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Some say the beginning of wisdom is fear of the son of a virgin.
But the last week has proven beyond even the soberest of doubts that the beginning of wisdom is knowing that sobriety and hangover are in the same WhatsApp group – rather keep a middle ground and avoid both.
With the famous Friday commemoration of the death of the Son of Man, yours truly took a solo walk through the unusual route to my favourite tavern, the revamped and renamed Konkodi’s Chillas – formerly Konkodi’s Tavern – to convene a last supper of my own.
I used the road that cuts through the church street, coincidentally the street with the highest number of churches from all religions in the entire Mashishing.
Obviously I needed a cold beverage companion on my right hand for the journey and leftover amber nectar from the night before was the lucky beer.
The melancholic walk through that street was as depressing as it can be – apartheid four-roomed houses, dilapidated RDP houses sandwiching a handful of church structures, tents and open velds where other congregants had also gathered for their open-air praising activities. The neatly manicured lawns at the apartheid-built houses, the German cars parked in the yards of the RDP houses, the pure opulence in the churches in tents and the humility of the open-air worshippers seemed an eyesore contradiction of the highest standard. Clearly these people could not belong to the same God.
With my beer fast reaching the bottom business end, I found myself at Konkodi’s till requesting an Easter special tab to deal with the demon that is reality I had just seen.
And Konkodi, true to his nosy nature, immediately bombarded me with news that the bank that was sunk by the other bank might have found a good Samaritan to bail it out.
With my entire Asphuzen gathered for our annual Judas thanksgiving (thanking Judas for giving us free holidays), unlike previous years this gathering was fully attended.
Bingers from all corners of the same SAB WhatsApp group were present under the beautiful mountain of Mashishing, including the dipsomaniacs from our neighbouring Limpopo such as Son of Kekana, Jones of Kwenamoloto, the David from Mahapa clan, the Mokoatlo brothers, Joe and Joel, as well as the mischievous Huma siblings, Malose and Thabang, who have made it their mission to miss Asphuzeni gatherings.
Obviously they knew their forgiver died a long time ago, so the first drinks were on them.
Seated on crates at the dark corner of the new joint were those delinquent rogues from Marabastad – such as Son of Mokou, the Rakgwatha of Sebora, Son of Segalwe, the Oupa of Ngaka Modiri Molema, Son of Seisa, the Ema of Ga-Raphahlelo and that rascal Elias son of Maitisa, who needed to be reminded that he was nicknamed Copper Sulphate not because of any good deeds of his.
With the Pretoria gang accounted for, Rakgwatha felt it was befitting to let us know that he was chuffed with the changes rung in by the new police boss, Cele Ndosi.
Cele, according to Mokou, once again overlooked yours truly for a top spot in the copshops. Obviously he is not serious about combating crime.
Son of Mongale, the Willow of Sofaya, already well soaked in a few bottles, mumbled that he had read in the woke media that the Eastern Cape almost had a Life Esidimeni tragedy of its own.
Mongale, who of late has taken to dodging Asphuzeni gatherings apparently because he has taken a liking to sport, especially cricket, also said he heard over the wireless that our beloved former number one has lamented that after leaving the state, it is now after him.
The Jacob of Nkandla allegedly alleged that he really did not know why the NPA (non-prosecuting authority) was after him. Apparently he was actually in the dark and even the charges served on him still shed no light. Methinks the mighty Nxamalala needs an intervention …
Apparently Msholozi also returned to his old ways of creating stooges for his court visits, and Sauer Street fellow are confused whose turn it is to be a stooge.
With the free holidays upon us, it was only befitting that I lead my faithfuls into a series of toastings. Obviously the first deserved to go to Judas for the holidays because had he not be a villain there would be no hero and probably no holidays to celebrate the fainting and regaining of consciousness and the after-tears in between.
Then out of the blue, Son of Nkwanyana, the Mduduzi of Etshodo who was until then a diligent iceboy, claimed that he read in the woke media that apparently gospel artists were robbed of millions in royalties.
Nkwanyana, like the Judas that he is, smiled and funded a round before dishing out the bad news that he was resigning from Nahab. Needless to say his services as carrier of coolerboxes will be missed.
With the mood already feeling like the last supper, it dawned on me that me and him belong to the same WhatsApp group in many ways.
The scary similarities prompted me to escape the good company of those inebriates before I too found myself nailed to a cross alongside two corrupt officials.
With the devil of a hangover punishing me for showing leadership the night before, the often unreliable wireless whispered that the mother of the nation, the original fearfokol, the only ANC leader who openly endorsed the opposition and instructed them to ensure ruling party MPs catch no more sleep in Parliament, Mama Winnie Mandela was no more.
Obviously such sad news, and the fact that she Rests in Power, called for an urgent gathering to discuss her legacy and who in the current crop of non-entities would be claiming it.
Unfortunately her former movement is in tatters and the women’s wing is led by people who can’t even handle child grants and water tenders.
