Mzwandile Matiwane (This picture was shot in Cape Town where he has been living 'as a vagrant' since coming out of jail. One wonders why is our system so good at failing talented artists like Mzwandile, whether out of, or never been to prison. To claim that he has a conviction will be a scapegoat as artists with records as clean as a whistle continue to live vagrant lives while non-artists are pocketing funding money and laughing all the way to Switzerland. South Africa needs introspection about its treatment of its own artists)


MAKING SENSE OF THE PRISON SYSTEM

If there is any tangible evidence that the prison system in this country is working for the inmates, while at the same time failing the victims, one needs to look no further than Mzwandile Matiwane. Having written most of the poems in his anthology, i lost a poem, while doing time at St Albans Medium Prison (Eastern Cape) for robbery, this beautiful anthology transcends chains and relegates to make-believe everything you've seen in Oz. However, i lost a poem is not short of such depictions, even though Matiwane deliberately toned down the goriness of the violence. "I started to calculate seconds/ on that cold cement floor/ cuffed hands and feet/ until I became content/ I had clots of blood on my face/ courtesy of their kicks and klaps/ but I chose not to cry/ for they could not crack a comrade kid" he writes in 'Countdown'.

Tupac Shakur once said about prison life that it's when you realise that 'even thugs get lonely'. Matiwane experienced it first hand. His book is sincere, far from the sex laced scary propositions he wrote before and allowed them to pass off as poetry, while in fact they were diary entries of a twisted mind. Cries of a horny man whose prowess has been caged. In prison he got too lonely, "lying there in the dark/ doors and windows open/ listening, smoking/ deeper and deeper"- (Melancholy)

In a poem titled 'Robber's Confession' Matiwane is brave enough to tell why he did the robbery. He made the most of a bad situation. He didn't sit back waiting for his parole hearing, but did something us out of prison do not even dream of doing, bringing out our own anthologies of poetry.

He also bears testimony to the corrupt nature of the prison system. In a conversation we had he confessed that his sanity was maintained by a regular supply of dagga joints that the warders provided. Even though the warders couldn't help Small, an inmate who died in the Prison hospital in 2002 of AIDS. "It was after twelve midnight…/they came with a knife made out of steel spoon…/ they undressed me…/ and penetrated my anus-hole/ as they pounded over me/ torment filled my soul…/ after what felt like eternity/ trembling/ I got up and dressed/ one of them said, 'speak of this to anyone, then you die boy'/ that's all he told me/ lying there on that bed/ ready to meet his Maker", (In the last flicker of light).

Another flicker of light shows that Matiwane is a highly romantic man, though not soapy, "you once called me/ angel eyes of the wind/ with the deep melody of your voice/ whose blood has ceased to be- /strange, though/ I no longer grieve for you/ but/ I still find the tone of your voice/ that keeps telling me/ I'm alone" (Angel Eyes of the Wind)

I have no doubt in my mind that i lost a poem stands a good chance of being prescribed for schools. Its honesty is disarming, its muffed expressions humbling and its size, a good 56 pages, hiding 57 cries for help from Prisoner 95595305- Mzwandile Matiwane, appealing.
The book is distributed by University of Natal Press and is available in bookstores. i lost a poem is dedicated to Matiwane's ex teacher Ms Buyelwa Sonjica.

Litpoetry editor and award winning poet Michelle McGrane

A MOMENT OF MADNESS
Michelle McGrane is a white woman born in Zimbabwe and raised in Malawi. She currently lives and works in Pietermaritzburg (Kwazulu-Natal). Her first collection of poetry entitled Fireflies & Blazing Stars was published in 2002, and the following year she was awarded first place in the South African Writers' Circle annual poetry competition. Her second book of verse and prose poetry is trivially entitled Hybrid. What is that?

(Oxford Dictionary; hybrid n. 1. an animal or plant that is the offspring of two different species or varities 2. something made by combining two different elements). Whatever two elements McGrane combined in her second collection we'll never know other than that it contains very interesting and naughty poems, especially when the first one that has a telling body is entitled 'confessions to a host'; "I used to hide/ in the pink bedroom cupboard/ to smoke/ when i came to stay/ it was always too cold and dark/ to go outside". This poem is insightful coming from a woman who's open about her love for 'finer things'.

Between all the dedications there is a beautiful poem McGrane wrote for her father. It comes across as your typical Father's Day card message, just that it becomes inspiring when it is 12 beautiful lines long and you are left wondering whether the poet wrote it 12 beautiful years ago or when she was 12 years old and beautiful or does it represent the famous 12 handsome disciples.

Most of McGrane's poetry is about herself, the people she knows, her experiences about what happens while she's going to work etcetera. The weakness of this style of writing to self is that there is a thin line between self-expression and self-indulgence. Or more so an expenses paid for ego- trip. Very few people would like to know what happens after the curtains are closed and the key turned. Very few indeed.

'Letter to a music man' is a blast, starting with the verse, "I never heard you play, but/ I thought I'd drop you a friendly line,/ let you know what's happening,/ get you up to speed". Whether the music man has passed on or is on an extended European tour, it becomes unclear, but it is apparent that 'J', as she calls him is not around (in Pietermaritzburg) to entertain her and her breed, and that's the root of her whinging.

What is considered an unexpected and unbecoming development of this book is that while it was published in 2003 when Zimbabwe was already burning, it seems an important patriotic duty slipped the poet's mind. There's nothing even resembling nostalgia coming from her. Rather she chose to write a naughty poem about 'wearing my bikini', a poem of feminine protest where she defiantly says, "if men can strut proud,/ up and down/ the promenade,/ exposing hairy backs,/ why should women feel obliged../ to hide cellulite/ today, i am wearing my bikini".

One outstanding, but rather a huge shortfall of Hybrid is that its pages are not numbered. Whether deliberate or not, for a word-addict, that sucked. How do you discuss the book over the phone? How do you tell the other person, 'the poem is on page??' The book contains 53 poems, but how many pages?? Nobody knows.

McGrane's poetry is just that, if you feel you'll be uncomfortable as a psychologist listening to troubled people musing about their miserable boring little lives, you'll have a problem with Hybrid. She's not trying to muse her way into your heart but some dark cave situated somewhere in the nucleus of loneliness. This few lines taken from 'letter to the music man' wraps McGrane's style in a wet diaper, "i'm writing when i can,/ trying to make sense/ of the madness/ most of the time".

She is the poetry editor for the online niche arts website litnet. For more of her poetry and tens others visit www.litnet.co.za or order her book from Trayberry Press, ISBN: 0-620-31321-8.

A NOMAD TO THE END

Between 1971 and 1979 in Uganda, when strongman Idi Amin Dada ruled the country with an iron fist, intellectuals and academics fled their homeland in droves to avoid censorship of not only their dreams but intelligence as well. Writers either ceased writing or began jotting politically correct text that did not critique the status quo or call for national dialogue.

When repressive laws were passed left and right, on a small corner of Kenya, just over the border, sat then 32-year-old poet-academic, author and Uganda national Taban Lo Liyongo. At that stage Lo Liyongo had already built a name for himself as a strong independent thinker who had propelled the success of then unknown James Ngugi- a novelist who was later to be known as Professor Ngugi wa Thiongo.

Lo Liyongo apparently knew wa Thiongo as a fellow at Royal College, now named University of Nairobi. He confesses to have grown fond of wa Thiongo and developed deep interest in his academic progress. "He asked me to help in revolutionizing the then English Department. I did not need to be urged, I did it beyond the call of duty; I did much more than any other participant, Ngugi himself included" Lo Liyongo noted.

It later emerges that the adoration for wa Thiongo had a dark flipside as he later alleges that the article that launched wa Thiongo as a fierce opponent of English domination in African lifestyle and culture, which was published in Homecoming: Essays just a year after Amin took power across the border was actually a collective effort that wa Thiongo either forgot or chose not to credit as such, rather claimed sole authorship and copyright.

Across the border Amin was seizing Asian and white businesses, alienating every leader in surrounding countries, most notably Tanzania's Mualimu Julius Nyerere. Around that time Lo Liyongo moved from one institution to the other, in the meantime writing books and publishing poetry, among them Another Nigger Dead, Cows of Shambat, Words that melt a Mountain and nine others.

While traveling around to build contacts and his stature as a serious intellectual, Lo Liyongo already had a wife that he married in 1964 in the United States of America - a Ugandan girl he made his wife when he was a student at Howard University in Washington DC.

He often relates about how turbulent their relationship was up to the end, "we went through some traumatic experiences trying to adjust to one another. Through it all we produced two healthy, bright and handsome boys. Afterwards, after we had competed in pulling our two sons this was and that way, I finally decided to leave them with her"

That was in 1975 and Amin was defying everyone around him. Lo Liyongo had also started writing poetry that was considered not politically correct to the Amin regime. True to the man he was he wanted it published, including those that poked sarcasm at the Amin administration. It's everyone's speculation what might have happened to the then 35-year-old nomad.

However a settled, well traveled Lo Liyongo took up a post with the University of Venda years ago and began putting together his anger into a poetry manuscript entitled Corpse Lovers and Corpse Haters, made up of most of the poems that he wanted Amin to read and analyze. His wish was never granted as the former dictator died a lonely death in Saudi Arabian exile, more than 20 years after 20 000 Tanzanian troops, sent by Nyerere toppled him.

Corpse Lovers and Corpse Haters is a testament of Lo Liyongo's feelings about that dispensation and his own situation. Though he later got married again, Lo Liyongo remains a nomad to the end. "Perhaps I am protesting too much. For, apart from figuratively speaking, I really never left this life. It is true I left Uganda, I left Kenya, I left East Africa to their own devices. It is also true that I took my portion of Uganda, of Kenya, of East Africa with me whenever I went", he wrote.

After his statutory retirement early this year Lo Liyongo left South Africa as well for Sudan, where he was born before being naturalized a Ugandan. Probably he took a part of South Africa too.

"But all said, the Taban of 2005 is a mature version of the Taban of 1976 returned to earth" he wrote.
Lo Liyongo might finally be gone and found a rest, but Corpse Lovers and Corpse Haters is the one memory he chose to leave behind for all to live. Corpse Lovers and Corpse Haters is available from Timbila at timbila@telkomsa.net or call Vonani at 0721296496.

REVIEW

The Centre for the Book building at 62 Queen Victoria Street, Cape Town

A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION

For the mainstream publishing houses there is the Publishers Association of South Africa (PASA), which is a body representing almost all the big bookmaking houses in the country. Writers have for some time complained that it is easy to climb the summit of Mount Everest than to have their manuscript accepted for publication by a mainstream publisher.

That explains why there are thousands of closet novelists, short story writers, poets, essayists, dramatists and other prose writers who have given up on the thought of ever being published, especially in their own languages. Your isiSwazi, xiTsonga, isiNdebele and SePulana manuscripts look unattractive, right?

South African Small Publishers' CATALOGUE is an answer to those frustrations that are worse than a 'writer's block'. An initiative of the Cape Town based Centre for the Book, the 142 page catalogue was compiled by and edited by Marie Fischer and Colleen Higgs and contains alternative publishing initiatives which's sole purpose and interest is not the bottom line but developments of the arts in all languages. In a blurb contained in the Introduction of the catalogue it is stated that, "The growth of small publishing also means that new writers have more options open to them other than the larger publishers which may not be easily opened".

The catalogue contains scores of alternative publishers you can trust with your manuscript, which includes, Litnet, New Coin, Botsotso, Carapace, Fidelities, Laught It Off, Swii Amendment, Timbila, Green Dragon, Echoes and many many more.

However it is not only about addresses and services to writers but also contains literary articles that should come in handy for any artist. There are informative pieces from Roy Blumenthals 'Blogging as a Marketing Tool for Small Publishers', Sharon Meyering's 'What are you waiting for? Nothing any more, because A rough guide to small-scale and self-publishing is here' and 'Community participation and small-scale publication; Platform for sharing stories' by Franci Greyling and Anneretha Combrink.

There are more informative and insightful articles and an interview Litnet's Michelle McGrane conducted with artist-activist Angifi Dladla where he says, "To me poetry is the language of the soul, the lingua franca of dreams".

This Google of small-scale alternative publishing in South Africa is available from the Centre of the Book. For more information you can email info@centreforthebook.org.za or visit www.centreforthebook.org.za. Every aspiring writer, educator, librarian, bookseller, editor, publisher and reader must have this important catalogue.
-ends-
By: Goodenough Mashego

for more on the work of this organisation visit: www.centreforthebook.org.za

FEATURE

THE YOUTH TODAY ARE FACING ODDS BEYOND THEMSELVES TO THE EXTENT THAT THE WORLD IS AN URBAN WARFARE JUNGLE FOR THEM. THEY ARE READY TO DIE. THE QUESTION TO BE ASKED IS, FOR WHAT?

A SERMON FOR THE YOUTH II

One of the trickiest episodes to navigate through in this world today is to position your loyalties and energies in a cause worth your support. In a world where nobody values your opinion and takes it for granted it's become very important for you to understand what is actually happening in Iraq, Afghanistan, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Zimbabwe, Darfur, South Africa, United Kingdom etcetera. It's crucial to have that accurate grasp of the truth, with the understanding that the truth will set you free. It is acceptable to bop your head to a funky beat courtesy of Bojo Mujo, but at the end of the day you need to know why Zola's iBhutho CD is not available in the UK or USA while artists as mediocre as Atomic Kitten, Paris Hilton and The Cash Money Clique have to cost you 59 cents in ear floss everytime you take an off-ramp at Beyers Naude in Melville. Maybe it might even help you to understand why Tsotsi was such a hit at the Oscars while it was not here, before the Yankees validated it.

This might sound like shallow socio-politicking at a time when all you need is to commemorate the contributions of the Class of '76 but have you ever wondered why foreigners get decapitated in Baghdad and elsewhere in Iraq? Have you ever wondered why so many young children had to die in Beslan (Russia)? Have you ever wondered why the war in the DRC seems to be refusing to end? Have you ever wondered why wars in all these countries with mineral reserves seem not to be approaching any end while the mineral consuming world is preaching 'blood diamonds'? Why former Liberian strongman Charles Taylor had to be extradited at a time when Nigerian President Olusegun Obasanjo was seeking a third term? Is sounds like none of your business, but maybe it's time you started wondering because it might be having something to do with why you or someone you know can't get a job or a student grant to further their studies at tertiary. What's the point of cutting off people's heads if at the end all you get is polarised opinions? You get all couch-converts shouting, "nobody kills people in the name of our religion". Whoever said that they were killing people in the name of a religion? Did anybody hear them screaming, "Islam! Islam!" as the knife separates the head from the body?

I think the most saddening thing about the world today is that people belong in camps and beliefs. Perceptions are bought and sold. Where were all those who are now religious commentators who shout "not in the name of our religion" when Palestinians were killed in regular Israeli military incursions into the occupied territories? Where were they when Hamas founder and quadriplegic Sheik Ahmed Yassin was blown from his wheelchair by an Israeli missile, followed a week later by Dr Abdel Aziz al Rantisi in extra-judicial killings which are condemned by every law every conceived by human beings? Where were they when Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam) was deported from the (United) States? If I may ask again, what are the names of those Muslim brothers who were piled up like peverts at Abu Ghraib and forced to simulate sex? Does anybody know or care? Maybe the name Linda Engeland rings a bell. Where are the armchair converts as men rot at Guantanamo without having been through a trial?

When Britain was colonising the world in the 14th and 16th centuries it was unashamedly doing it for the Queen and Country. But it was also doing it in the name of Christianity, to civilize, canonise and anglicize the pagans. The missionaries, who served as auxiliary colonisers never raised a finger to challenge the massacres, slavery and guillotining (decapitation) that was carried out in the name of Christianity in far flung "uncivilised" places. No, they were not doing in the name of Christianity but it just happened that they were calling themselves Christians and ran around with a Bible under their armpits screaming "the kingdom of heaven is at hand". And anybody who was not 'converted' like them was considered an uncivilised non-believer worthy of death. Now, talk about the flipside of the non-believer being called an infidel, then the world got serious problems.

Fact; Nobody ever killed anybody in the name of Islam. If you doubt this statement, make it an intellectual debate and let's talk. But it's a documented fact that John Garang's Sudanese People's Liberation Army has amputated people's limbs in the name of the Ten Commandments and nobody ever came out and said, "John please, not in the name of our faith". This brings closer to the debate another angle. Why does everybody claim to be serving their God when they commit horrendous crimes and human rights abuses? Why do the Jews in Palestine feel that they are serving a higher cause when they kill Muslim worshippers in mosques? And why do some Muslim radicals claim to be waging a religious war on behalf of Allah when they kill Christians, Jews, pagans and atheists?

For young people the understanding should come from the fact that religion is man-made. God never created any religion. Christianity and Islam are both man's creations in an attempt to find God (Allah). And the point most fundamentalists from both sides of the world's two dominant religions fail to accept is that God is neither a Christian nor a Muslim. God is not exclusive to Christians or Muslims but is for everybody, even those who don't practise group worship. For all that is known he blew breath in the lungs of every living human

being without compelling it to choose at birth which religion it will belong to. He is for every young person out in the cold world trying to knock the hustle. He is for the vagrant that was left by ambulance workers to die on the streets of Jozi even if the vagrant might not have prayed once in ten years. He is for the slain Lee Matthews and the person who murdered her. He is for the gangster in the Cape Flats selling mandrax and for the young girl who caught a stray bullet when a drug deal went bad.


It is a crime to copyright God to a religion. It is even worse to claim that He only listens to your prayers because you gather under a roof every Sunday and shout His Holy name. I know right now you are wondering why am I telling you all these, it's because this is one of the many truths young people need to know to fully comprehend what's happening around you. Before you know why you should love/hate George W Bush you need to understand his socio-religious upbringing and the hegemonic agenda that shapes his thinking.

And before you put on that Osama Bin Laden T-shirt and shout that you love him it's important to understand what he means by infidel and what fucked up society made him part with millions of dollars to live a nomadic life in the mountains of Afghanistan.

It will help you to understand why videos of decapitations in Iraq make you sick. And before you start to look at affiliates of a certain religion with aggrieved suspicion you also need to ask yourself what type of a conditioning created a man who would slaughter another man with the savagery last seen in the animal kingdom. Obviously the man with the knife was not born like that, there must have been a time when he was eleven years old and wanted to be a doctor (not surgeon), engineer or teacher. What happened to such noble ambitions on the way to adulthood? Can the same transformation happen to you if things don't go your way because of another man vetoing your success?

What did the polarised world do to contribute to the emergence of characters like Bush, Bin Laden, Al Zakhawi???, Ariel Sharon??? and organisations like the Chechen Rebels, Real Irish Republican Army, Kach, Hamas and more? What did we do to the Janjaweed and the Interahamwe? Who are they and what do they want? Can what they want be given to them? If so, why can't the leaders just give that and let's forget about them? Go out and find out.
Come back to South Africa and answer why was People Against Gangsterism and Drugs willing to kill in the name of their struggle? Why did they end up
torching Rashaad Staggie alive while some of them (PAGAD) were reported to be hardcore drug barons? They were both struggling for your attention and your money. Drug dealers were so greedy that they didn't mind what the drugs did to you. PAGAD, too were reportedly not out to save you but to use your ambitions as a launching pad for their own selfish struggle. Let it be known that there is no solution to the problems faced by young people, without involving them, or best of all by them. Let them
know that.

Why am I telling you all these? It's because as you commemorate the coming of the New Year as a Christian you need to inquirer why are you so convinced that Muslims will not see the kingdom of heaven and that your God does not listen to their prayers. And if you Muslim you also need to ask yourself why do you think Christians are non-believers and why are some elements of your religion ready to be suicide bombers just to push your belief and to protest the publication of caricatures with such violence? Knowledge is the weapon of mass destruction for 2007. Go out and grasp it. Inshallah, hallelujah!

MUSIC

TAKE TWO: PHILLY ONE

"If at first you try and don’t succeed, try again", former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill once said. It’s a mantra that has served Mpumalanga's Afro-pop sensation, Philly-One well in her fledging music career. This talented lady's music career started on an explosive note in 2005 with the release of her debut album Do it faster.

The album ushered in a new Afro-pop and dancing queen into the dog-eat-dog world of intelligent lyricism. Even though the album did not perform to her satisfaction it was however a fulfillment of her childhood dream of being a recording artist. The shortcomings of Do it faster spurred her on to work harder on her next album exotically titled Cocktail. Cocktail was released just in time for the festive rush.

The results of the hard work and long hours she put in the studio are palpable, as the album is on par with other Afro-pop albums in the market if not exceeding some of them.

Philly-One was born Philisiwe Nkosi in Sakhile outside Standerton. She honed her singing talent in parties and weddings until her exceptional vocal talents caught the ear of a talent scout and music producer. As they say in the industry, the rest is history. Philly-One is the first to admit that her debut, Do it Faster, which had eight-track debut album didn’t do well on the market. She however draws solace from the lessons she learns and the launching pad it provided for her. "I was still new in the industry when I recorded it, I have since learnt a lot about the industry and how to make music that will be appreciated," she said. To be nearer to the city Philly-One has since settled in Nelspruit, the capital of Mpumalanga.

With the release of Cocktail she ends a year in the music wilderness. One of the things that delayed the release of her second album was that she wanted to record it in her own recording studio, Sub Records. Cocktail is a coming-of-age album by this petite singer. It has 14 groovy tracks, with "Dali wami", "Amasiko", "Nguwe S’thandwa" and "Sebaphelile" being amongst songs worth a 'repeat' on your dial. A notable improvement on Cocktail is that Philly-One has grown as an artist. Her voice is silkier and her songs explore interesting topics such as love and HIV/Aids. Also, her stage craft is awesome largely because she fuses contemporary and traditional choreography.

POETRY

Tshwarelo eseng Mogakane is a 25 years-old poet, writer and journalist who plans to commit suicide at the age of 32. He's carrying his suicidal ambition like a trooper married to a rifle.

Advantages of hating you

Today we celebrate our magical death with a kiss
Shadows of lust manifest from the backyard of our minds
Like afore thoughts travelling at the speed of fate
I caress you perfectly; as good as a god caresses its being, perfectly
For imperfect is perfect in its imperfection
You have been great, little girl
You have been ungrateful as well
Bitch, I loved you when I shouldn’t have

My sanity multiplied by a million worries
I die a romantic death in your poisonous arms
You love me; I hear your ambiguous declaration
Civil smiles eating my jealousy away
We make love on a red bed
We shouldn’t…
But I love you too;
Can you hear my dubious confession?
As I moan emotions in your ear
You tear me down
You recreate me
You are an angry pistol in the hands of love
And I am poetry in the hands of hate

Take therefore what I give
From your palms I doubt if I’m willing to receive
With all my love,
My unconditional love that loves conditions
My impure love
With which I hate those who defile your sacred affections for me
I can't stand you
To the marrow’s heart
Your sight plagues my peace
My cursed gift you break me apart
I desire you…
With all the fears in me
And I fear loving you,
With all the faith in me
-4kof Satan


U do not know how to love me, but you try
(Dedicated to Robin & mike tyson, Khutšo & me)

1. Beyond definition
Lives your episodic love for me
Beyond the malicious trial of re-definition
Is your thallophytic love for a lonely rebel

2. In an intense reality
A laser-wired castle haunted by romantic demons
A child of your mind’s muscle,
A cherubic cocoon,
We reside, I king, U queen
A pair from destiny’s womb

3. … this is love
That’s how U define our preposterous desire to win
To conquer tha other human
And render them inhumane

4. Pardon tha truth, my dear
U do not know how to love me,
But U try

5. Beyond reason
Your love for me, a lonely citizen
Beyond the malicious attempts of counter-reason
Your insanity, tha loneliest native of your silly mind

6. Thousands upon hundreds of words
Verbs, nouns, phrases, proverbs, idioms
Similes, onomatopoeias, metaphors
Hyperbole, oxymoron, parables
Eulogies and antilogies
U hail at me

Words – just words
Words horny with idolatrous adoration
Micro-genetically designed
To hail at my incapacity to comprehend your silliness
Your corroded idea of love
A notion so gentle, so fucking perverse
Confusing affection with selfless attention
Confusing need with love
I’m just a prize of your uncontrollable wanting

7. U love me, but…
U, do not love me
For damn-you-stretch-yourself, U cannot
For damn-you-strain-your-wits, U know not
Tha what, and tha how of love
Tha why – a ruthless burden I shall spare U

8. Pardon tha truth, my dear
For U, cannot know how to love me,
But U try

9. Beyond restriction
U are a prisoner of your fucking love
A docile slave of your bizarre love U are
Beyond redemption

10. Ignorance is a dangerous bliss
Your claim an irrevocable sin frowned upon by amadlozi
For U know tha rhetoric of your mouth
Reciting it in tha poetry readings of your lonely mind
But ironically, failing to know what U mean

11. Too bad I am truth
Most hated by liars grinning white their tooth
Their teeth, with hate they seethe
Scorned and tormented for my thorough-bred confessions
Crucified for my failure to understand this sham
This pardonable misdemeanor
A leaking crucible of evil
A serial social taboo untabooed
But relabeled love

12. Blame tha truth, dearest
For U have no clue how to love me,
But U try

Jonna jo, ngwanešo, U try!

13. But However sweet, and Nevertheless
Notwithstanding, Howbeit, Yet frankly my dear
U shall not test-drive your b-grade love on my heart

14. U shall not be allowed to enjoy
My sanity like a disposable toy,
U may as well keep your lovingness
Your shallow excuse to fucking possess
A claim - To know that which I myself know less

15. To call a truce on my rebelling emotions
Straightening out, damn ironing my distortions
To dress my cold heart with fire
To quick-fix tha world like an orthodox messiah
Tune all to harmony, gag tha whiners
Courier me to tha toilet and wipe my lazing anus

16. To bathe and feed me

17. Live for me, and die for me

18. Pray for me
Grant my prayers
Wing me, and fly for me

19. To save me in the coming apocalypse
To take my swim in tha boiling rivers of hell
And negotiate me a five-star room in paradise
Where only god and his virgin angels dwell

20. Where U imagine you live

21. In a reality unreal
A miscarried child of your mind

22. Where truth is not welcome
And tha windows of sincerity are kept shut

23. For there is one undeniable truth:

24. U shall never know how to love –
Not me, not U, not anyone
Damn, even if U tried
-Fokof Satan-

what do you think about this poetry: busy@webmail.co.za

ROUND THREE (KOPANO)

ode to the queen

the earth must have shook
when she liberated me from the comfort of her womb
I was a soldier made for war
no wonder papa eloped and wedded cowardice
tribulations and I became close
the devil opened his arms, hugged me
feeding me with an incessant dosage of evil
for the pain i've caused
for the oneness we endured
god should have called my number first
so I can prepare home for an eternal rest
in the bliss that resides in heaven, I never manifested it
I never showed that I cared
but when I was locked in a crack cell
my heart bled 'til I saw you near
lord knows, you were the only woman that made my heart stop
when angels serenaded you with a sign
that god has asked for you
now, no more fears
no more depression
no more hopes of a peace of mind
earth is nobody's home we all visitors here
emancipated is a dead body with nothing to fear.


WHEN PENCILS BLEED!

First day of breath first day of deception first day of life
First day of consciousness wondered why the devil has the eyes of an angel
The pyramids have dissolved into the hearts of a clan
They have killed Biko but couldn't assasinate the pen
Picture a preacher's rage when time finally reveals that religion is missing a page
A saint's semen floats at the dead sea
He musterbated on water hoping it gives birth to a holy seed

We've built only for them to destroy
They gave us a lantern that leads to eternal darkness
Tomorrow is a long time for a dying man's ambitions
I prefer to lounge in my skull eyes closed so I can read my mind
Caught up within the rapid movement of time
trying to bridge a gap between their history and our future
I don't give a fuck
I'll rather slash my wrists than blow a kiss to a natural end

Life is waste of time if time is not giving you life
In my last prayer I whispered a request for a daughter and a true wife
Instead I receive death threats from cowards who twist faces yet scared of their own shadows
This is a story of my existance
I lay my thoughts bare for hypocrites to judge my character

Jealousy digs an early grave for the bearer
I got love for my true friends for they see the world more clearer
Respect he who's known to build castles in the sky
For only he'll have a home when he dies
There's no heaven in the clouds or above
While you close your eyes praying for peace your enemies are raping the dove.

e-mail kopano @ catchme@webmail.co.za

ROUND TWO (OSCARINAH LATOYA)

bankrupt love

i was once deep in love with this african other
my heart firmly rooted in the depth of love
in mental perfection we both dwelt
thought it was just the two of us

i discovered it wasn't pure but rich love you were after
for you bankrupt love was never an option
in a haste fantasy turned into brutal reality
your beautiful smile suddenly became expensive
time with you got debited from my credit card
the love i had for you landed me in debt

first lost my job then i lost you
in bankrupt love you couldn't stay
forgetting i got here to please you
now i know,
cashless love only exists in fairytales
the real world houses love with a huge price tag
characterized by material possesions
my filthy rich heart and empty pockets
i have no significant other

whoever said 'money can't buy love' was rich and heartless
'cause with lots of money in my current lifetime
i know i would have kept you

ROUND ONE (GOODENOUGH)

taste of my vomit
(for all the hustlers)

as an ordained scribe with a million words as my target
i crossed boundaries jotted a million another two million
plotted to write another million as exclusive poems
that won't be read until i'm gone to complete my legend
'ven if i die now i know i left a mark in this world
google search results shock my enemies they choke in they hate
buried in they toilets to conceal the funeral of a loser
'hossana, hossana' getting played from a TDK tape
to hide the shame of families that hide the face of failure

wrote breaking news chased exclusives 'til i became a frontpage
my smile frozen below a HEADLINE politicians want my hug
celebrity journalist made poet now chasing awards
journey with me the introduction of a heartless hustler
2nd invitation all my people come get a taste of my vomit
sistas come taste some nectar juice from a crisp penis
though i do it behind a vest the closest you'll come to my seed
brothas the only gift that i offer is a spliff that i rolled
plus a sip of red wine it symbolises my blood
unlike the blood of jesus christ mine contains alcohol
forever a soldier to this struggle i stayed true to the brigade

to the very end a muthafucka got no plan of dying
harvested my sweat opened an account stashed my stress in a vault
my name ain't richie, i'm a certified hustler, call me baller if you shook
my secret is i stayed loyal to this grind like a god
'ven when my kaffirs chased pussy i stayed locked in my room
only leaving to chase cash across the whole 9 yards
past mini skirts silky thighs & the legend of kanga
even when my life was at risk
i still took the best pix
to finally make it to the epitome the summit of mount golgotha


suicide we ride
(title from katise mashego)

all stressing is the life we living
when carbon monoxide is the conduit to meet the devil
windows shut all alone I relished the smell
closed my eyes said goodbye to the wicked world
said goodbye to the fame & the midnight oil
left a note just incase they started wondering why
like the day I had a pistol & the safety catch off
single chrome in the chamber & the hammer intact
suicide note on the table to help solve the mystery
z88 on my dome to put to rest the mystery
when enigma woke up dead I said "fuck the living"
life was my stress a single shot could put a stop to my living
born with less I wanted help tranquilizers scared me
needed peace of mind @ night something to silence the voices
something stronger than paracetamol to finally cure my back pain
knew I hated tranquilizers for I couldn't be gnome
so I woke up one morning gave marijuana a ring
thanks to the power of the herb can talk to you today
I gained a voice & a friend put an end to my antsy

post your comments @; goodynuff@thepub.co.za

FROM THE ARCHIVES

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO AN OLD GENIUS

Age is such a high price to pay for maturity. But when that age goes beyond the universally set 70+, the transaction becomes an overdraft, and it's time the drawer paid interests. South Africa has drawn from the wisdom, maturity and vision of Professor Es'kia Mphahlele, and it's safe to say that it's forever indebted to him. Former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill would have said, "never before…was so much owed by so many to so few".

Mphahlele, an opponent of apartheid's Bantu Education system and its attempts to infiltrate the intellectual life of all South Africans is in a jovial mood as we sit down to talk under the theme of Hiding the Truth in a Book. Lounging on a sofa in his spacious living room in the township of Lebowakgomo, 50 kilometres outside of Polokwane, Mphahlele's surroundings mirrors his travels all over the world. He opens by saying; "A book is a self contained product and it's got its own ways of stating the truth. Its own ways of pursuing the truth. A book is confined to a particular theme and depending on what the characters do, and it also depends on what kind of books are you writing, fiction, a book of essays, you have to be specific"

Points to ponder; Mphahlele left South Africa in 1957 after fighting scores of running battles with apartheid education authorities. He once wrote about that stage of his life, "Remember August 1952, Zeph? You as president of the Transvaal African Teachers Association, Isaac Matlare, its editor, myself as its secretary general, were fired from Orlando High by the Transvaal Education Department. Banned from teaching anywhere in the country". This insight comes from his tribute to his late friend Zephaniah Mothopeng, written thirteen years ago.

Today, Mphahlele looks at that system of education with aggrieved suspicion for having misinformed people and discouraged them from viewing reading as a lucrative hobby and practise. "Historical truth for instance (does not tell of) how Africans came to where they are. About Africans and their culture in this country, where you had two main racial groups, the one who had all the power of expressing themselves. They had all the means of publishing, the means of marketing the books. They would often conceal the truth by not telling the readers", Mphahlele seems to be fumbling for answers to my question. Until he puts it in context.

"For instance, why are we confined to areas that are not productive? There are a number of books that are written, which don't tell that truth that the white people planned the occupancy of a number of regions which are not productive. The white people occupied the more productive stretches of land. Now, that truth is often hidden in history books. They talk about conquests and they talk about Africans being under-developed. The whole story of under-development has got its hidden truths about it" Mphahlele finishes his response.

He is concerned that people who are living today do not have accurate grasp of knowledge, what took place, how they got here, where they are and where they are going. He is pained by the fact that more and more people have divorced their minds from curiosity, which is the only justice behind reading a book. His biggest culprit is history; "Some history books bring it out, others don't. Again you gotta understand that there are historians. There are good historians, there are very poor historians. There are historians who do tell the truth, there are historians who tell half the truth. And there are those who don't tell the truth at all. That is the thing about history, a history written by people who despise the people they are writing about" he says.

Hating to be one to be misinformed, Mphahlele confesses that his eyes were only opened in 1957 when he first got exposed to African literature outside of South Africa. That was when he settled in West Africa. That is where his first autobiography, the highly acclaimed Down Second Avenue was published. He says that is where he met authors like 1981 Nobel laureate Nigerian Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka and others. Mphahlele later moved to the United States of America where he continued to lecture.

In 1977 when he indicated his intention to return to apartheid South Africa his friends in exile responded in a way that irked him. He retorted to such rebuke with venom, "The leader of this frustrated and yelping pack was poet Dennis Brutus, a lecturer still in the US. Word was out that Es'kia Mphahlele was betraying the cause of liberation by going back to apartheid and tyranny. The lobby attempted to influence certain American universities not to re-invite me to lecture on their campuses. But no self-respecting institution was going to sponsor such a private obsession as Brutus's" he wrote in 1991.

Since returning, he has lectured at Wits University, published his collection of short stories and essays titled The Unbroken Spirit, his second autobiography, Africa My Music and worked on or involved in the editing and writing of 45 books, amongst them Chirundu. Last year he received an honorary doctorate from the University of Cape Town.

Mphahlele might be old, been there done that, wrote the two autobiographies and bought the T-shirt, but he's not dogmatizing about writing African literature in English like purist academic Professor Ngugi wa Thiong'o does. "You learn English inorder to attain knowledge and through knowledge create ideas or communicate ideas. So, to say a person is a slave to English if they write in English is ridiculous" he says.

Whoever coined the phrase, "like old wine, matures with time", must have lived plenty centuries ahead of Mphahlele. This is so because Mphahlele's imposing intellect doesn't give a clue that he was once fermented. That his maturity is a result of the time he spent meeting equally informed people. It simply alleges that he was born great, and at 84, indications are that he's not about to relinquish his birthright. "I just would not want to start becoming foolish by sounding wise. At the moment I'm just thinking of what more writing I should do" he muses.

Today at 84, he personally takes care of his ailing wife, for whom he is proud to say, he prepares food for her (Mom Rebecca has since passed away...RIP). And his wish is to see the rejuvenation of a reading culture. Maybe in his own written words he would have said, "Adios to you all! We'll meet at the crossroads of human endeavor".

MPHAHLELE'S 88th BIRTHDAY WILL BE CELEBRATED AT XARRA BOOKS ON FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22.
-ends-
By: Goodenough Mashego
0843629412

FEATURE ARTICLE

GOD's SON

"And this means eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent"- John 17:3 [New King James Version]

There is no compromise or room for reasoning presented in this sermon. It clearly means that knowing one half does not ensure anybody any eternal life. But then how many black people actually know who Jesus Christ is? How many of them fully acknowledge Him as being the one who was presented to dark Africa by missionaries as being white and Jewish? If black youth thus refuse to accept the missionary one as the Saviour, how can one reconcile them and everlasting life while they refuse to accept the other half of the pre-condition as a legitimate Messiah? Who shall be the mediator between the youth and God?.

In the quest to stay religious and closer to their God some young people have decided to embrace the concept of Black Theology. According to an explanation by Louise Kretzshmar in The Voice of Black Theology in South Africa, "The term 'black' can be understood in two ways. Firstly, it refers to all those previously called 'non-whites' or 'non Europeans', i.e. Africans, Coloureds and Indians.... Secondly, 'blackness' is taken to be synonymous with the oppressed people in South Africa". Black Theology, which is a divorced from ancestor appeasing tries to find a place for blacks in God's plan of salvation.

It is against this background that the late Steve Biko once wrote in his essay, We Blacks, that, "At some stage one can forsee a situation where black people will feel they have nothing to live for and will shout unto their God, 'Thy will be done'. Indeed His will shall be done but it shall not appeal equally to all mortals for indeed we have different versions of His will. If the white God has been doing the talking all along, at some stage the black God will have to raise His voice and make Himself heard over and above noise from His white counterpart"

Though the quote has been taken in context word for word it thus however does not seek to portray black theology as a theology of denial, a theology of escapism, a theology that deliberately misleads the oppressed masses that if they don't find solace in a white God and Jesus, who are part of a Trinity,they can thus formulate their own God who relates to them and answers only to them, who is not inferior but a direct counterpart of the white God.
After all the pros and the cons are weighed, a figure surfaces that should be the mediator between the Creator and the people. A figure so supreme that its task should be to unite all the creation of its father across the colour divide. Based on the teachings of the bible and history the figure is supposed to be Jesus Christ, who the Concise Oxford Dictionary defines as "a central figure of the Christian religion, a Jew living in Palestine at the beginning of the 1st Century AD".

But if filmmaker Akin Omotoso's film title God is African has anything to do with it, the definition of Jesus according to the Oxford dictionary is unfounded as Jesus the son had to be like the Father, meaning African, which the same dictionary defines as "Black". Far from the teachings of black theology and film fantasy, Black Jesus does indeed exist and there are people who pray to him.

Although there are more opinions in this world than pimples on an oily face, indications are that Black Jesus is not just a product of diversity of opinions. He can be located worldwide in especially Black neighbourhoods like he was the art of graffiti. To some people he is their ancestors who they worship by appeasing with the blood of beasts. To most Black Americans who never abandoned their culture when they jumped the slave ship he is their dead brothers and sisters who they believe deserves the first sip of their renaissance based pouring of the liquor. This ensures eternal bonding which is good if the recipient can relate to it. The sad painful reality is that, blacks, who most are devout Christians and very religious, after all the holy sermons and inspiring parables, still believe that Black Jesus is out there, maybe not in the physical-mortal form, but his influence and adoration of fetish proportions is far too outreaching, from Latin America to Africa. Slain rapper Tupac Shakur, who romanticised the subject of a Black Jesus in songs like Blasphemy, Hail Mary and Black Jesus once echoed, "in time of war we need somebody who will rally the troops/ like a Saint that we can trust to help and carry us through/ Black Jesus "

Mr. Omar Deedat of Discover Islam, an affiliate of Islamic Unity Movement disputes the general notion and held view that Jesus is white, possibly Caucasian. "God created everyone perfect without concentrating into colour. According to the Archives there are 26000 manuscripts of the New Testament. They (the manuscripts) attest that Jesus's colour was bronze and he had a hair like a sheep's wool, which goes to explain that he was a far cry from looking like Europeans" Deedat explained.

The Holy Quran, though not acknowledging Jesus Christ as the son of God but Mary, does however fall short by not making mention of Him as being either Black or white. But Deedat, told that Jesus's lineage and place of birth suggests that he was a Jew, and thus probably white argued, "He was born in the Middle East, which is in Arabia. Arabia and Africa were one before the earthquakes that separated them. Today Arabians look more like Africans and Jesus couldn't have been different"

Deedat, who regardless of believing that the mediator between God [Allah] and the people is Prophet Muhamad, the founder of the Islamic faith and community, however says, "it's not important to probe what race Jesus was, but he was not European, but perfect in his own way. The fact is that he was never blonde with blue eyes"

Even though some people are quick to point out that if Black Jesus is not the founder of the Rastafarian Movement, the late Emperor Haille Selassie, they regardless agree that He is somebody who transcends race, who all the oppressed people regardless of race or religious affiliation can relate to, such an explanation overrules Selassie as a potential Messiah. Deep probing also shows that He is not just an extension of the paranoid rhetoric contained in the highly controversial Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion.

Most Muslims are also unanimous that he is not the controversial leader of Nation of Islam in America, Louis Farrakhan, who although he managed to gather over a million men in Washington DC in one call still does not transcend race as even some oppressed people can not relate to him. Obviously, most Christians, notwithstanding being Black still have to figure out whom does he speak for.

Biko came close to finding Him when he wrote in the '70s, "The anachronism of a well-meaning God who allows people to suffer continually under an obviously immoral system is not lost to young blacks who continue to drop out of church by the hundreds". Thus, some hard realities in the quest to find Black Jesus however might seem to indicate that he is a silly excuse by black Protestant churches to get the youth back into their congregations since they stopped going in protest to the way oppressors used the bible to justify their situation. It looks like a typical case of saying, "God is on the side of the oppressed", and when the question is asked about which God is that one, the answer is a predictable, "the Black God".

The argument goes deep by debating how do you tell a Palestinian youth, who is shelled every day and night by Israeli soldiers that he had to kneel and pray to Jesus, who based on the biblical revelation of his lineage is supposed to be genetically a Jew, an potential Israeli? It also asks how can a Jewish Messiah, to whom blood is supposed to be thicker than water take the side of Gentile Arabs while his own blood is also spilled by suicide bombers and Jewish extremists?

In this confusion comes an oasis in the desert in the form of an explanation by American author Marc Landas. The explanation says,"However, because of the variability of human experience, there will always be people who will not be able to relate to certain subjects and experiences for no other reason than the fact that it is completely foreign to them". Though not referring to the issue, Landas laid a foundation from which the debate could be expanded.

So, if Jesus can also be referred to as a "certain subjects" it is then easy to find out who His Black version really is. After exhausting most potential Messiahs it however must be understood that it obviously can't be an easy thing for Black people who experienced racism (which it was claimed in some quarters that it was brokered and condoned in the bible) from races who claim to be Christians to enter the same synagogue and bow down alongside one another and pray to the same Jesus. Obviously they'll expect Him to answer the prayers of those who might be looking like Him. Thus, as a substitute most blacks feel it's fair to pray to a Black Jesus than an white one who they believe is either unable or unwilling to help them because they are alien to Him.

For the good of relativity it is suggested that Chinese and Indians could also have their own version of Jesus. As someone said that they need, "somebody that understands our plan, maybe not that perfect. Somebody that hurts like we hurt, somebody that smokes like we smoke, drink like we drink, to understand where we coming from. That's who we pray to, we need help".
It is saddening that this days relativity depends largely on similarity. That people will choose not to relate and pray to someone who does not look like them. Like in all probabilities whites would never have embraced Christianity would Jesus have been Black . Thus Black Jesus is a product of mistrust, communication breakdown and misrepresentation between the races. He is the worst thing that has ever happened to humans.

Black Jesus obviously does not exist in the mortal or immortal form. But if you woke up at dawn and watched the sun rising, went back to sleep and came back at midday and did the same, only to go back to sleep and come back at dusk and watched it setting, one thing will dawn in you. That it's not telekinesis but there must be a God and a Son out there. But is the Son Black or white? Does it matter?


Post your comment about this piece to: tenworkers@webmail.co.za

THE QUIET SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

The night carries with it VERY DARK secrets that if exposed would result in governments crumbling and chief whips being whipped every festive season, same like poor Goniwe

SEX & THE C!TY

"I've met the most wonderful girl through this site, was skeptical at first about internet dating". This are the words of a satisfied customer on an online dating service that prides itself of having more people from Nelspruit than anywhere else in the country. Durban's Victoria Embankment is filled with its own breed of sex-hunters and providers, Pretoria's Burger's Park even spots moffies while Union Buildings has the hetero. But Nelspruit beat them hands down because it simply seeks for it on-line. Could be that because the town can get too cold in Winter and too hot in summer, so they rather flood the net. You are not going to be told the name of the dating service loved by the Lowvelders, because it simply needs to advertise with us and give us moolah for publicizing its services. However it is intriguing how many lonely Nelspruit men and women are flocking to the internet to advertise themselves to potential 'customers'. Oops, maybe they are not called customers because they are not buying like they do in Durbs and Jozi but simply hooking up.

It seems bonking and not visiting the Kruger National Park or the Eastern Transvaal is a favourite pastime for some of the city's loneliest people. Any person who has been in love before would testify that at some stage the temptation to free-fall and get whomever promises a stable monied relationship, a good six-packed body, healthy no smoking no drinking habits and BEE laced income has turned them on. Loneliness is the worst thing to can happen to anyone because no matter how much money you have it still has a way of catching up with you. I wouldn't wish loneliness on anyone. There's been stories of men coming from as far as Jozi and Cape Town to sample some of the Lowveld nectar, and do they really cut to the chase like rabbits? You tell me, they say this other guy was so raunchy that two minutes after being let into the house he was already yawning following a rapid quickie.

What's more, with the discreet service that comes with the internet you can be certain that Nelspruit is indeed loving, across the racial divide (plus most of those in the net are either Coloured or White). You are not going to be told about who is lonely today because they could easily be the wo/man who showed no interest at the Riverside Mall or Crossing Shopping Complex when you tried to chat them over the weekend at that fancy coffee shop next to the two bookstores, or your neighbour or the person sitting next to you in the taxi to Kamagugu. For all you know it can even be your boss, the one with a (house)wife, three children aged 22, 20, 17 and a 12,5 kilogram pot-belly? Or your moral compass, what/whoever collar it puts around its neck.

Messages posted on the 'Success Stories' site of the dating sites are encouraging. On the one visited the prelude came from Mark, while Yolandi posted this one, "Boy, was I surprised at the number of stunning people I met on this site! And that's how I met Willie in November 2005. The subscription fee was the BEST investment I have ever made in my future - I mean, just look at the return on my investment!!!! Stunning stunning site!!!!". It is said that some of the loyal visitors to these sites are brothers and sisters from the Northern part of Africa who just want some real magic, or some citizenship, or some validation about kinkiness, or some forbidden fruit, or nameless something-something, or just a moment of unadulterated madness between sheets.

Who knows, maybe internet dating is the way to go in this busy world of making money and networking. Maybe people don't get enough time to do the simple, chat the person you like, ask them out and let it grow from there. Probably future marriages would have been found on the net. Truckers have figured that a long while ago when they decided not to cohabit but bonk and move to the next destination. Congress of South African Trade Unions Willie Madisha, speaking at the Transportation Conference in Limpopo last year called the behaviour of some truckers, 'AIDS on wheels'.

As a consolation or a freebie from your kulture-watcher it might make sense for you to post information and a picture of yourself on one of the ones you will access through a search engine. Sorry, we are not one of them. They all claim to "provides a secure, hassle-free environment where people can meet to form new online relationships. Whether you're looking for new friends, a quick soiree in the world of online dating, or the love of your life, you're sure to find someone special amongst our thousands of personal ads. Using 'us' is quick, easy, safe and completely anonymous", one of them claim.

There are equally lots of interesting people to meet and to meet you on one of them. A beautiful woman who posted her picture named Phlox posted this message, "I think the only reason why a person would want to know someone or me in this case, is pure interest... I am an interesting person because I have a different personality to..." Good luck!

IF WORDS COULD KILL...

POETS KOPANO, OSCARINAH AND GOODENOUGH ON THEIR WAY TO THE TIMBILA POETRY PROJECT 16 DAYS OF ACTIVISM POETRY READING IN POLOKWANE

FEATURE ARTICLE

THIRTY YEARS OF 'DIE DUIWEL SE KASIE'

On the evening of June 16, 1976 the whole country was thrown in a frenzy following an incident that took place in Soweto. Apparently, schoolchildren were shot at by police while on a protest march. Nobody knew this better than the people who were on the receiving end of the bullets and the police people whose fingers were on the triggers. The Minister of Foreign Affairs at the time could have painted a better picture with his diplomatic flair and the shooting ended up being played down like all other incidences of race flur ups. Before everybody could tell the story the South African Broadcasting Corporation's television division, still a few months old already had the story beamed into the living rooms of hundreds of households to a consumer consientised viewership of tens of thousands. The following morning the whole world was at its feet demanding not only the exclusion of South Africa from the Olympic games but also the suspension of its membership from all world bodies.

Some people might argue that the situation was not that bad, but just that the people chose a bad time to shoot the kids. They say that what the world saw and the country responded to so vigorously was the television version of events, that television provided the turning point in the struggle for liberation in South Africa. They say that South Africa can today sit back and look at the twenty five years that TV has been here with pride and credit it for having created an environment of cultural diversity and understanding.

But Professor of Journalism at Potchefstroom University, Arrie de Beer is not of the opinion that TV has such an effect on people. He argues that "die duiwel se kassie" did have an effect then but not as much as most would like to believe. He uses the example of the Bophuthatswana incident whereby three Afrikaner Weerstandbeweging commandos were killed, "Some people say that that was the turning point of events in a South Africa but I use my Drip Effect to calculate the waves it caused. I wonder if people can get so Americanized because they watch SABC 1 or whether TV can impact that much on the turn of events. I don't think so. The same way people say that the Cosby Show changed the attitudes of whites in South Africa. I don't believe that one problem can lead to any specific programme, it's not one but all kinds of incidents".

News shown on our TV were for some time and to a certain extent meant to uphold the policies of the ruling party and to portray a fake image of the country. The SABC made sure that their TV division didn't just broadcast any news deemed necessary. Every news and current affairs broadcast was meant to market the policy of separate development and to project an image to tourists that all was well in the Bantustans and the townships. Dr Daan Van Vuuren of the Broadcast Research said, "Television had made people aware of some issues in the country. It is presumed that internationally the war in Vietnam was stopped due to the influence of TV because for the first time the people saw the bad side of war". Thus, if the SABC demonstrated that apartheid was non-existent, everybody was bound to believe.

But some critics argue that it was not by accident that the same year that TV came to South Africa there was an uprising. They debate that what TV did was to catalise it as everybody was watching it. Even those in the townships who never knew what happened, like the world they were to witness it.

Pundits are also quick to point out that the twenty-five years that TV has been here were wasted because it has not managed to bring the people together. Sowetan newspaper Entertainment Reporter Edward Tsumele argued, "From the 1970s to the '90s it has not contributed to racial harmony because from then there was brainwashing. TV then was meant for whites and was not culturally enriching. It was only in the '90s that it started accommodating blacks". Tsumele also cited the example of soaps like The Bold and the Beautiful, which he said were not reflecting the behaviour and attitude of the South African public. Soaps are to a larger extent nothing but an escape from the hardships and realities of everyday life. " Blacks are still hooked on soaps because they are unrealistic and we need to see the imaginary world sometimes" Tsumele added.

But Professor Keyan Thomaselli of the Graduate Programme in Cultural & Media Studies at the University of Natal is of the opinion that soaps, even though escapimism is an aspect when it comes to watching them, the geist of the addiction lies in a research they did in Kwazulu Natal in relation to The Bold and the Beautiful.

"Most Zulu women can identify with strong female white characters in the soap and very much relate to that. For them being at a position where they are still negotiating gender issues it makes sense to see women in power" Prof Thomaselli said. It then stems from the reality that some Zulu men are authoritarians.

But has television really failed to bring races together? How about with its programming? Apart from being a mediator it is supposed to be a mirror of society, but in all fairness it seems that society does not appreciate seeing itself as it is. We admit to being embarrassed failures who would rather scape out of our reality with mere fictious creations of our own. We leave our important responsibilities like racism, xeno and homophobia to TV to settle them for us. It has been said in the past that comedies like Suburban Bliss are all about stereotyping suburban people and attempting to tackle urban racism with dry and corny humour. That it made viewers laugh because it was unrealistic and casting a dark cloud over sub-urban white's attitudes towards change.

"It is not true that it is avoiding tackling the issue of racism. What Suburban Bliss is doing is using the same stereotypes in characters and storyline. Every one of us is a stereotype of something, what it does is to question those stereotypes and expose them for everyone to check themselves. No enforcement is going on,” Prof Thomaselli argued. His comments reflected exactly what the screenplay of Alan Paton's acclaimed novel The Principal, which was shown on SABC 3 a few years ago did to most people. They felt the storyline might have been foul by their standards, but at least it did shed some light over their darkness.

"The SABC, through its three TV stations has gone to extra ordinary heights to bring people together. It is a beacon. It has managed to promote the spirit of non-racialism. It has managed in twenty five years to serve the eleven official languages,” Prof Thomaselli echoed, adding that it has done an extra-ordinary job and has achieved massive results in a short space of time.

He explained that it will take time before the picture projected on TV ceases to come in black and white, explaining that no indigenous languages are taught in white schools and that even though they might want to watch the Xhosa drama Ityala Lamawele, the education curriculum does not help in encouraging language classes in white schools. But music programmes like Geraas and Ezodumo still manage to reflect the South African diversity. Still,it would be more spectrum if one programme that encompasses the concepts of the two was created to cater for both their viewers without one race feeling that Johannes Kerkorrel has been compromised for Ynonne Chaka Chaka or vise versa.

Twenty-five years later different races in this country are as more culturally apart than they have been before. If a scriptwriter for a TV commissioned drama wrote about a black character who slaughter a beast to appease the ancestors, the possible reality is that the episode will either come with a Parental Guidance warning, be flighted after family hour or end up being edited. In this sense viewers would rather watch Arnold Schwarzenegger slitting the throat of someone with a butcher knife than to witness culture in progress. Armchair TV critics say that the whole idea shows that money is the driving force in TV productions and not the guarding of culture. They say that freedom of cultural expression is never enforced and encouraged and that is why there is conflict between races.

Yizo Yizo explored the sub-culture of gangsterism in schools and its case might be the reason why the public questioned its morality, the same public that doesn't question the morality of Italian gangster films.

Prof De Beer's Drip Effect is challenged by the fact that, in a made for TV film you have seen a single, poor, crack addict black woman overcome by problems slit her wrists and die. That was touchy, but didn't look bad, did it? You now saw a white woman being raped and later stabbed to death by a black man. Now that wasn't touchy, but it looked foul, didn't it? Then ask yourself where do we draw the line? When does fiction meet emotion and when does it become faction and disturbing?

That might be the reason why since the early '90s some spin-doctors have been trying to come up with TV that can entertain every race at the same time. But transformation is not supposed to compromise quality. The same way the actuality programme formerly known as Fokus met Freek (then presented by veteran newscaster Freek Robinson) didn't need to be Fokus/Focus just because former Generations star Florence Masebe was going to be tokenized. And it won't be called transformation if the magazine programme for Afrikaans music and culture Pasella was suddenly diluted to cater for an additional race group other than purely Afrikaners whose culture other races still need to study. So as to understand what makes Afrikaners tick.

Even though SABC's absolute monopoly ended with the establishment of M.Net in the 1980s, state sponsored Bophuthatswana Broadcasting Corporation and recently licensed free to air e.tv, Prof de Beer is of the opinion that the two alternative TV stations (apart from BBC) have not lived up to the expectations of their viewers. "They are too small to can even start striking a balance. I don't always like what I pay for on M.Net. It still does not broadcast news and with Dstv opening up the systems, the more diversity there is the better it is for the viewers,” he said.

Asked whether e.tv, which up to now seems to be empowering the coloured population is really living up to expectations, Prof de Beer said that he doesn't believe that it is addressing the coloured issue properly as coloureds are not well represented in all aspects of e.tv.

And one important point that needs to be understood is that both the alternative stations to the public broadcaster do not have a constitutional mandate to bridge the gap that exists between the different races in the country. They are both profit making channels the same way CBS and CNN in America are. Prof de Beer however believes that if they had a mandate and they were not fulfilling it, it would be to the ICASA to deal with them.

In the quest to close the gap some channels have come up with the sub-texting system which is working perfect with another cross-racial comedy, Going Up, which Prof Thomaselli rates high for its quality and appeal. Unlike it is the with some Afrikaans dramas. Confining Afrikaans dramas like Tussen Duiwels to a monolingual mode without English sub-texts is a betrayal of the storyline and the people of District Six of which the plot is based. There should also be a realization that the South African public since 1994 is becoming more multi-cultural and that it can help, like it's not in 1976 to bring out English sub-titles. The changes in the country indicate that some people who knew Afrikaans in 1991 do not do so now, and even though they enjoyed Orkney Snork Nie, they can't today relate to Vetkoek Paleis because of the language barrier.

A typical example of how viewership can be expanded can be seen in local soapy Generations where blacks and whites are well represented.

South Africans have to a larger extent come a long way since the first TV visual was seen in 1976. Even with sponsored racial divides the South African public have a lot to smile about as Prof Thomaselli said, “If you watch American sitcoms you will see that South African TV is far more multi-racial. In America there are sitcoms and dramas for blacks, which whites watch and those for whites, which are watched by blacks”

South Africans, unlike Americans are so realistic that if you showed them something that they know is untrue, like a white police officer working with a black officer in a rural setting or random cross- racial love affairs like the drama 37 Honey Street, they will not watch the show. Once you introduce white characters in a somewhat rural setting, you are in other words introducing the subject of race, which is still a sensitive one.

Racism is a reality that another player, Christian TV, a Trinity Broadcasting Network initiative still fails to address, mainly because it doesn’t reach the people who are most hurt and feel owed an apology. It is ill informed to target Christians whereas the people who need salvation are not in the churches. People will watch Isidingo (The Need) and Soul City because they are close to reality and they reflect the real public without melodramatizing but in real situations.
Tsumele said that in all its twenty-five years TV has not brought any unity between blacks and whites. “SABC 3 is still white, SABC 1 is for blacks,” he said. “But TV did contribute to the re-action of the outside world after the Soweto uprising, for good or for bad because the impact the incident had can be attributed to the visual appeal of TV” Tsumele concluded.

At the end of the day when the performance of TV in South Africa is judged and the verdict is passed it remains true to Dr Van Vuuren’s assessment that, “The impact of the mass media is powerful, if it could change attitudes then the 1976 Soweto uprising and the furore that followed can to a certain degree be attributed to TV”. Thus, in a sense we’ll never get the whole truth because people have a TV version of what happens around them. In this sense it indeed is a catalyst and it remains in the psyche of South Africans to decide whether they render the twenty-five years of “die duiwel se kassie” in this country null or worth it.
-ends-

visit: http://www.sabc.co.za and http://www.etv.co.za
Written by: Goodenough Mashego

SHORT STORY

A CASE OF MURDER

IT WAS NOT SUPPOSED to end like this. I had the story well scripted with the ending comprising me being processed through Johannesburg International Airport for a six week tour of the Carribeans, notably Cuba and Jamaica. Jamaica because I heard it through the unreliable grapevine that I can smoke marihuana in the morning, midday and afternoon without the Jamaican police, who I was told are all dreadlocked interfering with my hallucinations.

IT WAS NOT SUPPOSED to end like this since when I first saw the sms on my wife's cellphone I thought, "Fuck, I'm stronger than this". On that day we had just arrived home from the Civic Theatre in Johannesburg where we went to watch the stage adaptation of Can Themba's short story The Suit, starring Vusi Kunene and Thembi Seete. "What Philemon did to his wife was cruel", Lindiwe, my wife had said as we negotiated the R40 National Road in Nelspruit heading past White River, Hazyview to our home in Bushbuckridge, township of Shatale. I smiled, I felt that in the same situation I would have done exactly what Philemon did, or worse, I would have chased the son-of-a-bitch across the street until I cornered him. Even though based on Siphiwo Mahala's revelation I would have found him still knocking on the door of his home in his boxers, or still trying to explain to his wife about the fictional Fun Day.

WHAT I DID NOT think was how deep the first cut would be when it finally happened to me. "Hi Babes, thnx 4 last nite, hope we can do it again soon", the fresh text on her cellphone shouted. I illegally read it because Lindiwe was still taking a shower. It came from a character stored as "Benzo". The water was so loud she never heard it announce its arrival. When I opted for "Read Now" on the Menu, in my thoughts I told myself that if it came from someone less harmful, all I'll do is to sms back and say, "sum txt mssng, plz rsnd d msg", then advance to delete the copy on the 'sent messages' folder. I scribbled the number on a piece of paper.

WHEN LINDIWE EXITED THE bathroom she looked stunning, smelled good, even from that distance and smiled broadly like the girls who model toothpaste. She had a white towel wrapped around her chrome torso. I was tempted not to explode with anger but gently carry her to the bedroom and be a husband with her. Which surprisingly is precisely what I did. She didn't see the obscene message on her cellphone. I made it a point to delete immediately after reading. I also made sure that I buzzed her phone on 'Private number' so as to facilitate later saying to her, "honey, someone called while you were in the bathroom". She quickly took to her feet for the living room where her cellphone was. She came back toggling it, "You know, nothing fucks me up like a person who buzzes me with a private number," she complained.
"Unless of course you were in the National Intelligence Agency, we could say it was a code or communication detail of sorts," I said matter of factly. She looked at me and smiled. Lindiwe didn't want to ask further, I was an analyst in the intelligence agency and knew what I was talking about. She smiled and proceeded to the bed where my wide arms were waiting to embrace her.

AFTER WE HAVE HAD our dinner and she was still doing dishes I saved the number I retrieved from the message on my phonebook with the name tag "whodat". I turned off the side-lamp and slept.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I had everything figured out. I was going to discover who "Benzo" was. Since Lindiwe was a physician at Mapulaneng Hospital my first wild guess was, 'he must be a doctor, one of these young studs fresh out of varsity'. Arriving at my Nelspruit field office I asked Malebo to trace "Benzo" for me. Now Malebo is a field agent in counter-intelligence unit and had done similar jobs for the state so many times to her it was like asking a child to unwrap a candy bar (asking Zuma to unwrap a kanga). Whether reckless or not, it would be unwrapped eventually. Who said careful counts anyway, the night before I recklessly unwrapped the towel around my wife's intoxicating torso, and at the end it was removed.

MALEBO REPORTED TO ME over dinner at Nelpruit's Nandos restaurant where we usually ate our lunch. "His name is Njabulo, lives at Buffalo Street, West Acres, Nelspruit, works at the government complex, drives a diesel powered Mercedes Benz Kompressor CDI, is married with two kids who attend Kleiner Laer Skool and has...", I interjected.
"It's okay, thank you Lebo"

ARRIVING HOME AT 18h50 I told Lindiwe that we needed to go out often, rekindle the flame we used to spark when we were still dating. Lindiwe complained that since I got involved with Project Ansari I had been giving our customary candlelit dinners a slip. "I'm sorry baby, see, when you complain things start to happen. I love you for that Lindi"
"I love you too pumpkin, it's just that these days you are so obsessed with your job"
"Come on bandit, this country needs a capable leader to be the next president, and it is my responsibility to see to it that we have those mechanisms in place to make sure that happens". Lindiwe smiled.
"So, should I book a table for next week Friday?"
"Yes pumpkin"
I pulled out my cellphone, the one on 'Private number' and called Panayo, a restaurant in Hazyview. They gave me my reservation number which I scribbled down. "Are you happy now?"
"Yes," Lindiwe was brief.

AN HOUR LATER WHILE Lindiwe was in the bathroom I called a car rental company and hired a Toyota Tazz for the same Friday. The consultant said I should come and collect it on Thursday afternoon. I said I would do it on Friday morning. He insisted, we ended up having an argument that lasted for about ten minutes until he caved in. The next five days were plain fun as me and Lindiwe lived our lives as if nothing had happened, 'Philemon would have been proud of me', I thought.

WHAT I HAD IN mind was simple. I was going to commit a murder, precisely two murders. For that I retrieved a pistol I had bought some time ago from a gangster while I was working on Project Umanji. It was a black Pietro Beretta with a full clip which has been buried in my tool box for eight months. On Wednesday I had a meeting arranged with Njabulo Ncube, under the guise of my work, something related to routine security checks of senior government employees. We met at the Riverside Mall. During the meeting my cellphone rang as arranged with Malebo and I excused myself, only to come back fifteen minutes later after an important stroll in the parking area. I apologised profusely. Njabulo smiled, genuinely, broadly.

THE FOLLOWING DAY I came home with a copy of Nelspruit Enquirer and put it on the coffee table. Lindiwe read the headline once and cringed. "Did you see the headline darling?"
"No, another court case for Zuma?"
"No, Njabulo Ncube is dead"
"Refresh my mind a bit, who is Njabulo Ncube?"
"The Head of Department in...."
"Oh no, now I remember. Quite an intelligent technocrat, what happened?"
"They say his car breaks failed and he plunged into a ravine"
"Was he sober?" I asked. Lindiwe freaked out.
"How dare you ask about sober when a man is dead. Is it the most convenient first question you can ask?". She meant to say, 'is it the most sympathetic thing to say about my dead boyfriend?'
"I'm sorry baby, that slipped off my tongue," I said and proceeded to the bedroom. I actually wanted to say, 'that was not the first question I asked stupid, the first one was, who is Njabulo Ncube?’ I wanted to ask for the simple reason that I wanted to flush if off my mind that he is the man with whose breaks I tampered with.

ON FRIDAY I ARRIVED at Perry's Bridge, a restaurant complex an hour earlier in the rented Toyota Tazz and parked it under a tree at a secluded spot. Then I pulled out my cellphone and dialed the City Bug meter taxi company to dispatch a cab for me. It arrived within twenty minutes. I jumped in and directed it to Hazyview's Holiday Inn on the Kiepersol Road where I had left my old ice-white BMW 318i. I arrived there, paid the driver his R25 and proceeded to the restaurant where I ordered a cup of coffee, drank it hurriedly, paid the R7, 50 and made for my BMW. I drove for fifteen minutes to Perry's Bridge where my dinner with Lindiwe was to start at 20h00. Time was 18h50. I got there and chose a parking spot infront of the entrance where everybody on the verandah would see me. Also the CCTV camera could capture my arrival.

I WALKED INTO THE restaurant and sat down at 'our' reserved table. Soon a waiter attended to me. "Give me a glass of water for now, I'm still waiting for someone". She flirted and left. Three minutes later she brought me the water. I took a few sips and signaled her to come to my rescue. "Where are your toilets?" She directed me to the Gents' which was situated on the right, with a view to the tree where I had parked my rented Tazz. I had been to this restaurant and same Gents' spot before and knew about the advantage of the location when I parked the car there many minutes earlier. I went to the urinary and took a leak, approached the basin, ran water on my hands and ran them across the dryer.

BACK IN THE RESTAURANT the waiter came, trying to get me to order something. I asked for espresso with hot milk. "Espresso, double with hot milk on the side". She smiled. "I like to brew my own cappuccino minus the cream you know" I fumbled. She left to fix me my drinks. While she was staring at me from the counter I touched my stomach lightly, faked a cringe and took to my feet, made for the 'Gents' again. In there I entered the loo, locked the door, opened the window which was not burglar proofed and jumped out. Then I proceeded to the Tazz, slid the key in the ignition and revved it. I drove out of Perry's Bridge. Time was 19h25. I figured my wife must be on the way to the restaurant by now, probably still at Bushbuckridge town. I called her, "Baby how are you?"
"I'm okay, don't tell me you are canceling?"
"No, meet me next to the Inyaka Dam first, I have a surprise for you"
"Where at Inyaka?"
"At the Graskop route, I'll be driving a white Toyota Tazz with registration CA...". I drove as soon as I could, past Gardees to a spot on the road where I parked. Soon Lindiwe's Nissan Almera came and pulled to a stop behind my car. She walked out and was about to hug me when I pulled out my Project Umanji pistol with a silencer screwed on it and pointed to her. "What's this baby?" she enquired, really surprised.
"It's a tragedy Lindi, the same way Njabulo went, you are going. Now you see, Philemon wasn't cruel after all. Every Matilda must..."
"What!". Before she could talk further I pumped six bullets into her body. Lindiwe fell, still unbelieving and died. I suddenly removed her wristwatch, earrings, wedding ring, bracelet and necklace. I also took her handbag, which had bank and credit cards plus about R354, 45cents. There was also a token sanitary pad.

I IMMEDIATELY DID A U-turn and drove back towards R40. I joined the national road and drove as fast as I could to Perry's Bridge. At the Marite/Hazyview boundary I stopped at an overflooding river and threw the loot and the pistol in it. They suddenly drowned. It was during a rainy season and the water was running violently. Arriving at Perry's Bridge minutes later I parked the Tazz at the same spot, ran to the toilet window, scaled it and entered the loo. Then I flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and walked out, washed my hands thoroughly with liquid soap this time and dried them gingerly.

THIRTY MINUTE SINCE I left the table I walked into the restaurant again from the 'Gents'. The waitress was worried. My espresso was cold. "Are you okay?" she asked, concerned.
"I should be, it's just that I have a running stomach. Must be the water we drinking". She felt for me and offered to replace my order of hot espresso and milk with fresh one. "I'll very much appreciate that. Tell me, didn't a beautiful woman come in looking for me while I was relieving myself?"
"No"
She left for the counter, I could see her talking to another waitress who also seemed to sympathise. I made it a point that I regularly stared at my wristwatch so that I should look like a man who has been stood up. At 20h34, while I was still enjoying sumptuous spare ribs my cellphone rang. I dropped the plate to the floor and took to my feet. The manager approached me, "Anything wrong Sir?"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I cursed and sat down. "It's my wife"
"What?"
"How much?," I asked as I dropped a R200 banknote on the table and rushed out the door to my BMW. I swerved it around and even hit a dustbin, which fell, spilling its contents.

EIGHT MINUTES LATER I arrived at the scene of the crime. Police lights were everywhere - brighter and scores of officers were swarming the Nissan. The officer in charge of the crime scene recognised me immediately and allowed me past the cordon. "This is the husband of the deceased, can you please come to identify the body," he said while introducing me to members of his squad. I could hear other senior officers whispering, "NIA, NIA".

HE PULLED DOWN THE cover and showed me Lindiwe, I broke down and cried, hugging tightly on her arms and kissing her face. "Why, why, why Lindi, why do you do this to me". The officer dragged me away and comforted me warmly.
"Who did this Inspector?" The inspector stared at me with surrender and suspicion.
"Don't tell me you don't have a suspect, what was the motive?"
"Many things, robbery, homicide, the options are countless"

THEY WERE INDEED COUNTLESS as I found out hours later at the Hazyview Police Station. First, it was the possibility that someone killed her because he was going to inherit huge sums of money in insurance payouts. Two, somebody killed her for reasons known only to husband and wife. The inspector explained to me that in such situations I was undoubtedly the first suspect as the beneficiary of Lidiwe's estate. I said I understand.
"We'll need your weapon for ballistic purposes," he said, requesting it on the spot. My NIA issue pistol was clean and I handed it to him and signed for it, with all its ammunition. I was released that night and told to go home.

ARRIVING HOME I CALLED the car rental company to report that the Tazz I rented had been stolen. Where? Uhhh...my place. When? I think today because I was called to an emergency after the police found my wife killed and when I got back home at 00h47 the car was gone from the paved driveway I had left it.

TWO DAYS LATER THE police told me that they had rounded up a number of people who all testify that my behaviour on the day was strange. They charged me with the murder of Lindiwe Motau and the robbery of a corpse. I hired the most expensive lawyer in the province as my counsel.

DURING MY TRIAL THE state called a number of witnesses. Among them the car rental consutant who testified that my story was suspicious from the start since the number of kilometres clogged on the mileage did not jell well with it having traveled to Shatale, which is roughly 95 kilometres from Nelspruit where the car was rented. He said that they only discovered 85 kilometres which was the equivalent of it having made it to Bushbuckridge and impossible for it to have ended up back at Hazyview. He said the car had a tracking system and was easy to find.

THE CAB DRIVER TESTIFIED that for him it was strange that I could take a taxi from Hazyview to Kiepersol which was a dead spot. My lawyer defeated his insinuation by saying that anybody staying at Holiday Inn could choose to have a meal at Perry's Bridge and ask for a cab back.

THE WAITER I FLIRTED WITH told the court that she was surprised when I left in a BMW after the sad news whereas I had Toyota keys on the table, even though the security camera at the restaurant captured me parking a BMW and stashing the keys in my jeans pocket.

WELL, I STOOD TO benefit a million rands, but that was not the point or motive. The insurance consultant testified to that and the prosecutor emphasized it during her closing arguments. The fact that Lindiwe would have benefited that million if I was the one dead was pushed by my counsel. The problem was one, I was the one living, the one who hired a car, the one who had Toyota keys and the one who medical tests indicated did not suffer a running stomach on the day. Though the murder weapon was not found, the state still had a solid case.

THAT WAS THEN. AND today, three months later I can't really believe that I am in a bullet proof fifteen-seater van they call 'Die Vark' on my way to Barberton Prison. I’m sitting with a group of six boys who tell me that they were arrested for breaking into the house of a white man in Graskop to steal food because they were hungry. "You know what baba, we got in while he was out to see Harry Porter with his children. You know how these whities always want to pretend that they love their children right. So, this whitie daddy was cheating with his receptionist and he felt so guilty he decided one morning that he wanted make himself feel well. He then organized to take his wife and children to the restaurant that he used to take his cherrie to right. He even booked the same table where his cherrie used to sit, we are told by the police and his lawyer", the older boy said. I wanted to correct him and inform him that a prosecutor was a lawyer for the state and not the man but I chose to be a good listener. Something in me told me to try and enjoy his story since I was going to be hearing many such stories behind the barb-wired fence. "Then they went there and me and my friends we decided to get in and eat the food that was in the fridge. I don’t know how it happened by the dog did not bark that night even though we had picked spare bones from the dustbin at Kentucky Fried Chicken to give it. So we throw in the bones, jump into over the fence and run to the sliding door. Sanza then breaks just a small area of the window and we pull the lever, open the window and Mzwandile jumps in and we follow suit. In there we start eating the polonies, the cheese, the cold meat, the rice, the bananas and drink the wine, the one with the bottle printed ‘vintage’. We drink until we are drunk and drink the juice and cold drink. Then Mzwandile decides we should go to the main bedroom and sleep on the boss’s bed which is so soft it’s almost like a woman. Then Sanza open the wardrobe and we see beautiful clothes, wool clothes. We start dressing up in the boss’s warm jacket and trousers, just for the look you know, because we are drunk. Then we also smoke his cigars and Thomas finds a camera in the drawer next to the madam’s underwear. He presses and we see ourselves on the small television on the back of that camera and he goes, ‘click’ it lights and we laugh. It is small and light and we try to see if it has a film but only batteries, no film. We then play with the light until I thin the neighbour saw the light through the curtain and decided to phone and investigate. You know, when we hear the phone ring we decide to run away and take most of the food with us. Two months later they say the boss came home from his work and decided to check some pictures he took at a party with his work camera which’s battery was low and decides to use the camera without the film. Then after checking he tells his son to take a family picture with the camera. You see, boss is trying to look good because he cheat a lot. The son clicks but boss because he is a photographer who wants his son to be a photographer as well decides to see the picture his son shot. When he moves a button he sees lots of pictures. Do you know who he sees, me and my friends smoking his cigars and wearing his expensive clothes. He look at the date, it is the date when he came home and find his home burgled. And he take his pictures to the police and they just come to the street and arrest us. First we think they arrest us for a woman they say was killed at Inyaka because that was the story in the news. But they tell us they arrest us for burglary. We tell ourselves whoever killed that woman is stupid, you don’t kill a woman but rape her you know. He leaving many clues they say. But we were happy because the day before they arrest us we walking next to Motlomobe river and we find a gun and cellphone and wallet and wrist watch. But wristwatch and cellphone don’t work. But the gun, it works and we wanted to use it next time we go to boss and the neighbour decide to come and investigate", the boy finished his rant. I looked at him and sighed.

IT WAS NOT SUPPOSED to end this way. But for what it's worth, I am not going to do time for the murder of a man who cheated with my wife. I keep consoling myself that when I get out, suppose Malebo manages to bribe the guards as arranged, we are going to Jamaica.

-ends-
Writer: Goodenough Mashego