Khensani and Dudu

When Khensani met Dudu at the community centre it was a combo made in heaven for her, it was a dream that came true. And, these days, not many dreams ever come true, let alone promise to do so. 

At last, she was in a city and a city girl was going to be her friend.

Khensani was from a rural village far from anywhere near the life she envied on television and films screens-but never believed she could b happy to live. In her rural village she saw, on many days and many moons, countless fields of green, lush vegetation undulating from one hilltop to another, she saw a tapestry of beautiful art that serenaded her eyes atop many hilltops that littered the skyline around her. And it not only humans who regaled in such beauty, but the animals that belonged to the various clans in the village also regaled in such beauty when feeding, grazing in the succulent fields of green.


It was an area she knew well, cause this is where her mother gave birth to her, and this is where her life shares her own umbilical cord with her.

She knew everyone who lived in the fresh early morning breeze, in the sweet smelling waters of the nearby fountain which fed the sprawling river that spiralled down the valley below to run away into the world she has heard so much about, a world she so dearly wanted to smell in her nostrils, a world she wanted to taste, a world she wanted to feed on, and the world that her eyes longed to see.


But here in her village she was at peace with everyone in a neighbour scattered with many family compounds, people who, given any moment in time, were like a family to her. Many of these people owned many animals and did not want, but were self sufficient and life was good.

And, now the time came for her to travel to that world and she was eager for, yet nervous about. It was bout meeting new, foreign people who did not grow at any of the compounds that formed and shaped much of her childhood and her young life. Ever she was a child she was took a keen interest in nursing, and now she was going to study this exciting course in the big city, at a community development centre.


On her first day so many wannabe nurses, looking with trepidation at each other, ambled in the big premises as if waiting for a miracle to happen, while they completed registrations. They stared in amazement at the main hall, the vast kitchen and at the surrounding buildings that formed the centre. They were also struck in awe by the locals who ere dressed to the nines and who mingled effortlessly and made life exciting to live.  The girls were beautiful and Khensani was in dreamland, fantasizing about looking at Rihanna, a Nicky Minaj or maybe an Adriana.


Now a fortnight had gone by and she was almost all alone for most of the time while she looked at he surroundings and living like she was still in her village.

“Hi,” a young woman came out of nowhere and snuggled up to her, her smile tentative and her eyes alive with expectation. Khensani looked in to the big eyes and although the situation caught her by surprise, her mind worked fast and her heart was racing into the wilderness. The girl came from nowhere and Khensani was a bit rattled as she did not know anyone there and did not expect any of the smartly dressed girls to take a fancy to her. 


“Hallo,” she returned the greeting, preferring to say ‘hallo’ instead of ‘Sanibonani’, a village greeting she was used to. She wanted to fit in from the onset.

“I am Dudu.”

“I am Khensani.” And then both of them giggled randomly when they waited for the proceedings move forward. It was Dudu who recovered first. She asked Khensani if she would like a cup of coffee.  Khensani agreed and they went into a small tuck shop where an assistant served them.

“I can’t believe we have been here two weeks already,” Dudu said as they sat on some garden chairs to relax. “And I have been looking at you ever since,” she added, her eyes sparkling, full of promises. “Where do you live here?”


Khensani was exasperated when the lady said she had been ogling her, but at the same time she was overwhelmed but was excited that the most gorgeous woman she has seen around the centre was actually speaking to her and actually, befriending her. She was cautious though, because some of her family members warned her about strangers in the big city. They warned her about strange, rich men, about excessively helpful and charming men, about well-dressed girls who spoke smoothly and had too much money. She was advised about human trafficking, about crime. They also warned her to be wary of street children. ‘They are children because of their ages’, they alerted her, ‘but they are the worst of the slum world. Some of them work for pimps and some organise crimes and so on’. So when this pretty, young lass rubbed herself against her Khensani was befuddled and not sure, yet keen and pleased to be noticed.


So she smiled into the inviting eyes and her world brightened. “I live in a rented back room around here,” she told Dudu.  “What do you mean that you have looking at me all along?” she wanted to know.

“Come on Khensani,” Dudu patted her back, “every one here wants a piece of you. I can’t believe I am the one who broke the ice,” and she hugged her, slightly knocking her off her stride.

Khensani recoiled, but to hide her reaction she laughed and she too patted Dudu and said, frowning, “Every one? How so Dudu?”

“How is every thing for you here? I could do with some fun today,” she gave Khensani a smile. “It’s Friday.” 


Khensani became alive and a red light, like a Hong Kong neon light in a dark night, came alight and blinked irritatingly in Khensani’s mind. However, she chose to ignore it and continued to sip her coffee as she looked at Dudu, trying to make up her mind about her. Small groups of students formed around them and she was scanning them to see if any of them took interest in her and Dudu. Nearby a small band of young men who made an unsuccessful pass at her in the past: but that was what boys did most of the time: chasing after ladies and she was not troubled by them.    

But she did not want to tell Dudu that back home she was warned to stay away from trouble.

“Hmm…Friday? Neh?” She echoed Dudu.  “What do you have in mind?”

Dudu shifted on her seat, her hands flailing in the air in excitement. “All sorts of these things you know.”

“What ‘things’?” Khensani asked and forced a laugh.

“Do you smoke?” Dudu asked suddenly and Khensani nearly flipped over.

“Smoke? My grandma would toss me over a cliff if I did.”

“Just asking friend.”

“Do you smoke Dudu?”

“Well, let us say I have experimented.”

 “But you don’t anymore do you?”

“Weed was not for me…”

“Weed?”

Dudu finished her coffee in an exaggerated movement and threw her empty paper cup into a nearby trash can. “Let’s go sweetie,” she beckoned to Khensani who was still shocked. Weed, she thought. Dudu, her eyes all over the centre, led the way. “You see that boy over there?” Khensani said she did. “He sells weed and some stuff,” she giggled and hugged Khensani, ushering her away.

Khensani’s exaggerated her shock as her eyes widened in disbelief. “He looks like a choir boy,” she whispered. 

“I know him well…He is indeed a choir boy at our church. See that girl over there,” Dudu pointed to a girl in a happy pink dress and white sneakers. “She walks the street for money.”

“She what…Oh my God,” Khensani threw her hands all over the place. “She looks like an angel.”

“She is an angel. We worship together.”

Just then Khensani saw one of the boys who hit up on her a week before. The boy was in an exuberant mood then and bought Khensani a big lunch at a fancy restaurant in the city. She allowed herself to be in his company because there were other boys and girls with them from the centre and at the time she was hungry while she waited for an e-wallet from back home.

“That guy there,” she told Dudu, “Is a fancy play maker.”

“Play boy?” Dudu asked, surprised by the turn of the conversation.

Khensani was amused by this, the look of surprise in Dudu’s face. “Play maker. He took me out last week, made my day.”

“He did? He also took me out last week too.”

“He has lots of money,” Khensani pointed out.

“He steals cars when he is not in class or asleep at his house.”

Khensani stopped in her tracks. “A hijacker?”

“Yes, and you enjoyed crime money,” Dudu sniggered. “You are in trouble with the law.”

Khensani stiffened. “You are lying. I did nothing wrong,” she said, alarmed.

“The cops say something about the proceeds of crime.” She stopped in front of Khensani, blocking her way. “Let’s go this way. I want to see my friends.”     

They left the centre and in a few minutes they were in an alley between two towering buildings. It was smelly and rubbish lay strewn all over and as they trudged along they disturbed rats that scattered all over looking for an escape. The only other people who seemed unperturbed by their approach were a group of street kids who were lying on card boxes while some squatted with their backs to the wall, sniffing glue.

“Where are going?” Khensani wanted to know.

“Friends over there,” Dudu pointed to the group of dirty boys and girls they were approaching. It was scary for Khensani because they were now in the middle of the alley with the ends far away for an escape.    

“You mean these dirty children? She wrinkled her nose in scorn. “I am not going near them,” she said and stopped. Dudu, however, went over to the group which seemed to be happy to see her.

Khensani looked around her from left to right as if waiting for someone to appear and rescue her. Dudu continued with the group amid some hilarious laughter and hand clapping and patting on the back.  At some point she saw Dudu give them some money and one of the little urchins extended his dirty, grimy hand to Dudu but Dudu obscured the movement and Khensani failed to see what happened. Dudu opened her bag and put something in it. When she was finished with them she eventually came to where Khensani was. “Let’s go friend,” she said nonchalantly, a forlorn look on her face.   

“Something wrong Dudu?” Khensani asked because Dudu was in a disturbing silence for while.

“Well,” she said, finally. “One of the girls is pregnant. She needs help.”

“I didn’t see any pregnant girl there,” Khensani looked over her shoulder at the group which was now standing in a circle as if huddled in a prayer. “How old is she?”

“Only thirteen,” Dudu said and added. “And she is very sick right now.” She went on to explain that the girl was lying in a pile of rubbish that is why Khensani did not see her.  “I need to find help for her.”


As they   re-joined the busy street they saw the man Khensani call the play maker and the girl in the happy pink dress with some men standing by the door of a bar. Immediately, Dudu grabbed Khensani by the hand and led her over to the group.

When they were within ear shot Khensani stopped but Dudu let her go and went over t the group. Again, the red light in head flickered, and Khensani wondered what she going to do with the group and the thought of turning away from all this came into her mind but curiosity killed it. She was also afraid now that Dudu will laugh at her if she chickened out.  Dudu spoke rapidly to the group while gesturing towards Khensani and the group looked at her but, their faces serious and somehow in shock, continued to listen to Dudu who was pointing also in the direction of the alley, where the street children were.


Immediately, the play maker jumped into a nearby parked sassy vehicle and the lady in pink did too. Some in the group also boarded the car which roared off in great speed.

“That is taken care of,” Dudu said, relieved.

“Are they taking care of the pregnant child?” Khensani asked her.

“Yes,” she answered and remained still for some moments as she leaned against the shop wall as they stood on the pavement, people rushing in between them. “Let’s get back there,” Khensani pulled her by the hand and Khensani allowed her to.  

Khensani sat on a crate of beer while Dudu, the lady in the pink happy dress and play maker huddled around a funny, small man who worked furtively, and who from time to time looked suspiciously at the ends of the alley. The man, as he worked on the pregnant street child, kept looking over his shoulder as if he expected someone to appear and threaten him. Other street children also stood a little away from them and also looked around smoking weed and eating as if nothing was happening.  


In the beginning of it all Khensani also huddled around the man and the teenager but as the operation progressed she felt a knot in her stomach and became sick. She threw up three or four times until her stomach felt empty. It was the first time she experienced a street abortion, let alone abortion itself. The man appeared to know what he was doing because there was a set procedure he followed and even when the girl screamed in pain he remained unaffected. And everybody around him remained calm, only expecting her finish. It seemed to be something they had experienced before.

After some twenty minutes a parcel was wrapped in dirty clothing while blood flowed away. The funny man got up, took off his gloves and told them the girl will be well soon. Khensani saw the playmaker reach into his pocket and saw him give what appeared to money to the funny.  The man grabbed it quickly but remained placid, although it was obvious that he was eager to get away from it all as soon as he could.

“Let us all go have a drink,” Dudu said, urging the group to follow them. While others chatted quietly Khensani was very quite and tense in her thoughts, she was still in a shock, in disbelief, that she saw a life terminated in front of her eyes just like that, like putting off a lighted flame of a candle. Led by the playmaker, they all went into a bar and Khensani could not resist going in too, she was in a trance, trapped into a morbid fascination.


The playmaker bought them drinks and after two rounds he announced that he and his friends had a little job to do for a customer who wanted the merchandise before the week-end.

“So this is the big city,” Khensani eventually sighed. She hesitated, but in the end she remarked to Dudu about the brutal abortion of life earlier on. No one since then seemed keen to discuss it.

“Yes, Khensani,” Dudu let her shoulders drop and, sighed. “We got into a situation and what could I do?”

“Was it your first time?” Khensani found herself asking, although she did not want to know.

Dudu got from her stool and picked up her bag. “Let’s go friend.”

As they trudged along the busy pavements where vendors tried to sell them anything from dough to a pair of pliers, Khensani’s mind worked endlessly in a circle of doubt, of denial. She wanted to ask about the lady in the pink dress but was not sure how to do that without appearing naïve. The little she heard in the bar was that she was going to make ‘a quick buck on the other side of town’. 

Khensani did not have an inkling of what that meant but the lady appeared to be reluctant to go to the other side of the town. She seemed not to be happy about it, except she hoped they will pay ‘the money I want. If they don’t I will kick their butts for them’, she threatened.     

“Dudu,” Khensani called and pulled Dudu to a stop. “Can we pray please?”

“That is what I need too,” Dudu said and immediately there was another alley between two abandoned buildings. “Let‘s do it here.” Khensani noticed yet another group of dirty looking people in the alley who looked at them with some interest. She did not like their kind of attention. “Forget about them.” Dudu assured her, “I know them, they know me.” They held hands together and before they could start their prayer Dudu advised,” Don’t close your eyes when we pray?  And Khensanis’s eyes, once more, went to the community of hoboes in the alley and to both openings of the alley.


When she finally lay on her bed and trying to shake the day out of mind, Khensani’s phone alerted her of a new message. It was a WhatsApp message from her parents and she read, ‘How are you my child? We miss you here at home. We hope that, in between having a good time, you are also careful of the big city snakes. Bye’.

Before I lost the innocence

It is unreal that I let all of which was so precious to me, my innocence; go away in the manner in which it happened. But, to be more precise and to tell the truth of God, I forfeited it because I didn’t give a damn, I suppose. But maybe I am too self-conscious, looking too much into me. Maybe, truly, it was indeed taken away from me, I did not surrender it. Maybe it is how the world operates; you have to lose your innocence to an anonymous character in the shadows of apathy.


My grandmother, my mother, my true friends who meant well, and all people who cared about me and my bright, fruitful future, all told me how wonderful it would be for me to be all this perfect woman, with all of me still intact, for the rest of my youthful life.


But the future, and all its promises of exuberant prospects, with its buzz of financial security and glamorous working occupations and world travel, and with all its beautiful, intoxicating relationships, including marriage, drifted into infinity when I tried to look at it. The future seemed a long time too far into the horizon and I did not know who was going to marry me when all around me life was buzzing with all these gorgeous gentlemen, when the present was awash with all these glorious opportunities to shine and stamp a footprint.  This scenario was not going to be with me for always, so why not enjoy the real, live moment instead of waiting for the unknown. Mind you, Godot never showed up. He never came, he never arrived.


And the excitement of real life was enticing as everybody raved about it, lived it and died in it. Even the music said so many beautiful tings about hunky men and pretty women in love, and I was a beautiful woman who everybody wanted to be with, men and women. The world admires people who make music and make those around them dance in ecstasy, and I was the music maker.  I remember going to this mall in the city centre where the rich came to ogle expensive goodies and to eat exotic foods, where money makers came to exhibit themselves, and where starlets went to flaunt their wares. It is here where the rich, the stars and the cool would stop in their tracks when their eyes met mine to tell me how exquisite I was. Ever since that day I have always carried that tag with me as I flourished my tail as if it was a ticket to paradise, which, in the real world, it is a ticket to magical islands if you know how to use it wisely.


One of my English teachers, during a life skills’ period, always made it a point to cite a William Blake poem, The Sick Rose, as warning about a reckless, unattended life style. This Blake rose died too young, she told us, laden with sinful sicknesses.  This Blake rose did not bloom to the full, but it whittled under the burden of diseases, and no one enjoyed its beauty, nor did it live long enough to enjoy its beauty. That class was a long way ago, but I have not forgotten the poem, because it lit the red light for me when I was threatening to do the silly. Though I did not want to die young, I craved the excitement of living in the world of ecstasy and abandon to the finer things in life, the world in which I was free to enjoy my young life lest I, later, got caught in the middle of mid-life crises. And, in the process, I gave in to the call of the wild and the fantastic, of Blake’s morbid world of sick roses.


And so the hunky, sick-packed gentlemen‘s calls were too melodic to ignore. And the promise of money was too loud, too alluring, and it flung the Blake caution into oblivion.


So I lost my innocence to the world. To the world which, not long into the past, I could manipulate and fiddle with my finger tips, the world which was an oyster to me; I was always too intelligent to be caught unawares, I knew all the danger signs and I was not the one to be caught into an intoxicating mixture of sin and risk and blinding charms. I always knew how to fly into the safety net of the cautious. But the sick worm crept up to me like a thief in the dark of the night. I did not see it wobble its way into me, or maybe I pretended not to see it, lest I disturbed its magical thrust as it waved its way into me. Maybe I was too drunk with matters of youthful joy to notice the dangers at the time. The stupor was too thick, too gloomy for me to drift through, the grinning magic intoxicating and the shadows obscured, with the guise of fake sweet fragrances of dying summer flowers masking the smell of death.


The moment I gave in, yelling to my mother in the blue skies above embraced with shiny, exotic stars of the galaxy, and yielding to the powerful seduction of the breaking world, it was all over. The innocence flew away into the unprotected skies like a flapping whirl of beauty that was once rooted firmly in my bosom but was now spinning out of my reach. I was fixed there on the spot, prostrate and suddenly forlorn and bare, looking up at my life drifting away into demise. My life was now out in the open, exposed to every one to ogle at.  I dimly heard the murmurs of dismay and despair as people around me gasped in shock, not believing that a fully-fledged human like me, has let their being to float like a kite in the skies, exposing me for all and sundry to take in.


But here I am now, telling you what happened in that moment of a thrilling dark promise. I am still here, I can still reach for the skies and rock the world, but my energies are no longer as throttled-filled as before. I have lost a piece of adulation in my stride and the respect I command has lost its shine. But I am still the colourful, exquisite girl everybody raved about in the past. To you I am brand new and a good example of what tenacity and commitment mean. I am a good example of what it means to ignore the mishaps and to stagger up again, dusting your behind to get on with your life.


I want you to inspire many people with this story. And that is what I want you to do, please.


Tell people not to give in to passers-by with fancy proses in their tongues. To people who has a lot of promise but who want you to show them your worth before they can execute their promises. Don’t give in to trickery, because in the process you lose what you should preserve for the precious love of your life, the people who are the rock in your life. I want you to tell them everyone to bide their time and to enjoy each and every stage of their lives and not to leap-frog to the demise of their vision- in the quest for illicit happiness and joy.


All of us should enjoy our childhood and know how to control our urges until the time to blossom comes. 


When I lost my innocence I did not only lose me and my verve. I lost my life. Now I live with this disease. It is an albatross. It is with me all the time. It is an invincible reminder that I threw caution to the wind and succumbed to the ill-gotten pleasures of the world. Now there is always misery all around me and I am aware that I don’t relish the reverence that I once flaunted for all to see.


But, let me make this clear, although I have lost my innocence, I have not lost my faith in life and in the belief that life still promises so much for me.


And I am angry that I lost my innocence so in a matter of senseless naiveté, so cheaply.  Yes, I did lose my innocence like an athlete who loses a race by ignorance; because they lost focus, letting the one behind win because they stupidly celebrated the win and slowed down before crossing the finishing line. I behaved like a congregant who hastened to say ‘Amen’ before finishing the Lord’s prayer. I lost my innocence with my eyes wide open, I saw everything. But as soon as the experience was over, I buried my face between my knees and regretted it all. By then it was all over, it was gone, it was done, damaged, and the worm whistling away with my stolen sweet memories. 


Hug me, please. Give me your love, I am not defiled; I am not rubbish now that I am what I am. I still have so much love and empathy to give to the world. I intend to give you love and to cherish you.

I wish you all the best, and hope that you will never write a story like mine-ever. So don’t go astray, don’t be attracted to the shiny trinkets when you haven’t seen their inner demons.


Don’t lose your innocence to the worms. 

Your innocence is the only one thing in your life that will outshine all the other personal attributes you own. It is glorious, it is serene. 

The call of the blind

The evangelist, fired up and passionate, told his radio listeners: “When you are blind, don’t allow yourself to be led by the blind, because all of you might fall off the precipice,” he ranted. “Never be the one who, naively, will be led to the slaughter house by the blind like you,” he roared on, encouraged and inspired by his subject.


The evangelist’s sermon was part of a motivational programme broadcast nationally and was always top of the charts in the religious and motivation sections. Everyone who understood his language scrambled to hear his daily messages. These messages also reached the people high on the mountains of the Drakensburg on the border between Kwa-Zulu Natal and the Free State.


There, a man lived with his family on the Free State side of the divide. His farm was of immense potential and richness, but, sadly for his aspirations, it produced barely enough for a handful of families, resulting in an income of meagre pennies.


He too, like millions of radio listeners in the republic, listened to the evangelist on his radio and he frowned, his mind wandering to the politics of the day, wondering if the evangelist meant what he, as a farmer, was thinking of.


Mohau, that was his name, was a studious man of mild manners and, up to a point, sober in his approach to the challenges that life brought upon men like him. He was aware of his place in the sun, in the world where race defined who made the laws and who dictated to the economics of life, in the world where being poor was not a choice but a stipulation, an indication of which colour, background and creed you were. If you were rich but were in the colour box of those who are supposed to be poor then all glory was bestowed on you. You would be likened to the people on their side of the line and patronised, if the situation called for it. If you were so patronised, the rich would even, sometimes, discuss the plight of your own poor people as if they were not of your own race, implying that they are heathens, lazy and always looking for hand-outs and entitlement. They will also add that you, on the other hand, have a different attitude from ‘them’, that you are ‘civilised’ and hard-working. And full of ‘understanding’.


Mohau thought about this and spat aggressively on the ground. It is an entirely disgraceful, prejudiced way of looking at things, his thoughts continued, a sick determination by the rich about the poor while practicality and application determined that you should be well-off in your own right, regardless of the colour on your skin, among other things.  


He was therefore not rich because the law was not on his side. Like all farmers, he was taxed heavily if his harvest exceeded a certain number of a standard, so he made sure he did not transgress the laws of the people across the border and that of the present government although he knew, and was aware, that it was his black-led party that ruled the land, that determined the its laws, its media, how people thought and behaved and, how they should make their money.  “But,” he asked himself savagely, “how do the invincible rulers on the other side of the divide think? They always think of themselves first, then their pets, then their property, then the money, then God, if they ever do remember Him at all.”


His farm was not making money because: ‘I cannot put a finger to it’, as he put it. But the fact is that it was not making money because he did not have a big clientele with big money to buy from him. He marketed well and hit the road in search of big business, but they always told him a story or two why they could not buy from him at that time. They always promised to buy ‘next time’. But he and his friends and everyone else knew the market was cleverly secured exclusively to a section of the business population.


So, after listening to the fiery evangelist, his gaze was directed on the other side of the world, in KwaZulu-Natal, where a farming neighbour, a new man on the horizon, from overseas he heard, more affluent than him he believed, led a successful story. His eyes watered when he looked at his paltry livestock grazing along the river while on the other side of it, at the foot of the momentous mountain; he saw a large herd of cows, goats and sheep of his counterpart grazing lazily, as if assured of the peace of the land.  
“He bought the farm not so long ago,” farmers in his circle whispered as they discussed the land and who should own it. “He did not have trouble buying it,” they pointed that out to him. “He has money, you see. And obviously big connections,” they sneered.


“That is not the point,”Mohau interjected, “the issue is: Who sold him the land? Who betrayed us?”     


So his gaze across the river was with much more than mere interest. It was laden with so much disgust than it was with admiration. He was appalled in the way the new man nonchalantly moved around with so much arrogance as he shepherded his animals across the lush grazing lands. He was angry that, in his case, he acquired land after Pretoria took ages to grant it to him. Government officials were persistent and looked at so many of the sections of the constitution, they consulted with many other officials and so much debate was held and so many questions asked and yet again. His business plan was also one document which needed so much scrutiny. And, along the lines, his applications were rejected because, invariably, a fault would be found in his business plan. Nobody bothered, at times, to marvel at his knowledge of the farming industry. It was knowledge he gained from working for white farmers when he was a labourer. The rich, the opulent people, the people who ask many questions about his business plan, did not bother to ask him about his vast farming experience. What they are only interested in is to ask him about his five-year projections and about his political affiliations. And how much will he sell the farm for.


Then, suddenly without warning, he heard a man call out of the silence of the farm. The call came from across the river. His eyes, once more, rose to look up across the divide.  The caller was the new, affluent man, attracting his attention. Mohau stiffened, and he felt bile rise from inside his guts and into his mouth and the bitterness riled his senses.  So, absentmindedly, without intention, he snubbed the man. As a fellow farmer, and a human being, he wanted to acknowledge the man, but the issues that surrounded the land clouded his mind, and he instantly changed direction and turned his back to him, angry at the man and angry at himself.

Silence enveloped him, except for the usual sounds of the farmland; cows mellowing, sheep bleating and buzzing insects irritant.


He wants a chit chat, Mohau thought. He wants a chirpy, happy small talk as if things were on the equal, he mumbled. But everyone knows that things are not on the level. There is no equality at all. Even the president, who has a farm full of rich, magnificent Ankola cows, knows that. He knows, but he keeps talking as if we are forcing the unreasonable on these people, as if we are out of our minds, as if we are not eager, like these people, to feed our country from the womb of our African soil. We do, just like my neighbour does, his thoughts continued.  Apart from the president, on the other hand, a young man in parliament, known as the firebrand, or the commander-in-chief, fuels the land fire but owns no fire extinguisher or a wind pipe to fan the rains to bring sanity to the saga.


So Mohau, although he knows that he needs more than the land to feed the nation, wonders what would happen should the man known as The fire brand succeed in his quest to deliver the promised land. “I have no money to buy expensive machinery,” he grumbles out loud to himself. It takes forever for the Ankola man’s people to work on a paper, let alone papers. “When it is time to look at your papers the first thing they want to look at is the dreaded business plan,” he remembers angrily.


And suddenly, rudely, he was shaken out of his thoughts when he realised a shadow falling along with that of his own and he hesitated, but kept his presence. He became aware that he was no longer alone. He was conscious that, at that time of the day his workers and every body else were away from his dwelling and his kraals, busy with tasks in the fields. So there was supposed to be no one nearby. And there was the situation with crime. It was a disturbing factor in the area, if not the land, so he thought that he was about to be hijacked, or robbed.      


He spun around and was immediately stunned.  The man from across the river was standing next to him. And, Mohau’s dogs, which were running playfully around him all along in a merry-go-around, were now fawning up to the white man. Anger brew in his marrows and swelled in his muscles. He jerked around and confronted the farmer, but the latter merely grinned and extended his right hand for a greeting. But Mohau ignored the man’s hand.  The first thing that came into his mind was to tell the white farmer to leave him and his farm alone, but the glint in the man’s eye blunted his fury.

Grinning happily, the man said, “Hi mate, I am Henry.” So this confirms it, Mohau thought as the man spoke in his distinct foreign accent. “He is a foreigner, a European,” he mumbled to himself, “our former colonisers.”


“So?” he asked out loud, indignant.

“We are neighbours, aren’t we mate?” Henry asked him. The way in which the white man spoke reminded Mohau of how the rich treat those they deem inferior to them. He refused to fawn to the man in the way his dogs were.


“So?” he repeated his question, steadfast to stand his ground. He owned the land on which the white man stood and this was his country. He fought for it. He took part in countless marches to free it.  He was involved in the struggle.

“I came to say hi,” Henry said. “I am new here and I am keen to know my neighbours and all things local.”

“But you can do that with your people on your side of the divide,”Mohau said, still distant, still looking straight into the man’ eyes. “Your people,” he said and pointed to the other side.


But Henry was undeterred by Mohau’s angry stance. He replied simply, “You are my people, you are a fellow farmer.”

“So because of that we are friends?”

“Maybe not, but we are in the same boat, so to speak mate.”


Mohau looked away for a moment while he thought about this, then, without saying anything further, he shook his head.


Henry, with an easy smile on his face, stood waiting, his head tilted to the side. When 
Mohau said nothing Henry shifted his feet and sauntered to one of the three tree stumps nearby and sat on it, crossing his legs, while Mohau’s dogs played around him. Henry said: “Let us forget about the hullabaloo and talk about us.”

“What hullabaloo?”


“Yes, let’s forget about the noise about the land for a while,” Henry said firmly.

Mohau was baffled. How dare this man come onto my property to tell me to forget about the land? He has a nerve, or he is blind? But seeing the other man lolling on the tree stump and looking up at him, Mohau suddenly felt naked and forlorn standing up there like a bean pole. He slowly looked around him as if unsure of things then, hiding his confusion, deliberately slowed his movements as he sat down on one of the tree stumps.  


“Are you not going to offer me a drink, Mohau?” Henry asked him with a bishop’s benign smile on his face.


“There is no time for tea. The land is much more important than the luxury of small talk and tea,” Mohau said as he looked intently at Henry, trying to make up his mind about him.


“Aw, come on mate. Leave the politicians alone as they go about trying to look smart on the land debate.  It is you and I who will make this thing right.”

“How so?” Mohau asked, anxious. “You people are sure defaulting on the land you stole,” he continued, pointing at Henry. He was a smouldering furnace, waiting for an excuse to explode.


But Henry was all serenity and sure of himself. “Let us be blind to all the negative talk about hate and about white and black and be farmers for while,” he said in his easy manner. “Let us farm together. You need the prestige. I need the money. It can’t be more practical than that. If we work things out as farmers we will reap the harvest.  I need to secure a big contract from a supermarket chain. To secure it I need you in the same way in which you need me.”


For a minute or so Mohau said nothing as he looked out into the distance, his eyes narrowed while he pondered what Henry said. It was true that his farm was not performing to its potential, and it needed a boost. He also wanted to assure government officials that he can make it work and to prove to the world that black farmers knew what they were doing. And the money will come in handy too.


Henry continued in his easy stance and demeanour, and waited.


“How do you I know this is for real?” Mohau finally asked.

“Trust me,” Henry assured him. “Do you think I can cross the line just to play marbles with you? I haven’t the time to waste here. I want money, you want prestige.” 


Mohau seemed to think about this for a while and in the process some of his anger dissipated. “I see,” he sighed, and then the silence continued.  He thought about  all that money to be made and what it will do for him. His thoughts wandered to the respect he will carry when he was considered successful and his farm doing well in the market. He urged himself on, accept that I am on the road to success, he said to himself.


Then Henry, seemingly having decided that Mohau actually agrees to his offer, got up and offered his hand. This time Mohau extended his hand and the two men shook their hands, unsurely and hesitatingly at first, but with Mohau showing a hint of a smile, the hand shake became firm and reassuring.


“I will come by with my lawyer tomorrow morning,” Henry told Mohau. “It is not about the land,” he said seriously, with an edge to his voice. “It is about being blind to the politicians and their hangers-on. It is about your prestige, and about the money.”