HUMOUR
Ndumiso Ngcobo throws some hot stones
Afew weeks ago, we were talking about the importance of creating new, tailor-made nuclear family traditions, on Uncaptured, the show I co-host on Kaya FM 95.9. Back home in The Valley of a Thousand Hills, where my folks live, the start of a new year tends to coincide with an orgy of goat killing and wanton consumption. I think the goat is easily the tastiest beast the Lord allowed us to eat in the book of Deuteronomy. (I would have included swine on that list but I shan’t question the wisdom of the Almighty.) That said, the BOM (Boss of Me) has an irrational aversion to bleating goats having their gullets slit until they perish in pools of their own blood in her yard. And while our mutts, Buster and Bengeta, enjoy goat entrails and other delicacies, they don’t enjoy the fly convention that accompanies animal sacrifice.
This is how it came to pass that the BOM decreed that we start every new year with a pampering session at a massage parlour and spa thingamasqueeze.
A long time ago we made a lifestyle choice to tuck our family behind the Boerewors Curtain, where there’s a limited selection. I guess January pampering is very popular in Ekurhuleni because practically every place was fully booked.
The BOM finally booked a place at Mall@Carnival, a stone’s throw from Carnival City, the posh side of Brakpan. Yes! The posh side of Brakpan, I said.
In any case, below is the e-mail I sent to the e-mail address I found on their website. It’s almost verbatim. What I would like is feedback on whether my missive was rude or not:
Hi, I’m writing this from Cappuccinos at Mall@Carnival. I started writing this at 14h17.
My wife and I booked a 90-minute Aromatherapy Thai massage . . . We arrived there promptly at 14h00.
The first sign that we might have made an error in judgement is when we were greeted by an A4 page with a handwritten message from what I assume is a brain-damaged three-year-old on nyaope. It read, “TIPS ARE WELCOME”. I’ve been to the filthiest pubs in the deepest, shadiest part of Kakamas in the rural Karoo, frequented by toothless hobos drinking wine from
papsaks, but I have never seen anything tackier than that sign. The soulless fellow behind the counter was preoccupied with serving a customer. And by “serving”, I mean he was grunting at her in a language I can only describe as a mixture of Orang Utan and Hadeda.
Enter two ladies that we assume are employees of your establishment based on the fact that they were wearing uniforms with your logo . . . They plonked their large frames on the couches to our left. Let’s call them Grumpy I and Grumpy II. They spoke in deep, rural Zulu, interrogating my wife on why she chose 90-minute massages when they were so tired:
“Yho! 90 minutes? Are you sure?”
“You know that we have a 60-minute hot stone special for only R380? Why pay R550?”
At this point my wife, who is the gentlest, calmest human I know, has her eyeballs popping out of her skull. But it gets better. They start talking about us like we’re not there: “Maybe they don’t know what hot stone massages are.” “Shoo! 90 MINUTES?”
“I don’t know about you but I’ll be damned if I’ll do 90 minutes.”
The BOM whispers to me, “Should we proceed with this?” Enter the soulless chap behind the counter: “You have booked two aromatherapy massages. Are you ready?”
Mrs N loses it. “Guys, are you serious? This is most unprofessional! We came here to relax! Ningiphocile!” (She meant ningiphoxile, which means “you’ve disappointed me” in isiZulu. But she’s Mopedi.)
I chirp in, questioning their professionalism. Grumpy I & II and the Hadeda shrug some “whatevers” as we exit.
At 14h15 we’re at Cappuccinos, so I decide to call the Hadeda. “I was just there. I’m most shocked . . . ”
He cuts me off.
“Are you calling to complain?”
“Yes. I think that wasn’t very . . .”
“They offered you a special and you declined it . . .”
“No. That’s not what happened! Do you understand isiZulu at all . . .”
“If you are calling to complain, I have no time for that!”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. I have no time for this.”
So I told him to go ahead and engage in sexual intercourse with himself.
Anyway, I’m writing this to let you know that I’d rather spend 2 000 nights being sodomized by well-hung Thai ladyboys than ever return to that den of incompetence masquerading as a massage parlour. It wouldn’t have surprised me if halfway through the alleged massage, Grumpy II had removed her front teeth to reveal a passion gap the size of the Kimberley Hole and offered me fellatio and a happy ending.
You should hang your heads in shame.
The esteemed establishment in question has not responded, four days later. Was I a tad harsh?
They talk about us like we’re not there: ‘Maybe they don’t know what hot stone massages are.’