This loxion of mine is never short of drama I tell you strue! The other day while yours truly was waiting to be processed at the local police station for what that ugly warrant officer Gumede said was public drinking, I witnessed yet another typical township soapie.
This fellow who was seated next to me, but not in handcuffs like me, was escorted to the cop shop by his better bitter half.
The fellow, who I later learnt, was birthnamed Emmanuel son of Seisa, was frogmarched to the cop shop after he allegedly attempted to lay a hand on his wife who dared him to assault her after she caught him in bed with their neighbour’s better half.
Anyway the poor bitter one entered the copshop shouting: “Arrest him, arrest him!! He beat me!!”, pointing at the smiling fellow who had quickly taken the seat next to me, like a law-abiding citizen.
Gumede in his calm demeanor simply ignored her and continued pretending to work, as everybody knows he always does. So the young lady narrated her story.
He, in turn, in a loud-enough voice, narrated how he had seen her with Gumede’s brother, the High Priest of the Holy Mountain Annointed Hill of the Son Church, exchanging lower body blows in the bush-based church a fortnight ago.
Needless to say Gumede made a quick dash for it amid the laughing crowd.
Yours truly, with the help of the keys from the new junior cop, son of Dabula, followed suit and headed to my new favourite drinking hole, Kwa-Jezebel Shebeen.
Now Jezebel is a man of few words and many skeletons. Word on the streets of Skomplaas is that he has more public secrets than Number One and Number Two at the Union Building in Pitori.
Word also has it that his real name is Shibishi and the nickname Jezebel just stuck until people forgot his real name.
Since he knows I know half of the skeletons, whenever I bless his six-table establishment, he always welcomes me with a few, cold, soothing brown-bottled waters of wisdom to make me forget and with my cooperation, the trick never gets old.
Before I could even wink my cooperation, the willow of Sofaya trotted in with news that apparently Number One of Nkandla’s lawyers told the courts that they too were surprised why the 700 plus charges were dropped against their client.
Son of Mongale also said the court in KwaZulu-Natal also declared that the honchos who attempted to call Makhosi Khoza to order were not legitimate and had cooked the numbers that made them honchos of that coastal political killing field.
Obviously the top remain relevant; they opted to appeal that decision while preparing their exit.
With my throat well-lubricated by several bottles of the brewery’s finest, yours truly could not help but ponder that, should the courts be captured, this Mzansi would have been a lawless jungle, since the other two branches are unreliable.
The Willow of Sofaya also said my favourite former police commissioner, son of Cele, Ndosi, said the commission set up to probe the political genocide in Number One’s home province was merely a “storytelling exercise” and a waste of time.
Like a true action man, that made him my favourite. Methinks Ndosi should be tasked with hunting down the killers and chances are they would just hand themselves in before he embarks on the manhunt.
Jezebel, who mostly has ears for music and nothing else, also chipped in and said he had heard over the wireless that Number One’s number 15 (or 16) offspring had decided give away his Gupta media sale money to “youth development programme to create jobs”.
Methinks the son of baba ka Duduzane, Duduzane himself, should do the right thing and come sponsor endless drinking sessions at Asphuzeni with Mzwanele Manyi’s money. Come to think of it, didn’t Manyi say he did not pay for the Gupta media shares and some Vendas financed it?
I knew Jezebel could not be trusted with news. I guess that’s why I left in the wee hours of the morning after his little fridge was emptied into my gulping throat.
The following day, yours truly was invited via the white wedding tent that blocked my route to my Asphuzen and Nahab weekly general meetings, to the nuptial witnessing of the cousin of son of Nkwanyana, Mduduzi, who was marrying that former nyaope addict daughter of that thieving councillor of ours.
Apparently the poor young lady, upon seeing her father’s real colours, decided to auction herself out to any man who was tired of peace and tranquility of bachelorhood, and so that man became Nkwanyana’s cousin, poor soul.
Befitting to the culture of the loxion, yours truly presided over the mourning of yet another bachelor. And in the glory of that festivity, Teaspoon Madabulashugela, son of Simelane, whispered loudly in the air that he had read (although we all knew he is illiterate) in the newspapers that the mighty KPMG, who toppled many at Sars via their rogue unit report, had allegedly practically confessed to being guptarised or having similar tendencies and had shown their entire boardroom the door.
He did not bother explaining the word rogue, as expected.
Son of Simelane also said son of Tshabala, Sim, who was joined at the hip with a white man called Ben Kruger at Standard Bank was not given the reins to run solo and it was Kruger who suggested it. Obviously yours truly was unanimously tasked and delegated to lobby him and his deep pocketed bank to join Asphuzeni. Which I duly did via a telegram.
The session was going very well under my leadership until Gumede appeared and, in his bid to shut my mouth about the police station drama, he slid a bottle of a reputable water-coloured spirit into my backpocket. Like a proper law-abiding citizen I gave him the floor to blabber on about prison cell tales.
He also said he heard through that window-mounted wireless of his at the station that apparently our premier DD Mabuza had convened his buddies in other provinces and suggested that there be no contests at the next conference of the black, green and gold party.
According to the police station wireless, Gumede said, the longest serving minister in Mzansi, son of Radebe, R.E.Q.U.E.S.T.E.D that they S.H.U.T U.P and let the branches, which are led by the likes of our thieving greedy councillor, decide.
Gumede also said that little whistling wireless also said the bosses at Safa House have decided to bill Fifa for the match that Bafana Bafana are meant to replay after they were literally handed a win in Polokwane.
Obviously with Gumede taking centre stage with my permission, I headed off to my friend Konkodi to indulge in the “spiritual” rinsing of my already wet throat.
Arriving at Konkodi’s tavern is always a blessing since he is a loner but on this occasion he had a visitor and to ensure I did not pay attention to the signs of a female in his establishment, he chatted on about how he witnessed our rugby team being given the drubbing of their lives by the All Blacks and how Pitso and his deep-pocketed Sundowns showed Mashaba the door over ill-discipline.
Obviously I did not believe him until the morning after the night before. I also confirmed, while trying to drink away the devil called a hangover, that the king of the Swatis next door also picked another rose, the fourteenth, but this time in one of the cabinet minister’s gardens.
The great king took his 14th bride, a 19-year-old piece of eyecandy and yours truly is still holding on to peace. Obviously a man who snubs peace and tranquility not once, but 14 times, deserves to be a real king.
But then again after hearing from that loudmouth back-opposite neighbour of mine, Tshontshobina, about what had happened to son of Forbes, some rapper from the Cape who had left a DJ for a presenter only to present her with a dancer, then I figured the son of man must be recalled.
That’s when I realised that somebody must just ring the son of man and tell him to put on his sandals and descend to collect his people. The former angel should be rung up too because this is obviously the end of times.
• Majakathata the Rogue is a comrade, director of Nahab (National Association of Husbands and Boyfriends) and chairperson of Asphuzeni Stokvel in Skomplaas, Mashishini. He pens in his personal capacity as a veteran patron of SAB.