DIARY

WHAT HAPPENS IN JOZI...

I still have to figure out who came up with this, what do I call it, statement? My English is so fucked up I don't know the difference. However I been fascinated by it for some time because to a larger extent it implies non-disclosure of important details but focusing on the surface (less important) stuff. And it simply means that whatever people get up to in places where you are not you are unlikely to know exactly what went down, even if there's much mentioning of your partner as a willing participant as swine volunteering to provide bacon at the breakfast table for the rest of its life.

Sure, the last time I was in this jovial humourous mood was when I put together the yellow Hummer post which seems to have gone down well with my loyalest visitors. We all need yellow Hummers I guess and right there I was making people's dreams come true. For sure I have met a few pips who told me they now aspire to own theirs. Some were soon writing to etv trying to source commissioning briefs for its documentary invitation. The invitation closes on September 31 so rush and pitch your idea, you never know we might spot you in a yellow or red Hummer with the registration numbers KANJALO GP.

I however am not going to tell you about what really happened in Jozi but what did not happen. We will pretend that this is what happened in five days in Jozi.

DAY ONE: THE ZIMBABWEAN WITH A PASSPORT

On my arrival on Sunday after my four hours in a what I will call non-luxurious City to City bus I call my lawyer friend to shuttle me to this god-forsaken part of town. After the logistics of getting at Stay City which is situated at 46 High Street in Berea I made myself comfortable in my room which is actually nice with a television that I suspect is on Vodacom Compact because it does not have the full Dstv menu but some six or seven channels obviously selected by the manager. Sometimes one wonders what drives a souls to want to indulge in Movie Magic, Supersport, etv, SABC1,2,3 and a few obscure channels without having one SABC Africa, CNN or BBC on the roster.

I watch the Chelsea vs Aston Villa game and am intrigued by how English soccer has become so damn boring since La Liga started using more darkies with flair. English soccer is almost like soccer table, left wing passes to midfielder and midfielder makes a couple of dead passes before passing to right-winger who will pass to the lone striker who will lose it before he could make two moves. No wonder Chelsea lost while Didier Drogba was overworked like a slave donkey. At some stage, when they were 2-0 down I saw Roman Abramovic, the billionaire Russsian taking to his feet to leave before the game is over. If ever he had such a short temper even in his real estate businesses he could have left coastlines in peace a long time ago.

Later that night I go out for dinner and am confronted by a Zimbabwean journalist named Nkululeko Sibanda who actually speaks isiZulu. The man has got so many obsolete newspapers infront of him, Saturday Star with all its nuances, Sunday Times, Daily Sun and lots of paperwork I am not familiar with but can swear to God they are old. But I can see that he is fascinated by all of them because for him maybe for the first time he believes what he's readin since they are not government owned.

Obviously we are both here for the Investigative Journalism Workshop and we begin to chat. We discuss South Afrika, Zimbabwe, the World and end up discussing Manto Tshabalala Msimang. Fine, I later go to sleep.

DAY TWO: THE MAIN REASON I'M HERE

First person I see when I go to fix breakfast is Rapula, this dude whom I work with at Lowveld Media and who usually writes lots of stories. Okay he's coming for breakfast and he did not expect me here. Okay dude I'm here. He's with Happy, another colleague from the same company. We catch up over what the pig promised it would provide and some fatty stuff that gives me a feeling that it's clogging my arteries with every bolus I deposit. We don't need much catching up though since we all come from the same area.

After a short trip by bus we get to Wits University Education Campus whih is situated at Parktown, just a few metres from the Institute for the Advancement of Journalism (IAJ). We proceed to Boyce Block where the workshop is taking place. After the formalities we get to meet a woman who has, in her investigative journalism endevours brought down not one but two Filipino governments. She's a petite pretty woman named Sheila Coronel and probably best known and feared by former president Estrada. We now have tactics of how to bring down Thabo Mbeki's government and that of Jacob Zuma after him.

That becomes so important especially when we later have Sunday Times editor Mondli Makhanya who, while he takes us through how the story about the minister of health being a drunk and thief was put together, he does not want to be clear on how they managed to have their hands on her medical records. That is not even explained by investigtions editor Wisani Ngobeni. All Mondli could confirm is that they were not stolen. "No, we didn't steal them, that I can promise you". He doesn't look edgy for a man whose head is on some SANCO guilotine in the event that he misses one step. The story, which I also later read on the Cell-C Juice site that South African National Civics Organisation, that civic organisation that can not manage its own household wants him arrested for not having applied for amnesty for his activities back in the 1980s in the African National Congress' Self Defence Units. The story goes to say that the dinosaur organisation is not impressed with his newspaper's handling of the Manto saga. Well, they are not alone as the SABC protested to Mondli's newspaper by withdrawing from the South African National Editors' Forum.

For sure SANCO should do it because they are fighting for relevance in a socio-political environment that is hostile to dinosaurs. This is given that I have more than one friend who took part in the SDU and who never applied for amnesty because the ANC took collective responsibility for the conduct of their footsoldiers. Why should Mondli be the only one to apply alone?

We then go through the story of how apartheid South Afrika spent more than R100 million in trying hard to distort the media picture of what was happening in this country. The story is known as the Muldergate scandal because it was led by Dr Mulder and exposed a masterplan by apartheid SA to buy out any media that was negative in its reporting of its activities anywhere in the world. The veteran journalist taking us through it is Mervyn Rees who also authored a book about the debacle.

Later that day we got to be blessed by the presence of Talk Radio 702's Redi Direko who was there to stage a mock interview. The folks with her, Margaret Renn and Brooks Spector create a scenario whereby a spindoctor from the Department of Health (not Sibani Mngadi) is facing the media about difficult issues dogging the department in Frere and the government's so-called comprehensive AIDS strategy. It's nice and educational but my focus is on the wow-wow-wow Redi who looks like she has been smeared with caramel all over her body. Wow!

DIARY

DAY THREE: THE NEW HAIRDO

Early in the morning Nkululeko relates to us the story of the alleged 'horny little Bishop' Pius Ncube of Bulawayo who heads so many million Catholics in formerly Rhodesia, including president Robert Mugabe. The bishop who has been in the limelight for all the wrong reasons, apart from criticizing Mugabe.

I am of the opinion that the few pictures I saw in magazines of the bishop peeling off some white panties were staged. Well, I know the difference betweeen staged and realtime pictures and I swear to Nkululeko that the ones I saw appeared staged. He tells me that they were shot by an SABC journalist. Now we all know one thing or two about SABC journalists and their not to hyped objectivity when it comes to covering Zanu PF and Zimbabwe.

Nkululeko tells me that on the full version video, which Mugabe made a point of promoting three weeks earlier during one of his ego-boosting rallies the little bishop is seen trying to do it without any consideration for foreplay (or fiveplay - a minimum time to be taken is four minutes - well, you can have a 12Play like R.Kelly) and he has difficulty finding his way because the anaconda he packs under his boxers is really massive and makes porn starts look like saints. "Then he reaches for glycerine and empties the whole bottle on the poor woman's quim who has her legs wide spread and he still experiences difficulty getting through and this is not a virgin but some other parishioner's wife. And when he finally gets through it takes him few seconds to cum", he says.

We all laugh and start debating about the sense behind using glycerine when one can use KY gel, and vaseline. One woman even says that she always thought glycerine was sticky even if one intended to lay the foundation for a muff. "There are not such gels on Zimbabwe shelves but only condoms", he reasons. Wow!.

By the way I am supposed to hook up with Uhuru later on the day who recently sent me a JPEG of herself in freaky Afro saying it's her new look. Yeah, the Afro makes her look to damn good (see No Need to Romanticize the pre-colony). Along the way to Wits we ask Nkululeko what brand was the bishop using so that we can help to penetrate the market. "Sure, we can increase its market penetration" I say.
"It is probably produced by Johnson & Johnson"

At around 15h00 Uhuru finally pitches and she's a different person from the one I received her JPEGs barely two weeks earlier. Okay we find a rendevzous where we talk in peace about all things bright and beautiful all creatures great and small that the Lord God made - all of them. We discuss Afrikan literature because she is doing a big course in that and she's got these archaic looking books that she has to refer from for some of her writings which of course goes on to grace Kasiekulture. And she tells me that she's going to major in English and maybe be a professor and maybe she can fix me a doctorate at any institution that she'll be at. I feel paranoid that someday she'll be editing my posts and picking the useless nuances I love to bore you with and replacing them with good royal words. Kasiekulture is hers as good as it's mine. We discuss stuff, free love, Branch Davidians, living and dying as a mob, free everything and hey, I'm going back to Jozi somewhere this month because tonight she couldn't cook me some chicken something-something because I had a function to attend, the John Manyarara Award ceremony at IAJ. She promised to cook me chicken something and I can't wait.

At IAJ they have got lots of beer and wine and all things toxic except weed, I wonder why. I end up liaising with a Zimbabwean journalist who works for an NGO. I also meet City Press Editor Mathata Tsedu, for the first time after many years of writing for his newspaper. Awards are given to Jessica Pitchford and some journalist from Malawi for his story about food in prisons.

Soon we move back to Berea where after intoxicating ourselves with poison it calls for some more which is exactly what we go for in Yeoville, or what is left of it. I can see four of the folks are getting closer now and they are pegging themselves like print proofs. We get back to the hotel and yeah, the folks start that nasty tongue kissing that makes me wanna go out and puke bile. I am holding on to my last bottle of cider and trying to be a deejay on some laptop that only plays L'Vovo Derango and Oliver Mtukudzi.

Nkululeko is with us and then I see it getting hectic with the folks just next to me and decide to finish my ale and leave them to fuck in peace, hoping they'll fix Nkululeko with an orgy moment since the guys are two and the girls are two except for the odd one out.

DIARY

DAY FOUR: PEARL

In the morning I ask them if they let Nkuli on the fuck and they say 'hell no' and then I ask if he voyeured the whole sweaty activities and he tells me he left as well. Sweet boy.

Something very funny happens when early in the morning I get a call from the mayor of my municipality. I'm thinking that I 'm not even in Bushbuckridge and he tells me that he called me just to say 'hi'. Funny hey, a mayor calling someone who has been critical of the way he runs the municipality for such a long time only to say hi. This is inspiring stuff. I've recently been entertaining thoughts of playing the Roman Fool (committing suicide) by falling on my own pen as I now go full blast for my chase of the mighty dollar but now I change my mind - the mayor makes me feel like I truly matter..

And more inspiration comes from me meeting Melinda Ferguson (Smacked author and True Love senior journalist) and noseweek editor Martin Welz. Well, in this industry this are the guys we look up to for their staying power without resorting to any Viagra. When I grow up (to borrow a line from Kwaki) I want to be just like them.

When the workshop drags on I notice a healthy overwhelming attraction between yours sincerely and a pretty light skinned woman whose name I don't know but I just feel I like as if I've never liked anything before. But if you've been in my shoes and know the difference between beauty and beauty with brains you should know that when it's a rap it's a rap. At some stage we get to chat (something I wanted to do since the first day when I spotted her) and she tells me about how she'll still be hanging in South Afrika after the worshop for a few days. I enquire about how she'll be conquering the boredom of city living and she tells me that she'll be strolling around and smoking some of the best weed she can find around. You should have seen how my eyes widened and I looked like a child thrown into a chocolate factory at the mere mentioning of hydro.

She tells me she has a spliff which she hooked up from some rastafarian who's bored with his own revolution and wants new recruits. We talk about the logistics of meditating during one of the million breaks and we organise the venue. She's rather afraid that if the authorities busts us on our session they will deport her since she comes from Namibia. I tell her to hell with deportation if she only has enough to puff and nothing to deal. "They can't throw you out of the country over a single joint", I give her free legal advise. I tell her I suspect that even the president smokes. I tell her we'll hook up a spot where we can smoke in peace.

During tea time she comes through while I'm finishing my cup and we find a place at one of the stadiums at Wits. We spot a shade where we go and chill, and she pulls out a blunt and a box of matches and I spark it and we puff and she becomes paranoid because the smell might alert the narcotics squad and she lights a cigarette and I keep puffing and give to her and she puffs and confesses that she doesn't need to smoke a lot but a little, well me I finish the muthafucka and we agree that I should come to Namibia without any attempt to smuggle the Swazi since she will organise when I'm that side and we agree that for shietzy I will arrange to come once the National Lottery is up and running again (joking). Right here I feel what Shaft once joked about relating to the sisters who have never smoked near to waterfalls to the point that if you took them there they would brag to their friends, 'wow my friend, I met this lion that took me to Zion'. This here now feels like Zion and I doubt if I'm a lion since the sister resembles a lioness.

We move back and it's all good and after everything else when all stuff is said and done she takes my details 'just incase you lose mine', she says and we depart and I can't wait to go to Namibia cuz I sensed some serious attraction which I love and her hand is soft I felt it when she was ascending in stillettos and I had to give her a hand. I love the attraction and it was strong - period.

PART II

When I get to the hotel, Bruce, some chap I knew from Lowveld Media and who made contact with us on the second night is there and we chat. Actually most of the time we talk shit. Well, tonight we chat about Bushbuckridge, its radio station and stuff like that and we talk about the Vaseline and Glycerine and he adds that in the absense of the two the little Bishop in Bulawayo could have used Gasoline. 'It's the 'line' that matters not the lubricant' , he says humourously.

He then warns that in the event of gasoline being the lubricant of choice there needs to be a fire extinguisher next to the bed incase of fire because it is a flammable liquid. This draws laughter from all of us.

Talk is suddenly about how creative Mugabe is and how he can win an Emmy Award if he entered some of the dramas he films, like that one of Morgan Tsvangarai plotting to kill him with some chaps in a dark smoke-filled room reminiscent of the Sopranos. Well I'm reliably informed that the President writes the scripts and gets film crews to shoot the flicks, like getting someone from SABC Africa to provide him with a camera and soundbites.

This other guy who I'm not going to disclose because he told me this story off the record and who is not Nkululeko (to save him from desperate Zimbabwe Central Intelligenge Organisation agents) says that all the flicks are executively produced by Uncle Robert himself.

"Some of the reality TV coming out of Zimbabwe would make Mark Burnett green with envy. He makes Carte Blanche looks rehearsed and scenes re-enacted"
He was saying this in response to the Bishop Pius Ncube tape. "Clever editing, good sound and excellent choreography".

Well this is (not) the story of my life on the few days I was in Jozi. I'm going back for the chicken something-something, Uhuru should remind me. And I'm fixing to go to Windhoek. Let's hope next time we can have a WHAT HAPPENS IN NAMIBIA... I'm living my life for sure!

Ooops, the little Bishop has since quit, feels like a chess board right, because king Mugabe used the horse (ZCIO) to topple him.