I remember meeting a former schoolmate last week. We had not seen each other for many years, despite touching base here on facebook. He was scouring the entire shopping mall looking for a place to buy a heater. And he was not winning. His two sons (about 3 and 6) were flanking him. You could see that the three of them were working like a team to find the damned thing! I guess they knew that hell was coming the following week. Even a simple Nda, vho Tshindane, seemed to piss the two sons off. I seemed to have interrupted their momentum. That is the tragic thing about Black Africans who grew up in the former Bantustans. It is rude for them to just wave at somebody they know inside a shopping mall and carry on their way. But this new generation cannot tolerate that nonsense. So the younger one let out a soul-stirring cry. Daddy had to pick him up so we could exchange pleasantries. The older one threw a Mayweather punch at me when I tried to give him some special attention. It painfully landed on my groin. Indeed that was a close miss; imagine a 30-something old man, inside a shopping mall, trying to play down the excruciating pain playing itself out from down there. What I want to know from my friend is this: Did you find that damned gas heater? Brother, how much is it? Are your two sons warm right now or are they pummelling you with fists everywhere because you a the type of father who is letting June to do as it pleases with their young bodies?
Posted on: Sat, 07 Jun 2014 09:01:54 +0000