world book day

WORLD BOOK DAY, LET'S ALL CELEBRATE

survival
trapped in a mud
breathing very hard
trying to pull my nose from the mud
just so i can breath
only breath
i can't help myself
i'm trapped and scared
it can't happen now
there are things i have to fulfil first
oh! hell no, not now
i had a dream
of the rest of my life
the peace of my mind
dream not so scary
a song not so sad
a poem not so deep
the light of my life
the stream that feeds the river
river that feeds my life
the truth of infinity
it's gone
just like that

- THE HYPNOTISER

Polite Wishes Ungranted

vertically i write wishes ungranted
horizontally i gatecrash in churches unwanted
disturbing the peace; piss-off the priest; come out flabbergasted
whites celebrating justice after 'udarkie' got busted
head with a bullet got burried ina silver covered casket
since he forcefully tried to carry water in an uncomplete basket
with no surrendered mercy he got fucked and blasted
for the loss, the black loss
the blame is on the fake believers of the crucifying cross
for the black bled, the black got blasted
i blame jesus for wishes he left ungranted

for when the towers of 9/11 start to fall and burn
laden's bomb cared to leave no stone unturned
unlike a critic, i just blinked and found my paper stuck on my pen
i wish to see fading pictures of nuns and virgin samaritan
strangled my neck with black diamong jesus-piece hoping jesus won't return someday
what's praying go to do with a jesus obsession multiplied to the exponent of ten
wished for better guidance but with the fake unrealistic sermons how do you expect me to learn
blame not me when my beliefs start shrinking to the micro size of a germ
i wish this could somehow stop
since i began writing i sneeze fats and spit blood

tell me what's jealousy go to with the shooting of a guard
i'm satisfied to the negative percent with what i've got
the wishing disappointment in me doesn't hurt it cuts

- TALL SPERM

Manna within Blackness

it took 9 months for the seed to germinate
deep in the porous layer of the African rock it originates sleepless nights
behold kings overthrown to their surprise it was the smell of my karisma
a picture of the millenium,
a woman who suffers from a man's possessed mind,
what's disturbing is drawn into perspective
i rather depict the picture in this kind of caricature
ke raloka diketo with an erasmus stone, people are left amazed after i revive the exploits
blood clotting mentality that carbon dioxide can run through,
like a triangle measured in Nkhumishe karats equated a supreme exponent of artistic marvel to poetry,

unlike misconceptions, my umbrella verse is thicker than a geometric line
- a stone that is out of proportion to the sierra rocks,
nothing paves my existense like rough dirt, buried in stone...
they, in bated breaths await the day i quake,
after a great discovery, a slight tshikinyego took place and coceived,
i left kimberely in a huge crate/ kings sent out mercenaries to slaughter the 1st borns of that day,
birthdays of mayhem.
debates took strong anti-my present day abode but i'm black son of the soil,
chose not to be wrapped in a foil,
locally roaming under the blessed drakensberg clouds...
and I wonder, will i ever run my life
politicians, mining magnates after me, me it was said i possess civilization
thaka e metse goodbye monna yo mosesane
broke out of chains, manumitted from mind, blood slavery
i witnessed apartheid in its death throes while in the womb of the african ink and he tip of my quill gunshots the day i germinated -
in struggle and sharecropping we are related until i was found too gravitational to resist a poke,
the day i was found he spoke of prosperity
my father had declared 'thaka e metse' the carnivorous globust finally dropped
let prosperity dwell in the township, thaka e metse!

- MOGAKANE MAGNUM NKHUMISE

survival
what do we call it a survival
maybe it's a mistake
when was the last time i saw the past talking
about the presence that future will come
i was born again surrounded by many whiskies
couldn't even dare to open only one
they concise
i am the winner who lost the match
the very best loser
i call myself surpass in everything
if i could have a destiny of tomorrow
i would be a survivor indeed
i make things happen through utilising my inborn potential
i taught them to be wise always but they are champions like chickens,
heroes like zeroes
is what we call survival
i condemn it
you are not a survivor until your tree got blossoms
survive the surviveless things which will make it a worthwhile survival

- MALOPE MAHLODI

survival of the little hearts

don't cry my little black sister
for thou shall be guided and whispered
for thou shall be heartened with a spur that defines the feeling of rightful
you have to do everything by yourself,
but you shall survive the pain of raising a little infant
and trying with all your being not to infect the word - child
seeing you trying to make a living out of the dark corners of life,
while it is still hard to show your sensibility to humans,
while trying to get over the one person that destroyed your life and still tells you of how infirm you are
damn, he doesn't know the first thing about life
sympathy goes out to you my black sister
still seeing the little innocent girl trying to hide whenever times get rough and you don't know what to do - but get dirty money
it will come to pass
that great sorrow of yours shall wash away someday - stand firm
except all the bad things life has offered
whenever you get troubled in mind
just sing out loud and say
'i'm a survivor'
-stop-
- ANGEL MASHEGO

PERSPECTIVE

WHAT IS AN ENCOMPASSING DESTINY FOR ALL SOUTH AFRICANS?

In the 1951 Union of South Africa Census it was found that the country's population was constituted by 10 029 763 non-whites and 2 641 689 whites which brought the overall populace to 12 67 14 52. This small number of people commemorated in their own way holidays that included Van Riebeeck, Union Day, Queen's Birthday, Settler's, Kruger Day, Day of Covenant and some insulting milestones that darkies were forced to memorize their anthemns and war-cries. Obviously, a large portion of the 10 million non-whites (Bantu) did not take part in the commemorations, and surprisingly the two million were happy and found it acceptable and worthy of a braaivleis and mampoer.

On Heritage Day last year 45 million South Africans, united in their diversity converged at different places to celebrate an all inclusive non-racial milestone. Quite interesting, South Africans strongly believe that all races have a common heritage, including those self-exiled in the vaderland of Orania. The Oxford Dictionary is frank; "heritage n. that which has or may be inherited, inherited circumstances or benefits"

If anyone was wondering what is it that is being inherited by all South Africans they need not look further than the founding preamble of the country's Constitution which starts with "We, the People of South Africa recognise the injustice of the past". With such a recognition that the past was bad, it becomes an issue of whether all South Africans are prepared to inherit and recognise the need to establish a just society. Adults must forget their prejudice because they have already messed things up but to think about the kind of society they would like their children and grandchildrent to grow up in.

'Just' means "giving proper consideration to the claims of everyone concerned". In the context of Mpumalanga it might mean giving back the name Mashishing to the people of formerly Lydenburg, renaming Blyde River to its original Sepulana name of Motlatse. MaPulana had names for Nelspruit (Lepulanama), White River (Meetsemhlophe), Pilgrims' Rest (Maworabyang) and many other areas beyond the Crocodile River. And 'just' means recognising that reality. VhaTsonga also had own names for other areas which suggests the whole rebranding of the province of Mpumalanga to reflect its current reality and historical background.

While such are viewed as positive developments there is what is perceived to be malignant fluffing of the law in the quest for political correctness. Spokesperson for the national DAC Mr Sandile Memela was at pains to convince many South Africans that the changing of formerly Johannesburg International Airport to OR Tambo International Airport was a step towards creating a common heritage for blacks and whites. Writing in an influencial Sunday newspaper Memela was unapologetic about his boss' intentions to justify the injustices of the past. A sneak survey conducted by SABC's Morning Live found that 'many' people opposed the changing of the name and Minister of Arts and Culture Dr Pallo Jordan was quick to let anchor Leanne Mannas know that only the privileged few in South Africa had access to the internet and cellphones that can send thousands of smss and emails and the the real majority did not take part in the survey and that Ekurhuleni Metro conducted public participation meetings with the people whose opinions matter because they came to the meetings but did not hide behind high walls writing long daming emails. But Jo'burg Airport was Jan Smuts before and no one was complaining. And Jan Smuts was a white General, a part of a long list of illegitimate rulers.

While the proposal to rename the airport came from the Ekurhuleni Metro Council it is fascinating how people took the issue to heart. Individuals spoken to had reservations not because they felt OR did not deserve it but that often politicians are made to be more important than ordinary people. Questions were asked about why couldn't they name facilities like airports after people who contributed to aviation like the first black pilot to fly commercial or the deceased Gabriel Ndabandaba who was a celebrated young black pilot? A young person so as to encourage them to see aviation as a field to follow - believing that they'll have facilities named after them as well.

Why can't engineers' be the ones whose names are reflected on bridges and roads, academics at universities while military people like Chris Hani and Joe Modise at military installations. Arguments are, wouldn't it make better sense if the Nelspruit SANDF Support Base was named after Hani while his street in Kanyamazane is named after a local resident who might not have been a politician but a simple educator or environmentalist?

Mpumalanga has many such cases of objections, some due to the ethnic diversity of the people. The same can't be said about Pretoria or Tshwane whereby the intention to remove the Afrikaner leader Paul Kruger and replace him with Chief Tshwane was opposed to the bitter end until the council settled for renaming the outlying area as Tshwane and the nucleus remaining Pretoria. And poor Tshwane found comfort infront of the City Hall where he was vandalised a few weeks later. That did not spare him from being vandalised by people who still see South Africa through the eye of a 1951 Census.

The issue has always been consultation. One academic, when asked why local government politicians are so obsessed with renaming instead of name restoration, and with mostly African National Congress stalwarts answered, "They all want to look good in the face of the top brass at Luthuli House to qualify for redeployment".

Still it is not interesting when a place that was called either Mhala, Mafemani or Ga-Bereta and was in the 1980s renamed Dwarsloop has someone opposing the restoration of its original indigenous name. "What's a dwarsloop?", a resident asked, since Mafemani is the name of a popular Shangaan king, while Mhala is a bushbuck.

Aime Cesaire wrote in Return to my Native Land, "and no race possess the monopoly of beauty, of intelligence, of freedom. There is a place for all at the rendezvous of victory". Hoping there are times when the much-hyped rainbow nation speaks the same language - the language of rain and prosperity.

FEATURE

"EVERY GENERATION BLAMES THE ONE BEFORE" - LESSONS FROM THE ANCESTORS

Those that came before us not only left us mysticism but some wisdom buried in the mystique

In Bushbuckridge (Mpumalanga) news of initiate deaths are met with skeptism and lack of understanding. This community has been initiating its offspring for generations but they still have to report their first casualty at the hands of school minders. Apparently it is safe to assume that initiates used to die back in the days as a result of diseases and other unforeseen circumstances like as a result of power struggles that happen between school minders. It is on record in this community here that every person who can run an initiation school can effectively use the science of lightning and thunder to send a message to his rival that he will discredit his name by killing all his initiates. Thus, when rain starts in winter and there is lightning, there is a strong possibility that some of the residents here can pinpoint the source of the rain, the thunderstorm and the reasons behind the winter rain.

Thus, it is safe to say that the community here is very conscious of their culture and tradition. They protect it like vultures. Interesting enough, their initiates never die at the school even though they go through the same procedure as everyone else from the Eastern Cape to KwaNdebele. The only difference being that school minders and initiates in Bushbuckridge are camera shy. They don't allow cameras or the press into the initiation school premises. Never.
To boys around this area as well being a man involves undergoing cultural rituals which involve initiation. The one difference with the way it is done here is that recently most parents opt to take their boys to hospitals for the circumcision a year before their initiation. They have come to accept that initiation is not wholly about circumcision but cultural etiquette, morality, responsibility and the readiness to be a man, in all respects.

But as they will tell you, even those who go to the bush after leaving their foreskins at hospitals do not escape the cut, though it is plainly ceremonial. The boys who went to the hospital first and those who lost their foreskins at the bush do come back the same, and most notably behave the same because they have been initiated the same, which is really what is important.

Reports of initiate deaths and mutilations are received with surprise by the culturally conscious community of Bushbuckridge because for them if only culture evolved with the changing times, there wouldn't be any reason for the initiates to die or lose their penises. Clearly if an initiate accidentally loses his penis because of a careless bush surgeon that says a lot about the commercialization of the school whereby people without skills have infiltrated the institution for personal enrichment.

If initiates are mutilated because culture vultures in the Eastern Cape insist on using a spear to circumcise the boys instead of something that replaced a spear (not a gun) then culture is not to blame but misled practitioners of such a culture need to account for misrepresenting it.
Understandably, Abraham in the Bible used a piece of stone to cut the foreskin of Isaac because arguably he lived in the Stone Age. The Jews of today do not use stones like their great grandfather but what civilization provided with its evolution. So are the bush surgeons in Bushbuckridge. They realized a time ago that their culture was to valuable to be made a scapegoat of moneyhungry individuals and primitivity.

Simply put, the only way to stop the annual deaths is for the Eastern Cape government to come up with legislation that clearly outlaws a spear as a tool of circumcision. For all that is known it will never be as sharp as a scalpel or an Okapi knife.

The practise of initiation faces a real challenge, adapt or die. Interesting enough the culture vultures of Bushbuckridge have already made that decision. Bushbuckridge is a welcome relief in the whole cultural confusion and it can only serve all ethnic groups in South African if they can initiate (no pun intended) a fact finding mission to Bushbuckridge and learn from people who have been preserving the practise for many years, with a clean slate nogal. If a boy has to be intiated inorder to be considered a man, at least that journey has to be safe to be taken.

EXPERIMENTAL

IF THOU BE CHRIST II....
Again this week we are sampling a few lines written by poets in their personal capacity about the Son of God. Copyright to every line is held by the poets and they are reproduced on this blog for the purpose of their relevance to the subject.

"you are waiting for who’s cum
make your own cum
cos jesus is taking his holy time
coming in slow motion"

-kgafela oa magogodi

"You do not attend conferences and camp meetings
Or sell tape sets of your sermons
Or your book –
"How to Get Rich With Jesus""

-Mike Hageman

"I would like jesus to come down and demonstrate urgently
on live tv that kindness is a more efficient way to live."

-Robert Berold

"Father Christmas wields the power
O’er baby Jesus in the byre
Up until the midnight hour
When he too becomes a liar"

-Michael Roy

"Feels sick as he pulls down poster by poster
First his sculptured god, followed by the jesus impostor
The corrupt ghost join the exodus tis trinity in a suitcase"

-Goodenough Mashego

"But still, punish me, almighty Allah
Frame me with the sin of Adam
Though your Jesus died for my depression
Frame my sisters with the lust of Eve"

-St Lucas tha Ribelatti

"for the loss, the black loss
the blame is on the fake believers of the crucifying cross
for the black bled, the black got blasted
i blame jesus for wishes he left ungranted"

- Tall Sperm

OPINION

ELEVEN DAYS LATER - AN OVERDUE POST-MORTEM

Nine out of ten I know that your boyfriend, who worships only on February 14 is probably on steroids and has a loaded pistol just incase I outrun him, but I'm still going to tell you why I'll rather stoke the furnace for St Valentine before I go out with a sister who's got her eyes focused on my wallet.

It's painful that in this fast world very few good mannered sisters will recognise love if it hit them right at the forehead. One of my friends said that getting a woman to say "yes" depends largely on the energy source in the cosmic that you are both tapping on. If you are not tributaries of the same source, getting her to dial your number at 00:32 will be the equivalent of extracting a baby's tooth sans anaesthetic.

No wonder there is a whole battalion of single sisters in every block. Their corresponding men are either in prison, dead or unemployed. That last being the tricky one since an unemployed man is without self-esteem. He won't gather that little courage needed, even if you gave him a nip of vodka to chat a sister who drives a BMW 745.

My she-friend once said that men need to accept that current economic changes have meant that more women have better access to cash than men. That it's no longer about gold digging or gigolo but using their cash to take care of the men they love. I told her it's easier said than done since a time will come when, while at her parents' home, in her absence her father will ask me what do I do for a living, and my response that I'm a blogger will draw sharp rebuke and comments about how people don't eat blogs, how blogging won't guarantee that she stays smiling or put a roof over her head. I remember that she looked at me and sipped her coffee. I was right.

Sometimes it's not the father who'll ask. If I can travel 500 kilometres at R85 per trip to do a R1 (before tax) a word story, why should a sister take offence at using the same mode of transport while she's not even working and expect me to pay for the alternative? Why should she travel in luxury just to come and see me while I travel third class to hustle and make that money she says I should let her squander if I really love her?

Which is another factor that contributes to most men displaying apathy towards love, it's become too damn expensive. If you are bent on taxing me and making me spend money for your company as if you were some cheap whore from a shady escort agency, what do you think makes you so special that when someday the temptation to marry overwhelms me I will think of you? Why are you behaving like some silicone-self-conscious Sarah Jones copycat or someone who was probably left at the aisle while her man eloped with a hooker.

Valentine's Day needs not be about how much money I can spend on you, but how many minutes I can listen to you talk. Not that I should invite such a moment but you're welcome to propose a date with me.

Here lies the rub, because if you invite me out you're most definitely going to pay. One of my friends said that it's easy to take a sister's offer to go to a drive inn and watch a film if you know you can take her to a restaurant afterwards. He said being unable to book both film tickets or dine and wine her after the escapade would make him feel like a scrub, which of course he will be.

I told my sister in law it's time sisters went out there and asked men out because if they are still waiting for the love bus to come and pick them, by the time it gets to their stop it will either be full or they risk turning 30 still waiting for it. Instead of waiting to be invited to a party they must throw their own and invite bachelors to it.

However, how you behaved in your adolescence years will work against you later. If you were a tramp or a hard to get at 18 and 19, do you expect me to later think of you? Like I said sometimes it's not about money, but when a sister says that she can only make love in a guesthouse and not a hotel or suite while she's not going to foot the bill for such extravagance, the money factor surfaces and love dies.

It's easy to do an Onassis, Hilton or Versace in a guesthouse instead of taking such an order from some brown sugar who can't pay her own way. Luxury costs money and money drowns love.

And love should not be exclusive to Valentine's Day and the leap year. To most of the sisters who are out there lonely, club trotting and hunting for a man, I'm sorry to say you're partially responsible for your own situation. A customer will not pay for a commodity that isn't well packaged and marketed. For now print this page and boil it, drink the muti, it might work miracles for you Valentine's Day 2008.

TRAVELOGUE

SURVIVOR EAST LONDON
A journey by car

Three years ago I took a long journey by car (this 1991 BMW) and this is the diary entry, nothing altered.

For some time I’ve been wondering why just infront of The Union Buildings in Tshwane there is an obsolete cannon aimed at the suburbs of Sunnyside and Arcadia. Who did the founders, builders and later defenders of the city hope to fire at just incase that enemy attempted to capture Meintjieskop? I've been wondering why did we have Jan Van Riebeek on our old banknotes before Tito Mboweni occupied the grey marble skyscraper in the middle of the city. Also, why even in these days of new everythings nobody ever suggested that the Voortrekker Monument (Thaba Tshwane) be closed to the public since it is celebrating a distorted history that is painful to some people. If you have been wondering as well, do so no more, it cost them quite a lot to get to Tshwane, or Pretoria as they call it.

I took that torturous journey (but not exactly to the Cape Point) just so I should understand why some blancs found it difficult to let go of their spoils. My journey started in Tshwane and climaxed more than ten hours later in East London, which the locals adoringly call iMonti. Most of the Gauteng part of my excursion was a typical boring affair with lots of lights, shopping malls, traffic jams and the hustle and bustle that has attracted many people from outlying rural and semi-rural areas to what was once known as the City Of Gold.

It only became interesting after the infamous Grasmere Toll Plaza, which sets you back R9 when traveling on a Class One vehicle (a motorbike to a kombi), the Vaal Plaza which robs you of R29 and finally the Verkeerdevlei Plaza which extorts R26. That’s R64 off your budget before you even get to Kroonstad. I’m not going to mention the 60 litre full tank that you will need to comfortably make it to a very interesting sleeping town in the heart of Eastern Cape named Stutterheim.

The journey officially starts two hours later when you get to Kroonstad in the Free State which is already 240 kms away from Tshwane. Don't panic and think that maybe Afrikaans is the medium of instruction here. You are most likely to meet one or two acquaintances from home since they brew the best black coffee in this part of town. The beauty of Kroonstad is boosted by its scenic "a river runs through it" surreality. Truck drivers, for a reason only known to them which they are reluctant to share just love this town. Is it the coffee, the fast food outlets or the extra-extra many truck drivers are rumoured to love?

This is FS and you don’t expect to get cutting edge technology or anything you’ve never seen in Jozi. That’s until I saw a machine they call Mr. Info at Bloemfontein’s 1-Stop a mere ten kilometers before the city centre. The technology allows a traveler to pinpoint any location in Southern Africa and get instant information about it, with sound bites nogal. This is the perfect stopover if you hate the city glitz and the suspicious hooded nocturnal characters that are usually attracted to ATMs. Instant cash, instant information, but instant coffee is a luxury. A waiter here resembled what some less cultured mouths call "a bad ass". It took the man more than twenty minutes to serve me 200ml of black coffee sans muffins.

From Bloemfontein the route to take is the N6, a 560 kms long stretch of freeway. It is a Pass Your Learner’s Driver’s License textbook. Almost every conceivable road sign is here. Next time someone wants to attempt for their Learner’s Driver’s License, N6 is the route to take (have a teacher with you), then apply for a test when you reach EL. Traveling the N6 is like watching an episode of Murder She Wrote, seen it but not exactly the one you’re watching right now. There’s lots of stuff to see that you have already seen along the N1, unless of course seeing stretches of empty land is your ideal afternoon pastime.

The next stop is Aliwal North, which doesn’t mean that there is an Aliwal for every compass point. Actually the North could have been Rouxville, a one street town of quite life which you should have driven past twenty minutes earlier. If there is a tourist attraction in this bundu it should be its age. The buildings proudly give away the secret that they are old. It is an ideal place for sleepovers with its welcoming guesthouses and serenity that seems to say, "Uyamukelekile apha" ("You’re welcome here"). There’s no way one can enter the town without driving over the long bridge that borders FS and EC provinces. At Aliwal North the language changes as well. The muffins and the coffee speak volumes about this Eastern Cape border town's friendly embrace.

It’s an embrace that is felt even through the empty wasteland that is either filled with hundreds of sheep or large herds of cattle. This is sheep territory, icy cold and arid with rocky hills stretching for kilometers on end. Another common feature of the landscape is a windmill or two every ten or so kilometers. The postcard scenery is punctuated by sleeping Jamestown. Poor Jamestown, sandwiched between a rock (Aliwal North) and a hard place (Queenstown) is a perfect ruskamp for a seasoned bundu basher. It does not try to be like its two toasts but rather sticks to the role it was casted, a transit point where a guest house or two can provide a silent night of honeymooning, especially if you eloped to marry. It also resembles some Karoo town whereby families spend Sunday afternoons watching traffic lights change from red to green.

The same can’t be said about Queenstown, a town that author Professor Ngugi wa Thiong’o joked that it was the wife of King William’s Town. This is where I started seeing life, many people and taxis. There is a working class buzz that justifies the size of the town, big enough with a hospital and other necessities. Queenstown also markets itself as a religious bastion with crosses at every turn. Here you also find your familiar fast food outlets. It is bad if you want to miss home, the guesthouses are welcoming, but can’t be divorced from the one you slept in the last time you were in the East Rand of Jo’burg.

There is an interesting new development about the ghetto side of the province from here onwards. People who hike for lifts do so by flashing small cardboards with mostly two letters. One seasoned traveler informed me that the two letters are bantustan numberplates of different towns along the N6 and beyond. You need to know the towns to offer a lift, otherwise pity the poor early bird who puts their trust in you because you look decent.

Maybe the early bird was on its way to the next small town of Cathcart which is said to have been founded in 1876. I wonder alone if it was founded or raped in 1876. It’s got beautiful B&Bs for overnight accommodation. I wanted to stay over and ask what was happening on its hundredth anniversary in 1976 when the whole country was burning but I had Stutterheim to understand. A resident of Stutterheim told me that the town is famous for its unpredictable weather. "I promise you, you get five (sic) seasons in one day. It’s hot, it’s cold, it rains, it snows," he said. And it does what? He can’t say. There are some traffic lights and most of the businesses are named Amatola. Property here easily costs way into millions. It is speculated that it is basically because the premier of the province lives here as well. The town is situated at the intersection to King William’s Town, where black consciousness martyr Steve Biko lies buried at his Garden of Remembrance.
Twenty minutes later I arrive in EL after doing 1006 kilometres. Coastal EL, unlike many cities, is truly tranquil with lots of people who mind their own business and shy away from fraternizing. It should look like any other city but it doesn’t, there is nothing of the traffic jam that makes many cities buzz. People live in the city and not on its outskirts. They don’t live in run-down flats but decent guesthouses, B&Bs, townhouses and modest flats. It has its problems though as I realised when I visited West Bank, a predominantly Coloured suburb just next to the harbour. You have your corner dwellers who think that hijacking a BMW is an equivalent of winning the National Lottery jackpot. Spotting bloodshot eyes I never though I’d make it out without being strangled with a guitar string.

However for those who want to take a piece of home with them, leave it behind, this will not be a strange place for you since most of the Gauteng restaurants and outlets have operations here. And the number of churches make the Vatican look like post-Saddam Hussein Baghdad. People here take their prayers seriously.

I now confess that I wanted EL to be different from all other cities I’ve been to. I wanted that synergy that only a camera can capture during one-day cricket at St George’s Park. I however found friendly faces, people who kiss in public and are not scared to flaunt lust. I found women so beautiful they could only have come from one mother (literally).

I also found a dirty beach, an abandoned coastline and an unkosher braai area. My only consolation was that a car we left parked on the beachfront for over thirty minutes was found still spit, which should make EL an ideal holiday destination for all those who have been through the uncertainty of Hillbrow. Plus a car wash here will set you back R15. The hotels and the autobahn are world class. The name East London is found every few metres there is no way you’ll ever think you were in Port Elizabeth.

I had an English breakfast and Irish coffee for far less and wondered what’s the deal with the Irish Republican Army and the English occupiers of Northern Ireland. Here they have own Radio stations to add to the existing national ones. They also have their own newspaper (minus two of Jo’burg’s Sunday papers) and Border Technikon.

After so many hours on such a long wasteland I understood why the Afrikaners would not hand over Tshwane on a platter after traveling such a distance, not in a BMW like I did but on a saddle and a wagon, covering few miles a day. I understood why they positioned that cannon infront of Die Unie Gebou because having traveled so many kilometers into the unknown, they couldn’t risk loosing anything to anyone. If they knew the distance, the Voortrekker would have chosen to fly, not annex any land and later save the taxpayer billions of rands in land restitution. I started to wonder how people ever made the journey before God invented airplanes. You feel the frustration the Wright Brothers experienced that drove their madness. You understand why van Riebeek wouldn’t have sailed the Dromedaries and risked scurvy when an Airbus could have cut the trip by a year. Finally I wondered what would have been drawn on the old R5 banknote had Van Riebeek took a KLM airbus to the Cape. A KLM jet?

I fell in love with EL and felt bad about how abandoned its coastline is. I felt the authorities here could do more to attract people from outside. It didn’t live up to the Sho’t Left promo that drove me to visit in the first place. Maybe they get to read this review and consider me a tourist who would like to come back again, this time to sunbathe.

PS. I’m sorry East London, for the love we could have made that I made to myself.

For more information on East London, Bisho and King William’s Town visit the website: www.visitbuffalocity.co.za Email: info@buffalocity.co.za Or call: 043 722 6015

HUMOUR

DOES SIZE REALLY COUNT?

Me and my long-suffering girlfriend, who has sticked by me through my Alcoholics Anonymous (see pictures) meetings, chemotherapy sessions and painful tattooing (see pictures) hours met at a lavish coffee shop to discuss yet another burning issue, my newfound discomfort about the size of my Willy. Yeah, you heard me right, penis. The last time me and her brought rulers and calculators for my ego’s sake "it" ended up on the average side of the scale, but recently I'd been feeling small, not man enough and that affected my self-esteem.
"You know the other day I surprised everyone at the pharmacy when I demanded extra large strawberry flavoured condoms" I confessed. She smiled, while tearing the sugar sachet. "I guess the sisters licked their lips in envy huh?" she enquired.
"Sure, they fancied I packed a healthy eighteen inch" I responded, sipping my coffee idly.
"But why are you guys obsessed with penis sizes?" the question came as she seductively took a bite on a muffin.
"Lovemaking sweety, the bigger they come, the greater the oomph"
"But wasn’t Adam satisfying Eve? Did your obsession start at the Garden?" she sarcastically enquired. However, I knew there was something good about a big one since most of our friends were paying anyone with a promise to get them one. "We are only concerned with size because some of your sisters are. When you indulge in girl-talk you discuss us and suppose someone mentions how small her partner is you laugh your hearts out" I protested, she laughed out loud, spilling her coffee in the process. Some of the patrons turned to look at us as the waiter attended to her clumsiness. She found humour in what I said because she knew it wasn’t far from the truth. "So, what do you do to develop it? Balance light weights on it, put on boxer shots and exercise using skipping rope or rub that foul smelling cream, what’sitsname?" she asked laughing. The waiter returned with her replacement, she reached for the milk.
"Say whatever you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that to us size matters a lot. You must remember that a small to average one means a low to average self esteem" was my humble reasoning.
"But baby, a penis is supposed to be a tool of pleasure, more like a lollipop, not a torture stake" my girlfriend said, ordering me another cappuccino and a fresh milk tart. I gently nodded, reaching for her hand. She held my palm as if to reassure me that my size does not matter, but I knew it did.
"Okay let’s tell the truth here. Do you still remember those love toys you gave to your cousin?"
"Yes"
"Do you still remember how enormous that dildo was? All the four vibrators were huge, I am nowhere near them" I finally caught her. She blushed, then retorted strongly.
"Yeah, they couldn’t kiss me that’s why I chucked them out for you". My cappuccino came. After much silence I spoke, "So I’m just that, a substitute for a stupid gadget?" I threw a tantrum.
"No, all I’m saying is that they were huge because they couldn’t kiss me and they had to supplement for their shortfall, but you are a good kisser darling and I can’t remember how sma…" A pin dropped, she cut herself short and lifted her mug of lukewarm coffee. I looked at her, thought about doing a traditional enlargement which I knew a traditional healer who could and shock her one day when she came by my place. "I’m sorry"
"No, you meant that"
"No, forgive me, the thing is that a penis is just ten per cent of the ingredients of a healthy relationship. And suppose anybody enlarges it by muti, that’s witchcraft and I don’t fancy you subjecting yourself to the devil" she said as if she was reading my mind. She finished her muffin and outstretched her hands. A waiter came to enquire if he could run the bill. "No" I responded, "get her another coffee and muffin". He left, she made a face, I laughed. "But how do you convince a man who is really small that beany does not matter?" I asked.
"Why should we?"
"Because we will believe everything you say if you said it with sincerity, even if it was a lie"
"But baby, we don’t care about the size of your love muscle as long as you got a big heart and a big brain" she paused. Big heart, big brain? "I don’t even look down there when you strip naked because honestly, I don’t care"
"But I mean there are two of us, me and my friends say it doesn’t matter but there is always that percentage that says it does, and that which does not care is usually endowed. So what incentive do we get?" my question was solemn.
"Incentive? Okay, it’s acceptable to worry, you’re not alone. Aren’t we insecure about our own bodies too? Don’t we tell you to switch off the lights before we undress and never to videograph our sessions?" she resigned herself. I felt for her, but I knew there were times when size came in very handy. "But darling I need to be remembered for a role I played in your life. So if I can’t have a big brain, a big car, a big heart or a big wallet, at least I think it is only fair to be remembered for something big under my pants" I finally echoed. She called for the bill, I didn’t have a big wallet, she footed it. However, I had something I knew she would always remember me by. Under my pants.

CRITIQUE

A TRIBUTE TO BLACK EXCELLENCE

Was it ressurection, the second coming or reincarnation? Whatever the new owners of TRIBUTE called it, 'relaunch edition', no self-respecting magazine buyer and reader was amused. TRIBUTE as a brand did not have think that it could just dump its advertisers, subscribers, contributors and consumers then emerge two years later and have everyone convinced that a tiger has changed its spots. Who were they trying to fool?

Okay, here are some insightful information about the original TRIBUTE which was founded in 1987 and died after spending months on a life support machine. I'm not going to mention that it perished owing journalists money they still want. Its demise started when its new owners figured they knew too much about the post '94 media landscape without doing a thorough market analysis about brand loyalty versus revenue ambitions. Simple,the people who buy the brand are the audited figures you take to advertisers and convince them that they (readers) have got money to spend and thus should be targetted using a R50 000 advertisement spread placed in your magazine.

It's never the other way round. What the old TRIBUTE committed were cardinal sins. First, it led its firebrand opinionated editor Jon Qwelane go and got Maud Motanyane to replace him. When it was facing dwindling sales it recalled Qwelane only to let him go again and replace him with Sbu' Mngadi who proved to be good. Then Coca-Cola stole Mngadi and they put the late Nokwanda Sithole at the helm. She soon made way for Vusi Mona who also later left for City Press. Then the house crumbled.

First to abandon the brand was the popular poetry page SANLAM sponsorship. Then followed the short story page followed by robust opinions and thought provoking articles, humour, critical music, books, films and fine arts reviews. They were replaced with silicone political discourses, catalogue type reviews and rudderless opinions reflective of naked patronage. Such should have been expected as then editor Sefako Nyaka seemed a spindoctor who was soon 'redeployed' to Mpumalanga to rescue former Mpumalanga Premier Ndaweni Mahlangu after his monent of 'free speech'.

Real frustration set in as the publisher appointed little-known Derrick Thema to edit a cashless-soulless-dead-with-a-pulse TRIBUTE. Poor Thema tried but the Titanic was sinking fast. Instead of cutting her losses, paying her creditors and euthanise her baby, publisher Pearl Mashabela recruited former Y magazine editor Thami Masemola to recruit younger readers, a shift from the magazine being an avenue for black middle class to now enlisting kwaito fans who have no buying power, the only language understood by advertisers. Masemola added no value but only alienated adults with enough capital for that Jack Daniel and a German sedan. The final nail came when unknown Mphoentle Mageza was put in charge. It became a fully fledged catalogue which unfortunately could not justify readership. Mageza was the last person to change the diaper of a bed-ridden TRIBUTE.

And now they say it's back with a 2036 theme and a catchy slogan, 'Resilience'. It's on the shelves now. It looks weak and forced and the new publisher Mr Tlhopheho Modise, who still has to hire a credible editor and 'real' writers (not the rag-tag shaky line up of B-grade journalists wannabees) says in the editorial that, "now, with our citizenship and dignity restored, we need to be the best we can be, which is why Tribute could not be allowed to die". But sorry Sir, the citizenship was restored already when it died in 2004.

One never relishes doing post-mortems and writing obituaries, especially when the new TRIBUTE is so compact cremation will be cheaper than a burial. TRIBUTE retails at R25 and is published by Grandbridge Trading. It has been on the shelves for some time now and one is tempted to ask, who is reading it now?

FROM THE ARCHIVES

Goner-rapper Mizchief once rapped that his mother once told him that if he doesn't make it through his music in South Africa, he must catch the first bus (not plane) to Zimbabwe. One can not help but wonder if he heeded that advise. The picture below was taken at Acornhoek many years ago when he was still a superstar. With him is Goodenough Mashego (left) Mashudu Komane and Michael Mashego (right)

FROM THE ARCHIVES

Five years ago I was given a brief to review The Barnyard Theatre in White River. This is the story that was written then, nothing changed. I figure it's still relevant today. So, I'm changing nothing, including the context. Enjoy

PROLOGUE- It can only happen by either evolution or revolution. Far-removed from the glitz and glamour of South Africa’s traditional suburbia setting, where cinemas, museums, big libraries, art galleries and theatres paint the landscape arty, White River is rather the only town in the country’s abandoned countryside to boast all of the above and more. But most of all it is home to history in the making, The Barnyard Theatre. It is often said that giving birth to a revolution is painful. Arguable? Yes, because giving birth to anything is painful, but that increases the pleasure of watching it grow.

SCENE ONE- EXTEROR- THE BARNYARD: DAY (12h35)
Rain is pouring hard as the theatre offers a proud first impression amid its competitive surrounding. It is soaking wet and releasing some of the downpour down its two storey high roofing, which does not enjoy the support of water gutters. I maneuver past the downpour released by the roof, past the concrete paving, with no umbrella or raincoat I’m about to get pneumonia as I seek refuge in the theatre office, where I only know that I have a 13h00 interview appointment with a character named Steve, who I only spoke to on the phone barely twenty hours earlier.
Cut to….

SCENE TWO- INTERIOR- THE BARNYARD (Reception): DAY
Formalities with staff aside, I ogle the beautiful wooden finish office that also quadruples as a bar, restaurant, and a coffee shop. There are promo flyers pasted and pinned everywhere. The wall looks as if it’s a collage walk of fame for who’s who of South Africa’s stage performance. Everyone from Nataniel, Marc Lottering, Little Sister, Eddie Ecksteen etcetera have graced this platform. Every poster has words of gratitude and appreciation to Steve for having made everybody’s day/night. Steve comes across like a bundu legend of sorts. It seems you can’t talk about The Barnyard without mentioning Steve. One patron signature for a show about The Vagina Mologues reads, "Thank you Steve for the most extraordinary weekend- who would have believed that White River was so vagina friendly. I can’t wait for next time- love Lara" (2&3 June 2000)

The intriguing one is from Marc Lottering, "To stunning Steve + all at the Barnyard- what a fab experience for a Cape Flats boy!! Darlings, I’ll be back" (24 February 2001). There are tens of posters with such messages and that makes me die to meet Steve.
Cut to…

SCENE THREE- INTERIOR- THE BARNYARD (Auditorium): DAY
Two floors which can easily pass off as three if the production booth is considered to be on another floor, everything is furnished in wood. Tens of lanterns stage a farm vigil. An assistant takes me around, explaining to me that not only do they stage shows here but also weddings, matric dances, all different kinds of parties too. She swears that the state of the art barn theatre fills to capacity on good days. I’m cynical since she doesn’t look the PR type and doesn’t fit my idea of theatre literati. The production booth is equipped with some of the latest lighting control equipment and sound system, with a scenic view to all the seats and the majestic stage.
Cut to…

SCENE FOUR- INTERIOR- THE BARNYARD (Stage): DAY
A black grand piano stands lonely. The dressing rooms behind the purple curtains are all – to borrow a word from Marc Lottering- fab. The two floors look intimidating from the stage, with the seats and tables below and above. I feel for performers here. I sit on the chair next to the piano and punch in some keys, playing my original spec of the moment compositions. My sound is intoxicating as the assistant comes to see the maestro behind the tunes.
Cut to…

DIALOGUE- Steve arrives minutes after one o’clock and is apologetic. Over hot chicken and pap lunch he says that he personally built the 250 seater theatre four years ago after he obtained the first franchise in South Africa from the founder, Mr. Louis Moller who now lives in Pretoria. "The concept started in Plettenberg Bay in the East Coast about ten years ago. I understand that Moller just took an empty barn on his farm, removed the tractor and all other tools then converted it into a theatre. That’s how it got its name" Steve Ryan says. He also says that the attendance of the shows differs on whether it is a commercial or non-commercial show. "A commercial show is that which has received its fair share of publicity but a non-commercial show is a new one altogether" he explains.

Steve is not happy about the benefits he reaps out of running the theatre. Even though he owns five other theatres across the country, with another one opening in Fourways (Johannesburg) soon, he says he sometimes wonders why he ever started it. "I don’t get much support from local people. I don’t get sold out every weekend, if a show is original they don’t come, even though we provide a nice picnic environment and a warm surrounding". The question is, why don’t the people come? "The difference between this theatre and others in regard to attendance is that it’s in the countryside. It is difficult here to run it in a way that it makes money. Enough money to pay artists and book shows. Some people in South Africa don’t support theatre". Why? "Theatre doesn’t receive massive sponsorships like sports, theatre is not our culture".

But being one of only two theatres in Mpumalanga Province it is safe to argue that he is entitled to some support from government. "We (The Barnyard) don’t receive any support from the Department of Arts, Sports and Culture here. I have spoken to all of them. We only get good support from business and we got regular clients". It is surprising that they haven’t attracted any government subsidies, bearing in mind that one of the framed letters on the wooden display, which I read while Steve left to fetch us both coffee and a chocolate cake is for thanking The Barnyard Theatre for its donation of R7896, 35 to the Greater Nelspruit Rape Intervention Project Group (GRIP).

"The geographical location is a huge disadvantage since most of the people we get as tourists are those from Mozambique and Swaziland" he discloses. His biggest stumbling block remains that of lack of enthusiasm in his theatre from people who can make a bigger difference. He says that if there was support they could have comedy shows, but now there is no funding available for comedians. He urges government to be involved in helping The Barnyard expose theatre to rural communities, schools and promote groups and plays. "Otherwise nobody can say we are under any obligation to transform theatre in this country" Steve, who can be real mean, says with intimidating defiance. He swears that theatre has never flourished in this country, "The Market Theatre shows are mostly subsidized by government, where is the culture of theatre?" He finally invites me to come and witness for myself the undoing of his theatre and why he "does it only because there’s nothing else to do since I have invested a lot of money" in it. I get token tickets for the ride.

Three days later@SCENE ONE- EXTERIOR- THE BARNYARD: NIGHT
Hordes of art people are mingling as two braai fires and a jolly patronage sips liquor and socializes. I maneoure past the happy enthusiasts to meet Steve and pose my questions.
Cut to…

SCENE TWO- INTERIOR- THE BARNYARD (Reception): NIGHT
The area is packed as Steve allocates the patrons their seats, all patrons are white. Men with their women, fathers with their families. The show looks sold out as I and my friend get allocated seats number 37 and 38 on the second floor with a priceless view to the stage below. The theatre is filled, and at R95 per person and a R55 three course meal I start to wonder why Steve said he was regretting the venture.

THE SHOW- A Handful of Keys – Starring: Ian von Memerty & Roelof Colyn & Two Grand Pianos.

The performance by the two piano geniuses draws applause from the packed auditorium as they take us through the history of music, from Mozart to Billy Joel. Their comic antics are superbly funny and their show hilarious. It’s my first time in a musical and I’m left astounded. Ian and Roelof play so well together you can’ help but wonder what will happen if one of them died. All through this madness Steve is sipping beer by the production cubicle, not amused.

EPILOGUE- At 22h30 I walk out and find The Barnyard Theatre’s birth giver sitting all alone by the exit, as if he’s sad to see everybody go. In my head I’m thinking about what he said three days earlier about theatre not being our culture as South Africans. We need a revolution. As everybody packs their picnic bags and leaves I’m thinking, maybe it’s true, there might not be a culture. But it’s disputable because The Barnyard Theatre is a culture in itself and Steve is its legend. The theatre will host Pieter Dirk Uys and Mark Lottering again soon. Curtain out.

EXPRERIMENTAL

"IF THOU BE CHRIST..."
Seven lyrics about the Son of God. This is a new post-Sunday feature. Send your lyrics and picture and grace this space

"When Jesus Christ is all of a sudden born in Qhudeni, near Nquthu, you can't help but sit and listen" - Makhosazana Xaba

"They say Jesus is my father but I ain't seen Jesus in my house" - St Lucas tha Ribelatti

"I smoked a spliff with Jesus Christ" - Lebogang Mashile

"Few people remember me like they forgot Jesus Christ" - Goodenough Mashego

"We hail Jesus Christos, in time of trouble and need" - Uhuru

"My girlfriend sends poems to Jesus Christ" - Gary Cummiskey

"Jesus is a communist/ marching side by side/ with the feminist" - Mbongeni Khumalo

REVIEW

RISK POETRY - WHY INVEST?
This weekend we review The Red Laughter of Guns in Green Summer by Alan Finlay and Phillip Zhuwao

Chainpoetry is not really a new style. It is however a giving-receiving approach to self expression that very few poets, very few indeed, due to their ego-centric make-up find too covert to expose their individual lyrical prowess. At the same time it is an approach that can be used succesfully by matured poets who feel they've got nothing left to prove, as did former New Coin editor Alan Finlay and Zimbabwean poet Phillip Zhuwao.

According to the editorial penned by Alan the two spent a month and a half in 1995 to jointly-write The Red Laughter of Guns In Green Summer Rain. (Pause right there, evidence seems to suggest that Zhuwao die in 1994 and not much is known about him apart fom an interview in Bleksem written by Alan)

Okay, here's how it works, jot down between a word a paragraph, pass the paper to you and you do the same and pass it back to me. It can be anything between that, meaning a chain has got links and if one is going to provide the next link it's almost the nextn word. At the end we read the product and analyse if it makes any sense at all. Usually it does or doesn't.

Chainpoems are a risk or a risque. They are artworks you engage in when you are too confident about your prowess and posess a giving spirit - often without receiving the equivalent. Alan and Phillip had enough time to engage in their craft, that's until as Alan writes, "the weather grew, i got a job, phillip left on the train to harare".

The Red Laughter of Guns in Green Summer is 32 pages long, published by Gary Cummiskey's Dye Hard Press and contains 18 poems. It is divided into IV chapters, each containing both the poets' DNA. In I'm Scared of Going into Darkness it becomes difficult to detect the point of merger. "I'm scared of going into the dark/ I'm scared of being forgotten/ I'm scared of flowers growing from my chest/ and the laughter of bees as I struggle to rise".

Only four poems make Chapter I, there's an obvious weakness which is similar to that of rap songs that are rushed into the studio or released because the artist suddenly died and left unreleased material. Check out Tupac Shakur's posthumous songs to see what I mean.
In the absense of a theme the name of the poems is taken from the first line of the text. What with the one I've reviewed starting with the words from the title. Others following the self-defeatist approach are What's in me is difficult to explain, in our shoulders are broken hunches and Of Angels and Demons. This is unattractive.

However, as if the two men felt the weakness, Chapter II improves, with a shrewd Song, as the title of a poem. And here you are left wondering if this is a poem to be sung or it's just a name. Quite interesting, you don't find the word 'song' anywhere in the body and you start singing. That's called freedom of imagination. Then there's Song of the Falling Leaves and Summer Sunglasses

While both styles are explored succesfully in the book the only strong point really is the attempt at providing themes that the duo do with the introduction of every Chapter. Somehow, one feels that the short verses are solid and are tied together.

Like I said, chainpoetry is for the over-confident whose previous works have set their bench-mark. But if you're just starting, you'll get lost in the depth of simulated mediocrity, avoid it, only Alan and Phillip could risk this much.

*Alan Finlay's picture sourced from JournAIDS (www.journaids.org)

EXCLUSIVE

"LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION, BUT WHERE'S THE MAIN CHARACTER - MPUMALANGA?"

MPUMALANGA FILM OFFICE - The Untold Story

There are two facts that are undisputed in Mpumalanga and about the province.
Fact#1 Mpumalanga, with its scenic beauty and postcard landscapes does not have an office that can hold accountable anyone wanting to exploit its beauty for financial gain. This means that any Tom, Piet and Zodwa can pack their filming equipment in a combi rented at OR Tambo Airpot, go to the Blyde River Canyon, film for a week, while sleeping in tents, pack the canned reels and fly to Europe not through Kruger Mpumalanga International Airport (connecting in Jozi), but directly out of OR.

They can get to Europe, distort the facts about God's Window, then sell the film back to us with French subtitles. This can be done without informing the powers that be or them laying rules for the wealthy exploiter. Part of Fact #1 is that you can't do half the above in Cape Town, Gauteng and Kwazulu-Natal without paying a certain amount or employing locals. Actually you can't do it anywhere in the world - but Mpumalanga. No ways. During the filming of Blood Diamond, a building at Victoria Street in Cape Town, owned by Centre for the Book was used for a single scene of the flick. Filming lasted for three days and the producers ended up parting with approximately R100 000 for using the facility. Using 'a fixed facility' not a human being, while a local extra told Kasiekulture last week he was paid R100 for taking part in Catch A Fire as an extra, filming for the whole cold Witbank day in a dam. Insulting heh?

If you tried guerilla filming in regulated zones you'll soon find yourself in a situation whereby you are forced to buy milk at eMsinga for you and your crew's breakfast, uphuthu at Pietermaritzburg for your lunch and red meat at Howick for your dinner. Cape Town is even more regulated since you can't just hire a chopper, film Tafelberg and package it into your advert selling parachutes without the Film Commission holding you to account. The issue here is that you can't just shoot films in a province without hiring locals as unionised and well paid extras, bit part actors, camera operators, drivers, security guards, cleaners, caterers and runners. You can't always order your McDonalds from a mall in Fourways and get them couriered to set without supporting the Chisanyama, Chickendust and curios shops in the bundus. This is how it is supposed to be, this is how it's done in Gauteng, Cape Town and KZN even though they don't have equally scenic locations to sell.

Question is; why could anybody just do it in Mpumalanga without answering to anyone. Answer; because some comrade will not approve the establishment of something s/he can not materially benefit from. S/he can not give a green light for the creation of an office so technical he can not successfully recommend the deployment of his/her cousin, nephew or sister. Someone is holding the development agenda of the whole province hostage because of his/her selfish greed.

Fact#2. A proposal for the establishment of a film office for the whole of Mpumalanga was presented last year on the 2nd of October at 09:02 and addressed to pontsho@nel.mpu.gov.za and pontsho@mpg.co.za. The proposal for a meeting to interrogate the establishment was received, according to the Mail Administrator at webmail, but no correspondence followed. Pontsho did not respond to the proposal for a meeting. No acknowledgement of receipt, only clips in newspapers about how the department was going to send individuals to the Los Angeles Film Festival to study how to set up such an office. Shame, one can forsee unnecessary expenditure, or a comrade dying to see the States.

The proposal, which the first paragraph of its contents was;

"We, the abovementioned group are hereby requesting a formal business meeting with your office to make a presentation on the following;

1. A Proposal on the establishment of the Mpumalanga Film Office, an initiative that will bring millions of rands into the province and create hundreds of jobs while at the same time transferring much needed skills to the youth of this province. We call this part of the proposed meeting The 2nd Gold Rush - Mpumalanga Through the lens of the camera.".

The full proposal was not that explicit about what needed to be done but was outlining the benefits likely to emanate from such an office for the hollistic growth of the province

When told about the idea having been pitched one bureaucrat asked, "Would you mind if your idea was taken by the department then put to tender and it results in you losing the bid even though the idea was yours?". The answer he got was, "No, because we are currently making money out of whatever activity we are involved in and are not that desperate. Our intention is for the office to be set and for local talent to benefit. Even if we lose it, it won't matter as long as the office will be there, competent and marketing the province while ensuring the circulation of the dollar in the province". Then he asked further, "Do you know that if it's put to open tender you might lose it?" The response, "This is a highly specialised institution and there's no way we will lose it to a local company, and we believe local procurement is one of the key stipulations of any government procurement policy". To the uninitiated, generally, a Film Office is an agency of government, a Section 21 company and not a part and parcel or Directorate of the Department of Arts.

Then, when another bureaucrate at Arts and Culture was called and requested to furnish the proposers with email addresses of key people, including Member of the Executive Council Nomsa Mtsweni and her Head of Department, he said that those addresses can not be given because "the MEC will still refer you to the Chief Director or to Communications, those addresses you can have". When told that the letter will be dispatched to all of them including the Chief Director he insisted that only one person should receive the letter. The proposal was sent and it's been quite.

Then a question was asked to one of the managers at Mbombela Municipality which, according to the proposal was going to benefit in the form of an annual week long film festival, corporate sponsors, gay and lesbian film festival, Mpumalanga International Film Awards and cultural activities meant to co-incide with the week-long event; why would the folks at Provincial government display apathy to such a brilliant concept?

Look, the guys were prepared to conduct film workshops in Mpumalanga schools, organise tertiary bursaries for short film competition winners and even bring local film premieres to the province, with all the benefits of celebrities, hotel bookings, car rentals, restaurant customers, tourists, booming film industry and exposing the province.

The guy from Mbombela responded, "they are not going to approve any idea coming from people they don't know or not known to the guys at KaMkholo or from whom they cannot extort kickbacks". You know, that sucked. 'The guys at KaMkholo' refers to the African National Congress provincial top brass. It was puzzling, if the comrades can hold a development agenda hostage because an individual who listened to President Thabo Mbeki that any service not currently rendered must be solicited, is not known to them? In which capacity? ANC member? Inner-circle crony or belong to the same faction? Who the fuck are they or who the fuck do they think they are? Government?

Maybe the bunch was not known indeed. However the attraction should be that they are young and black. A journalist who attended the premiere of Catch A Fire last week commented that one bureaucrat from Arts and Culture told him that Mpumalanga does not have capable people who can set up and run the institution and that they (DASC) are currently in discussions with National Film and Video Foundation about its establishement. Sorry comrade, point of correction; NFVF is a funding agency, not a consultancy.

Even predominantly rural Limpopo will have an office before Mpumalanga, that is if Trade and Investment Limpopo's Saul Molobi's brainchild gets born instead of being aborted. It looks like it will be born because it's past twelve weeks, unless a miscarriage happens.

Is Mpumalanga that brain drained? Maybe one needs to review some of the individuals who pitched the proposal for a meeting. They called themselves Izithombe Bioscope Concepts and were made of some the following people;

1. Goodenough Mashego is a published poet/ journalist/ scriptwriter and novelist who has written for a variety of South African magazines and newspapers amongst them City Press, Leadership, INSIG, DRUM, Sundayworld, Black Business Quarterly (BBQ), Y, etc. He currently freelances and has written extensively for Mpumalanga News. He was the Contributing Editor of the now discontinued Bohlabela News, the newsletter for the municipality. He has done Public Relations Consulting for the Limpopo Provincial Government (Premier's Office, Departments of Tourism, Transport and Treasury) through a Johannesburg based communications company called The Corporate Communications Agency (CCA). He is currently based in Mpumalanga where he writes film scripts, poems and perspective articles. He runs his own media company.

2. Lucky 'Shaft' Moropane is an award winning film director of the M-Net New Directions series screenplay Idia (Ivory Mask). He won the Durban International Film Festival Best Short Film award two years ago and his student film Small Street is one of the few to be screened by the public broadcaster as a commercial venture. He is a BA Honours degree graduate of the famed AFDA film school where he majored in Directing. He has since directed tens of advertisements, music videos, short films and most recently thirteen episodes of the SABC1 drama Tsha-Tsha. He also directed the first IsiSwati variety show Ses'khona. He has just finished filming a forthcoming series for SABC called Plein Street with James Ngcobo as an ANC Chief Whip. He is a successful young filmmaker for whom home is Bushbuckridge. He is currently based in Johannesburg.

3. Ntobeko Dlamini has worked on numerous film projects as a Director of Photography (DOP) or what is called a cinematographer. He has worked very closely with Moropane on many projects and he is being credited for having brought Tsha-Tsha from oblivion into the mainstream through his intelligent camera work. He has done many music videos and many other projects for SABC. He is also a graduate of AFDA and holds a BA Honours degree in film, majoring in Cinematography. He is a a citizen of Swaziland, which makes his SiSwati as pure as any spoken in the province. His ambition is to have as many films and dramas as possible produced in local languages and shot on scenic locations he has spotted through his DOP eye in the province.

4. Moyahabo Phosa is a Mpumalanga resident who graduated from AFDA Film School with a BA Degree in Production. She went to the same school around the same time with Moropane and Dlamini.

This is the Untold Story of how Mpumalanga does not have a Film Office, how an international film was shot two weeks ago at Graskop, funded by the French and starring no one from the province. It wouldn't be surprising if nobody at Government knows that such a multimillion activity took place under their noses. A documentary was shot in this provinces two years ago, starring six Mpumalanga residents, it was filmed at Shatale, Nelspruit, KwaNdebele, Matsamo Cultural Village and Masakeng but nobody initiatived a local premiere. What's wrong?
Suggestion; the government must just put the bid for Mpumalanga Film Office to tender and invite interested parties to pitch, no patronage, no connection and let's see if this province will not create employment for all the Mncedisi Shabangus and Ayanda Mbulis who are still waiting to be discovered.

* Attempts were made to contact the son of Mpumalanga, Mncedisi Shabangu who works for the Market Theatre in Jozi, Kasiekulture was told that he's rehearsing for Can Themba's The Suit. No attempt was made to contact the people at government because their story is known. What do you make of people who came up with an arts festival that has got nothing to do with the province but is named MACFest? People who come up with awards to honour everyone but Shabangu, an award winning director and actor remains unhonoured. A decision was made that you be the one who contact them at 013 766 5200 and not Kasiekulture because it has no green barcoded ID and cannot vote.

* If you have strong comments about the article and its contents send your petition to pontsho@nel.mpu.gov.za or pontsho@mpg.co.za (these are the adresses given to the patriots who wanted to see the province flourish). Or send your beef to us we'll publish it and invite the guys to read your concern.