I’ve written off the idea that I have a book in me
The average 250-page novel costs about R300. If the author is fortunate enough to get a publisher who does not have a penchant for sodomising authors without KY, she/he might receive between R30 and R36 a copy. The South African literary market is so fickle that 3,000 copies sold qualifies as a best-seller.
If we had a government run by vaguely literate individuals, the arts and culture department would give everyone who had a book published at least R250,000. And if the average reader knew what authors, screenwriters and columnists go through to collect the stories they enjoy, they would toss R50 notes at us or offer us bottles of whisky.
Allow me to motivate for my Scribe Whisky Donation Drive (SWDD). For the past three weeks I’ve been on a writing retreat, away from my family. I’m making my first foray into fiction and this story has threatened my sanity and marriage, straining to spill out of me.
I spent the first two weeks at the Merino Guest Farm near Clarens, on the R712 towards Bethlehem. If that farm gave birth to children, they would be christened Tranquillity, Serenity and Quietude. Sweet baby Jesus, the Virgin Mary and the full choir of Seraphims, what an ideal space for peace.
It is run by an accommodating and helpful couple, Mariska and Johan. I must register my disapproval at Johan though. The bugger speaks more fluent Sesotho than I do, the bloody show-off. I didn’t see them, let alone meet them, until halfway through the second week of my stay. If anyone knows anything about me, it is that I don’t “people” well. I’m generally not fond of human interaction. When I meet new people I go out of my way to be affable, agreeable, because I’m perpetually fighting the voices whispering to me: “Tell the spawn of Beelzebub to get away from us!”
At some point I had a mishap on the R712 that rendered my 13year-old jalopy immobile. Merino Guest Farm is a self-catering guest house and about two days later I ran out of some necessities. You know, onions, chewing gum and Jack Daniel’s lubricant. I could have asked my hosts for a lift to town, but another voice whispered: “Yes, that seems the most prudent course of action. But don’t your readers deserve a story about your hitchhiking adventures?”
Besides, my belly hangs over my Fupa (fat upper pubic area) like pizza dough. I need the exercise. This is how I found myself embarking on a 4km hike on the dirt road from the guest house to the main road, where I would hitchhike to Bethlehem. When I set off the sky was clear, birds were chirping, Katrina and The Waves were serenading me with Walking On Sunshine through my ear pods. I was so relaxed that as I passed a herd of Rooi Beeste my latent bovilexia was awakened. Yes, I suffer from the uncontrollable urge to “moo” when I see cattle. As I belted a symphony of moos, it never occurred to me that I’m not proficient in Cow. What if I was yelling: “I’m going to slit all your calves’ throats you cross-eyed heifers!”?
It was then that the heavens opened. It has been years since I was rained on so badly my boxer shorts were clinging to my inner thighs and my tadpole sac felt like a discarded tea bag. Water was going into one ear and spurting out the other. It was raining so hard I started hallucinating that the Lord was talking to me and instructing me to construct an Ark.
A few days later I was talking to Mariska about that downpour and found myself quoting
Forrest Gump: “I experienced bitty stingin’ rain, rain that flew in sideways and ... rain that came straight up from underneath.” What really made me mad was that when I reached the main road, I discovered that in the rest of the world it was sunny.
Fortunately, I got a lift on the back of a Corsa bakkie and only had to explain to two fellows why I looked as if I’d just taken a dunk in a pool. Not that they noticed. One absent-mindedly passed me a Mary-Jane blunt. I took a hit and passed it on to the other fella.
My Sesotho is not up to scratch, but I think one of them called me Noah, though that could have been the cannabis talking. As things stand, I cannot be certain I got a lift in the cockpit of an 18-wheeler on my way back. I was floating the entire time.
If this story doesn’t convince you to contribute to my SWDD, you’re heartless. I accept cashiers’ cheques, PayPal, EFTs and e-wallets.
* Ndumiso was unable to publish his regular column this week. This column was published in November last year.
I’m making my first foray into fiction and this story has threatened my sanity and marriage, straining to spill out of me