Mama’s boy. By Maakomele Manaka

Across the scotching horizon of Joburg, Nthabi, my supposedly pride, silently sits next to a stranger about to dissolve into the seat of this Inter-Cape Bus as we leave for Cape Town. I sit so close yet so far, she changed seats after discovering that her cursed seat had a malfunction, it cant lean back, ok, I understand, 12 hours on the road sitting up can be a pain in the butt, literally, but she doesn’t have to switch from the entire section and leave me companionless, where is the love?.

As the Inter-Cape Bus slowly makes its way out of Joburg, we all sit anxiously anticipating the wet shores of Cape Town, we are all caught up in our little worlds, everybody minds their own business and ignores humanity, like before we parted, there was an irrelevant confusion with guy who forgot his suit case that posed no question mark to the white lady who sat next it, and when the black leathered suitcase screamed out of frustration, we left 15 minutes late. As our surroundings change from the shadow of city buildings to the fading orange sky across the open land, time sings a song of loneliness, Nthabi my disliked step mother, sits next to the stranger brother spilling news of tomorrow on a cell phone, that captures her punctual imagination when we set foot at the Convention Centre and experience the North Sea Jazz.

The night keeps opening its mouth wide and the world outside the bus keeps looking more and more like moving pictures changing characters from scene to scene then fading to black, then suddenly we stop, our first stop after 3 hours on the road.

Nthabi quickly jumps off like a child in ‘Toys-r-us’ during Christmas time, I step out side for a breather, I am still broke, art life is not easy, we were born from patience. As everybody gets in the bus, I take my last drag of my Styvie Blue and take my time up the stairs, sometimes being on crutches can be fun coz time is on my side. Back to my lonely seat where Nthabi now sits on the other end by the window making it extremely difficult for me to keep on loving her the way I did a day ago, the stranger brother now sits next to me offering some of his KFC, don’t get me wrong, but a man has his pride, so I refused even though my stomach was saying something different. The couple in front of me shares their chips so romantic that it reminds me of the reason why I embarked on this journey, to get closer to Nthabi. A group of Afrikaaner people at the back conversate like black people, so loud I can’t even hear my phone ring.

As hungry and irritated as I am, the only thing making sense is my pen and paper, and the light guiding me through this page, Snookie wont stop calling but the reception is so bad not even God can answer the priest’s prayers, and looking at my situation, I need to hear a comforting and loving voice.

As I imprison my self to the page, the world outside keeps getting more and more dark with no possible knowledge of which part of the country we trotting through, finally Snookie gets through, my savior, my Elvis. We talk about everything under the sun, funny how one can connect with people that one has no interest in making out with. After hanging up, I am reminded of the cold reality I placed myself in, coz the entire trip was build on feelings for a woman who is now spiritually separated from me with an innocent face buried in yesterday’s hope to free sensation, where is the love? I mean, I have known her for some time now, we could have switched seats, I don’t mind a rewarding pain, but no, she decided to dance to a different tune.

The bus keeps moving despite our feelings about the movie playing from the small screen in front of us, the romantic couple in front cuddle while the Afrikaaner group at the back keep behaving like soccer hooligans in a Pirates and Chiefs match. This is a love movie, dem, and she is into deep for me to enjoy it with her, so I keep my eyes busy and appreciate the glittering stars of Africa, if only they can shine this bright in Joburg.

Scenes from this movie remind me of how I met her, she was taking pictures of me during an interview I had on my book, and she seemed to be more interested than the journalist, later that day she called and the rest is history.

Finally we stop, this time only a few people jump off, people like me who feel neglected and besides, I am craving for a cigarette, the first drag drags me closer to the sky and the second pulls me back to the fact that I am on bus ride to Cape Town with no one to share my love with. Same routine, slowly walk up the stairs to my notepad, Nthabi turns and twists in her seat far from my warmth searching for a comfort zone, if open minded people’s relationships are like this, I rather tie my heart to a pole and let it freeze.

As soon as I reach my destination, I will question the past for today’s experience. The moving movie moves out of the sight of passengers who cant wait for sleep to knock them out. An explosion of laughter erupts from the ‘soccer hooligans’ at the back, in my reality there is nothing to laugh about, coz the Maroon moon is not evident to prove how I feel about this prolonging journey which is a waist of money and a new dimension to my world, a world of a young poet in love with an older lady who just terminated our binding contract, ha ha ha.

I am trying very hard to keep my pen releasing ink at the drop of my thoughts. The persistent presence of silence slowly makes its way in between the spaces of occupied seats, reaching the lower section of this bus. This night is so familiar, yes, I saw it last night before I slept, but the only difference is my feelings. In the dark every face looks the same. Neo and stranger brother telepathically connect as they both get sucked in by the demon of sleep, while the people of the Bus, sleep with dreams open to the naked eye, and orchestrating different sounds of fart.

I can’t stop writing, feels like I am a pregnant woman complaining about attention, well you know what, if I don’t take it all out on the page, who else will listen, even my fingers are feeling the pressure.

In the midst of my projection, we enter a small town that looks dry and demarcated, and as we drive pass the residences, a feeling of segregation and racial separation surfaces, the ghost of apartheid haunts us all. We stop again, but this time for two white people, who look like hikers, my crutches on the floor keep tripping people going to the toilet and making them look like fools in a strong Woodstock wind. And as we drive out of the sad town, the cold and lonely face of reality erupts, and the deafening silence grows.

Back on the road that darkens the path of the righteous common man and woman, but my faith lies in the pen to tell of how Eve tricked me to coming on this prolonging trip, Nthabi is no longer with me. My only love is Poetry, I think I will do her right now.

Somehow the road looks the same, but all roads do when the love is no more. We come by a pick up point and all I can see are pale faces of the “oppressor”, Nthabi loves to say, whom by some force now sits where I can see her, she tries to sleep but cant, and wakes up only to find me imprisoned by the page. The bus hostess announces her anticipation for dreams while I n I tries to stay awake and listen to sounds of the night, the outside world keeps looking more and more like a fading moving picture. I wonder how much these guys made? But anyway, money goes back to money noma kanjani.

No words blue pen? No more words to destroy the silence? and so I join and sing the depressing song of sleep.

“Cape Town was nice”, says Nthabi, whom was distant at the North Sea Jazz last night. Never the less, I had so much fun I wouldn’t trade it for any companionship on the bus ride back to Joburg, HOME. I was VIP baby, and that means everything on the menu is FREE, from expensive drinks to exotic platters and finally my favorite, all access. I drank myself to a point every woman was beautiful, but because I was alone, I had to slow down and slowing down got me panicking, some how Cape Town looked like Joburg, the weed must have been too good coz when I thought I saw Newtown in Kappa I freaked out, like that was enough, the maxi taxi guy that had dropped me off earlier became shady, coz when I called this guy, he kept on saying I am coming but in the background I could hear people saying, ‘don’t go, tell him a story’, Xhosa punk!!!.

I stayed with a friend of mine from my kasi, Nasi. Nasi has a reality of his own, he lives in Mowbrey, an area that has a silent racial tension, staring you in the face, the place feels like Windsor, not the one in England “the way of the world, England” but the one near Randburg in Joburg.                           

Today I bought a cheap Safe Way walkman, coz I was clear that when the silence shows its face in the bus, I will be far from her womb. We got on the bus later in the afternoon.

We drove through the night, Nasi gave me some music, some of that good Hip-hop ish. I am too young to go out with Nthabi, and so while she sits next to me on the lower deck of this Inter-Cape bus,  she keeps telling me how happy I make her feel but my feelings for her have changed, feels like I was never into her, and so, the walkman is my lover, the hip-hop in my ears is my close friend while the world sleeps, again.  

The night has swallowed all of us and only the unsettling smell of human gas is the no.1 enemy to my nostril. I wonder if I should sleep, do Poetry, or just let ‘Mother Nthabi’ comfort me. Just when darkness thought sleep is the ruler, a woman burning from refreshments she bought on our first stop, stands up camouflaged by the night and heads in the toilet, poor man has to move for her and sacrifice his rest, I guess its manners to do that, coz I went to a boys school so I know what that means.

‘This bus is farting,

  coz the engine is hurting

  we must stop coz must lungs are yearning…..’

“Mak why don’t you go to sleep”, Nthabi questions me, and I respond with a look of authority that mailed her back to P.O. Box sleep coz she disturbed me in a session with Poetry. I think Snookie likes me, and all I want is to taste her fruit but spending time with her on the phone evokes lost feeling of a youthful love, mmmh, interesting. Nthabi keeps moving, her eyes opening, but I think she is not aware of it, coz she looks a bit confused, I think we are stopping, NO, we are not !!!! The crave continues, walking on the philosopher’s dusty shoes.

While trotting through some small town, there’s a gentleman eager to stay alive, sits in vain drinking a Redbull determined not to sing the music of sleep, and that is the fight we nocturnal creatures face in this noisy bus with comfortable seats, which make the fight harder, but then again “ to deny your own impulse’ to deny the very thing that makes you human”.

Up front by the entrance there are steep stairs, and on the second or the third step lies a door, behind this mysterious door sticking out in the middle of a stair way, is where controllers of destiny reside and one them is a Capetonian junkie, every time the door opens this colored addict comes out looking suspicious and edgy, though he perfectly hides his wicked ways with a cunning and charming personality, the way he communicates with people-utla thusa kure ke motho wa batho-but one thing I don’t understand is his attention to the job, he never comes to check on ‘us’-The Clients. Nthabi keeps searching for the ultimate position of comfort, tried to sleep on my broad shoulders, clearly that didn’t work.

In the glittering black face of the night, we move so slow feels like the world hasn’t changed. The bus is tired, so we stop for some juice, while I juice my self too with some fire. When I walked back in the bus, the stench of Mosses burning bush gave birth to a cloud of eyes facing my direction, and the truth gave way to Nthabi’s non-verbal language turning towards the window and closing her eyes hoping to catch a dream floating on past waters of her experience the night before…mmmmh, I doubt it.

After driving for quite a while, out of the heavens, a brave man, one of ‘us’, went to the middle door and spoke for all of us out of desperation for service, then a couple of minutes after Jesus of the Inter-Cape spoke for his people, we ceased movement in the equator no man’s land and for what? Lord knows. This bus sounds unworthy though looks safe, I guess I will have to leave my fate to the hands of this Inter Cape to deliver us safely to the land of backstabbers and gold diggers, even Jesus is not safe in Johannesburg coz a man never walks alone, BUT, its home to many of us.                   

Its morning time on this Inter-Cape bus, so the first thing for me do now, is to put my phasers on stun coz the Star Fleet Enterprise is in a different universe altogether.

The controllers of this wrack are Capetonian coloreds for real, they are playing old blues music that one listens to when drunk on Sunday, and then by some celestial spirit we people of the bus managed to push our bored energies to the music players, and they stopped playing that shit, this is not your living room Mr. Bus Driver. Nthabi sleeps again but this time on my shoulders, I really don’t understand this woman, she keeps on reminding me of my space yet visits my personal space and then expect me to be cool, shit, I cant be cool, no matter how angry a man can be with a woman but when she offers her fruit, by all means we shall do what we do, EAT THAT FORBIEDEN APPLE.

The cool calm junkie wants to do business with me, coz he saw me blaze fire earlier on, and the two people on my right, a young girl and an older lady exchange sweet and delicate words of a strong friendship bond as if they have known each other for years, but they only met last night. In front of them is a guy who is reluctant to pass out but one way or another, we all have to sleep, and so the sleep catches up with him, just as he is about to find that perfect pozi of comfort in his early stages of sleep, the colored junkie disrupts him from heaven, and for what? just a light conversation, small talk, I would have told him bricks.

The two lovers behind me indulge themselves in cuddling. Anxiety in the bus is louder than the streets of the home we all anticipate to reach.

We stop again, the scotching sun pierces through the transparent skin of this bus caressed by morning dew, just bought myself a Redbul and some mineral water for Nthabi, who now rests her knowledgeable head on my shoulder, and again my deep jazzy blues love for her expands, I have a weakness for women, eish!

Moalady is concerned of how far am I from her womb……

-JOHANNESBURG 30-

Finally 2 digits, home is around the corner.

I have been siting for a while now, and feels like my bladder is going to betray me, I am too insecure to stand up and go to the bathroom, coz check it out, when you on crutches or have a disability of some sort, the only thing you have from people not staring with eyes of shame, and end up tripping you, is your personality and dignity.

No more stops, I can almost hear the hearts of people in this bus scream in jubilation. The colored junkie announces our arrival and praises the almighty for a safe and many unnecessary stops in the journey.

The gates of Park Station open its homey arms to our arrival as we slowly drive in, home is home, the blossoming smiles on the faces of people welcoming us reminds me of why I love this beautiful, yet godforsaken place.

We park, get off and then impatiently rush to the back of the bus to conceive our luggage, the two blessed drivers stand in front of us in relief calling out our code numbers for goods. My bag and Nthabi’s are shouted like my Latin teacher back in high-school, Mrs. Nelson, announcing who’s got the highest grade between the borders and the dayboys.

We quickly fly in only to be disappointed by Nthabi’s younger sister, Bridget, whom, was supposed to be here earlier than us but didn’t, and we all know how punctual Nthabi is when it comes to being on time. The fast movement of time gave birth to Nthabi’s panic coz she was running late for wok.

My work is where ever I am at……

Thank god for MOB, my boy. A couple of minutes after Miss Punctual bounces, Mobster comes through, ever so chilled and relaxed, bringing me back to my senses and we drive out.

Got home, my mother’s face had never been so beautiful, her hug reminded me of how much of a boy I still am, and my younger brother, all of a sudden looks taller then me, but I have only been gone for a day, I guess I grew up during the time I spent on the bus ride to Kapa, and on the way back I was a little bit older, and a little bit wiser. The bus ride opened my eyes to another world in me, I love my brother and mother, and even when time has rode on with my years, I will always be a baby, in my mother’s eyes. 

PolitBuro Sessions

PolitBuro Sessions: NUFF SAID!

By Mak Manaka

In the name of music

We move to the uncompromising sounds

Of the one-eyed General

Young and old

We soldier on

Jiving free from race politics

Our nightmares are swallowed

By the delicate orders

Of urban rhythms.

On the dance floor we are colourless

Fearless in the eyes of Armageddon

Holding hands

Like lovers in a storm

And lonely hearts

Have the Dj as their companion,

The poet recites our smiles

While eclipsing passion

With tears of joy

And married men move with the night

Despite of time

Everybody is out tonight

Even the shadow boxing junkies

With fingers that have gone yellow around the edges

And also the Newtown rastas

With Jamaican tongues

“Bless mi Lord

            Fire still.....seen?”

Politburo is our own multicultural platter

With more than just music on our plates

We sang the night in colours of unity

Though some tip-toed across the dance floor

Staggering and shouting the lord’s name

Coz they cant handle waters of Babylon           

And so they babbled on,

Stumbling and mumbling sounds of Armageddon

Shikisha was another planet in Newtown

Pieces of Politburo can be traced back

To the first sound a child makes after birth

Its all love baby,

Its the Nuff Said Kollective, my love

So lets a take ride down memory lane

With Tidal Waves jamming in the background

Coz some memories are hard to let go

They exist only in the centre of our souls

Untouched by circumstance.

The Politburo is me and you

That loud music of pure peace

At the end of a Rainbow.

“My pain is deep and my hurt is wide”

Maakomele Manaka

On the 4^th of every month, I drive my grand aunt to a community hall in Zone 1 Diepkloof to receive her pensioner’s grant. The first time I went there, we were late and almost didn’t get her money, because after the pensioner’s grant line comes the child support grant, and that’s when I got a shock of my life.

At first I thought these ladies came for a modeling or a Soweto TV audition, because the line was longer than that of a bank at the end of the month, and a long line of young women can only mean one thing, beauty pageants or Pop Idols, but I was so wrong.

So after a couple months doing the same routine with my grand aunt, I met with a young beautiful woman whom I had been seeing there for quiet some time. This girl and I began to chat as she waited in a line that seemed as if it would never end, while I waited for my grand aunt. I would leave before she even reaches half way the pay point. She was smart, articulate and kind, but what I couldn’t understand was why couldn’t she get her self a job, instead of waiting for long hours just to receive R250 from the government.

As I looked around, I saw many young beautiful black women waiting in long queues from as early as 9am joining the pensioners line just so they can get their monthly pay, and so many of them were young.

Is the rate of unemployment in this country perpetuating teenage pregnancy?

The South African Institute of Race Relations found that the rate of unemployment is high among black woman at 63 percent, between the ages of 15 and 24.

What gets to me, is what is a 15 year old doing at work when they should in school?

South Africa statistics show that in the second quarter of this year, 25.7 percent of South Africans were unemployed, which meant that a quarter of the country’s population was out of work, and yet the National Youth Development Agency has time to throw parties that cost more than the amount of unemployed young people in the country.

The more I got to chat with this young lady, who was now my friend, I couldn’t help but ask, “so, what do you do with the money?” then to my surprise, she says that she is saving some of it to go back to school, and then kills my popular belief that, teenage mothers are abusing the states money.

Social Development Minister Bathabile Dlamini said the right to social security was "entrenched in our Constitution, and we have been very conscious that our social assistance programme does provide a basic safety net for millions of South Africans, especially young, aged and the disabled."

Although, in some parts of the country, teenage mothers have been known to abuse the states money, according to Pretoria’s Heartbeat Center, an organization assisting abused children. The center said that social workers had rescued township children who had been neglected by their young mothers.

The stats also show that unemployment and high increase of teenage mothers varied considerably among race groups, there are more young black mothers who are jobless than colored, Indian and white young South Africans.

57 percent of young black South Africans do not work, while 47 percent of Colored people and 23 percent of Indian people are unemployed, and only 21 percent of young white South Africans do not have jobs. I cant help but think if these rates have something to do with what young people are being taught at school, I mean, are our education institutions providing our youth with the necessary skills that will make them employable? As suppose to dropping out, getting knocked up and expecting the government to pay the bills.

It hurt me to learn that, this young woman from the grant pay point in Diepkloof, was a single teenage unemployed mother, and was doing the best she can, looking for jobs and coming up short, because she dropped out of school during her pregnancy and the father of her child wants nothing to do with them. I cant forget hearing her uttering Bobby McFarrin’s words, saying ”My pain is deep and my hurt is wide” because there was tension at home with her mother and step father, she now lives with her grand mother.

Since South Africa herself is still young, I cant help but notice that many of her children are being raised by children.

Though it comforts me to know that, there are some young people who are concerned about their future regardless of what they may have inherited in the past because we create our own future.

 

 

Us and Disability By Maakomele Manaka

Us and Disability

By Maakomele Manaka

My father cried when he found out that his first born son will never walk again. He couldn’t deal with the pain of seeing me in a wheelchair, and that led to a drift between me and my father, but I don’t blame him, because disability in black families is seen as a punishment from god, and because of this perception, black communities treat disability like it’s a social lapper.

I remember when I was still on a wheelchair, my friends and I would go out as any young person would on a Friday after school, and I recall this one afternoon in a restaurant with a few of my friends. The waiter came over to us and started asking everybody what they wanted to order, and then to my surprise, this guy asked my friend sitting next to me, what I would love to order, and then boldly with a smile, I answer, “I’d like a burger and coke, thank you”.

The treatment of disability in some parts of the country is the same as in black communities, out of sight out of mind, because of lack of understanding and exposure to disability related issues.

When I was an assistant to a psychologist who was doing a survey on inclusion, on schools between children with disabilities and “normal” children, we went to a school in Soweto called Adelaide Thambo School for disabled children. And it was there that my heart broke down when one of the children said he’d rather go to a school like his than to one with ‘normal’ children, and when I asked him why, he said, “Because other children around my neighborhood say I walk funny, and that’s why my mother keeps me in the house all the time”. Children can be cruel at times, but they are also a reflection of their parent’s teachings at home.

What are we teaching our children about disability?

In May 2009, the government established a department that will deal with equality and development for marginalized people in South Africa, the Department of Women, Children and Persons with Disabilities, headed by the former minister of Arts and Culture minister, Lulu Xingwana, And so far, it seems as though the department is lacking communication skills because not many people know it exists.

Her office needs to implement some kind of marketing strategy to educate people about the meaning of “disability” and not to continue adding salt to the wound, “out of sight, out of might” by marginalizing people that already feel marginalized, and I can’t help but wonder, if there are people with disabilities in that department, why don’t they say or do something?

What is disability?

As a writer, this is where I love language, simply because of its broadness, the word “disability” dos not only apply to a person’s physicality, it also means “lack of some capacity”, and in that sense, we all have a disability.

So, a child like Malema, who has a hard time listening to his parents the ANC when they reprimand him, has a disability, xenophobia is a disability, Nonhle’s rude behavior about how much money she has, is a disability, and one disability that I am sure we all struggle with, is public speaking, and road rage.

But, the worst disability, is limiting yourself because of societies perceptions about you.

The writer, poet and philosopher Khalil.Gibran says, “much of our sorrows are self inflicted” in his book “The Prophet”.

The worst thing that my father did was inflicting pain upon himself because of not understanding disability, and little did he know, that I have had a disability even before my accident, I spoke a lot and eat a lot.

We all have a disability, and as soon as our black communities can understand that, physical disability wont be a social lapper.

What is your disability? 

The Innocent Virgin.

By Mak Manaka

Lost in her take off, she finds herself in bed with another man and confused of how she got there. The mirror reveals the secret as she stares into her eyes, she’s the street’s daughter, her life flashes in front of the mirror, and she catches a glimpse of how she was raised by a single parent.

She is 5 years old and living in the slums of Johannesburg, her mother Gloria works as a cashier at Pick n Pay, they live with an abusive Nigerian in the corrupt flats of Hillbrow not far from Ponte.

Lost in the big City with a 1year old child, Gloria made a lot of sacrifices for her daughter to sleep with a full stomach, lord knows how much she had to endure.

The police crash the Nigerian’s dream, Gloria ends up pawning clothes to pay rent, Pick n Pay is not enough, the 5 year old soon to be 6 wants to know who her father is, because the concerned pre-school teacher hands out an assignment on a family tree.

Trapped in her flight she finds herself stuck in translating her feelings to a man who only wants to debauch her, pay and then leave her. She lives only at night trying to find out a way of surviving. The mundane street life brings tears to her eyes every time she chases after a client that’s not interested in her name, she searches for solitude in a club while going down on some guy in the toilet, she looks in the mirror and catches a glimpse of how much her mother sacrificed for her.

She is 8 years old and very inquisitive, ‘mama, who is my father’, Gloria looks at her with eyes covered in pain, ‘if only she knew the truth’ she thinks to herself, she tells her that her father died in the line of duty, and that he was a police man. Every Sundays she weeps more than Jesus, the cross has a way of reminding people of pain and in Gloria’s case, the pain in truth stares at her, from her daughter’s little eyes.

Ashamed of her face she looks away from her soul and drowns in liquor. Two men take advantage, and she ends up in hospital. In less than an hour out of hospital, bruised and beat up she is out on the streets selling her not so pretty thighs again. Tonight she sleeps alone, business was bad but somehow she finds means to take off and so she flies, tries to sleep but hears her mother’s voice calling in the dark, switches on the lights and no one is there except for her reflection glancing at her from the mirror.

She is 11 years old and goes to a school near by, her mother Gloria moved them out of Hillbrow and went to Yoeville, Gloria now works at a Spar down the road, and as a single parent, she believes no man can walk on water and bare gifts of her freedom. A mountain of School fees and debts invades the quality time a daughter needs from her mother, she works at night keeping Yoeville streets clean, and comes home around 5am, only to find her patient daughter sleeping on the table waiting to say ‘good night mama’. The sickening landlord threatens to kick them out because of two months outstanding rent. Every free chance she gets, she battles banks for a student loan but doesn’t qualify, they move out and find a cheaper place, a single room for the both of them in a commune house around Yoeville.

Finally he looks for his love, lost his collar in doing so, ‘what type of people are these, to strip a man of his pride, then call themselves children of god, after so long they still cant let me be with my wife.’ He thought to himself before embarking on his journey to Johannesburg and look for his love, he still loves her and his face blossoms in smiles whenever he thinks about her.

The lord works in mysterious ways, after 3 years living in the city a man can change but not Terence, he started to work at some Indian store in Fordsburg so he could survive, he rented a cottage at the back of his boss’s yard, and after 3 years of searching with luck not on his side, a man can only do one thing, move on. But just as when he is about to throw in the towel, he sees the face that once stole his heart across the road walking out of Spar, how can he not see her, after all she was and still is his pride and joy. He stops the car and jumps out, Gloria barely recognizes him from across the road as he runs towards her calling her name aloud, Terance’s face looks different covered in a beard, she drops the Spar plastics full of grocery on the floor in shock of what her eyes are showing her, they both hug in tears, and at this moment, Gloria misses the sent of her home town down in the Cape. ‘Where have you been?, I left the church to look for you, Where do you stay?’ as Terence showers her in untimely questions all she can do is smile with her tears running down her beautiful and aging face like Victoria falls. Terence’s happiness is short lived when his phone rings, his boss wants him back, Terence takes her to the house before heading for slavery and promises to come back tomorrow, and before he leaves while still in the van, Gloria tells him about her daughter and that her father was a Nigerian dealer, and inside the house the 11 year old daughter looks over the window and sees them hug.

Inquisitive as always, she wants to know who the man outside was, Gloria tells her teenage daughter that he is a relative from back home.

Covered in lies as she pleasures an old man and getting him to think that she is about to touch the sky, she feels dirty inside and disgusted at the sight of wrinkles on his face and body. She closes her eyes to forget her past, but as the man’s breath gets heavy on her face, she turns her head and sees herself at the mirror with England on top of her. The English man decides to confide in her and tells her about his daughter that ran away because of what he used to do to her, and also tells her about his dead wife, he keeps on telling her how he lost everything, she pushes him off of her, and blinks her eyes then sees another episode in her past life.

It’s July and she is about to turn 16, they now stay with Terence in Fordsburg. Truth still hasn’t surfaced and uncle Terence loves her like a father, she is as beautiful as the sun in spring, reminds Terence of Gloria when she was her age, all the boys at school surround her and bring her gifts, life seems to be back in order again.

Gloria can’t stop looking at Terrence, she wants him but fears to face the truth with her daughter. Gloria’s young woman is old enough to see the glow in her mother’s face when ‘uncle’ Terence plays around with her. She goes on a field trip to Durban, Gloria and Terence do it again. This time its different, they do it slow and passionately paced with every year that went by with out a man or a woman’s touch, they explore each other’s continents every night as though it were their last.

And then, a child of passion is conceived in Gloria’s womb, but her daughter doesn’t know, how wrong for them to keep such secretes away from the innocent virgin.

Terence comes home early one day, while Gloria still at work, he just got fired and soon they will have to move. She comes in the house from school looking tired as Terence’s face, and in his drunk state he thinks of how she could have been his daughter, and now, he despises the fact that Nigeria flows in her veins, trapped in the anger of his past, Terence becomes a beast and forces himself on the soon to be 16 year old. He painfully penetrates his manhood through virgin gates, telling her ‘it’s going to be fine’ as he ravages her until she feels no pain, then ejaculates’ on her light skinned thighs and screams in jubilation.

Gloria comes home and sees the faded light in Terence’s eyes, her daughter is sleeping, ‘but its only 7pm, she must have been tired’ Gloria thinks to herself. Terence tells her the bad news, and tells her that he will find another job, they have a month to look for another place.

Terence continues to drive himself into the now 16 year old, and she begins to love to hate it, and Gloria sees a change in her daughter’s attitude, “where is my daughter”, she questions herself, she’s either out or in her room isolating herself. She now calls him ‘uncle T’, at school she lost her innocence and all the boys lost interest coz she gave almost every teacher some sort of pleasure, boys call her ‘Queen Bitch’, ‘Queen B’ in short. She hates the image her mirror reflects every time ‘uncle T’ and her are done. They manage to stay for another month and Terence is always out looking for a job but comes back home broken, only to forget his failures in between the sixteen year old’s young thighs.

Gloria can feel the seed growing from within her, and decides to confide in her aging daughter, about who her father really is, and as she confesses to her daughter her eyes catch a reflection of her self from the mirror in her daughter’s room, and remembers how she came to the City of Gold.

The young Terence looks at young virgin Gloria with all the love a man can give, this man wounded in his pride, walks with her as his ego, beauty has never seen such a face. She loves him so, night after night, she prays for god to spare them the shame, of living without light.

Many men live under this man’s word, to some he is the Son of God, and to children his hand is cast in gold.

‘Fortune favors the bold’ they say, and bold he was.

Covered in papers of debt, a quiet man in a church robe leads him to victory, though his heart remains at home trying to build a family with no inspiration, until he walks in with strength in his eyes and power of the future in the way he holds her, so masculine, so sensual. Her body longs for him, he comes inside of her and explores the world she once promised him.

A miracle she thought, ‘His blood grows in my womb’, the young Gloria doesn’t tell him because of the collar, and she then wonders as to how it happened because the young father Terence has slow swimmers, he is weak in the cradle of man. Young Gloria keeps her secrete away from the man of the cloth, and leaves behind her man, her pride, her world for a seed that changed her future.

Gloria breaks down when she reads the later her daughter wrote to her before she left.

“my child, with that bastard” shouting as tears flood her face, Terence walks in the room, only to find Gloria weeping, and out of nowhere, Gloria snaps and tabs Terence on the chest with a pair of scissors while screaming, “he was your daughter, he was your daughter”.

Covered in the rapist’s blood she calls the police and sits next to the phone ready be imprisoned.

 ‘I can’t live here anymore mama, the man you said was family turns out to be my father, and do you know what he has been doing to me? He has been forcing himself inside of me telling me if I say anything he will have me kidnapped and I hate him for that, and I hate you for not believing me when I tried to tell you, and thought that I am a silly girl. I am sorry mama, goodbye. Your loving daughter, Ntombenhle’………..

 

  

Stranger to Sunshine

Stranger to sunshine.

By Mak Manaka

Noxolo Mpilo-Jones, the country’s greatest writer. She was the 1^st born in a family of two sisters, both her parents were artists, her father was the country’s well known writer, poet and painter Kwanele Mpilo and her mother Pam Mpilo was an actress and a dancer. Her parents moved from the Eastern Cape to Natal coz the father got a job as a teacher in the University of Natal teaching literature. In the 70’s, a profession in the arts was a health hazard because black writers never got the respect they so deserved and coz of that, life became uncomfortable especially living in a disadvantaged province such as the Eastern Cape. So when they moved to Natal, Noxolo was 8 years old followed, by her sister Nomhle whom at that time was 6 yeas old and the baby Nontsikelelo was 2 years old. Noxolo’s father was a member of the Pan African Congress, he wrote about the pain of his people and how black people must unite and define themselves, he spent half the time either writing or on stage directing or a in class teaching, and his wife Pam collaborated with him, he would write and she would act and dance in the plays.

From an early age Noxolo was familiar with theatre, she was born on stage. In the early 80’s her father left his teaching profession and moved to Johannesburg, they lived in Diepkloof, Soweto. And across the road from their home was an arts and culture center where her father spent most of his time if not all of it teaching fine art on Saturdays for little money, and her mother Pam opened up a dance school, by then Noxolo was about 12 years.

She attended school not far from their home and Nomhle was sent to a boarding school in Natal. 

It was here in Diepkloof where life got a little bit harder and her parents began drifting apart. Her father was becoming an abusive alcoholic, like many black writers at the time, coz by then South Africa was free, and not in the way they fought for it, and that really frustrated him.

He spent time in his study painting and wrote so much work that never got published, people knew him for his plays.  Some time during that time, he wrote a play that went to London, and Pam had to stay behind and look after the children, every Saturday she taught dance. Just before Noxolo’s father returned from Europe, Pam got an acting job on television for a soapie and shut down the dance classes. When her father returned after two months, he was not impressed, Kwanele was threatened by her wife’s artistic growth, he assaulted Pam like she was a man and Noxolo who witnessed everything was devastated. Pam took him to the police, he stayed in the cell for about a week then Pam dropped the case, love can do that sometimes, seeing her parents fight like that affected her so much. After witnessing that vile domestic violence she became very distant, kind of like her mind would wonder. It was her father’s misdeeds that led her to writing coz every time her parents where at each other’s throats, she would take her youngest sister Ntsiki and herself to her room and softly sing for her until she slept, and then write.

It was on the day they went to pick up Nomhle from school that her life changed.

Her father came home smelling like a bottle store, he had come from a meeting that did not go well with the investors and that left a bitter taste in his heart. And so on the way from the airport, Pam and Kwanele got into a fight and he lost control, they overturned with the car.

Kwanele tried to swerve the car from the truck but they were moving so fast, the steering wheel went out of control smashing against the side of a cargo truck. The over turning car threw Kwanele out of the window and he landed head first on the ground, Pam’s face was badly bruised and Ntsiki was paralyzed from the waist down. The father died on the spot that afternoon, and Noxolo never forgave him, she never cried at the funeral.

Three girls and a single parent, and so Noxolo became the bread winner in the house. Pam sacrificed her career and took care of her disabled last born, Noxolo quit school with only one more year to go and got a job as a waitress at a café in Newtown, Joburg’s cultural precinct, this is were she met people from all over the world, and changed her world, she began to read all the time. She would read anything she came across, and before her sifts she wrote and wrote. The more people she came across the more she began to realize her self, though every time she went home she would feel as though she was fiddling with a wound that took a long time to heal, she would clean up the house, make dinner, wash the clothes and try to comfort her mother every lonely night when she wept over the accident. Noxolo felt herself trapped inside of her but every time she was at the cafe, she was free, she was able to be herself and express her self the way a woman does, the way humans do.

The manager of the restaurant decided to host open-mic nights every Thursdays and people from all over Johannesburg came to listen to poets, musicians, and comedians.

She was only 20 years old when she decided to recite her poetry live on stage, after two weeks the open-mic’s had been running, she was extremely scared but calm on the surface, she did a poem about Soweto’s life styles and its the people. The crowd went wild, coz she had the ability to captivate her audience with her commanding voice and her energy on stage. That night she only did one poem and the audience was screaming for more when she was done, she went on stage in her work uniform and performed her heart to the moon.

That night when she got home with an uplifted sprit she found the house empty, Ntsiki was in hospital, she had bedsores that were now very deep into her flesh. That day she was in so much pain coz the sores had affected her skin, her small left thigh was swollen. They didn’t have enough money for the bedsores to be surgically removed, when Noxolo got to the hospital her mother sobbed when she walked in coz in some way Noxolo reminded her of Kwanele coz when Noxolo and her sisters were younger, he was very strong for the family and keeping them together.

Ntsiki stayed in hospital while Noxolo now worked double shifts every day trying hard to raise money for her sister’s operation.

Every Thursday Noxolo would perform like there was no tomorrow. People started coming only to see her perform and then after dazzling the audience with her poetry she would return to work, serving people drinks and food. She was becoming known as the young force from Soweto, every Thursday she would escape on stage and forget the past that fueled her performance. Every night when she came from the café after the exhilarating open-mics, she would tell her mother how people loved her and how they cheered for more, and her mother would discourage her and want her to stop, fearing that she might end up like her father.

She managed to raise money and paid for the operation, the bedsores were removed but the family’s joy never lasted when Nomhle’s outstanding school fees came knocking at the door. The school she went to in Natal was now promising to kick her out if the outstanding amounts were not paid so Pam decided to take her to a cheaper school in the township near their home. Nomhle would pick up Ntsiki from her so called ‘special’ school after school and Pam got herself a job as a receptionist for one of Kwanele’s friends who ran a communications company in the city.

Noxolo continued working double shifts coz in that café she was Noxolo and half of the people who came on Thursday nights now came every other day of the week just to be with her, she had an outgoing personality, she became employee of the month for three months until an older man approached her and wanted to know how much would she charge him for a performance at a private function. She didn’t know how much to charge him coz first of all she didn’t even know that money can be earned from poetry. She got R2500 for her first gig, after that news started spreading and Noxolo was in demand. She would get calls to come perform along side people she admired, in the art community people who knew her father would tell her that she was more articulate than her father.

With her new job Pam paid up all the hospital debts and schools fees and Nomhle was doing her last her, everything seemed to be fine. An article about Noxolo was printed on The Sowetan newspaper, the article spoke about her and where she came from, it also spoke about her father how this country forgot about the genius. Her mother read it and started to cry, she was unaware of how Noxolo’s poetry affected people, and so one Thursday night without telling her Pam went to the open-mic and saw her daughter win the hearts of people with her words, that night she did a poem about the strength in her mother. She went outside and waited for Noxolo until she knocked off, Pam had managed to buy a car, a white Conquest. When Noxolo came out she saw how many of her colleagues surrounded her in smiles and laughter, she was doing most of the talking, she saw a different person and when Noxolo saw her stepping out the car, tears of joy ran down her eyes, her mother congratulated her and she had never been so happy to hear her say that.

Pam called some of Kwanele’s friends to come see Noxolo perform the next Thursday, after the show she got a deal to publish her poetry.

She quit her job and focused on poetry, every night she was out, in a month she would make about R10 000 to

R20 000, she saved all her money to take her sister Nomhle to varsity after graduation and help with Ntsiki’s medicine, Pam had never been so proud of her.

She was only 22 when her book ‘NOW’ was published, she was every where, on television, newspapers, radio, 400 copies were sold on the first night of her launch, she was now a celebrity. She went overseas, performed in places her mother dreamt of.

While she was traveling all over the country, performing and giving workshops to school children about not doing drugs, her sister Nomhle was becoming an addict, I guess she was feeling pressured by Noxolo’s success. On the day she had arrived from London, her sister Nomhle OD’d the night before, her mother was devastated. They buried her next to her father’s grave, her sister’s death traumatized her, she continued to perform but the spark in her eyes was lost. Then Ntsiki’s bedsores came again, two months after Nomhle’s passing and this time around they were worse than before, her left leg was amputated and cost the family a lot of money.

Noxolo had never had a boyfriend, so at 25 she was a lonely poet with past issues haunting her dreams, a show was held at the café she used to work in and she was the main attraction, that night was phenomenal, some people were crying, it was such a memorable night coz that was the first time I met your mother. Noxolo seemed distant the first time we spoke, I had to wait for a while until I could finally speak to her, everybody wanted to speak to her, then finally we sat down, she didn’t even drink alcohol then. We spoke about everything, she loved to laugh, she was a nice person.

We saw each other almost everyday, came to visit me at work, then, I was a financial advisor for Nedbank. She also loved talking about her past life and how she never forgave her father and how she missed her sister. The first time I met with your grandmother Pam, she was very happy that I was not an artist and that my job was money, she would always tell me how bright the future looked every time she looked into my eyes. Pam developed a sickness of the heart, it was weak and every now and then Noxolo would have to take her to hospital, two years after we had been going out, your grandmother, the strong Pam Mpilo, passed away and Noxolo was in America performing, I took care of everything. She was left with one more show when I told her the news, that night she cried before she went on stage and when she was on stage she performed her soul to the moon, that night she got a standing ovation. She got the first flight out of New York and came back home, her mother’s passing really affected her, she couldn’t perform or write for two months, and in those two months she spent her time with her youngest sister Ntsiki. Every time I came to see her, her charming smile was fading and she didn’t laugh as much.

She used to say that all her life she has been a child born to pain, that she was a stranger to sunshine.

I tried every thing in my power to bring her back, I managed to get her a deal with some publishing house to publish her second anthology but she would refuse until her sister Ntsiki said to her if she keeps on feeling sorry for her self, her talent will die then she would have worked so hard to see their last name go to waste, for a 20 year old I guess Ntsiki grew up before her time. And so Noxolo agreed to publish her second book of poems, ‘Here I Stand’, she was now 30 years old and felt like she had lived. One would think that fame changes people but Noxolo remained the same, went to open mics every Thursday, she never forgot were she came from but would always try to forget her own past. She began having an interest in spirituality coz her family were never into ancestors and sacrificing a cow or a sheep for the dead, a woman had told her about a traditional healer she must see, and that she had a dream about Noxolo asking her for help. Noxolo began seeing more and more of this lady, that day your mother came home depressed, it was the first time in months since her mother’s funeral I had ever seen her so depressed, she told me that the lady took her to a healer and the man told her that, she was going to die lonely, he told her that her father is not happy and that is why Pam and Nomhle were gone, Noxolo ran out of the old man’s room, he told him how her family was doomed. I was stunned, I mean I was shocked, how do you tell someone something like that, it was like, how could Morpheus put so much pressure on Neo.

Noxolo got a deal to publish another book of short stories about her life experiences titled ‘Write On’. After this book, you came, and that was her happiest moment ever to see her baby girl. We named you after her sister, your late aunt, Nomhle.

You came at a time when so many things were confusing to your mother, that is why when you were young, she wasn’t around much, always at hospitals, she became delusional after you turned 8, before she went to hospital she would wake up in the middle of the night, go check on you then talk while typing on the computer, your mother wasn’t crazy, she was going through episodes of her past life at that moment, I heard her talking to her father while she was typing. She was admitted to a psychiatric ward and I then send you to my parents in London and took care of your mother, oh, how I loved her so, when Ntsiki came to see her, she would cry then keep quiet and listen to her speak about her new boyfriend, how much he doesn’t see her as a disabled woman and that he proposed, and while Ntsiki was speaking I could see her eyes glow, it made me sad to see her like that, she couldn’t talk properly, her speech was slurred and she looked dazed.

I saw her everyday after work, her doctor once told me that, Noxolo had a tough time letting go and that her sister’s death really affected her coz every night she sleep talks and cries her name, and apparently she had a lot of repressed memories, the doctor said that was the cause of her delusions.

She was about 45 years when she died and that man was true, she died alone, blood was not properly reaching the brain, she died the day before her Ntsiki wedding, and so the wedding was postponed. I took all of her work to the same publishing house and wrote you down as the inheritor of her rights, they are your birthright so when you are lonely and feel like you cant breathe, look to your mother’s art and listen to her voice, she lives in you, you even look just like her. So you take care of yourself and enjoy your 21 birthday, your mother would be so proud of you and don’t you ever imprison or sacrifice your happiness. You are not a stranger to sunshine.

I love you baby.

Sincerely your father

Richard Alfred Jones.     

Rasta

RASTA
By Mak Manaka



This guy, what’s wrong with him? Does he ever get enough? Weekend after weekend he’s here, either with me or with that slut Thuli or one of these girls if he cant find both of us. He’s good for business though, but bad for my health, coz every time I am with him, it’s either he wants me to snot or pipe-up. Shit, he did it again, “Rasta, Rasta, wake up man”, fuck, “Chris! Chris!” eeish, this stupid Nigerian, where is he now, his fucken best customer is pasted out on my bed, “Rasta, Rasta wake up, Chris! Rasta is sleeping again!” Shit, he is not waking up, oh my god his eyes, “Rasta come on, wake up”. Jesus, he’s OD’ing, fuck, what do I do now? “Rasta wake up, please, don’t do this to me”.
Who could be calling him at this time, Lerato girl, just leave it and let it ring its none of your business. “Phew! thank god he is not OD’ing, Rasta can you hear me?” “Its me Lerato” he is too wasted to even hear me, “Chris, Chris, Rasta is finished, look at him he is useless, and anyway its late. Shh…listen he is saying something, he wants you to take him home”. Bloody Nigerian, he even knows where he stays, I wonder how long has Chris known Rasta, now I have to help him put Rasta in his car, eish. Prince and some other friend of theirs follow Chris and Rasta in Rasta’s car, but why all the trouble, anyway, “Ok, me I am going to sleep, take your keys”, Rossetenville at night or around this early, can be tricky, especially with the pigs being everywhere, taking money off these Nigers, and getting free blow-jobs from us so we wont have to spent a night in their dirty stinking cells.


Rasta’s wallet, he was married? Damn, so he’s real name is Nlhanlha, Nhlanhla Khubeka, born 1970 on September the 4th, no way, his birthday is today, well yesterday. No wonder he was drunk.

Oh shit, Rasta’s phone? Where is it? Who could be calling him at this time, ah, there we go, what the hell? Thuli? “Foetsek, sefebe, Rasta is with me, go fuck your self”. Crazy bitch, she wants to get high again, if only she knew where Rasta is right now, another phone call? “Wife?” don’t answer that phone Lerato, let it ring…………


Not again, he always does this on weekends. What’s wrong ka Nlhanlha? “Hi you’ve reached Nhlanhla please leave a massage”, “Nhlanhla ke na, where are you? We haven’t heard from you since Friday and its Sunday early morning, please answer your phone. We have to take the baby ko ma bitleng, to your father, remember?”


Good day Joburg, 12?, my god, I slept all morning, what a night.…………Chris’s car, and no noise in the house where are they, I wonder what time they came back. Ah yes, its Sunday, they at church, its funny that they are heavily religious and yet at the same time they are corruptors but anyway who is perfect……….20 missed calls damn, it’s a good thing I put Rasta’s phone on silent…

“………You have 13 new voice massages, to listen to your massages press 1…”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”
“Nhlanhla its me again, o bone ke nako manga, call me back”.
I hope its him calling, “Hello, Nlhanlha?, oh hi ma, yes, the baby is fine, we should be there before 9:30, he’s fine, see you just now ma, bye”, “If your father is not here in the next 30 minutes baby-boy, we are leaving without him. He was out the whole weekend having fun, I understand it was his birthday yesterday but he forgot that he has a family, don’t worry my love you will grow up strong and responsible not like your father, there we go, how does that feel? Clean and comfy, not wet and heavy right?” I wonder where could he be?

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”, “Nlhanlha…eeish…Nlhanlha, I am sorry baby, I am so sorry. I wanted to tell you on Friday, Nlhanlha, ngi zo hlala ngi ku thanda baby…Thandi speaking call me when you get a chance”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”
“Nlhanlha wake up man, we need you to cover a story, Holomisa’s daughter OD’d last night, she’s at J.G Strydom, not far from your house. Wake up man, we need you there at 10am for a live feed, peace”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”
“Rasta, my brother from another mother its Ike call me back, I got new stuff for you mabrada”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanlha, please leave a massage”
“Nhlanhla Mzilikazi Khubeka, mntanami, ukuphi? Your wife is worried about you. She was crying about how you spend less time with your family, your father and I never raised you that way, kwenzejani mfana wami. I remember when you had just turned 15 and we had just buried your father’s brother, remember what you said, you said you never want to be like him, abandon your family for alcohol and drugs. Remember when your father bought you that new bicycle, and you didn’t ride it for a week coz you were afraid to fall and hurt yourself, I remember how hard your father was on you. You are our only boy, my first and last born, your father was so happy when he found out it’s a boy. Nlhanlha mntanami, I have stood by you all these years, even when your father was against you marrying that sweet girl but after what she told me, I am so disappointed. Call me back my boy we need to talk”

“Hi you’ve reached Nhlanhla, please leave a massage” “Jahman, u sa lele, we still hooking up later right? Coz last night I tried some other dealer so, shit bra, zi ya buya mfo, anyway, call me back player, S’bu la”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Hi baby, I tried calling you last night and that bitch Lerato picked up, I told you not to see her, give me a call instead you know I will do everything for you. Anyway malove, I‘ll speak to you later, bye baby, Thuli here”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Nlhanlha, what’s going on man, its 11am now, and you were not at the Hospital covering the story, we’ve been trying to call you all morning, you’ve cost us brother, anyway I want you in my office tomorrow morning, bye”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Nlhanlha, its me, I am getting worried, u ko kae? I just got a disturbing voicemail, I thought…I thought you stopped, maara why Nlhanlha, we need to talk abut this when you get home. Your son and I are getting some stuff ko shopong, I hope you back when we get here. I love you no matter what”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Rasta my brada when are you paying me, I’ve been holding your stuff for 3 months, I am selling everything mabrada, call me dis is Richie”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Mshana hu malume la, ukuphi? Your mother is not happy about what’s going on with you, hamba ekhaya ndoda. You are a man now and not that quiet and naughty silly boy who used to follow me around and ask me for money, usuya sebenza manje and you have a family now, musa uku khathaza umamakho mshana, you guys have been through a lot. Remember after your father’s funeral, how your father’s family forgot about you guys and gave you none of his inheritance? Mshana you are a big man now take care of the only family you got. Call me back we need to talk”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Nhlanhla…….baby……I am pregnant. I wanted to tell you when we were together on Thursday night but I didn’t want to stress you coz you kept on going about your problems at home, anyway please call me back love, this is Elaine, I love you baby”

“Hi you’ve reached Nlhanhla, please leave a massage”
“Nlhanlha this is Thandi, it was not my fault, please understand, Nlhanlha……eeish……I am infected and we’ve been sleeping without a condom, I found out this past Thursday, Nlhanlha please forgive me”


Damn, Rasta was messed up, he is a father, he is HIV positive, and the pregnant colored girl Elaine, eeish…..Rasta’s family, shame poor son. I don’t understand what happens inside of people’s heads or life or whatever, to just destroy the things they love most, I just hope he got home safe, his wife was so worried.


“……A well known award winning journalist was found dead in Westdene dam by a civilian, he had been missing since last week Friday. He drove off the road and went straight into the dam, his face was badly bruised and his chest had a deep cut, the police are investigating the murder, he shall be dearly missed, and in other top stories, Holomisa’s daughter is still in hospital after surviving a fatal OD at a friend’s house in Melville, and private detectives wipe out the entire drug world of Westbury, more than 50 people were arrested and amongst the 50 the majority were juveniles………


Oh my god, Chris, have you heard what happened to Rasta, what? He told you to leave him down the road from his house, oh, his wife, he wanted to sober up, but then how does he get to the dam then?


“Top story at this hour, the police have discovered that Nhanhla Khubeka, the award winning journalist’s death was drug related……”


Dear Diary, its been two weeks since he’s been dead and they haven’t found the culprit, let them write or say all they want, but Nhanhla was abusive, he cheated on me and his baby, and I know he was doing drugs but told me he stopped, and what even got me more angry was that colored girl Elaine, she had the nerve to call and tell me she is expecting my husband’s child. I am so sorry baby, I am sorry I had to do that to you, growing up without a father is tough but we will make it you’l see baby boy. But your father was a piece of shit, he deserved it, I should have burnt him instead of the dam but anyway…. I tried to make a happy home big-boy, lord knows I tried.