THE PUGNACIOUS PRESSMAN

By Omoseye Bolaji

It appeared that winter had come exceedingly early in South Africa. The ambience was prematurely chilly and nippy, and already many people were huddled together, some making bonfires to stave away the cold. Everybody was in coats or leatherjackets, shivering. Yet, quintessential winter was still a number of weeks away!

I was seated on a sort of terrace watching people milling around hither and thither in the toropo (city) appreciating – as usual – the general trendy apparel and fashion savvy of South Africans in general; and for those who are wondering, I am referring quite narrow-mindedly now to the blacks. After all they are the majority here! Then a meretriciously disemboweled voice seemed to bawl at me: “Hi Chief! Long time no see,”

I swiveled around and saw Khaya (not his real name) a South African journalist, a long time acquaintance of mine. Perhaps I should actually call him a friend? Here was someone who for years used to drive me around the city intermittently; and I particularly relished our visits to Naval Hill, a picturesque spot where in the past we had enjoyed what amounted to “picnics” there. We exchanged pleasantries now.

“Ag!” he said. “Where have you been hiding? I got a copy of your new book – the one with the red cover. I am reading it hanyane hanyane (little by little). But I want to relax. Do you mind a quick drink?” He grinned and added: “I know you can never refuse a drink. Let me show you to a spot which you might not know; I have never seen you there before, leastways,” 

I followed him to a rather cavernous “watering hole” and Khaya ordered two drinks – he already knew my poison, as it were!

It was nice to catch up with this amiable, generous gentleman. We talked about the “good old days” and as is usually the norm, deprecated our current situations. After some time Khaya told me that he wanted to obey the call of nature. “I’ll just hop over to their loo,” he said.

I watched him as he sauntered towards the left, ready to turn into a corridor which apparently led to the loo. But a slender looking guy wearing a green cap suddenly materialized beside him and said: “Ntate, if you are going to the toilet you must pay two rand,”

“Rubbish,” I heard Khaya say, his voice hardening. “I have been coming here for a long time and I never saw anybody ask for ‘piss money’”

“I’m sorry,” the slender guy said. “That is the new rule here now. Two rand to go to the loo…pay up…”

The camaraderie and amiability Khaya always exuded exploded into smithereens. “This is crazy!” he shouted. “How can I spend money on drinks here, and then pay extra two rand to go to the toilet! Nkapa ka shau! (over my dead body). Never!”

A gentleman (later I learnt he was Portuguese and the owner of this place) came and tried to remonstrate with Khaya. “My friend, it’s a new directive from me,” he said. “Don’t let us make a scene…I know you are a journalist…since you are just knowing about the fee today, you can go free of charge to the loo now,”

I could not believe my eyes. I had never seen Khaya like this before, losing it in incandescent fashion! In fact I was now rather embarrassed as he seemed ready to exchange blows with not only the slender guy who had asked him for two rand, but also the proprietor too. At last, to my relief, Khaya managed to take a deep breath, then go to the loo…

But the whole atmosphere had been fouled by this incident. I could see Khaya was still upset. We finished our drinks and as we left the place, he muttered: “This is my last time here! How can I pay to use a loo after buying THEIR drinks with my money?”

Stop press: I understand the two rand fee for you-know-what has now been stopped at this particular spot!

FRISSON OF INTELLECTUALS

By Omoseye Bolaji

It was serendipitous as the two suave intellectuals found themselves meeting each other for the first time ever – thanks to nna (me!)

There I was sauntering past the main library in toropo (the city) first sharing a hug with the white female traffic officer who seems to have entered the circle of my proliferating acquaintances! It was a Saturday and the library was about to close; so I could only spend a very short time there; in fact my desire to borrow even just one book was truncated.

Whilst sitting down on one of the adjacent terraces just outside the building who should I see but my old buddy Mr Lefuo; educationalist extraordinaire, dignified, humble yet self-assured in his own way. We had been friends for over a decade. He sat down beside me and we talked; on my own part marvelling at his erudition always interspersed with gallows humour!

After some time I noticed the shadow of another gentleman just near us, sort of hanging around, as if waiting for either Mr Lefuo or myself to finish talking. I now stared at the face of the gentleman and it was Mr Soqaga, the pan Africanist, essayist, critic, and author!

I hastened to beckon to him to join us, though in his calm polite manner Soqaga was rather reluctant. On my own part I was happy to introduce both of them to each other.

“Ntate Soqaga?” Lefuo said, “Isn’t he the gentleman who published a book on you, a study, critique of your works?”

“The very self-same one; the man who panned me prodigiously!” I joked. I found it exhilarating for two such intellectuals to meet for the first time; exchange ideas in their sophisticated, yet diffident fashion. I encouraged them to even chat in their mother tongues; and not mind me!

But both gentlemen were too polite to do this, because of my presence; courteous, affable never effusive. It struck me that both of them had a lot in common though Mr Lefuo is older; the same grave, civilised demeanour, intellectual clout, conviction of their beliefs, though always giving the impression of being diffident. After some time Soqaga and I insisted on escorting Mr Lefuo to the post office; and the latter seemed almost embarrassed that we were doing so.

At last I was left all alone with Soqaga who kept on chuckling and shaking his head. This was unlike him so I was moved to say: “What’s going on? Why are you chuckling like this?”

“Chief! Chief!” he said at last. “I’ve got you today!”

“What egregious crime have I committed?” I asked.

“Mr Lefuo,” Soqaga said. “So this is Mr Lefuo. You said he was one of your first friends here in South Africa. Remember your character John Lefuo, in your novel, People of the Townships...so this is the man you named your own character after!”

I was speechless. It took me some minutes to realise that critic Soqaga’s assumption was right...

Above pix: Mr Soqaga

Bonnie and Clyde!

By Omoseye Bolaji

The numinous concatenation of the skies was impressive enough that night for any normal being – but alas I was far from feeling normal. I was languid, desultory and tired. All I could think of was my bed! Yes here I was pausing outside a ‘watering hole’ at one of the townships. I had not been here for a long time.

Talk about serendipity! A young man I used to know his parents in the old days swept up beside me with glee. “Ntate Bolaji!” he enthused. “Where have you been? I now work here, inside this place serving the drinks. You care for a drink? You certainly look like it!”

I grinned. I felt like something the cat had dragged in. It had been a long long day, no thanks to publishers’ deadlines. My new book had to be ready by this particular weekend and nna (myself) a somewhat leisurely person if given the chance had to over-stretch myself to prod a new manuscript into something approaching being publishable. 

But that is how the cookie crumbles. It had been an arduous day. And I needed a drink!

So I followed Andy inside and told him I needed a VERY cold drink. Which he soon provided. I sat down alone in a corner savouring the drink, feeling a bit human now. 

Suke!

I hardly cared about other people around male and female relaxing drinking here. I was enjoying my own world; certainly far from “A brave new world” – Aldous Huxley!

Then I saw a young lady walking towards me; tall, confident, quite pretty though rather shop-soiled – but who was I to critique? I was “finished” too! She moved close to me and sat down beside me. “I hope you don’t mind being disturbed by me” she said. She told me her name; or pseudo-name!

I smiled. “Pleased to meet you,” I said. But I did not tell her my name. I had an idea that she wanted a drink, and feeling much better now I was ready to buy it for her. I hoped she would not pretend to like me or whatever; but she went on to do so… she began to flirt with me outrageously.

“Oh I love your skin, your hands, fingers,” she said. “I wish you could like me too. You are so sexy!”

I grinned, genuinely amused. “Don’t you think I am too old to be described in such a way?” I said.

“No…unless you don’t like me,” she said.  She added: “You’ll buy me a drink?”

I concealed a grin; I knew this was where we were going anyway. “Yes I’ll buy you a drink,” I said. “OK I’ll be back now; just give me a few minutes,” she said.

I stood up going to Andy who was looking very worried. I asked him why he looked so sad; whilst telling him to get a drink for the lady. Meanwhile the lady was not around.

Andy said: “Ntate pls be careful! That woman is dangerous! She pretends to like men every now and then, but she and her mean boyfriend go on to take the men for a ride. Both of them are crooks,”

“You mean like Bonnie and Clyde?” I said.

“Who’s Bonnie and Clyde?”

“Famous overseas American criminals long ago,” I said. “Partners. Male and female. Responsible for quite a number of deaths in their time. Both of them were gruesomely killed by the powers that be in the end though,”

Andy grimaced. I”I don’t know whether this girl and her man will be killed but they are dangerous enough. She lures men to her place and the guy turns up a bit later playing the incensed boyfriend and they take the man to the cleaners,” For me it was old hat, but still unsavoury enough. “I’ll handle her; just give her the drink I promised her,” I told Andy.

I went back to quickly finish my drink and the lady “Bonnie” snuggled closer to me, happy that I had bought her a drink. I knew I had to be tactical as I stood up now. “I’ll be coming back,” I said, “I just want to go to a bank ATM” her face brightened up. “I wanna give you a good time tonight!” There was no need to say I was on my way out, never to come back.

“Hantle (good)” she said. “Then later on tonight, we can go and relax at my place,” She smiled sexily. “Will you like that? You’ll like to come to my place?”

“I might at that,” I grinned…then I disappeared from “Bonnie” for good!!

THE FRUITY DEBACLE

By Omoseye Bolaji

I still do not know his name – though we have been good acquaintances for a few years now; the man who I always refer to as “the fruits’ man” in my mind. How simplistic. Though he is well known near my area for selling a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables – oranges, apples, pears, onions, pumpkins and the like...

An amiable man indeed – one who always had time to joke, hold hands, discuss the latest goings-on. Meretriciously, many might dub him as “semi-literate” but few could read like him! Recently I had been giving him lots of material to read, newspapers and magazines. He always greets me by shouting, no matter how busy he is: “Friend of mine!”

I suddenly noticed that he could no longer be seen, the site he used to sell his wares patently deserted. I thought he had just travelled or something; but then after ten days of absence I realised something was probably wrong. The guy never played with business, his business! I had an idea where he lived but I had never entered his house. Luckily enough, I met one of his closest pals...I asked about...hmmm...ah well, the fruits’ man!

His friend stared at me. “So you have not heard? You did not hear what befell him, Mr Bolaji?”

I gulped, having a presentiment of tragedy. “Softie”, that some think I am, my eyes were almost misting already. Such a nice man could not be...gone?

With incredible speed my mind went back to how startled, yet pleased I had been to realise the “fruits’ man” was something of an avid reader. I was almost ashamed when he told me in great detail about some of the books I had published which he had got from the library. He particularly liked Impossible Love, and The ghostly adversary. Of the latter, he often said: “It was almost like watching a fast-paced movie based right here on our own people in the townships; the first time I read it I could not put it down for hours, and my woman was quite angry with me,”

“I see now why she has always disliked me,” I had joked then. But now -

It came as a great relief to me when his friend told me:: “He has been very sick. Horrific flu. He could not stand up for many days. Quite frightening. But he managed to stand up maobane (yesterday) and is hopefully on the mend. Why don’t you visit him?” He gave me even more specific details to the “fruits’ man’s place

And that is exactly what I did. With one’s background, one could not just go there without any “gifts” to the sick man, so I bought some fresh milk and fried chicken pieces – thus armed, I went to his place. No sooner had I got to the gate of his house than his son – who looks exactly like him – began to shout: “Friend of mine! Friend of mine! You heard papa was sick and you came to visit him?”

“Good boy,” I said, patting him, “If he’s sleeping I’ll just leave this for him,”

“He’s much better now,” the youngster said, running to a sort of boys’ quarters; presently he came back and said: “Let me take you to him! I told him you are here,”

The “fruits’ man” seemed very happy to see me. Though rather emaciated, he did not look as bad as I feared he might. Whilst I was seated he said slowly: “You know how serious sickness is, friend of mine. I have been to hell and back...” I was happy he was living up to his reputation as a “talkative”, but I did not think he should over-exert himself. I told him I was delighted he was much better now, and had to go.

He gripped my hand. He said: “You know the disease which kills our people here regularly (he meant hiv/aids). Some people were even saying maybe I had it, but that can never happen. I have always been faithful to my woman and so has she. We are not like all those young men and women who throw their lives away irresponsibly...”

“And thanks for the things you bought for me,” he finally said. “I’m not complaining, but I was hoping you’ll bring some papers or magazines like you used to do! But that will soon be the case when I am up and running again, with my shop open. Thanks, friend of mine!”