If: Part 2

“Scrambled,” she smiled.
“You owe me.”
Anne.

I half enjoyed the long look she gave me, the type that screeched, beat you to the ground and whispered in your ear while you were half conscious: I have your heart

Cellmate had shaved. He cut his left cheek while doing it, slashes that made him look like a stereotypical Columbian drug lord from an old action movie. He had murder on him. I overheard the guards talking the other day. Several shots to the skull.
Cellmate sat on his bed and looks over his tired, deep nails and then turns to the wall and chips at a tiny groove in the corner of the room. Several shots. Cellmate looked me over. He was double my size, his thick neck carrying heavy squared shoulders and arms that hung in a formidable weight. His lengthy sideburns were graying as they edged closer to his protruded chin. His eyes were dark and held no particular colour. Around his lids, red veins dripped down his face making him look older than he probably was.
“We’ve never met. All this time…”

His voice was deep, thoughtful. I wondered if he meant to speak aloud. His knuckles clenched now and I saw them whiten in an anxiety. He looked at the groove he had been chipping, searching for some answers, a map out of here. His brow tensed. She did that, too. She would do Sudoku puzzles with the same sort of intensity. No one was allowed to speak to her. I bothered her often. Several shots.
“Cole.”
“Mark” Cellmate replied. He didn’t look like a Mark.

Mark stopped scratching and cupped his hands together as if in prayer, a cold glove around a nine iron. Completely at ease. A handgun grasped like a child with her doll.
“Bad choices…” Mark mumbled. I nodded. He smiled at me.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
I shook my head. Then smiled, turning away.
“What you in for? Fraud?”
What kind of man would pull the trigger? Then again. Then again. I wonder who Mark hated so much.
“No. bad choices…”
Mark smiled at my response, clearly knowing the definition of a bad choice.

“Got a girl out of here?”
My chest burnt. I rubbed it heart, feigning stress or heartburn. I thought she had left that place in my heart. There she was. Like an extended organ you need to live but didn’t know you had. Something you couldn’t pronounce unless you were a practicing surgeon.

“Not anymore.”

Mark shifted and lay on his back, hands behind his head as if he were lying on a lazy hammock in the Caribbean.
“I shot…” his sentence faltered and died as he turned his back to me on his bed.
“She never saw it coming…” he mumbled after a while.
“I never saw it coming…” I replied. Mark kept quiet, not sure what to make of me.

The coffee was lukewarm. You couldn’t have coffee like that. Even in school, that would’ve been a sin.
“Excuse me? This coffee, can you warm it up?”
The coffee house buzzed with early morning chatter and the news on the television screens propelled on the roof. Steaming machines and tills blinked and screamed. A child was crying and a mother looked haggard. Everything died when I saw her. My body responded and every sense had deadened. I shut down, warped in some formidable time slot between what once was and the rest of my existence. She had answered me and rushed off. I had seen her lips moving. The buzz returned.
The old man was shaking head at the newspaper while his moustache caught the foam from his cappuccino.
“Do you mind if I grab the Sports Section, sir?”
He waved me off, absent-mindedly, then smiled and nodded.
I grabbed the section and scanned the date. April 4^th. I needed to remember that.
I tore off the top of the page that carried the date and edition number. Number 57.
“Sorry about that.” She put down my mug and smiled.
I told my brain to function.
“Do you know what today is?”
She shrugged, looking over at the Sports Section, “An important soccer fixture?”
The old man overheard and mumbled something about Liverpool.
“April 4^th…”
She frowned, trying to think about the importance of April 4^th. A Tuesday morning.
She looked at me for an answer, smiling.
“The day I met you.”

The full digs and GPS love

I’ve just realised I’m moving in with 5 girls this year in digs. Okay, I knew this but have not really thought about the consequences of 6 girls living in one area with 2 bathrooms and excessive noisy corridor passages. Hmmm…should be interesting to witness. So far we get along but there will surely be some drama in the house.

Anyway, I can’t wait to get back to Grahamstown. I miss the whole vibe and holidays have been too much. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been great to spend 2 months doing nothing and seeing my family and friends back in Pretoria but I seriously need to party it up in my last year at Rhodes.

For now, I’ll embrace my last few weeks in the city.
I’ll probably miss it soon enough.

My friend from Zambia sent me an email this morning. I was busy driving on the N1 behind excessive fog and taxis so I activated my DriveSafely application on my Blackberry. The app automatically reads one’s emails, texts or BBM’s so that you don’t have to risk the rear ending Winnie Mandela’s fancy car in the fast lane. The DriveSafely lady (same monotone voice as the Garmin lady) reads out my friend’s email loudly.

Lady: MMMMMEEEEEEE EEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEE (Rave music intro) SSSSSSSSS UUUUUUUUUU

Note: My friend writes ‘I miss you’ as ‘meeeeessss uuuuu’ to emphasise his endearing missing of my company

I told him later how much this made me laugh and we got into the unlikely discussion of having a GPS person in bed with you.
Pros: You can select any language. Be it a French, German or Yank woman
Con’s: Recalculating…..When possible, stop! In 2 minutes, turn right.

Wonder how this will pan out if a man refuses to take directions.

If: Part 1

Cellmate smelled like Old Spice and dirty sweat. The walls, disinfectant and mentholated spirits. The cement was swabbed and dragged on the walls forming rough notches when you ran your hand over the surface. Tipex markings showing dates I did not understand. Crosses in coal, sayings in Xhosa. I could not translate. At the bottom of the markings, it read Psalms. Men of God behind bars, finding religion when their lives seem pointless. A last resort.
A blotch of dried blood. An angry fist to the wall. The miraculous burst of pain. The urinal, yellowing, dripped, dripped again, its puddle deep. The room was full of silence, the kind that made your ears ring, suspended in a paused age where everything was more pronounced. The world took a breath, steady, defeated of meaning. There is none. Not now.
Cellmate stirred in his perturbed sleep. The steel bed creaked. He turned over to look at me. I did not know what he sounded like. I look away. Anywhere else would be the best. A man outside reads something on his shiny phone. It’s his wife, I think. He’d go home to her. He will put on slippers, record that show he likes. Chicken for dinner. Ten hits and he is asleep next to the love of his life. Before, they talk about holidays overseas. Barcelona. The Maldives. Somewhere hot will be nice. The officer looks my way. Bastard. I don’t have that anymore.
Cellmate turns around. I dig into my pocket and forget that they took my smokes away. And The Parker. She gave me that. I ask the guard for a smoke and he says I can’t. He is going now anyway. His shift ends. He walks away, pocketing his phone and lighting a smoke. His is walking home to loosen his fabric noose, his tie, his belt and put on a flabby T-shirt. And slippers – don’t forget about them.

She did not care. Her arms were spread across, stretching, her hands falling over my mouth and chin. It was like she forgot she shared the bed. Her lips parted, kissing something invisible in her subconscious. I hope it was me. I put my forefinger there as if to silence her. She drew a breath in and looked at me. She folds into me, withdraws. Her hair falls onto my shoulder. She begins to smile.
‘You hit my chin’ I say

She puts her thumb on my chin, right in the groove. Her eyes are glazed in exhaustion.
‘I move around when I sleep. You know that’

She rests on my chest now and it contracts uncomfortably. I call it stress. Others, love.
Unlikely. I don’t do that. I am not John Smith. I don’t live those type of Disney fairytales that spoon-feed destiny. Destiny is just a name for a wanna-be adult film star.
I notice her birthmark on her left earlobe; a perfect circle that seemed like someone had punctured it there on purpose.  She wanted breakfast. She had asked so nicely.

Can Mourinho conquer La Liga?





Plan B: Mourinho needs to find another way to wrestle the title away from Barcelona



Messi, Iniesta, Xavi, Pique, Puyol and David Villa were part of the 2010 Fifa XI. Lionel Messi won the 2010 Ballon D’or for the second consecutive year followed by Barcelona teammates Iniesta and Xavi as runner-ups. The Barcelona men are in a class of their own. In the current La Liga season, they dominate and score goals as easily as closing a lid. Real Madrid is now 4 points behind the champions and cannot keep up. Real Madrid’s 1-1 draw to Almeria did not help either. Mourinho laughed off his team’s performance and Almeria’s players who took to diving to slow the clock down. Even La Liga top scorer, Cristiano Ronaldo, couldn’t force the winner – his last gasp free kick hitting the post. Barcelona followed their rivals with a 4-1 drubbing of Malaga. Easy enough. They win by many and outclass always. With a midfield that is far beyond any team’s in any league, Barcelona dominate possession and play together like a squad who have grown up together. They know where each player is, what leading runs are present and how to play against any defense. Imagine how frustrating it is to be a Real Madrid player at the moment? You’re second best. You can’t seem to grapple the champions and you never top the league despite handy wins. Mourinho won manager of the year in the FIFA awards with his stint with Inter Milan. There is no doubt that he holds the knowledge of something miraculous. But can he really overcome Guardiola’s experience in the league? Should he buy a star striker to cement a title shot? Benzema is inconsistent and without Ronaldo, Madrid’s attack seems flimsy at times. The Portuguese winger is in the form of his life but no winning team can rely on a single player. Barcelona have the goods – Messi, as scorer and playmaker; Xavi, holding on to the ball and finding the hardest pass. Iniesta, alongside Xavi, passing until the stats soar. Villa is on form and is always a threat to defenses. Pique is strong in the air and can keep any attack out.  Puyol is brawly and ever present in the box. I wonder if any team in Europe can stop the Spanish giants? I’ll have to say Manchester United hold the only chance but I’m biased. Let’s see if Mourinho can smile for the right reasons this season. There are rumours that Van Nistelrooy is set for a return and Adebayor is also in the running.

Dethroned: God save Anfield

All good things must come to an end. The powerhouse that was Liverpool football club is no more. Anfield bemoans Torres’ lackluster presence in front of goals, Gerrard is not what he was seasons ago and the Liverpool faithful are slowly turning off their television sets and staying away from fixtures altogether. Without Xabi Alonso and Masherano, or any consistent attack, England’s most successful football team in a century is slowly crumbling. Benitez tried and failed, Hodgson swooped in to save the damsel in distress but slipped, his red cape caught in the steady success of Manchester United, Manchester City and Arsenal. Regret and shame ensued. The Liverpool of old might have made a mid-season comeback, swiping fickle sides like Blackpool and West Ham. Now, they spend ten minutes in charge and then stand back, cemented on the pitch wondering when they will be saved. New manager Kenny Dalglish has already lost two out of two. They’re blaming referee decisions and exhaustion, funds and losses.
Once-off star strikes from youngsters Babel and Ngog are short-lived.

Can the King save the kingdom at Anfield?

With Carragher injured and ageing, the defense is like a plastic bucket with a thousand drilled holes.

The midfield relies too much on Gerrard and Maxi’s performances need tweaking. Kuyt remains dangerous but often finds no support.

Incoherent, second-rate, turmoil.
Liverpool needs change. Managers are not the answer. A two-man team can never win the title. Torres and Gerrard, on form, can’t anway. Get the players, invest and create a sense of camaraderie and teamwork. A plan A, B, C, D. There needs to be an extra striker. Kuyt alongside Torres is indifferent, it doesn’t stick. Gerrard needs a midfield that will co-exist with him. Dalglish needs to bring about spirit. Before anything, that is what a failing team needs the most.
God save Anfield.

Submarine

We shared a whole tub of ice cream one day. It was plain vanilla but we added ingredients. Chocolate sauce. Smarties. Some crunchy biscuit. 
We should invent an ice cream flavour like this, he told me.
We’d make millions, I laughed.
He licked his spoon slowly, intentionally. There was a swipe of vanilla on his chin. The sun hit his eyes and he covered the beam with an arm, smiling at me. The old green couch sat in the afternoon, intent on tanning, holding lazy bodies.
I’ll definitely buy myself a yacht. One of those fancy ones I always see on MTV, he said. He studied his reflection in his spoon.
Your chin looks lovely, I laughed.
He wiped it off, rubbing it on my leg.
I smacked him.
I think I would want something cooler than a yacht.
Like what?
Like a submarine or something. So I can go explore beneath the surface.
He lifted a bulge of vanilla on his spoon. Pink and green Smarties were washed of colour, staining the ice cream. Crumbs were sliding down the heap. He lifted it up towards my mouth and I took it, careful not to mess.
Submarines are cool, he told me.
A yellow one.
He shook his head. You can’t copy the Beatles.
I can.
Fine, there’ll have to be lots of space. Places for lots of pillows. A fridge.
For our ice cream flavour.
Exactly. He nodded, feeding me again. The Smarties were soft and cold against my teeth.
You’re going to mess.
That reminds me, he laughed, we’d have to get a maid.
I snatched the spoon from him. He gave me a teasing look.
I’ll have to get a maid if I’m living with you.
You’ll live with me in a submarine? Submerged against mounds of water with deadly sharks all around?
I picked up a heap and swirled it, letting it curl into a soft twirl with chocolate pieces. Some Smarties were white, off-pink, off-blue, off what it once was.
I’d live in a submarine with you. We’d have a water bed. A red one with daisies or something. We’d have a small stove where we’d cook greasy things and bake things we weren’t allowed to. We’d have a big stereo system. Some fancy disco lights, too. That would be pretty cool. We’d have a telescope too. Or whatever those submarine scope things are called so we know when the hot days out were. We’d come to the surface to spot some life. We could have a braai on the surface. We’d have quite a view. So yes, I’d live in a submarine with you.
He raised his thumb and wiped off vanilla on my lip. I hadn’t noticed it.
I’ll let you know how much we’ll have to save for one, he laughed.



He died in an accident two weeks later. He was not the one that was drinking. He was coming to see me because I felt like the company.
The next day I was walking around town, deaf to whatever the other people were laughing about. I went into the takeaway place that smelled like grease and creamy things.
What’ll be?
I looked around for a menu and opened it, falling on the fish, prawn and chip specials.
Some hake please. As much grease as possible.
The lady nodded and screamed the order out back then turned back and smiled at me.
What about dessert?
Dessert?
She pointed at the menu and smiled, licking her dry lips. There were chocolate cakes and jelly and donuts. Things I couldn’t stomach right now.
I smiled politely at her. Not right now, thank you.
Our ice-cream is pretty good.
Ice-cream?
Yeah. Chocolate, Strawberry, Fudge.
She pointed to a shiny glass cage that held tubs of smooth colours.
Do you have vanilla?
Yeah, right here. Want a cone? There’s some extras you can add.
And sauce?
Chocolate.
I smiled. That would be nice.
She grabbed a small bowl and scooped two heaps of vanilla ice-cream even though I hadn’t specified. She was rather large. He would have teased her, whispering close to me. She would not have fit in our submarine.
I’ll have Smarties, too.
It’s my favourite, too, the lady said, shaking Smarties on top.
Biscuit.
Excuse me?
Do you have some biscuit?
She nodded. Some chunky stuff that gets stuck in your teeth.
Perfect.
The heap had started melting in the summer heat. It made the same colours he made. The crunchy bits drowned in the sauce.
Your fish’ll be done soon.
Can I cancel my order? This’ll be fine. I’ll just need two spoons.
Two? The lady asked, looking around me as if someone was hiding behind my frame. She looked outside and then glanced back, shrugging to herself.

I stepped outside the store and looked up, finding something in the clouds from him. A circle with spots of sunlight sparkled. Disco ball. Someone walked across the street with something the Beatles played. The man was rushing to a date, a bunch of daisies in his hands. I had to look away. The lady in the store saw me look back at her and she waved. I waved back awkwardly. Then I saw the store’s brightly painted windows.
Under the Sea – Fish Takeaway Extraordinaire.
I bit into a cold Smartie and walked away, mumbling words that to lyrics that faded behind me.

As we live a life of ease
Every one of us, has all we need
Sky of blue and sea green
In our yellow submarine.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

Everyone has the right to freedom of expression, to impart information or ideas.
Today we can flaunt logos and t-shirts, watch controversial films, write a heated opinion on Julius Malema. We can protest, strike and march without the fear of handcuffs and bullets.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

Years ago, South Africa was different. If a book spewed out the realities of apartheid’s madness the government would gag the message with proclamations of ‘democracy’. The Madiba t-shirts many wear today would have been one’s life sentence or immediate exile. There was a blanket of propaganda over South Africa – one that even affected the white population. My father was stationed at the Angola border in the early 1980’s away from his new girlfriend - my mother. They would write back and forth, exchanging expressions of love and gossip as they counted the weeks until my father returned. When my father received his mail, the envelope would already be open. The personal sentiment of opening an envelope was left to stern generals who were ‘protecting’ the state’s power. For them, any soldier could be a spy. A threat could be anywhere and secret messages and political instruction could be inked in young slang and personal jokes. In other cases, words and paragraphs were scratched out, words that were deep in innocence and young love.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

As a journalism student, freedom of expression is valuable. There are no boundaries as to what we think, what we say and what we report. There are no handcuffs if we oppose our politicians and there are no military generals watching us over our shoulders. We are given a universe to report and choose what to say, what to read and what to write. Our generation is fortunate for we did not grow up in a world where everything we consumed was edited for the benefits of racists.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

The government repressed and concealed. From Playboy and Hustler to Eddie Grant’s “Gimme Hope Jo’anna”, the freedom to consume and express remained a mere vision to the many. The government’s ploy to ‘cleanse’ and co-ordinate left many to breathe propaganda.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

It takes a lot of courage to stand up to authority. Many have challenged the status quo and many have failed but their struggles have constructed democracy thirty four years later. On the 21 March 1960, 69 protestors were killed and 180 were wounded.

Don't take your rights for granted.