GOING CHICKEN OVER A PROSECUTOR
GIBLETS are a top bite. Go down very well especially if the drinks are compliments of the host. With the silly season in full swing, invitations come flooding in from folks in my beloved Bangladesh Market district in Chatsworth. People who don’t bother to buy you a drink all year come rushing all at once in December.
There are some who turn their noses up at the innards. “Not like you was brought up in Hillary,” Maya smirked at Babloo as he fiddled his fork around the chicken livers. As he creeps towards his Sassa pension card, Maya remains blessed with his own teeth and hair. Some, at least. He brags about being Trevor Noah’s scriptwriter. If I didn’t know better, I would surely believe he did the Global Citizen lines too. When it comes to a wicked wit, Maya is a Wild West rapid-fire gunslinger. Babloo, on the other hand is shy and better known for his coiffed good looks. But being handsome is no reason to sniff at the giblets.
“Did you know he was born a criminal?” Maya has a knack for asking an unrelated question. Our conversation was around the appointment of the utterly divine Shamilla Batohi as National Director of Public Prosecutions and Maya decided to give us a lecture on the Immorality Act. The fact of Noah’s parents being a white Swiss father and a black African mother, is old hat. He tells the story with a typical humorous bite in his autobiography Born a Crime. The difference between crime and criminal is not material to the point Maya wants to make.
Seeing this was going to be a long conversation, Babloo gallantly instructs Sarge: “Pour another shot brazzo.” My friends who are accustomed to buying their own liquor from the lower shelves are not shy about the top shelf stuff when it’s free.
Mayas downs a spicy kidney. “Mnandi kakhulu (tasty).” Signs of his approaching inebriation can be one of three things. One is speaking poetic Zulu. Two is singing Luxmi entertainers songs in praise of brothers. The coup de grace is becoming overly affectionate when his wife appears in the doorway with “that look”.
The conversation about books obviously gets me worked up. I pick up a piece of intestine between delicate thumb and forefinger. Using utensils while having a dop is the equivalent insult of tucking into a bunny chow with a fork and knife. Our conversation turns to the best chicken for giblets. It has to be the free range corn-fed variety that run after to catch. Babloo intones in his best higher grade English: “Would you happen to have a book on that?” That’s rich coming from someone who did crime and punishment for stealing a chicken as a boy.