Redistribute the cash, OK, but leave my beer alone
ABOUT four years ago I found myself in Braamfontein, in need of cash at around 7pm. Get your mind out of the gutter. I said Braamfontein, not Hillbrow. So I parked on Jorissen Street opposite the Pick n Pay and walked to an ATM across the road.
I had just removed my card and R1 500 from the machine when I turned around only to come faceto-face with two young men, one with what looked like a 9mm pistol aimed at my abdomen. My nonverbal communication skills are quite sharp so there was no need for them to verbalise the fact that a little redistribution of wealth was taking place.
I haven’t lived to the age of 41 by being a hero and a brave guy. When the situation calls for it, I will go on my knees and ask to be spared or simply do my best to break Usain Bolt’s 100m record, jiggly belly allowing.
I had the cash in my right hand and my open wallet in my left hand and, as calmly as I could, I said: “Look, take the cash but the wallet is use…” when I heard, “WHAPPAAA!”. At first I thought it was a rare thunderstorm in the middle of July because I saw lightning and heard that whip-like sound. It was only when my left cheek temperature rose by about 30°C and Guy Fawkes fireworks started dancing around my left eye that I realised the fellow without a weapon had slapped me. Hard.
At that moment something weird, stupid and wonderful happened. I felt an intense, potent anger of nuclear proportions gather around my gut, rise up my torso and wash over my body. I had an out of body experience and was transported to the streets of my Mpumalanga township in 1987 when I regularly had to face people with guns.
I spit out some bloodcurdling,
I will go on my knees and ask to be spared or simply do my best to break Usain Bolt’s 100m record
cringeworthy Zulu expletives, punctuated by, “You sons of [brothel dwellers] will only remove this cash from my corpse!” before storming off in the direction of my car while the fellow with a gun threatened to blow my head off. Quite frankly, in the heat of the moment (and my burning cheek), I was prepared to create a widow and trio of orphans as a matter of principle. What principle, you ask? The retarded “You can point a gun at me and rob me of my hard-earned cash if you want, but don’t you ever, and I mean EVER, slap a Zulu boy who grew up on the streets of ‘Little Beirut’ in Hammarsdale” principle. Not one shot was fired.
You don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out that my reaction was informed by what can only be called temporary insanity. And another factor was at play. You see, I have observed that human anger does not generally boil over at the huge injustices that befall people. It is usually the little things that send us into a whirlpool of foaming-at-the-mouth rage.
I remember renting a house in the sleepy hollow of a township called KwaNdengezi outside Pinetown, Durban, about 15 years ago. One day I woke up to the realisation that while I slumbered someone had broken into the house. The fact that they had taken my stereo I could live with. The fact that they had taken my VCR was not so bad. I was even okay with the fact that they had taken my John Coltrane, Miles Davis and Wynton Marsalis CDs. What catapulted me over the edge is when I said to myself: “Ndumiso, grab a cold beer from the ice box, take a seat, calm yourself down and think clearly what to do next”, only to realise that the sons of Orlando Pirates supporters had drunk the two ice-cold Hansa Pilsener quarts.
I think my enraged scream was audible all the way down to the Bluff. I was livid. That’s correct; just like I was quite happy to hand over R1 500 to a pair of thugs, until a slap landed on me, I didn’t mind losing appliances worth between R7 000 and R10 000. But the idea of that scum of the earth guzzling R14 worth of my beer sent me into an orbit of seismic rage.
When I shared the story of the break-in with a few friends, I was amazed that everyone identified. One of them told me that what pushed him over the edge with a break-in at his Morningside flat was that the thugs had eaten a chicken drumstick he was saving for breakfast.
It reminds me of Sechaba and Linda, whose previous house on a plot in Midrand was broken into. Sechaba and I arrived more or less at the same time after Linda discovered they’d been cleaned out. She was sitting outside, on a camp chair, as calm as ever, being philosophical about the whole thing. But when she went inside to pour herself a glass of cabernet sauvignon and discovered that they’d drunk it, she lost it. I heard her yell: “Nx! Izinja!” (“Those dogs!”)
It’s not entirely historically accurate but I like to believe even the storming of the Bastille that started the French Revolution was precipitated by Marie Antoneitte’s “Let them eat cake” throwaway comment.
There is a build up of anger about service delivery in the “cowntry”. And when the revolution comes, it won’t be triggered by something big like Nkandlagate or Guptagate or Marikana. My prediction is that it will be over something as innocuous as the Honourable Minister Comrade Blade telling striking students at the University of Limpopo that they are “hooligans” for asking for extra cheese in the cafeteria lasagne.