover why I would have the backbone to compare Coovadia to Breytenbach and Coetzee – not at the expense of Zakes Mda, Siphiwo Mahala, Fred Khumalo, Zukiswa Winner, Kgebetli Moele, Niq Mhlongo and others.

Go grasp a copy before the forth Summer issue hits the shelves since wordsetc might be your muse while lounging on a hammock this December.

ANALYSIS

If The Bible Carried Ads…

Here I am having an inspirational talk with a guy from the left and he wants to know how far is the South Afrikan media with the discussion on who should dictate editorial policy between the advertisers and the readers. We end up on politics really; I bemoan the fact that Media Development and Diversity Agency is not well-funded and that government should put more money into the agency to unearth more grassroots media with a pulse.

I go as far as mentioning that those who run the media actually set the agenda on what national discourse should be. Then we come to the point I have been wondering relating to the influence of ads on content. Okay, Google Ads can not do that because they are content relevant. You publish stories about Mandela and the Long Walk To Freedom book retailers’ ads pop up. You write about China and The Dalai Lama’s ads dominate your page. But the real talk is about the ads that try to influence content – by throwing money at the publication.

Then our discussion came to the point where we wondered why is the Bible, thick, printed on the best paper on the market retail so cheap? If those who are propagating the spread of Christianity can put so much money into its production and distribution why can’t those who want to propagate their own leftist rhetoric do the same with newspapers. For all I know newspapers are published on cheap newsprint, are less than forty pages thick and are distributed at restaurants and beer halls. Where’s the hiccup?

Then my friend wanted to know my take on how ads influence content. I told him that I reckon if the Bible welcomed ads, you would have a lot of inaccurate information and omissions in the Holy book. Imagine this scenario;

Obviously SARS would have loved putting ads next to Jesus’ sermons about ‘giving to Caesar what belongs to Caesar’. Picture reading about all the taxes that Jesus preached about and at the bottom of the page you get a strip ad from SARS, reminding you of your obligations.

Also imagine reading about the miracle of walking on water at the Sea of Galilee and then getting an ad from Vodacom or NOKIA. After St Peter failed to cross to Jesus due to his lack of faith you can have NOKIA claiming, ‘connecting people’ or Vodacom advertising its power of connecting people.

On another note you could be reading the story of Christ’s crucifixion and at the bottom you have an ad from AVBOB, selling their funeral covers. I’m quite certain Kaizer Chiefs would have bought a half page to advertise Ikusasa LaMakhosi.

Now something that would tickle the fancy of our plastic millionaires. Imagine reading the parable of the Lazarus and the Rich Man and on the reversal of roles. And then there is an ad from ABSA selling an investment scheme. ‘Don’t end up like the Rich Man, Invest with ABSA, today, tomorrow, together’.

Well, I can dissect the inspired book to shreds because I know it so passionately but I reckon you can also think of ads to go with the story. On the issue of influence I swear to you after Cain killed Abel you would have an AK47 influencing the content by claiming that Cain used a Kalashnikov to pop Abel and not a stone. Then they would buy the strip and sell the AK47.

Share your thoughts with me, choose a scripture in the Bible and tell me what ad do you think it would go with it. Go to Facebook and post me your thoughts, you might become a copywriter someday.

POEM

This man was assaulted by the community during the recent uprising against crime in Shatale. He died hours later on his way to hospital. The poem below is dedicated to the community action and is written in Sepulana.

Mokga kgati….!

Mekgolokwane e kgobokanne go thasoga leleme
Meludi ya masogana like a melody ya Pavarotti’s Orchestra
Ba a botsisana ba makele betši ba Shatale
Gore ganthe ke lenyalo la mang la go emisa sechaba ka maoto
Beng mabu bare “ba tlhomodiye naga mmutlwa”

Ke koma mang ya go tšwa mehlare e wologa
Yona ke ya ga mang? Ge ya Mapulana e sa fetolele mašahla a mela
Naga e bafala ka go atlala mesemo ye metala
Basadi ba tlhakela leroleng ba tupela dirope le direthe
Mpša ya masebe e itsane “naga e thlomodiwe malalakwaele”

Shatale ba e tlhomodiye mogollwa ka mothokolo
Ba ngannge mešifa ka la gore mmutlwa re tlhomola ka mmutlwa
Re tima mollo ka meetše
Nnete mašago a butšwiye ka letlalo ka kubu
Monna a lla boka lesea
Letolo le robega nka re ke letlhare la morula wa go barama
Mphine wa piki o roba mohlagare
Basadi ba Shatale ba re ba belege masole
Enough is enough ba chesa tsotsi
Moya o tšwele nameng monyako wa Mapulaneng Hospital
Go tlhokiye le mokgekolo wa go rothisa keledi
Ke la tau ya go lapa ya go rothisa tete

Ke yona Bantu Education ya bo tsotsi
Naga ya Shatale e be e ethoma go tlhoma
Re womisiye lešahla ka tladi
Ra tšhuba ka mesela ya diphiri
Naga ya bokokwane e emme ka leoto la Kgoši Mashego
Ntšeleke skonopelo ke s'kogwa ke mo tlhomole mmutlwa

Sereti: P.I. Mashilane “JOP” Prayforce

PICTURES

The Day the Community Took the Law Into Their Own Hands.

NEWS

I wonder If Heaven Got a Ghetto?


Recently I posted it on my Facebook Wall, that if there was email beyond in the afterlife people will be surprised to find that their beloved friends and family members who they think are sitting on HIS right hand are actually burning in that other place churches want us to believe exists. For a fact; I don't believe in heaven and hell but only earth because it's here and I can touch it any minute I fell like lacing my shoes.

So, there could be a situation whereby if we lived in an Egalitarian Society we would all be hooked on the internet, either on cellphones or Apple Macs and browsing the net on leisure, not to have it as a domain of a few. In this ideal situation our email addresses would be our names and surnames followed by our email service provider; something like goodenough.mashego@earth.co.za or barack.obama@earth.com. Thus there wouldn't be all these stress of different service providers, we all would be logged on to earth.

Now, the point behind this post comes in the afterlife. Here is a brother you all loved who passes away and you decide that you are going to get that charismatic pastor to perform his last rites and tell all of you that he is sitting on the right hand of the Most High. He will yep stuff about; suppose he's a musician, his introduction to the orchestra beyond where he is performing with Bob Marley, Tupac Shakur, Notorious BIG, Marvin Gaye, Miriam Makeba, Jabu Khanyile and others. They call that troupe; The Orchestra Beyond. But then you know this chap was really bad, into groupies, too much alcohol, too much cocaine, too much lying, cheating, stealing and bad music.

So, in that event imagine getting mail in your email from tshepo@hell.org while you expected him to be in heaven since the charismatic pastor who gave him his send-off made all of you to feel that he was on his one-way ticket to paradise with a VISA signed by St Paul. You bloody expected him to mail you on tshepo@heaven.gov.

I reckon life would be interesting and we would have long answered questions like Tupac's I wonder if Heaven got a Ghetto and "is there a heaven for a g". All those fantasies of being in heaven that fuelled Tupac's muse would have been laid to rest. Obviously we would still receive spam mail from some of the naughty angels with aspirations of getting shareholding on this Matrix.

Remember Biggie, remember this Suicidal Thoughts lyrics, "When I die, fuck it I wanna go to hell/ Cause Im a piece of shit, it aint hard to fuckin tell/ It dont make sense, goin to heaven wit the goodie-goodies/ Dressed in white, I like black tims and black hoodies/ God will probably have me on some real strict shit/ No sleepin all day, no gettin my dick licked/ Hangin with the goodie-goodies loungin in paradise/ Fuck that shit, I wanna tote guns and shoot dice/ All my life I been considered as the worst/ Lyin to my mother, even stealin out her purse/ Crime after crime, from drugs to extortion/ I know my mother wished she got a fuckin abortion/ She don't even love me like she did when I was younger/ Suckin on her chest just to stop my fuckin hunger/ I wonder if I died, would tears come to her eyes? Forgive me for my disrespect, forgive me for my lies"

Biggie's heaven is different from the one you saw on Tupac's I wonder if Heaven Got a Ghetto and I Ain't Mad at Ya videos. Food for thought. And now you know!

REVIEW

The Best Place to Hide Anything From a Black Person

Often when I’m having a chat with my intellectual artist friends we like to reflect on our earlier literary influences – which are as diverse as the universe. Recently we have been wondering why on City Press Pulse’s Back Page whenever our plastic celebrities (people who work for TV and radio) are asked what books are they reading they always say, Long Walk to Freedom, Re-discovering the Kingdom, Threshing Floor, Some of my Best Friends are White, Colour, Once in a Lifetime, Women Thou Art, I Write What I Like, Capitalist Nigger, Rich Dad Poor Dad, The Scramble for Africa, Da Vinci Code, Anatomy of South Africa, Stupid White Men, Walter & Albertina Sisulu: In Our Lifetime, Staying in Touch With your Fertility, Run Your Own Business and Make Lots of Money, Memoirs of a Geisha, The Hardy Boys, Petals Of Blood, A Child Called It, Losing My Virginity and Bible.
The only people who confess to not reading are DJs like Clock and Tira and it’s fine, the probably listen to more overseas music to make sure that what they do is not plagiarism or vice versa.
We wondered because the way most of the so-called celebrities conduct their public lives and affairs defies the content of some of those books they claim to have read to the back cover. Imagine someone telling you that they read Capitalist Nigger but still believing in welfare and voting based on which political party can give them free stuff instead of which one will give them more opportunities to work the system.

Also imagine someone who claims to have read I Write What I like still treating his kind with disdain by exhibiting the material that s/he has to them and personalizing his German model’s numberplates to stand out like a horny penis. Where’s the consciousness?

So, this is just a precursor to most of our discussions. We end up agreeing that actually these folks don’t read any book but are afraid to just tell Pulse that they ain’t reading none because it will mean a manifestation of the claim that ‘the best place to hide anything from a black person is to write it in a book’. But I mean there’s nothing wrong with not reading a book, if you are not because we can’t all be reading books – we ain’t a homogenous species.

It’s like someone claiming that they are reading the Bible because they know you won’t ask them a question about a collection that is 66 books thick with two equally important Testaments. To me it’s like being asked who my favourite painter is and I just rush to say Vincent Van Gogh or Pablo Picasso without intimately knowing their pieces. Just knowing that Van Gogh cut off his ear and that Picasso sold only one painting before he died is not enough.
if you asked me what was the last film I watched I will be brutally honest and tell you that my viewing is not even captured on Box Office because I wait for the film to be released on DVD or be flighted on DsTV, I don’t watch them in the cinema. If that makes me less sophisticated, it’s fine but that’s the truth. There are no cinemas where I live, same way there are no libraries or bookstores where others live.

So, why am I telling you this? It’s because when me and my friends discuss our influences and which author did we lose our virginity to most are quick to tell me about Bessie Head, Doris Lessing, Tsitsi Dangarembga, Chinua Achebe etc. they look at me with disdain when I tell them I was seduced by James Hadley Chase (real name Rene Brabazon Raymond – b. 24 December 1906 d. 6 February 1985) after just being platonic with nameless Scottish novels dealing with horse-breeding – before George Orwell’s Animal Farm. I mean my first novel was given to me when I was around 12-years-old by my parent. When I grew up everybody was reading Chase novels which were circulating amongst us like a bulbous blunt at a street corner.

We were all a bunch of oppressed Bantu-educated darkie kids reading Chase novels. At least 70% of boys I grew up with were religiously reading those novels and aspiring to be thugs. We knew the storylines and characters by title, Safer Dead, Come Easy Go Easy, Just Another Sucker, Rollo, The Dead Stay Dumb, He Won’t Need it Now, Twelve Chinks and a Woman, The Doll’s Bad News, Lady, Here’s Your Wreath, Miss Callaghan Comes to Grief, Miss Shumway Waves A Wand, Just the Way it is, Eve, More Deadly Than the Male, I’ll Get you for This, Make the Corpse Walk, Blonde’s Requiem, No Business of Mine, The Flesh of the Orchid, Trusted Like the Fox, You Never Know with Women, You’re Lonely When you are Dead, The Paw in the Bottle, Lay Her Among the Lillies, Figure it Out for Yourself, The Marijuana Mob, Strictly for Cash, Why Pick on Me?, But A Short time to Live etc.

It’s only later that I started reading Afrikan literature and that from the Diaspora. I started reading Molefi Kete Asante, Alice Walker, Oonya Kempadoo, Maya Angelou, Terry McMillan etc.
Then I mixed with brilliant Caucasian authors of note like Sydney Sheldon, Robert Ludlum, John Le Carre, Jack Higgins etc. and when I came back home trying to find an author I can fiend I found that everybody was writing about politics from one side of the spectrum. Everybody was trying to sell to me the allegation that only one political party liberated this country while some of us only knew about it during the State of Emergency, together with five others.

I then read old classics by E'skia Mphahlele and Miriam Tlali. I tell my literati friends that I can confess that I have never read Long Walk to Freedom and any motivational book written by dodgy charismatic born-again fundamentalists.
I needed inspiration in 1989 when I was locked in a jail cell and those clergy were blessing Boer weapons before their township rendezvous, not in 2009 when the sheepskin has been removed. So, while today I am an adjudicator for the South Afrikan Literary Award (Literary Oscars) which means I read tens of books a year I still feel I need to read more – not for the culture of reading but because once you stop reading you stop learning. I need to be exposed to Chinese, Indian and South American literature.

Today’s voices are equally brilliant as long as they shy away from politicizing their literature. Writers like Kgebetli Moele, Niq Mhlongo, Zukiswa Wanner, Fred Khumalo, Kopano Matlwa, Siphiwo Mahala etc.

So, I want my Chase novels back. I have started with a collection and am paying good money for these classics. If you have a Chase (which I rather raise my daughter on than Long Walk to Freedom) contact me at goodynuff@hotmail.com

REVIEW

People’s Poet – Caught in a Time Warp

This week I had the misfortune of listening, for the second time to Mzwakhe Mbuli’s post-liberation recorded rants. I remembered the Mzwakhe of the late 1980s whose recordings I could recite by heart. I even bought his poetry book.

Even though it (his poetry) was spruced with a lot of Aghostino Neto punchlines and other revolutionaries like Marcus Garvey and Patrice Lumumba it still made a lot of sense. It made sense because it was conceived and presented at an epoch that South Afrika was going through at the time, similar to what Angola, Jamaica and Zaire DR Congo went through.

Then The People’s Poet was thrown in jail for robbing a bank and being picked at an identity parade by a witness. I think his stay in jail really messed with his mind and his ability to litigate. Today he is known more for pioneering the battle against the technology that make people burn CDs, DVDs and other media and not spending money on actually buying the records. This is stealing from artists’ tables – it sucks as well.

His media-hyped crusades against Chinese and Indians hawkers reminds me of a guy who is said to have wondered why his business was stalling and when he was told that it was some people using cyberspace to do the same thing he was doing demanded that they be hired to work for him – when he was told that they make good money working cyberspace demanded that his CFO buy the whole fucking cyberspace in a hostile takeover.

What Mzwakhe fails to understand is that these days there are more file sharing sites than record bars. There are more DJs remixing and playing other people’s music than arenas to perform. I don’t need to leave my workstation to get a hot song for free. I can either go to or to a club to listen to some DJ playing Mzwakhe over a house beat.

Okay, the point behind this point is to critique why Mzwakhe is dangerously caught in a time warp. I picked this when I was listening to his empty rants against society. I still remember that his first recording after doing time in prison contained lines that demanded to know what was the bone of contention between Zuma and the Scorpions. That was shallow given that there are more newspapers in prison than in my whole neighbourhood but we knew what the two elephants were battling for.

Now his latest recording, with a religious twist, which is actually gospel - left me feeling bad for what prison does to people and their perception of society. Your clock stops when they lock those giant gates and only starts ticking again when they jerk them open after your parole hearing. And in your mind you are still at 10h30 when it’s already 23h46.

I can say with conviction and without any fear of contradiction that Mzwakhe sucks as a poet, not because of his own doing but the system that denied him the opportunity to move with the times. For a man who spoke for a lot of people and for rights his stand on gays and lesbians is hypocritical – Sodom and Gommorah? Please, I would understand if it came from Pope Benedict XVIII and not a man who lamented for freedom which comes with the right to be.

It is unlike Mzwakhe to moralise about crime and homosexuals when he was convicted of armed robbery. Will he feel comfortable if he was compared to the thugs who robbed the traveler who found solace in the house of the Samaritan in the New Testament? His rhetoric against abortion sounds as if it comes from the mouth of a person who was comfortable with our sisters dying in backstreet abortion labs since abortion was invented – not by us but those who were doing it in London during apartheid.

In his heyday (when he still sat on the UDF Cultural Desk) he never protested about the absence of proper medical facilities for termination of pregnancy for black sistas. What does he expect them to do when they miss their periods after a night of binging? Give birth and starve the kids or put them on welfare? Or do backstreet abortions and die like mongrels?

Finally, when I tried to fall in love with his sermons I ended up seriously offended. Mzwakhe tries to redeem himself through the use of punchlines as if he was some older version of ProKid, reminiscent of his protest poetry. But overall, the People’s Poet sucks as a poet. I would recommend that police commissioner Bheki Cele hook him up a badge and make him a sheriff in the new SAPS Cyber Unit.