Do I Look Like A Racist, Or What?

 

I am accustomed to the way things are in this fucked up country, and now that I’m in my sixties I wouldn’t choose to live anywhere else, even if I could. But that’s not to say that I am resigned, or that my exasperation never turns to anger. On the contrary, my seething emotions frequently drive me towards confrontation of the dangerously violent kind. Like the other day when I was walking with the dog and enjoying the warm sun on my back and the sea air in my face.

It was in Crest Road, on the way to the beach. A man of about my age was unloading tools from the back of a Toyota bakkie. He was a short man with a small to medium-sized potbelly, and there was a white bandage wrapped around the forefinger of his left hand. I assumed that he had inflicted the injury to himself using a hammer, and when I recognised him as Snyman of Twist Street, I hoped that it wouldn’t be long before he delivered another blow to that finger. We had exchanged words on only one occasion, and that was when he falsely accused my dog of shitting on his pavement.

It would have been boorish to ignore him, and I try not to act like a boor, because I despise crassness and insensitivity in others, so I nodded a greeting as I passed.

“Did they also break in by you?” he said, lifting a stepladder over the tailgate.

“No?”

“They’re breaking in all over,” he said, and explained that he was doing repairs to yet another house that had been burgled. This was the tenth in less than two weeks.

“Must be linked to the high unemployment,” I said.

He looked at me for a bit and then commenced his racist tirade, the like of which I have not heard in twenty years, and thought I would never be subjected to again.

“Nothing to do with unemployment,” he said. “The kaffers will steal from the white man anytime they can. The fokken kaffer is an ‘it.’ “It” is not human. It is half human and half baboon. The fokken kaffer is a halfmens. Look what they did to that farmer and his wife in the Free State. A human being doesn’t do that.”

“Atrocities are being committed all over the world all the time,” I said. “Look at how the Nazis behaved in the Second World War.”

“No,” he said. “”It’s just a pity the Germans were defeated. Adolf Hitler was right. If he had won the war there would be no fokken kaffers anywhere now.”

“I can’t believe this!” I was spluttering and had to wipe the spittle from my lips. “So you’re not only a racist but a neo-Nazi as well?”

He laughed and took it as a compliment.

“You know,” he said, “I was talking to a doctor and he explained to me that it has been proved that the fokken kaffer is not human like us. He is still half a baboon, and that’s why he behaves like a fokken kaffer. This is the missing link between real humans and baboons.”

“When was your doctor struck off the roll?” I said. “Was it before or after he talked this shit to you? You know about DNA testing? If they analysed your DNA they’d find black blood in you and all the other Afrikaners. That makes you a halfmens as well.”

“Yes, but the forefathers only frootled with the kleurling meide. Not the kaffer meide.”

“Ah, fuck man!” I said, and struck my forehead with the palm of my hand.

“You just got to look at the shape of the fokken kaffer’s head. Take Zuma. See how big the back of his head is? That’s because the front of his brain is at the back. And Mandela too. I’ve got a screen saver on my computer that changes from baboon to Mandela, and back to baboon, and you can see it is true.”

And there was more of this shit. It followed me as I walked away, and I could still hear it as I turned into Marine Road. Maybe if I had been carrying a firearm I would have shot him dead. Who knows?

And then, just three days later, I was again on my walk when Jack Prinsloo stopped his car. This is the Jack Prinsloo from Ridge Road.  The man who flies the old flag and whose eyebrows encroach on his hairline. He leaned out the window.

“Yissus, but that’s a mooi hond!” he said. “Yissus, but he’s going to be big! Has he already bitten a kaffer? You must let him bite a kaffer so he can get the taste. Ha, ha, ha!”

I did a quick about-turn, hurried home, and poured myself a brandy and Coke that was more like a Coke and brandy, it was so biased on the side of brandy.

Yissus, I thought to myself, am I being targeted by these halfmense? Why are they attacking me like this? Do they think that I am one of their kind, just because I happen to be white? No, I said to myself, there’s no hope for these people. They are incapable of change, and the sooner their generation, my generation, dies out, the better.

I then fell into a mood of deep melancholy. It was no good trying to fool myself that the problem lay with the dinosaurs, and once they were extinct this kind of bigotry would also disappear. Hadn’t I been to the shop yesterday and overheard a conversation between a woman of no more than 25 and the tannie behind the till that disproved such feeble-minded optimism?

“I don’t like these new banknotes,” said the tannie.

“Yes,” agreed the young woman. “And now we’ve got to look at that face every time.”

I nearly dropped the sachet of low fat milk I was holding, I was so stunned. An abyss of disappointment had opened up in front of me and I was about to fall into it, just like that poor guy who was swallowed up by a sink ole. She had acquired the virus and no amount of reason would cure her. Nelson Mandela, for Christ’s sake!

Maybe it is just Afrikaners, I thought, clutching at straws. But on reflection I had to admit English speakers of my acquaintance are just as racist, even if the disease is a little harder to detect. The sneering remarks about ‘those people’ and the dismissive way they talk about ‘the government’ is evidence of their contempt. Not to mention the endless anecdotes about corruption, inefficiency, stupidity and incompetence. And the blatant prejudice exhibited by small-minded contributors on social media platforms like news24.

It would have been better if us whites had been butchered, or driven into the sea, back then in 1994, I thought in despair. Nearly 20 years down the line I go for a walk or buy a loaf of bread at the shop, and these horrible people who insist on giving expression to their naked racism confront me. But, I realise with deepening despair, there is something even worse than this harassment by the white racists. It is the hostility shown towards me by ordinary black folk. When I greet them in the street they avert their eyes and try to ignore me. Their demeanour is surly and resentful, and it is clear they regard me as one of those good old boys from the apartheid era. Both black and white take one look at me and assume that I am a racist. We are all racists. There is no way to alter this reality, and all we can do is drink more brandy and Coke and try to come to terms with our condition.

Time To Wise Up, Children

Remember how I told you about Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny? And about how God loves you and will always look after you? Well, it was all a load of bull. Sorry about that.

And, while I’m in a confessional mood, I might as well come clean on some other stuff that has more to do with wishful thinking than actual reality. Stuff like Crime never pays, Always stick to the truth, Never accept or pay a bribe, Respect the law because everyone is equal before it, and The Constitution guarantees all your human rights. Well, I’m afraid this is also a load of delusional horse manure and, now you are getting big, it’s better if I fill you in on how it really is out there. Otherwise you are never going to cope.

I will take just two examples to illustrate how things work, as opposed to how they are meant to work. The first involves His Excellency, The Honourable Jacob Gedleyihlekisa Zuma, State President of South Africa. Now, you would think that the State President, being State President and both honourable and excellent, would behave in a way that is beyond reproach. Well, you think wrong. A court of law found that he was in a corrupt relationship with the convicted fraudster Shabir Shaik. Shaik got 15 years, but the case against Zuma was never pursued. Not fair, you say. Everybody should be treated equally, even the President. Huh! Jacob and his cronies were able to influence the judiciary and make the allegations go away. Abracadabra.

The other example is the Oscar Pistorius case. From the circumstantial evidence this is what happened. He had an altercation with his girlfriend, flew into a jealous rage and threatened her with his firearm. She fled to the bathroom and then locked herself in the toilet. Oscar entered the bathroom and fired four shots through the toilet door, knowing that his girlfriend was on the other side. An open and shut case, you would think. But Oscar claims it wasn’t like that. No, he thought the person locked in the toilet was a dangerous intruder. Don’t make me laugh, you say. Only a total fuckwit, unable to imagine his way into Oscar’s luxury abode, would buy that version.

The President is a proven crook by association, and if you care to Wiki him, you will see that there is a long list of dodgy activity that he is involved in. But in spite of this, he became our State President and is likely to be re-elected for a second term in 2014.

Oscar Pistorius is out on bail and preparing for his trial. It is more than likely he will walk free when his very expensive hotshot lawyers rip to shreds the case brought by the damn-fool prosecution. He will then get on with his life and leave this unpleasant incident behind him.

See the pattern, kids? See how it works? Learn the lessons from these two examples and adjust your moral code accordingly. To help with the priorities I will summarize as follows:

Making money is the most important thing in life

Money can buy you anything

Make friends with people in power

Never do favours for those who can’t reciprocate

Don’t waste your time on ordinary people unless you can exploit them

Everyone expects a bribe or a kickback

Always insist on getting your own way

Learn how to badmouth the competition when their backs are turned

We all have our price

The weak and the ignorant deserve to be taken advantage of

It is possible to buy or lie your way out of any situation

Never admit that you were wrong

I hope this little crash course on how to make it in the real world has brought you up to speed, my lovelies. Now go on out there and make your mark on life. The best of luck!

Genuine South African Braaihout

The bloody dog was barking again. Was she just bored, or was someone really going by in the road? I got up from my desk (for the third time that morning) and went to the open door, calling out, Alright, good dog! You tell them to clear off. Good dog!

She was down at the gate, on the other side of which was a white man of about 30. Shit, I thought, what does this character want? Better not be a Jehovah’s Witness. No, didn’t look like a Jehovah’s Witness. T-shirt, rugby shorts and bare feet. A boertjie.

Yes, he addressed me in Afrikaans, calling me Uncle, which further irritated me. I was in a shop in Goons Bay a while back, when an 18 year-old assistant referred to a 25 year-old customer as ‘Oom.” The customer scowled and said, ‘Jou moer! Ek is nie jou fokken oom nie!’ This is what I felt like saying to this boetie but didn’t, because I was probably older than his father, and he was only trying to be respectful, I suppose.

He asked me where he should offload the wood. His bakkie was standing in the road. Wood? Wood? Yes, braai wood. For number 68. Jesus, this guy was wasting my time! And insulting me. Did I look like a geriatric? Or some moneyed arsehole too lazy to cut his own firewood? Man, for thirty years I haven’t bought a stick of firewood. Why should I waste money on firewood when I’ve got a bush saw and an axe? And I’m surrounded by a sea of rooikrans waiting to be cut down? I’ve always cut my own wood, and I go through a lot of wood. Three fires a week, and when we had the Dover stove … It’s one of the advantages of living at the back of beyond.

He went to his bakkie for his boekie and came back. A thousand pieces for Mr Martin, number 68. What? Who ordered this? I’m not paying for wood that I never ordered.

Klaar betaal, he said .He read out the phone number.

My own boy! I had been wondering about him, the way he hadn’t cut any wood for me this time. Four weeks of self-indulgence, being waited on by his ageing parents, and now he was back in Joburg this salving of conscience.

Japie – I don’t remember if his name was Japie or Hennie, but because he looked like a plaasjapie I’ll call him Japie – anyway, Japie reversed his bakkie up against the fence. Now this bakkie had a canopy, and because the windows were covered in dust from the dirt road it was hard to see inside. When the canopy flap opened, seemingly of its own accord, and pieces of wood started flying out, I realised with some surprise that a person was in there with the load.

Japie reached into the cab and took out a little kid of about three. She had blond hair and wore a yellow track suit. She said something about ‘piepie’ and her father took her onto the grass verge, pulled down her pants and held her while she relieved herself.  Then we stood in the shade of a manatoka and watched the pieces of wood flying and the heap growing.

Japie cracked a joke about me calling up my son and saying thanks for the wood, but where’s the meat? Then the wood stopped coming and the canopy flap closed. Japie and the kid got into the cab and headed off back to the plaas, or wherever it was they came from.

I stood there looking at this huge pile of braai wood that had just been dumped on me, and thought that there was something surreal about what had happened. It had to do with the anonymous figure crouched in the back. There had been absolutely no communication with this shadow, as if it had no identity. If I had ordered a bakkie load of wood 30 years ago, this is how it would have been. Back then black people weren’t really human. But now, in 2013? Well, obviously nothing had changed. I felt a stab of guilt but it soon passed when it occurred to me that I now had to get all this wood up to the house. That would be my penance.

What A View!

How To Get South Africa Working

“So what’s this ‘brainstorming’ story about?”
“I thought it might be an interesting exercise,” I said. “After going into Zwelihle the other day and sitting in the car while we were waiting … just sitting there observing the crap conditions people have to live under …. Well, I thought, shit, there must be a way out of this. It’s like this idea of being trapped in a narrative. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to change the dead-end story we’re living in.”
We were still climbing but the road had levelled out a bit and the Grootbos sign was coming into view.
“Every second citizen has got a pet theory about how to solve the world’s problems,’ said Cupcake. “Who the hell is going to listen to your version of utopia? I mean, you might be sincere and very earnest, and all that, but you’re a nobody. You got fokol credentials.”
“That’s alright,” I said. “That’s not the point. What matters is to make the effort and do the exercise.”
Grootbos Private Nature Reserve. We stopped at the boom and a woman dressed like a Conservation Officer came out from the gatehouse. She was holding a clipboard.
“Tell her we’re coming to lunch,” I said.
She let us through with a friendly smile.
The road was only wide enough for one vehicle and wound through some dense Milkwood forest before coming out into open fynbos. The other guy pulled off in a passing bay to let an oncoming car through.
‘Hey, hold it!” Cupcake called out.
A male baboon had emerged from the bush and was heading for a sign some 20 metres away. On reaching it, he pulled himself up and perched on top of one of the two uprights. The sign read A FED BABOON IS A DEAD BABOON.
“Man, this is classic!” said Cupcake, taking pictures with his mobile.
“I wonder what our cousin would have to say if he could read the message,” I said.
“Probably think it neo-colonial propaganda,” said the other guy. “Like ‘Don’t give the natives strong drink because they can’t handle it’.”
At the Lodge there weren’t many cars in the parking area. We strolled along a path through ericas and proteas, passed a water feature and entered the reception foyer. The restaurant was a long room separated from the famous view by a wall of glass. We went straight to the bar and ordered drinks.
“Let’s sit over here,” I said, leading the way to some comfortable chairs in the far corner.
We took in the classy décor, admired the wide angle display of veld, ocean, mountain and sky, and settled ourselves around a low table. I opened my notebook.
“You’re taking this seriously,” Cupcake commented.
“Yep,” I said. “I’ve even got an agenda: we define the problem; we identify the causes; we propose solutions.”
“Sounds pretty basic,’ said the other guy. “No difficulty in defining the problem. Everybody talks about it, the threefold curse of poverty, unemployment and inequality.”
“Agreed,” I said, “Analysing the causes is going to be more complex, though.”
“We can start with apartheid,” said Cupcake. “Everything can be blamed on apartheid. That’s if we don’t want to lay the blame on the ANC and corruption and incompetence.”
“What about Capitalism?” said the other guy. “The neo-liberal feeding frenzy has brought the world economy to the brink of another Great Depression.”
“I’m glad you mention the Great Depression,” I said. I wrote in my notebook and then lowered the level of my glass, which contained a mix of one tot whisky to one bottle Carling Black Label. “We can learn some useful lessons from the Great Depression.”
“An unregulated banking system caused the Depression,” said Cupcake. “And the present financial crisis, which is beginning to affect us more and more, can be laid at the door of the financial sector – greedy scumbags speculating with assets that don’t exist.”
“And then there’s Globalisation,” said the other guy. “We were incredibly stupid to allow ourselves to be duped into joining the WTO and stop protecting our own manufacturing sector. Free trade is a confidence trick. We’ve lost hundreds of thousands of jobs because of free trade, and now the shops are stocked with cheap Chinese crap that no one can afford because they don’t earn anything.”
“Competition is another con,” said Cupcake. “Competition almost invariably means lower wages and worse working conditions. South Africa has absolutely no chance of competing with China and other Asian countries when it comes to manufacturing basic consumer goods. Look at our textile, clothing and shoe industries. They have all but disappeared because they couldn’t compete with China.”
“Yah, but the Chinese are also in trouble now,” said the other guy. “China’s heading for a fall if …”
“Maybe,” I said. “But listen, we’re getting sidetracked. And we need another drink.”
Both Cupcake and the other guy agreed that I should get the next round, seeing as this outing was my idea.
“Alright,” I said when I returned from the bar. “We’re making progress with our learned discussion. But I’d like to fast forward to the solution part now, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay with me,” said Cupcake. “But we’ve only scratched the surface with the analysis bit.”
“He can’t wait to get up on his soapbox,” said the other guy. Then, to me: “Go for it. Tell us how you propose finding everyone a decent job.”
“The politicians, the economists, , the intellectuals, even the average citizen, they all acknowledge the system isn’t working, and something needs to happen, like tomorrow,” I said. “But nobody has a clue about how to fix it.”
“Nobody,” said Cupcake, “apart from you and a few individuals at Valkenberg and Weskoppies.”
“That’s right,’ I said. “What we need is something drastic, something really bold. Like the New Deal Roosevelt brought in during the Depression. It was pure socialism but it got America working again.”
“I thought it was the Second World War that really got the US economy going?” said Cupcake.
“The New Deal got them started,” I said.
“Jesus, we don’t need a war,” said the other guy. “So tell us, what’s your bold new deal for Mzansi?”
“Well,” I said, “It’s as if our minds have been attacked by some virus that paralyses us and convinces us that we are powerless to change our situation. We just keep repeating the same old stuff about growing the economy, but we don’t actually do anything to make things happen.”
“Yah, it’s strange that we can’t get our asses moving,’ said the other guy. “Especially when you think what South Africa was able to achieve in 2010.”
“The World Cup was another con and a huge waste of resources,” said Cupcake. “But it demonstrated what can be done if we get fired up.”
“Exactly,” I said. “We need to snap out of this collective coma we’ve fallen into, and throw ourselves at another big project. But not something stupid like the FIFA World Cup.”
“That’s for sure,” said the other guy. “The World Cup made some filthy rich folks even richer, and left the country with incredibly expensive stadiums that we don’t need and can’t use. No more of that kind of shit, thank you. But come on, tell us about your amazing plan to get South Africa moving.”
It was at this point that the two men who had been hovering nearby pretending to be looking at the view, but who were actually eavesdropping, decided to cast social decorum aside and draw even closer.
“Please excuse us for interrupting and intruding,” said the older of the two. He was about 40 and spoke with just the faintest hint of a German accent. “We couldn’t help overhearing your most interesting conversation, and wondered whether we …”
Now, when a courteous individual employs ellipsis on me, I generally tend to react graciously. Not like Cupcake, who muttered something about a bloody cheek.
“Please join us,” I said, getting to my feet and holding out my hand for them to shake. My buddies also got to their feet, which was nice of them, and we all introduced ourselves. I noted with suspicion that Cupcake was now grinning sociably.
Dieter and Peter (Dieter was the older of the two) pulled up a chair apiece and we all sat down. Then, almost immediately, Cupcake took up his near empty glass, examined its contents, and then poured them down his throat.
“Aah!” he said with satisfaction, and put the glass back on the table. The other guy then performed the exact same ritual, right down to the appreciative but slightly disappointed ‘Aah!’. My own glass was already empty.
“Barman!” Dieter called imperiously. “Barman! Please send the waitress.”
The waitress arrived and he insisted on buying a round. While we waited for her to come back with the drinks, we exchanged pleasantries. They both worked in the German film industry and were on a working holiday in South Africa. They were knowledgeable and their interest in the country appeared genuine.
When the drinks arrived I was urged to continue with my grand scheme.
“Well, yes, thank you,” I said. “I was going to say that we have to start by changing our perception of the poor. Instead of seeing their needs as a liability and a drain on state resources, we should wake up to the staggeringly vast field of opportunities they offer us. Upliftment of the poor should become the main driving force in our economy. And by upliftment I don’t mean moving a family from a one-roomed shack into a two-roomed RDP hovel. There’s no dignity in living like that, and kids will never reach their potential if they have to grow up in those conditions.”
“You want to build everyone a bloody great mansion?” said the other guy. “You’ve got to be out of your tiny mind.”
“Not a mansion,” I said. “Mansions should be discouraged. No, what I had in mind was something modest but with all mod cons, like three bedrooms, two toilets, bath and shower, and a garage and a small garden. All built to First World standards.”
“Very nice,” said Cupcake. “And it would sort out unemployment for a while. But one small problem: where are you going to get the bucks for all this?”
“Print it,’ I said, and noted a look of derision on the four faces of my audience. “And why not? What I propose is the setting up of a state bank that would lend money at a minimal interest rate for this and other developmental projects. People tend to forget that money has no intrinsic value, and is only created to facilitate trade in goods and services. It’s the goods and services that have value. And this isn’t money that’s being given away. If the loan isn’t repaid the bank can foreclose, just like the private banks do.”
“Mmm, I see,” said the other guy as he sipped his drink, which was a double rum and Coke. “A big housing boom would definitely get the economy roaring.”
“It would also give the manufacturing sector a massive boost,” said Cupcake. “How many houses are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I would guess at least 5 million. Anyway, 5 million is a nice number to work with. Can you imagine building 5 million houses at one million per unit? That’s 5 trillion rand! And everything must be 100 percent locally produced.”
“With such a project, on such a large scale, we would go from massive unemployment to a shortage of labour,” said Cupcake.
“We would need to fast track a whole lot of trade schools and training colleges,” said the other guy.
“In Germany we have developed a good system for artisan training,” said Peter. “A good artisan is as important as a good doctor. We could share this with you.”
“That’s it, Peter,” I said. “We could learn best practice from Germany and other countries where good systems have been worked out. No need to reinvent the wheel.”
“With so many natural resources,” said Dieter, “Your potential for growth is almost unlimited. Your idea is … Ah, but here come the ladies. Allow me to introduce you.”
The ladies were bearing down on us. Wow! So this is what they meant by a working holiday.
My buddies were on their feet and rapidly metamorphosing from one identity to another. Amazing what affect the presence of young females has on men.
“I hope you and your two friends will join us for lunch?” Dieter said to me. “We can continue the conversation at the table. And maybe you even have some ideas on how to solve the Euro zone crisis?”
Cats:

Constructing The Narrative

The mind is located not within the individual but in the individual-in-social interaction. The learning process is not the passive reception of a pre-existing, objective reality but a process of creation in which the individual structures experience through interplay with the social environment.

Our understanding of the world is not an interpretation of what is, but a summary of attitudes formed by social interchanges within the present historical context. Likewise, truth and meaning are culturally determined constructions, not absolutes.

This is taken from Chris Rohmann’s Dictionary of Ideas And Thinkers. It’s embedded in the Social Constructionism entry.

I had intended to meet them at Grootbos but some people who needed wheels took three of mine in the night, leaving me with only one, plus the spare. I suppose it’s possible to drive a car on just two wheels if you’re an experienced stunt man, but it’s probably illegal and I’m not an experienced stunt man. My buddies had to come and pick me up.

“So the fucking bastards stole your wheels?”

“Yah,” I said. “Three of them.”

“Sign of the times,” said Cupcake.

“I wonder why they didn’t take all four?” said the other guy. “Did you call the cops?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not insured.”

We were approaching the bridge at Uilkraals and I told the other guy to slow right down. Ah, I love that unspoilt vista upstream, and sometimes, if I’m lucky there are giant kingfishers on the line staring down into the water, as if contemplating suicide.

“What’s so great about it?” asked Cupcake, sweeping the scene with an undiscerning glance.

“As an old sangoma once told me, you should never ignore the presence of a river,” I said. “A river is a metaphor that reminds us of our mortality and the transience of existence. We need metaphors and narratives to interpret reality. Get my drift?’

“Yah,” said the other guy. “Like the river of life, and ‘time flows like a river’.”

“Right,” said Cupcake. “And we can choose whether we’re on the bank watching time pass, or we’re in the river being carried along by the flow of life.”

“Acknowledging the presence of a river helps to deflate the ego,” I said.

“So the river is a metaphor,” said Cupcake. “That’s nice. Where does the narrative come in?”

We were approaching the first 4-way STOP this side of Gansbaai.

“There are three kinds of narrative: the minor, the major and the grand,” I said. “A multitude of minor narratives are going on at any given moment - like us undertaking this trip to Grootbos for a brain storming session.”

“I thought we were going for a drink and to admire the view,” said the other guy, slowing to a halt at the white line.

There were still some small groups of men waiting forlornly beside the road, hoping to have their labour exploited for the day.

“And a major narrative?’

“Something like a war, or a revolution,” I said. It could also be a social movement or a cultural shift. Apartheid was a major narrative.”

“Badly told story, that one,” said Cupcake.

“And of course,” I said, “the Grand Narrative is the human condition, which is told in the form of a joke.”

The morning traffic was backed up and moving very slowly, which was strange, it being mid week and out of season. At the next STOP we saw why. Right in the middle of the intersection a short-legged mongrel was attempting to mate with a bitch nearly four times his size. The discrepancy in height was causing him problems, for to achieve penetration he was obliged to stand on tip-toe, and the moment he hunched his back in order to thrust, his feet left the ground and he fell out. To add to his difficulties the bitch was clearly unimpressed, and was making no attempt to co-operate.

The traffic was now at a complete standstill in all four directions. Even some shopkeepers were joining the pedestrians on the pavement, and everybody was watching and waiting patiently, out of a mixture of politeness and prurience.

Everybody, that is, except the sour-faced woman in the Audi roadster behind us. She began to hoot.

The other guy held up his middle finger for her to see. Furiously she engaged reverse and shot back so as to gain space to pull out and pass. The vehicle she crunched into was an elderly but still robust Land Rover.

“Rich bitch,” said Cupcake, as we pulled away, the canine bitch having lost all patience with her suitor and run off. “Typical. Fokol respect for anyone or anything.”

“Now,” I said, returning to the topic I had broached as we were crossing the Uilkraalsrivier, “I’m not talking about narratives just to make conversation, like chit-chatting about the weather to pass the time of day as we make our way to Grootbos. I’m actually going somewhere with this.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Cupcake. “I thought you were trying to distract yourself, so you didn’t have to think about how the fucking bastards stole your wheels in the night.”

“He can work on that narrative later,” said the other guy.

“We are all being written into different narratives all the time,” I said. “On all three levels: minor, major and grand. Most of us are too preoccupied, or too stupid, to be aware of this and believe we can have any influence on the story of our life.”

“Who’s being written into a story?” Cupcake looked at the other guy and said, “Do you know what he’s going on about?”

“Look,” I said, “I’ll give you an example. Let’s take a Second World War scenario. Remember Saving Private Ryan? That scene where they’re landing on a beach? Right, so a kid from a lower middle-class family finishes school and finds a job. Then the war breaks out and he’s called up. The first action he sees is on a Normandy beach. He steps from the landing craft into waist-deep water. He wades forward toward the shore. One pace, two, three. Then some German boy behind a machine gun in the dunes presses the trigger and pumps about twenty bullets into him. End of story. A pathetic non-story.”

“But what could he have done to change the story?” asked Cupcake.

“A fertile imagination could come up with any number of stratagems,” I said. “Shoot himself in the foot during training; feign insanity; work himself into a non-combat position; become a conscientious objector; hide in a cave – the list is long. But he has to believe it’s possible to alter the direction of his own story. He must be convinced.”

“Okay,” said Cupcake, “let’s say that this hypothetical soldier could have avoided becoming cannon fodder by letting some other idiot take his place and attack the filthy Huns. He would have rewritten what you call a minor narrative. But how could he affect the major narrative, the war itself? How can a humble citizen hope to affect the circumstances giving rise to something like a world war? It’d be like trying to change the course of history.”

We passed the police station and picked up speed, the half dead, one-horse dorp now behind us.

“For a start,” I said, “we stop thinking ‘humble’. On a minor level it’s about personal choices, like wiping out another human being, or blasting a hole in your foot. But on the major level it’s about collective action. Adolf Hitler had diabolical ideas that were so obscenely vigorous they infected minds and destroyed lives by the million. But the course of history could have been changed by putting a Marshall Plan in place after the First World War, instead of shortsighted retribution; or by the early assassination of Hitler; or by throwing a lot of resources at Einstein and the nuclear physicists in order to speed up the bomb. Again, the possibilities are numerous. But it would have required people with clear vision and firm resolve.”

“Okay,’ said Cupcake. “Now I get it. We’re off to Grootbos for a brainstorming session that will alter the course of history. We – us three geniuses – are going to devise a master plan that will lift millions out of poverty and transform South Africa from a nation of losers into world-class leaders. Right?”

“Right,’ I said, ignoring the sarcastic tone.

We passed the De Kelders turnoff and a sign told us that the speed limit had been raised and we could drive at 100 if we wanted to. But we had come up behind a truck, a big 18-wheeler loaded with canned fish on its way to Cape Town. The road was starting to twist and climb, and the other guy was content to dawdle along at between 70 and 80.

“And when we’ve sorted out this particular narrative I suppose we’ll tackle the grand narrative?” said Cupcake.

“I thought a grand narrative was something like an ideology, like Christianity, or Marxism, or some other world view?” said the other guy.

“No,” I said. “The grand narrative has got to do with the human condition, which isn’t perceived in the same way by everybody. But, in general, it’s about being aware of certain intractable questions that preoccupy some of us to a greater or lesser extent. It depends on our personality, intelligence, education, life experiences – that kind of thing.”

“Intractable questions?” said Cupcake. “Like?”

“Like the questions we start asking when we consciously grapple with meaning and morality, and suffering and death.”

“I hope,” said Cupcake, “you’re not going to claim that it’s possible to rewrite the human condition. That would be tantamount to playing God.”

“Leave God out of this, please,” I said. “But you’re right, in a way. We can’t tamper with the grand narrative. Or can we? If the human brain was to evolve into a more powerful organ we might be able to think ourselves out of our predicament. Or maybe it’s a matter of learning how to use the one we’ve got in a more creative way.”

“Sounds a bit like penis enlargement,” said the other guy. “Not much point in having a big one if you can’t put it to use.”

“Grootbos turnoff coming up,” said Cupcake. “Slow right down and start indicating.”

“And watch that car coming down,’ I said. “Don’t try turning until it’s past.”

“Okay, okay,” said the other guy. “Just relax. It’s too soon to be written off. This story has got a long way to go yet.”

These Darkies Have Got No Self Respect

#South Africa, with a population of 50 million, is the most unequal nation on Earth.
The top 10% of earners in South Africa take away 101 times the earnings of the bottom 10% of the population.
#Fifty percent of the population live on 8% of the national income, and
the top 50% live on 92% of national income. The top 5% earners take 30 times what the bottom 5% earners take.
#According to a 2009 study, 41% of South Africans live on less than
R20 a day (2.8 million live on less than R5 a day; 6.7 million live on
R5-10 a day and 8.8 million live on R10-20 a day).
47% of the population, or 20.9 million people live on R20-140 a day.
#The UNDP 2010 Report indicates that 6 million people live on less than
R10 a day who in turn support4 people, resulting in 30 million South Africans living on less than R10 a day. Fifteen million people rely on social grants for survival. Almost 25% of South African households have inadequate access to food.
#The Stats SA Quarterly Labour Force Survey reveals that unemployment,
by the narrow definition which excludes those who have given up looking for work, is 25%. The more realistic expanded figure,
which includes discouraged workers, is 36%.
Among Africans of working age only 36% are absorbed into employment.
Seventy two percent of the unemployed are young people. Ninety five percent of them do not have tertiary education.
Unemployment among Africans was estimated to be 38% in
1995, 45% in 2005, and 50%in 2011.
#The life expectancy of a white South African is 71 years and for a
black South African 48 years.
And so on and so forth.

“These darkies have got no self respect.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Look at how they live,” Cupcake said, gesturing towards the ghetto on the other side of the windscreen. “Put your nose out there again and tell me what you smell.”
“Human shit,” said the other guy, rolling up the driver’s window.
We were parked outside an RDP hok with a corrugated iron add-on and two wrecks in the yard.
“Not only human shit,” said Cupcake. “There are dogs and chickens and goats as well. “
“I’ve seen at least two donkey carts,” I said. “What does donkey shit smell like? Anyone know?”
“Horse shit,’ said the other guy.
“Yah, but it’s not only shit out there. There’s a whole lot of other shit going on.’
I lowered my window a bit and savoured the winter air, which was beginning to warm up as midday approached.
“Mmm,” I said. “This is a rich bouquet. I detect all manner of fragrances. Both coal smoke and wood smoke mingling with the fumes from a thousand paraffin stoves.”
“And there’s that rubbish dump smell as well,’ said the other guy. He and Cupcake had lowered their windows again. ‘The toxic stench of smouldering garbage.”
“And that blocked drain,” said Cupcake.
A standpipe stood in the middle of a dam of stagnant grey sludge.
“I smell the stink of unwashed humanity huddled in overcrowded shanties,” said the other guy.
“My nose tells me that many a simple meal is being prepared at this very moment,” I said. “Ah, smell that? Somebody is braaiing a choice piece of wors. Not bad, hey? This, my friends, is the characteristic aroma of a genuine South African township. If one could capture this unique blend of odours and put it in a can, one could make a lot of money selling it to foreign tourists.”
“Yah,” said Cupcake. “They could take it home to remind them how lucky they are they don’t have to live like this. No, I tell you, these people have got fokol self respect.”
“I suppose they actually enjoy living like this?” I tried to make my voice sound heavy with sarcasm.
“Of course not,” said Cupcake. “But they don’t need to.”
“What he means,” said the other guy, “is that they don’t need to keep voting for the ANC.”
We were sitting there waiting for the parcel that the dude from the RDP hok said would be ready now-now, my brothers. That was nearly half an hour ago in real time. Not being entirely naïve, we were aware that now-now time was a whole different philosophical concept to real time. Like the way some people think of time present and time past as being somehow present in time future, and time future being contained in time past. Knowing this about now-now time I had been intelligent enough to go across to the spaza for a six-pack. And now we were chilling nicely until the right time had run its course and elapsed sufficiently for our parcel to arrive.
“So you think it’s the ANC’s fault that all these unfortunates live like this?” I asked.
“For sure,” said Cupcake. “But not entirely. It’s also their own fault for not having seen the picture.”
“Pretty picture,” said the other guy. “But at least the government is trying to provide everyone with basic services like standpipes and chemical toilets.
“Anyone need a piss?”
Me and the other guy can spot a rhetorical question a mile off, so we didn’t bother to reply.
“I challenge one of you to go and take a leak in that public facility, and come back and report on the state of hygiene you find there.’
As he spoke the door to the green cubicle on the street corner began to open. A middle aged woman appeared. She was as shapeless as a sack of mielie meal on legs, and her legs were so waterlogged they seemed about to burst open like pork sausages on the grid. She paused, uncertain as to her next move. In one hand she clutched a Pick n Pay packet. There was only one step down but it obviously filled her with fear, because there was nothing to hold on to. She lifted a foot, hesitated, lurched, came down hard, and staggered three paces before falling on all fours into the pool of grey sludge. She had dropped the plastic bag and it spilled out a toilet roll, also into the filthy water.
“Oh my fuck!” said the other guy.
“Fuck!” snarled Cupcake. “We can’t just watch.”
Three doors flew open, and three feet found the ground. But, at the very same moment, two teenage girls appeared from nowhere and hurried towards the floundering mama. We got our appendages back in the car and closed the doors.
Ankle deep in the cold muck, the girls were scolding the woman as they helped to get her upright.
“This is what I’m talking about!” shouted Cupcake, and he seemed dangerously close to doing something violent, like pounding the other guy’s dashboard with his fist.
“Calm down,” I said. “She’s not your mother. She’s not even white.”
“Fuck you!” said Cupcake.
“Yah,” said the other guy, looking over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up with that kind of shit.”
“He’s the one saying they’ve got no self respect,” I said.
“Don’t you get it? He’s saying they shouldn’t put up with being treated like this any more. He doesn’t really …”
An old Beemer 3-series jumped into view and came at us with aggressive intent. At the last moment it skidded to a halt, just in time to spare us the head-on crunch we were bracing ourselves for. The driver gave three blasts on his bugle and the middleman dude from the RDP hok came hurrying out.
The transaction was concluded in a gentlemanly fashion and we began to make our way from ghetto back to suburb.
“You know,” I said, “I don’t think these darkies are going to be able to get themselves out of this dystopian shithole without a little help.”
“Oh yeah,” said the other guy. “White man to the rescue?”
“White man got them into this; white man must help get them out.”