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!