Angry African on the Loose

Today we celebrate Mother’s Day. And today I remember my mother. This is an old post. But it’s about my mother.

I slept while my mother died

This will the the hardest thing I ever write. Writing about my mother. She was everything my dad wasn’t. That was easy to write about compared to this. Because my dad was an ass. But my mom. She was my mom.

You see, I was her favourite one. Sorry sis, but I was mom’s favourite one. She loved us all. But I was her favourite one. Maybe because I was the youngest. And a bit unplanned. But I was her favourite one. She always dreamed of me as a little boy of about 6. In my khaki outfit and long socks and sandals. I never grew up in her eyes. I always stayed her little baby. Although she always laughed when I still tried to sit on her lap when I was older - much older. But I was her baby. And I was her favourite one. Maybe it was because I lived at home. Always there to be with her. Someone she could look after. Someone she could look after when no one looked after her.

We were very different. My mom and I. She was a proper lady. Never coughed in public. People shouldn’t see the inside of your mouth you see. So she laughed in a funny way as well. Always trying to keep her mouth closed while she laughed. Not me. I tried everything to make her laugh. Stupid things. Because we were so different. I am the “pull-my-finger” type of dad. My mom - she never pulled my finger. Not without having a closed-mouth laugh in any case.

But that only made it more of a challenge. How to gross her out. And boy did I try. Especially during the big Sunday lunch. I’ll mix up all my food and stuffed my face. And then I’ll start talking to her with my mouth full. Really full. She couldn’t look at me. But she laughed with that funny mouth of hers. And she ate so bloody slowly. Three rice grains and a pea and that was it. And she believed in the “chew-your-food-30-times” before she swallowed. And that was always my next chance to get her to laugh. I’ll gulp down my food and get up and announce to the world that it was time to feed my mom. So I’ll sit next to her and feed her. And we laughed. Oh, the tears that ran down her face was just a sight to see. Desert was a special time. Ice-cream and jelly for me (jello in the US). And I’ll make as if I am snorting it up, but meanwhile I was making the noises with my mouth. She was so disgusted in me. But she laughed and laughed. With a hoo-hoo-hoo - she laughed like an owl. And in between the laughs she will say swearwords that will never-ever cross her mouth at any other time. “O donnertjie tog, my kind” (rough translation: “Oh, bloody hell my child”). She couldn’t control her laughter. She might not laugh with an open mouth. But she laughed so easily when I did my tricks. And sometimes. Just sometimes, she would lose all control and have to run to the bathroom to stop herself. Although she didn’t always make it in time. Yes, my mother loved laughing at my silly jokes. And I loved making her laugh. We loved each other. My mother and I.

We had to. We had to make each other laugh. We had to have fun with each other. My mother and I. Because my dad wasn’t much to laugh at behind closed doors. Always the funny man in front of others. But never to my mom. So I made her laugh. And she spoiled me. She spoiled me rotten. That was my mother. She spoiled me rotten.

She made me breakfast every single morning while I stayed at home. Even when I went to university. I stayed at home. In my own little place outside, but at home. Close to my mom. She could see me sleeping from the kitchen. And she got up before me every morning to make my waking up the best part of the day. She’ll make me coffee and come into my room quietly. Yes, quietly. She’ll put my coffee next to my bed on a cup-warmer and talk softly to me to try and wake me up. “Morning my boy. Time to wake up. It is lovely day.” I’ll wake up slowly while she talks to me. And she’ll prop the pillow up for me to sit up in bed and have my cup of coffee. The extra-large mug that said “I Love Mom”. I bought it myself.

She hated me smoking. But she gave me a clean ashtray to have a smoke while I drink my coffee and have a quick chat to her. And she knew how to time her morning routine perfectly as well. Half-way through my smoke she will get up and get breakfast ready. She timed it that she started making my breakfast the minute she saw me get up to shave and shower. I’ll get dressed and walk straight into the kitchen with her perfect timing. As I sat down she gave me the breakfast I wanted every single morning. A slice of toast, some marmite on it and a fried egg - soft in the middle. But still hot as it just came off the pan. A little bit of pepper and salt - thanks mom. Always perfect. Every single morning. And she sat and had her tea while I had my breakfast. We’ll talk about my day and smile at each other. I’ll tell her a funny joke or two to make her laugh. And she’ll tell me to stop it because it is too early for that. And then I’ll get up give her a kiss and she’ll give me my daily 5 Rand (about 80 cents) for the day - enough for a sandwich, coffee, smokes and a beer. And she’ll stand at the door and wave at me while I drive off. Just her and my dog. Ready for her day. My dad will be out playing bowls or visiting his friends. I knew she was just waiting for me to come home and share a cup of tea together (always the Three Trees brand). My mom and me - we had fun. Fun when I was there. But I don’t know what she did while she waited for me to come home. Just her and the dog.

Weekends was the best though. We had a ball then. I would go out surfing a bit and come home ready to take my mom out on a date. Just the two of us. We’ll jump in her car and head for the mall. It’s time for the movies and a bite to eat. We’ll watch whatever I wanted to watch. It was always an action movie for me. She’ll buy us tickets for the latest Harrison Ford or Stallone movie and get ready for some action. She always said she loved it, but I wasn’t always that sure. She used to grab my arm tightly and whisper little swearwords (”O donnertjie tog”) every single time something  happened - just a change of scenery got her jumping. She always expected the worse. But she was all smiles when we got out and headed for the Pizza place - always the same place. Panarotti’s. I’ll have a huge pizza and she’ll have something small - a salad or something. And she’ll stare at me while I ate. And we spoke about the movie and how much fun it was. And we wondered what we will watch or do next weekend. You see, my dad never took her to the movies.

Watching her watch television was fun too. We were one of the first people in our street to get a television. And she was gripped. She watched everything. But she loved The Protectors. We had a full house of people coming over each time The Protectors was on. And she got so involved in the story. She believed it was true. And she even believed she could make a difference. I was very, very little, but in one scene I will never forget, Contessa di Contini was being followed by a guy with a knife. And he was slowly but surely creeping up to her - ready to pounce. He was about to stab her when my mom jumped up and shouted - “Agter jou Contessa. Pasop. Hy is agter jou!” (”Behind you, Contessa. Look out. He is behind you!”) Oh we laughed about that one. And we laughed many more times at each Sunday lunch. Especially when I used to shout that in the middle of my dad praying when I spied the dog sitting behind her. Yes. She believed she could make a difference.

But I grew up and eventually had to move out of the house. I only did that when I got married. Oh how my mother hated my wife in the beginning. But she got to love her when my wife became a mother - and my mother saw this beautiful child and knew she was the one for me. But in the beginning she thought that my wife took me away from her. Her little boy. She didn’t want me to get married. She just sat there during the service and stared at my wife. She never smiled. And she phoned me to tell me to come home - the day after I got back from honeymoon. But I grew up. And she had no one to wait for anymore. Just a few visits - maybe once or twice a month. She had no one to spoil anymore. Even the dog had to be put down because of illness and old age.

But we had fun whenever we went to visit her. She’ll make my favourite food - buttermilk pudding, potato salad, braai (barbeque), her special cake, and home-made bread. Oh yes, the home-made bread. I was never allowed to cut the bread. I was going to cut my fingers off you see. I was just a little boy. Her little boy. But I got her laughing her funny laugh with that one as well - a new trick. It involved a knife and some tomato sauce. Needless to say, she was in a panic for a while. Grabbing my hand and putting it under the tap. Until she realized what I did. And then it was all funny laughs again. Yes. We still had fun when we had a chance.

But she wasn’t too healthy. She suffered from many illnesses. Not sickly. But she had many problems - from vertigo to depression. And it was tough for her. With no one at home. Not even the dog. And my dad was always out with his friends or playing bowls. It was tough for her. For someone who always had me around to spoil. Now it was just her and her thoughts. And no one to wait for at night. Just hope for a weekend or two each month.

My sister called me one night from her home. My mom was crying and called out for help. She couldn’t get hold of me. So she phoned my sister. My dad was cheating on her. She didn’t know what to do. I had enough. Enough of him. I raced to their place and got them to sit down and talk to me. I told my dad he was now messing with my life. Messing with my mother. Time to grow up and be a man. Time to take responsibility. She needed him. She needed him to look after her. To be there at night for them to share a meal. Sit together and watch television. I told him to make his choice now. Be a man or walk away. He didn’t walk away. And maybe that was a mistake. Because he said he will look after her. I wasn’t there to look after her. And maybe that wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe she just wanted someone to spoil and someone to wait for at night.

I think my mother died a little bit each day. With a husband who didn’t love her. With a house that was empty. Just her thoughts and herself. It was always about me. Always about what she could do for me. The breakfasts. The movies. The pizzas. The tea. The laughs. It was always about me. And what she could do for me and with me. I was her life. While she had me. And when I left? What was left of her? I don’t know. I loved her. But I don’t know what she wanted from life apart from making me happy and looking after me. Her little boy.

And when I left - what was left? Could my mother have done things differently? I don’t know. I think she was drained of who she was so slowly that she didn’t realize what was happening. Drained by my dad and what he did to her. Drained by her kids who meant everything to her. You see. I was sleeping while she watched me. I was sleeping while she lived her life just for me. I was sleeping when I got the call. It was 3 in the morning.

It was my other sister. She was at my mom’s. She was just visiting. And she was crying and shouting. She didn’t make sense. Something about my mother. Something about my mother. Something happened to my mother. Something about a gun. Something about my mother and a gun. It didn’t make sense. Did someone shoot her? It didn’t make sense. We both hated guns. And then I heard it. Time just stood still. I heard it. But I couldn’t understand the words. I knew the words. Three little words. But it didn’t make sense. And then she said it again. And it hit me and drained me of everything. Time didn’t stop. My heart didn’t stop. It just felt like it. It was my soul that got ripped out.

“Mom shot herself”.

I know I drove there immediately. I was on that road for 30 minutes. But the next thing I remember was standing there looking at my mom. The police wasn’t there yet. And my sister and dad was in the kitchen. The kitchen where I had those breakfasts with my mom. My mom looked so peaceful. Lying down. She always had beautiful skin. And her skin looked beautiful. She had a little funny smile on her face. Just as I remembered. She looked happy. Like she always looked when she saw me.

I sat down next to her and took her hand. “Don’t worry mom. I am here.” I just sat there with her and held her hand. Knowing not to look beyond her face. Not to look at the other side of her head. Whispering to her while crying. Crying because there will be no more breakfasts together. No more movies together. No more tea together. No more funny laughs. No more feeding her. No more snorting ice-cream and jelly. No more waiting for me. My mom was gone. She couldn’t wait any longer.

I slept while my mother died. I slept while my mother lived. I was there for her. And I wasn’t there for her. I never knew what she did during those days when she waited for me. And I don’t know what she did when there was no more evenings to look forward to. I slept while my mother died. But I loved my mom. I loved my mom. I love my mom.

To my wife: I love you more than life. Thank you for being with me and making me a better man. I always want to know what you do while you wait for us. While you wait for the girls to come home from school. While you wait for me to come home from work. I always want to know who you are and what you do. Because I am because of you. Without you I am nothing. I do what I do because the strength my mother gave me and the strength you give me. I love you.

And thank you for being there when my mother died. Thank you for helping me remember my mom the way she wants to be remembered. And not because of that last 5 minutes of madness in her life. Thank you for reminding me that we will never know. That all we can know is that I loved her. And that she loved me. Even when I was sleeping.

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Do you find this helpful? The deep analysis? Haha! Here we go.

1. British Airways going all British

Okay. That is enough. No more PC please. I draw the line right here. I was okay with the “we don’t want to our children to compete” stupidity in the schools when I was there. Yes, my child couldn’t compete in sport because they did not want there to be winners and losers. Failure was out - now called deferred success. Puh-lease! I think it was because she was going to kick some Pom butt. And on and on they went with their stupid ideas of the state controlling everything. But they have stepped over the line now. Now they won’t serve meat on British Airways flights anymore because some people have religious issues with beef (of course pork is out the window as well). Hang on a bloody moment here. You serve me tofu and soya and I’ll show you a place where the sun don’t shine. I have serious religious and cultural problems with eating anything but meat. It’s in my blood and in my bones. I am African. We eat meat. I find it offensive that you will pander to others but ignore my religious requirements. You have the option of ordering specific food before you board your flight AND you offer two types of meals. Let them phone you and make arrangement. Don’t you remember? We don’t have phones in Africa… And there is a serious consequence for all others as well - the non-meat eating… hum… humans. Can you imagine what they are going to serve us now? Crap fish and chips or rubber eggs. I am changing to Air Namibia next time I fly to South Africa - they serve biltong bites. Really. I have standards. Squash me into a box in the middle seat. Make me wait in line for an hour or two. Provide me with bad service at ticketing. Strip search me in public. But take my meat away? Tell me, do you still serve salad - or what do you call it again? Hum, oh yes - chicken? BA - Beef Away.

2. Honey, I am right behind you 

So the Prius will bring out a new version in 2010. And the Volt will also hopefully make its debut. And now VW says they will bring their super fuel efficient 1L concept to the roads as well. 1L is metric for 1 liter per 100 km, or 1 gallon going a full 230 miles. Cool isn’t it? Huh… No… Not even close. Volkswagen is German for Nation Wagon. Say what? You can’t even fit the bloody dog in there - never mind a nation. Seating for two only. Could be romantic hey? Huh… No… The passenger sits behind the driver. I can now truly be a backseat driver. Thanks VW, but if this is your answer to fuel efficiency then at least give it a few skates for wheels to use in winter. This way we can us it as a toboggan when the snow and ice comes.

3. Doctor Watson I presume?

Those bloody Nigerians. So here we are. With Idang Alibi going on about how Dr Watson was right when he said Africans are more stupid than the whities. Or rather, that black people are, in his humble opinion, not as intelligent as white people. Nothing humble about that mate. He goes on and on about how they are more stupid because of the failed Africans states. And that all other states are just fine. Guess what? I got angry. So here is more longer than usual response.

He talks as if every African state is a failed state. And that all others are just fine. Just fine. Well sorry - the world isn’t black and white (no pun intended). So, North Korea is just fine I take it? And Bangladesh? And most of the old Soviet states? And Latin America that have loads of European blood running through their veins? It’s easy and intellectually lazy to do that. For every Lagos there is a Laos. Also, he forgets to mention those African states who are not failing and are stable and growing. Senegal anyone? Or Mozambique now that the Cold War affect is over. And Botswana that has a huge HIV/Aids problem but still manages to outgrow the majority of countries in the world. Too easy and lazy of him to write a piece of crap that shows his own intellect. Sorry brother, I am not you and neither are most of us thank you. Go back to university and go and study how to be a journalist. Africa do have a series of failed states. But it isn’t a black thing. There are too many other failed states to tell us it isn’t a “black thing”. And don’t forget Zambia. One of the least corrupt and violent countries in the world - and acknowledged as such. Had mostly good governments. Except before “Ma” and after Kenneth Kaunda - Chiluba didn’t play nice. But he wasn’t really Zambian. And never been in a war - inside or outside its borders. More Swiss than the Swiss. And still one of the poorest countries in the world. Why? Because this isn’t some “American Dream” where those who work hard will come out on top. Whether you are an individual or a country, the one thing we have learned over the last 100 years is that those who are poor will remain poor and with limited opportunities no matter where they live. Yes, you have exceptions, but the American Dream doesn’t work for most people. No matter how hard they work. The bridge between poor and rich is increasing each and every day. Whether you live in America or you are a country in Africa. Even with the high growth rates - how long do you think Mozambique and Botswana must grow before it will reach the “upper status”? Do the math - it doesn’t work. No matter how hard you try. And there is no lottery for states either. And neither can you win a bucket of common sense either.

4.  Heartland no brainchild

Like all good scientists Heartland took the brave step of publishing the names of all those scientists who support their claim that Climate Change is no biggie. I think they should have just kept their list and tell us they have 500 names and leave it at that. It is turning out to be as accurate as the WMD statements. And like President Bush supporters, the scientists on the list decided to take the rat route off the ship. It seems as if the 500 aren’t 500 at all. You see, many of the scientist on the list actually believe in Climate Change. Oops. Look guys, how can we trust you with real science if you can’t even count properly? Climate Change isn’t social science you know - it is real science. Get the social science bit right and then we can talk. It seems as if you count with your heart instead of your head. Good for Bush, but no good for science.

5. Hillary and Bob - BGFF

Nooo link needed here - It’s about Hillary C and Bob Mugabe. If you don’t know anything about them then… I don’t know - do a google search. And no BGFF does not stand for Best Guy/Girl Friends Forever. It means Bye Go Finally F-off. It’s time they both go. Hillary keeps on losing supporters faster than Bob is losing his marbles. And that says a lot. But Hillary is a bit like Bob here. Refusing to accept it is all over. The other guy won - just accept it and live with it. So I have a little plan. Why don’t you two go to on a nice little island retreat for two. Just you two lovebirds. Maybe Bikini Atoll or Christmas Island. Bikini because we should pay A Toll to see either of you in one. And Christmas Island because Hillary needs a few presents to make up for the money she blew at 3 am. Bob won’t have a problem with the radioactivity - he might just grow a brain. We all live in hope.

That’s all folks. Bye-bye all. Have a great weekend and see you on the other side. I promise to be lighter and brighter next week. It will be a fun week - I promise.

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Yes, South Africa is failing us. No wait. Not South Africa. The ANC. The ANC is failing us. Our government is failing us. Us - the people of South Africa. And it has nothing to do with Apartheid.

Let’s get this straight - their failure has nothing to do with Apartheid. Apartheid was a despicable oppressive system. There was nothing good about it. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. Okay, maybe for the white South Africans it was a holiday camp. But for the majority of South Africans it was an oppressive system who gave them no rights - a concentration camp. No political rights outside of a failed red-herring joke of a homelands system. Ha! 13% of the land for 80% of the population. No right to ownership. You want land? Go and eat dirt. In your homeland. No right to economic wealth. The best jobs were reserved for whites. Ever wondered how all the top jobs were occupied by white faces? Now you know. Reserved parking only. South Africa was covered by one single sign that we saw on the benches and doors and busses every single day under Apartheid - Whites Only.

Oh I can go on and on about how bad Apartheid was. But I won’t. You should know that. If you don’t - go read the TRC document or any decent and recent history book. Or pull the bigot stickers off your eyes. If you liked Apartheid stop reading now. You won’t like the rest of this piece either. But neither will the ANC.

Make no mistake, we can blame Apartheid for many of the problems we experience in South Africa today. The legacy of Apartheid lives on. And the chickens are still coming home to roost. Only problem is that these bloody chickens don’t know the farm is under new ownership. But here - have a few of these on the side.

The education system in South Africa sucks. No surprise there. Under Apartheid the per capita expenditure for white schoolkids were 5 times more than for black kids. Oh, and the ratio between white teacher and white kids were about half of the ratio for black schools. Yes, they had separate schools, separate authorities and a separate curriculum. No surprise there. And due to the lack of adequate financing and training, teachers in black schools were generally less qualified than white teachers who had some of the best universities in the world. So what the hell did you expect to happen when Apartheid ended? That everyone will all of a sudden get the same education as traditionally white schools? A system change was needed and that takes time. Make the per capita expenditure the same, but you still had to rebuild the infrastructure of the traditional black schools and retrain many of the teachers - white and black - to get up to speed to a non-racial curriculum. And merge all the different education departments in South Africa and those in the homelands. No easy task hey? Imagine the largest corporate merger in the world - and instead of two make it about ten or more companies merging into one. So stop bitching. The education system is much better than under Apartheid for the majority of South Africans.

How about policing? Yeah! Under Apartheid the primary function of the South African Police Service (SAPS) was the suppression of political dissent. Stopping criminal activity, beyond that which directly threatened the white minority, was a much lower priority, and there were almost no tradition or expertise in criminal investigation in South Africa. Between 80 and 90 percent of criminal convictions were gained on the basis of confessions, obtained by what was called the “choke and talk” technique of police intimidation. Oh yes, and in 1994 they had to consolidate eleven Apartheid-era policing agencies into one. So, reform was needed while at the same time show the public it can actually reduce crime as well. Or, as a senior SAPS officer once said, ”Police reform is like rebuilding a ship while it is in full sail during a hurricane”. No problem, hey Sherlock?

Okay, let’s see where to go next - last one. Healthcare. On the one hand we had a system that provided first-world healthcare to a small minority - provided by a well-resourced tertiary system. I mean really, we had the first heart transplant done in South Africa. On a white South African. Because only they had access to this level of healthcare. The rest? Let’s just say that they had very little health to care about in the first place. There were no basic or essential services provided in any structured way. So come 1994 - what did you expect? To continue to live the life of luxury while the majority remain dying from bad water and weather?

Wait - let’s do just a last few. Basic services like water, housing and electricity. Except for a few toilets build in the middle of nowhere, the Apartheid government did jack shit for black South Africans. Don’t tell me about the single line of electricity that ran into a selected township under Apartheid. One swallow doesn’t make a summer. It’s like saying that anyone can now sit on the bench in the park - but only whites are allowed in the park. Or that anyone can now swim in the sea - but only whites are allowed on the beaches. Sorry to disappoint you. The Apartheid system sucked. And nothing good came of it for the majority of South Africans. And we still live with the failure of that system. The sins of our fathers…

The end of Apartheid wasn’t just a change from one government to another. That would have been easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. No sweat. No problem. ‘n Boer maak mos ‘n plan. Geen probleem broe. Daasie kakkie want daasie kossie. It was a revolution. It made the fall of the wall in Berlin look like a walk in the park. And we had no money compared to them. The fall of the USSR - no problem. Here? Each and every law had to be rewritten (yes - we wrote more laws between 1994 and 2000 than any other country in the world). We had to merge ten to 15 departments into one for each group under Apartheid. We had to retrain people to serve and not kill. We had to reallocate budgets when South Africa was already an emerging market with extremely limited funds - comparable to Argentina and Egypt and India. Not the US or UK - that was the life of the whites in South Africa. We had to change from a limited healthcare system to one that provides primary healthcare to all South Africans. We had to change an economic system from inward looking to export-oriented. And all of that isn’t even half of it. We still had to get rid of institutional racism and go through the rebirth of a nation (thanks TRC - you got us closer). So don’t think it was a change in government. It wasn’t. It was changing from Nazi Germany (without any money or a world plan to finance rebuilding) to a free society overnight. Like that - “Snap!”. Now you see Apartheid - “Snap!” - now you don’t. Gone. Welcome to freedom - now let me turn your world upside down.

But still. I blame the ANC for failing us. Because they are. They are failing us. I don’t give a damn about how tough a job they had and have. I know the legacy of Apartheid. I know that it hasn’t been easy. I know what shit they inherited from the Apartheid regime. I don’t blame them for not building enough houses. I don’t blame them for not creating enough jobs. I don’t blame them for the violence and crime. I don’t blame them for the kids failing school. I don’t blame them for not building the clinics fast enough. Because all of those things are better than under Apartheid for most South Africans. But I do blame them for failing South Africa. And failing us - the people of South Africa.

I blame them for creating a false hope. I blame them for promising us a better government than what they have become. They are not a bad government. They are just a government. Making bad choices. And making good choices. A mix bag of some good stuff and some bad stuff. Like other governments.

The arms deal and corruption? Nothing special. Bloody hell, they actually dealt with it better than others. Finding Tony guilty and sending him to jail! The Chief Whip of the ruling party! Can you imagine the UK or US doing that? Here Dick and Halliburton was so closely linked but no one blinks an eye - never mind investigate. Or Blackwater and their backhanders. And the UK? The UK government refuses to investigate the bribery that took place in the arms deal with the Saudis. Why? Because it will “threaten national security”. So, sorry people, the ANC is no worse than other governments. They all fail foreign policy. You think Mbeki and Zimbabwe is bad? Have you heard anything from the US on the Saudis who have one of the worse human rights record in the world? No, sorry people, the ANC is no worse than other governments. They are just like them. And that is why they are failing us.

We believed naively that the end of Apartheid meant the start of a super-government. That our government is above other governments. More just than any other. They are better then the best. The most human of all humans. The fairest of them all. They lied to us - without saying a word. They made us believe in a world that is better than any other.  We somehow believed that we are the chosen people. And our government who gave us our freedom will somehow give us the freedom of our souls.

And when we had Mandela we actually entrenched that belief. A South Africa where miracles happen when Madiba snaps his fingers. Our “Special One”. The one who brings hope, love and peace to all. We love him. We truly love him like no President or leader is loved. And that is right. Because he is like no other. He is our Madiba. But still they failed us.

They failed us because they made us believe that we are somehow better than others. That somehow they will be better than others. They failed us by being just another bloody typical government. Like all others. That is their failure. For being too normal. And we were the suckers for falling for it in the first place.

Sorry South Africa - welcome to the world. You are now just as normal as the rest of the world. With a government that sometimes fail and sometimes succeed. Nothing special. Not what the ANC promised us. But still - just a government like all governments. And just a country like all countries. We are not special. We are just people. Just a country. Just South Africa. Like anyone else. Just normal. Normal. Normal at last.

Free at last…

___________________

Note: We still have biltong, Simba chips, Stoney, boerewors, Liqui-Fruit, mopani worms, afval, Marina braaisalt, Marmite, putu, bobotie, sosaties, Top Deck, Cream Soda, Castle, koe(k)sisters, beskuit, vetkoek, pannekoek and Peck’s to name a few - okay, drop the afval and mopani worms. And I haven’t even started on the Rugby World Cup or Kaizer Chiefs (I am an Ajax CT supporter but acknowledge power). If we lose that we are stuffed. Then we won’t be able to even brag about the bloody food or sport anymore. And then we have nothing but a cute accent, good looking people, Table Mountain and crap music. Hey wait. Apart from the music the left-overs aren’t that bad either. I’ll just blame the music on Apartheid or the ANC. You pick boeremusiek or kwaito - blame it on the boogie… man.

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You Americans. You are a damn funny bunch. Doomsayers. Hehehe! The world isn’t going to come to an end. Your life will still be fine. Really. I promise you. No, I am not talking about the economy. I’m talking about the election coming up in November.

I find it amazing how people paint the worse possible outcome if any of them wins. Oh, it’ll be the end of America as we know it. Depending on who wins the scenarios are either America will be taken over by hardline Christians or fundamental Muslims. Far-right racists or a bunch of bleeding heart liberals. Abortions will take place left, right and centre or individual rights like choice will be taken away forever. America will go into more wars and stay in Iraq forever or be to weak to attack anyone who threatens. Americans will be forced to pay through their necks for a proper health-care system that will cover everyone or the poor will be left behind to die alone without any care. America will be taxed to death to look after the poor or the rich are going to get richer. The corporate world will be regulated to a level where they won’t be able to compete or corporate interests in DC will reach new highs. A black guy or a women… Oh, wait - that one might actually be true. Hahaha. Come on people. Stop drinking the Kool-Aid. You remind me a bit of South Africa back in 1994 when we had our first democratic election.

My dad and my wife’s dad panicked. What will happen if the ANC wins the election. What will happen if we have a black government. Oh God forbid that ever happens. It will be the end of the world as we know it. Oh the country will come to a standstill. Traffic lights (or robots as we call it) will stop working. Electricity will stop running.  Gas stations (petrol pumps back home) will run out of petrol. Taps will run dry. And worse of all - the grocery stores will have empty shelves. We will even run out of beer. And that would be bad. Especially if you are South African.

So they stockpiled. They bought canned food - corned beef (or bully beef as we call it) and candles were all the rage back then. Man, my dad bought so much of the stuff he could have opened his own little underground shop if he wanted. And then they started with us. Telling us we must stockpile. Get ready because it is the end of the world as we know it. But they didn’t know the next line of that R.E.M. song - And I feel fine. Because this election was what I fought for and dreamed of. Free, free at last. But we were poor then - my wife and myself. So we couldn’t really say no to any money they were going to throw our way. But it was a bit of a dilemma - we couldn’t lie to them either. Just not ethical. So we divised a little plan. We took the money and stockpiled. Let me qualify that a bit. We did the alternative version of stockpiling. We bought mussels, prawns, perlemoen, crayfish, steak and champagne. All those things we could never afford to buy! We stockpiled to celebrate the win! In style baby.

Well, as you might know I didn’t get along with my dad. But when he died he still had candles and bully beef stuck in his grocery racks. All from back in 1994. Because the stores were stocked and open the next day. And the taps ran crisp clear water. And the electricity kept on going. And the petrol pumps were ready to fill you up. And the banks still had your money in their vaults. Yes. South Africa carried on as the usual. Just as a free and democratic country for the first time. Oh, we had one little problem. We had one huge hang-over from the parties that just went on and on. But no one bitched about that!

So, you see, the more things change the more they stay the same. America will not face what we faced back in 1994. A moment that defines our place in history. The end of an oppressive system. And freedom at last. You don’t need to stockpile. Because whoever wins will not be the worse case scenario you are so frightened of. Yes, McCain will be more ready to go to war and stay in Iraq. And yes, some of the rights America fought for so hard will remain under pressure. And he’ll pander to the right and flip-flop when he doesn’t “misspoke” or forget who is who. And he’ll be bad from a foreign policy perspective. And Hillary will be a hawk. Ready to go to war and obliterate anyone who steps on her toes. And she’ll be more of an empty bag of little substance than most. Dodging bullets and making peace/war wherever she goes (you pick - war in Iraq and peace in Northern Ireland). And yes, Obama is more of an idealist. And idealist who paints a picture of what America should look like tomorrow. And he’ll be more likely to speak and seek peace and compromise than go into war. And he is more wonky than he other two. And yes, he and Hillary are more likely to bring in a universal health-care and strengthen social services. But come one people. They are proud Americans who will give their all to make this great country even greater.

Your water will still drip from the taps. Gas will still flow from the pumps - even if it is a bit more expensive than yesterday. Food will still be at a reasonable price. Your lights will still burn when you flip the switch. Roads will still be fine even if you need to invest in them a bit more. You’ll still have unemployment - but at a low rate. The dollar will still be the global standard. And the world will still catch the flu if you sneeze. You will be just fine. Just fine. Really no need to stockpile.

In actual fact, you will be better than where you are today. And you will hopefully rally behind your new President and tell him/her to go and make you proud. To run this country like a President. Remember. They are willing to do so. They are willing to stand the public attacks from you and their election opponents. They are willing to be scrutinized. At least show some respect for that. You deserve better.

No. Your country deserves a better you. A you that act like a proud and patriotic American. Not like a spoilt child that fears anything and everything. Your country deserves a you that remembers that this country is about what you do to make it better. And it starts with how you will support your new President. And how you treat your own people. Those who are willing to stand up and be counted. Be critical, but don’t be destructive. That is not the American way. Or so I was told.

You don’t need to stockpile. Maybe just a little on decency and on guts. But don’t fear tomorrow. It’s not the of the world as you know it and you’ll feel fine.

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No really, hear me roar. Because there is no way that you will make sense of anything else I have to say. This bloody accent of mine. I don’t even think I will able to understand it if I heard it coming from your mouth. It’s just a shame I can’t write in an accent. Maybe I should do a podcast and see how many people switch off from this blog. “Hello, this is Angry….” Click. Thanks so much for your commitment…

Okay, I used to argue that I have no accent. That you all have accents and not me. Oh I can quote you studies by Oxford University proving that South Africans have the purest English “accent” out there. That we speak English the way it was intended by God or whoever made the rules of English. The Queen I guess.

But I am so damn wrong about that. You see, I am not English. Fatal flaw number 1. I can only have the purest “accent” (or non-accent) if I actually qualified as an English South African. I am not. But it came as a bit of a shocker to realize that I have one damn heavy bloody accent. I never heard it before. Until yesterday.

We had this guy from South Africa visiting our offices today. Of course, as the resident foreigner and South African, I had to go to the meeting. (I was also secretly hoping the guy would bring some biltong and Castle - but no bloody luck with that either.) He was from my hometown - Cape Town. I guess they also wanted me to translate for them. This guy had a heavy accent. Or so I thought.

I introduced myself and we were walking and talking on our way to the meeting-room. (Small world - we went to the same primary school.) All I heard was “Ja, man” and “lekker“. I thought the team might have some trouble understanding him, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone. Or they were doing a pretty good job acting as if they understood what he had to say. But the meeting went well. He was a typical South African. On top of his game and as sharp as a needle in a condom factory. Sharp enough for you to think it’s all going to go very wrong any minute. But he was good - he made me proud. Even with the accent.

I saw him out afterwards and made him promise to bring me some Castle, biltong and a few other goodies next time he comes to visit. He should have known that any honorable South African will never fall for bribes of diamonds or riches - but a well placed can of Stoney and a packet of Simba Chutney can swing a deal in seconds. A lesson I hope you learned young man. Don’t let me repeat myself.

Anyway, after a few comments that included “lekker“, “boerewors” and “moerse“ we said “cheers” and off he went. Nice guy. I rejoined Ms C, my colleague and friend, to download. But first I had to check on the accent. So I asked her, “Tell me I don’t have an accent as heavy as that”. She looked at me, laughed and said, “You sound just like him”. Damnit.

She even reminded me that he used words that only South Africans use - like thumbsuck. And that she looked at me to see if I realized he used the word - they make fun of some of my expressions at work all the time. Fun in a good way. And thumbsuckis one of those words I use often. It means to create something from nothing. Like in “I created the data from nothing - I thumbsucked the data”. Damnit. I didn’t even blink when he said it - it was just English to me. Damnit.

No wonder we always need a translator when we go to meetings. I remember one of my first meetings facing a new client. I kept on talking about the data we were using to support our argument. And the potential client just stared blankly at me. Not a clue of what I was saying. So Ms M stepped in to say that I mean data. Pronounced completely differently. I pronounce it da-ta - the “a” pronounced like in the “a” in “la” ( as in “do re me fa so la te do”). Not day-ta. Thanks Ms M. And she’s pretty good at understanding and translating what I have to say. And makes it sound even better than what I actually meant to say.

(Another word is Iraq. I pronounce it E-Raq - standard “a” as above - while Americans pronounce it Eye-Rack. No wonder MediCare makes so many mistakes. You try and fill in those prescriptions without making a mistake baby.)

Anyway. Another favourite expression of mine is used when someone asks me how long something will take or how much it would cost or how involved it would be. My response? “How long is a piece of string?” You see, I can’t tell you how long the piece of string is until I have more information - and the same detail is needed to answer the other questions. I still get blank stares for that one. And a few laughs from our team.

But the accent do have distinct advantages. I can pretty much say whatever I want and people will smile and believe me. I sound so… worldly. You want to talk development? Who better than someone with an accent and from Africa. You want to talk about the global economy? Who better than someone with an accent who lived on a few continents already. Like my boss and friend Mr M says - I can kill someone and get away with it if I just keep on talking and smiling.

Yes, my accent. Not easy to understand, but it comes in handy. I generally call myself the pretty accent in the corner. We can use it when we need to because it does tell the listener that I might have a different perspective - and I get their attention. Especially over here in the US where accents are still a bit of a novelty. I mean really, you guys think every and any Englishman on the big screen must be a great actor - just because he has an accent! Hugh Grant anyone?

Of course the accent helps me get away with silly comments and general stupidity because of the way it sounds. I am the Hugh Grant of my profession. No matter how stupid I actually am, my accent makes me sound smarter and wiser than what I really am. And better looking.

WTF? Yes, better looking. Or at least marginally more attractive. Okay, more acceptable for public viewing. Just. Barely less horrifying than Freddy Krueger on a bad night. Children run away screaming their little heads off when they see me, but hang on to every word I say when they hear me speak. Scary looking, but with the accent still a huge improvement over my non-accented self. Last week Friday I was talking to a few of my younger colleagues at work - a young guy and two young women, one who just joined us. And the other young women looked at our new colleague and said that I have the coolest and nicest accent she has ever heard. Aah, always good for the ego of any (almost) middle-aged man. Even if he has his own little accent of love. My wife. The one with the purest accent of all. Or rather, as an English South African - the one with the non-accent. Just music to my ears and heart.

So hear me roar. That’s about all you will understand. But take it from me (imagine an accent saying this) - the accent makes me wise and cool. And a little bit better looking than with my mouth shut. I have the data to prove it.

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I never liked her much. Didn’t think she was taking it seriously enough. Her studies you know. And not committed enough to the struggle. Always hung out with her gang of girls. Walking as if they owned campus. And partying hard. Not my kind of girl thank you. We never spoke to each other. Not a single word. For almost 2 years. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. And she was English. South African English, but English still.

We attended the same university. We were in the same class. Studied the same subjects. Political Science and Philosophy. But we were light-years away from each other. I sat right in front of the class. Always prepared. Always asking questions. Always willing to give my opinion. She thought I was full of myself. And she was right of course.

She sat at the back or middle somewhere. I didn’t look around to check. I was too consumed with my studies. And too consumed by myself. She hung out at the back. She and her gang of girl friends.

I did see her in my pub every now and again. De Akker. It was my home away from home. Where I could hang out with my fellow philosophers. Kitchen philosophy. Thinking we were so bright. I think it was just an excuse to drink more Tassenberg and Castle. She didn’t need an excuse. She just drank it and had fun. Ha. She wasn’t serious enough for my gang of guys and girls.

I saw her at the Neelsie - our local cafeteria for student. I played bridge with my gang. And drank coffee. At our table. Yes, our table. No one was allowed to touch our table. It was always ready and open just for us. And you would know if you stepped into our little world. You will get ignored. And told to please leave the table. She hung out with her gang a few tables away. Laughing and joking with each other. Jeez. Can’t they be serious for a change? I didn’t like her much. This girl who shared some of my space on campus.

I knew this guy. Not really a friend. Just a guy called Sven. Not Swedish. And he was trying to talk some courage into me. You see, I wanted to ask this girl out on a date - not the girl I didn’t like. But had no guts. I was always a little backwards and shy when it came to women. Never knew how to talk to them. But I wanted to ask this girl out on a date. So he was encouraging me to just go and ask her. So off I went and started talking to her. For two long hours.

We spoke about her family. Her studies. Her interests. Where she lived. What she wanted to do. Everything. But never managed to actually ask her out on a date. So I made the slow walk back to this guy I knew, tail between my legs. And there she was. This girl I didn’t like.

I nodded my head in her direction and she gave less of an acknowledgement back. I look at the guy and he asked, “So, did you ask her out?” I just shook my head and sat down. Sulking. This girl I didn’t like looked at me and just shook her head. Stared at me for a little while and said, “You’re such a pissy”. And with that she turned around and walked away.

I stared after her. Not because she of what she said. Not because of my stupid inability to ask the other girl out on a date. Not because Sven was laughing at me. Not because this girl I didn’t like walked away. None of that. I stared because my heart just stopped. The blood drained from my body. It hit me like a lighting-bolt. I just had a vision of my future. I was going to marry this girl I didn’t like.

I knew it the moment she looked at me and said those words. I felt like running after her and telling her. Telling the world. Even Sven. But I just sat there and stared. Because I just met my future.

I couldn’t wait to get home and tell my mother. I blurted it out as I got home. “Mom, I just met the woman I am going to marry.” She looked at me. She saw my fair share of girlfriends. Never liked any of them much. You know me and my mother. But she realized I was dead serious. And she wasn’t impressed. But I was ecstatic. I met my future wife! Goddamn pissy indeed! Now all I had to do was show her what a cool guy I am and let nature and instinct do the rest.

But she had other ideas. It seems as if she was interested as well. Maybe not in marriage yet, but at least a little interest in exploring a bit further. She knew my history of asking woman out and knew she couldn’t wait for me to make a move. So she asked me out. Okay, not in those words, but she did. I think she did.

I was sitting playing bridge with my gang when she walked to our table and started talking to a few of the other people at my table. Telling them about the party at the De Akker  they were having that evening. And asking them to join her gang for some fun. She never looked at me once. But as she was about to walk away she turned around and looked at my friend Kevin and said, “And tell that man he can come as well if he wants.” And then walked away. Not looking back once. She asked me out for a date. Right?

Of course I went. It was De Akker. So it would look odd if I didn’t go. But I went straight to where she and her gang would be. Not my usual seat. Not even my usual room. But I bolted for her table to get my seat. And sat next to her the whole evening. Just talking to her. Not touching her. But so close to her. And the gang were real loud. Thanks Nicola for standing on the table and singing Sinead O’Connor’s Last Day Of Our Acquaintance - you gave me the chance to lean in closely to talk to her. Whisper in her ear. My lips almost touching her cheek. And she would turn to me and lean in closely to talk to me over the noise - her face an inch away from mine. But I had to control myself. This wasn’t just fun. This was my future.

I had no pressure on me. None. Because I knew I was going to get married to her. I could take it easy. I didn’t have to kiss her. I didn’t have to hold her hand. I didn’t have to sleep with her. Nothing. Because all of that will come in the years to follow. For now I just wanted to be next to her and get her to have the same feeling for me. Let her get to know me better. (I know, it’s a risky strategy!) So I could just soak in her presence and get to know her. I sat there next to her and we just talked and joked and laughed and drank a bit more. And then it was time to go. It was a Thursday.

I couldn’t wait to see her the next day. But I had to play it cool. I wanted to be cool. I wanted her to see how cool I can be. Mr Cool. That was my strategy. Mr Cool. So I met up with her at the Neelsie. She was at my table when I got there… I had a coffee with her and didn’t join in the game of bridge. Just sat there with her - leaning back in my seat and chatting away. After and hour or so I asked her if she felt like going for a drink. Yeah, why not. It’s already 10 am. So off we went to De Akker.

We sat there for a few hours - drinking and talking. Still not touching. But having fun. She was off to her folks for the weekend. 400 kilometres away. I wasn’t going to see her for a few days. But that was okay. She was here now and we were having fun. I was telling her that my dad was the worst driver I know. How he reversed into the gate at our house a while back. And we shared stories and joked a bit more. And then it was time to go. I was driving her to her car. But first we had to get there…

The first mistake I made was trying to be Mr Cool. I am just not naturally cool. Just not me. I can’t act cool. Because I am naturally clumsy. So I was asking for trouble trying to be Mr Cool. It was an accident waiting to happen. And it did. The accident - literally.

We got into my car outside De Akker and I reversed to pull out of the parking bay. And reversed straight into the huge ditch next to the road. Stellenbosch is full of these water channels running next to the road. Used for watering gardens and getting rid of rain water. Old style, but still in use. And I managed to reverse straight into that after I told her about my dad and his driving. Not Cool. Especially not with a flat tyre that came with my little accident. Goddamn pissy. She laughed at me and I laughed back. A Cool manly laugh of course.

Well, we said goodbye - no kissing. Just a goodbye and see you next week. And I was left there changing my tyre. Laughing at myself for being so stupid. But I was going to stick to the Mr Cool strategy. It can’t get any worse now can it? Yes it can.

She got back and we continued with our drinking during the day and night. And going to class slightly tipsy after visiting the pub just before joining the rest of the class. And it was fun. Just sitting there with her and talking and talking. For two weeks. And I did nothing else. Didn’t kiss her. Didn’t even hold her hand. But I knew I had to make my move sooner or later. I mean really, how long can I just talk to her before she loses interest?

But then one day I was to meet her at the Neelsie like we always do - to start off our day. And she came in and I saw she was upset. She hardly talked to me. I didn’t know what was going on. But I thought I did something wrong. Maybe she got sick and tired of always doing something but also doing nothing. Maybe she was sending me a message - “Sorry buddy, you are way too much of a pissy for me”. So I knew I had to make my move. Game on.

I ran quickly to buy some flowers and two bottles of Tassenberg. I was going to take her to my secret spot at the river. And I was going to make my move. Come hell or high water. Today was the day.

I rushed back and gave her the flowers. She smiled and gave me a hug. “Thanks”, she said, “but it wasn’t you”. Her uncle died. It wasn’t me. But still. I had two bottles of red wine. And a plan that couldn’t fail. So off we went to the river. In my old 1978 Mazda 323 with a Cat Stevens Greatest Hits tape that’s been stuck in the tape-deck for the last 2 years. No, it wasn’t that I liked him that much - it just got stuck and I never had the money to fix it. So we listened to Wild World and Oh Very Young while driving to my spot at the river. I was going to be sooo Mr Cool.

We got to my little beach at the river. No one else around. Just the two of us. It was early summer and hot. So I just flipped the two bottles into the river - nonchalant - knowing it will fall softly on the sand. But it didn’t. The second bottled hit the only bloody stone around and broke. Mr Cool indeed. I grabbed the bottled before the precious liquid drained away and filtered it through a cloth I had handy. But I was determined to be Mr Cool. The bottle was just a little slip. It couldn’t get worse. Right?

It was hot and I took off my shirt and decided to go and sit on one of the rocks in the river. You know - the way Mr Cool would. I managed to get to the rock without falling into the river - a minor miracle by itself. Settled down and we talked. Me sitting on my rock and she sitting on the little beach. Cool, right? Yes, until I looked down. And walked on water.

I will kiss a snake if I have to. I will fight off a lion with my bare hands. I will charge a rhino at full speed. But just don’t show me a spider. I can’t stand them. Really can’t. So when I looked down and saw this little spider my instincts kicked in and I gave a yelp and a scream, jumped up in a flash and ran to the little beach as if I was being chased by a pack of hungry wolves. Not Cool.

I gave up on being Mr Cool. I was just going to be me. The “goddamn pissy”. We laughed about how silly I was. And how silly I looked. The tears were running down our cheeks. She leaned against me while we sat on the beach because I was getting cold from my little trip to the rock and back. And we joked a bit more. And drank our watered down red wine. And we kissed. On 11 October 1990.

Yes, me and this girl I didn’t like. She is my wife. But then - I knew that. Even though I was a “goddamn pissy”. I love my wife. We have fun. And haven’t stopped laughing since that day at the river. Always fun and always love. And today is better than then. And tomorrow will be better than today. Always. I love my wife. More.

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Let’s see if May will be better. Because April was pretty weak.

1. Bob, it’s getting stupid now

Bob “Crazy Bastard” Mugabe is just not getting it. And I really mean he is not getting it. The vote. He lost the general election even though he controls the media. He lost the election even though he gave government employees a raise. He lost the election even though the police and army intimidated people. He lost the election even though he selected the “independent” body running the election. And then he arrested a few of those election officials he put in place. And he let his dogs loose on the people who voted him and his puppets party out. And had he demanded a recount. And he still lost the election! But of course he isn’t going anywhere. Bob, really. Even the Liberian President thinks you should go. You just aren’t getting it hey? Just piss off and go now. You are giving tyrants a bad name.

2. Happy birthday dear Adolf

Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. Republican congressional candidate of Indiana, Tony Zirkle, went to celebrate the birthday of Hitler. A big bash given by the American National Socialist Workers Party in Chicago. WTF? Just follow the link. They even have a photo of the guy in front of a Hitler picture. And you bitch about Obama guys? Start cleaning that pigsty out right away mista! But here is the part I just love - his reason for going… Because he was invited. But wait! The best is yet to come. He says he that he goes to everything he gets invited to. “I’ll speak before any group that invites me,” said Zirkle ”I’ve spoken on an African-American radio station in Atlanta.” WTF? Hitler and an African-American radio station? WTF? Do I need to say more?

3. Does it count as an extra shot?

Well, now that my coffee secret is out… It seems as baristas have been blabbing as well. About their top ten things us coffee drinkers should know. The little things that really peeves them off and a few dark secrets as well. A few stood out for me. They want you to know that not every shop is a Starbucks. Thanks people. I know that. Sad evidence that there is more work to be done. I sometimes have to walk to the next corner before I get to my beloved Starbucks. I guess it works off the sugar rush. Did you know baristas get black fingers from all that coffee? Makes sense. It accounts for 80% of my tan. But what I want to know - does it count as an extra shot if they dump their fingers in my coffee? But the one that stood out for me, and made things so much clearer… They develop crushes on their customers. It makes perfect sense. My barista always asked for my name and now she remembers it (still not spelling it right though). And she knows my order. And she smiles at me. It must be a crush. Why else would she do all that? It can’t be the service or the fact that I am there every hour or so. I know it is a crush. It can’t be just the grind of the coffee shop.

4. Hillary, you are still a Senator - act like one

Okay, maybe I just don’t get American politics. But tell me, if you run for President - are you still a Senator? I thought you were? So how come they don’t act like it? All of a sudden Hillary and McCain talks about a “gas holiday” for the poor American drivers during the summer holidays. It’s open for debate whether this is a good thing or not. But Senator McLame and HillBillary, you are still Senators. Why don’t you push for that at the Senate? You can if you really believe in it. That is part of your current job. Or have you forgotten? But I tell you why you don’t. Because you are pandering and opportunistic. You will attack Obama for standing up for what he believes on gas prices. But you don’t want to tell the truth to Americans. You don’t care about the gas prices or else you would do something about it now. The gas holiday can be done by you now if you really want to do something. And not just use it to score a few points while running. Yes, attack the guy with the unpopular position. Because you will sell your soul to sound like you care. There is a difference you know - between caring and acting like you care. Go do your job if you really care. If not, shut up and run for President in an honorable way. Stop the bull. Gas as I know it is also known as hot air. You both are full of it.

5. Thank God for Global Warming

You know I think we might fry over the next few years. But it seems as if that won’t be happening soon. Nope. The “experts” are actually predicting cooler weather over the next 10 years. Damn. I just thought I got the hang of this Global Warming thing. Isn’t it meant to say that the world heats up a bit. Or is it just my limited command of the English language that is confusing me here? Whatever. it will now get cooler over the next few years. And I live in Massachusetts. It gets damn cold for an African over here. We think 70 Fahrenheit is a nice day to wrap up in some nice warm clothes, start the fire and get the pot going. So 15 Fahrenheit is a bit chilly for us. I can’t even start explaining what all freezes when it gets this cold. In short, we don’t handle cold weather well. So thank God for Global Warming. It has a positive purpose after all. At least in the short term. Imagine how cold it would get over the next 10 years if we didn’t have Global Warming. The Big Freeze is controlled by the Big Heat. Something to look forward to. Some balmy weather for the next few years at least. Now. Guys. Please. Can we just stick to one story at a time? It’s getting a bit hot in the kitchen right now. Too much hot air. Or not.

Have a good one all. Back with more views next week. I am off to collect some wood to stockpile for the Big Freeze coming.

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I have been loyal all my life. Always. It was what made us special. The two of us. Together. Together through the good times and the bad times. The two of us. Now I won’t be able to look at her in the same way again. Never again. Because she will know. She knows. Even if I don’t tell her. She’ll know.

Well okay, I was loyal at least since I met her - my little special one. Before that I played around. I was young. I tried everything. I was reckless. But I have never cheated since I made my commitment to her. My special one. She was all I needed. Oh, I noticed the others. But I never did anything. I looked, but I never touched. I never wanted. I just looked and admired. And shook my head when I saw other men playing the game. Having one on the side. But I fell too. I couldn’t help it. I am just a man. A weak, weak man. A man with needs. Basic needs.

I promised her she was the one for me. And she still is. It is was a one-off. I promise you. It is a one-off. Never again. Never again. I knew that she was always there for me when I needed I her. And I need her now. I want her to be mine again. The way she was. The way she was before. Before I cheated.

Maybe we just got used to each other. Maybe the same thing that attracted me in the first place became the same old thing. The same thing every day. We forgot how it was back in the days when we just started. The first time. Familiarity breeds contempt. So true. So, so true.

She was the first things my lips touched in the morning. And the last thing at night. I can smell her when I wake up. That sweet, sweet smell. I can still taste her on my lips. But I can also taste the other one. The one I cheated with. And I can’t get the taste and smell off me. I can smell her on my clothes.

I saw her on the street. I was on the street. Just walking. And then I saw her. Through a window. She looked good. Oh so good. I stopped dead in my tracks. It was like a train hit me. I could feel my heart skip a beat. My palms sweating. The blood rushing. I knew I wanted her the instant I saw her. She reminded me of when I was young. And innocent. She seduced me like no other. And she didn’t even know it. She was just sitting there at the window. Just looking at me but not seeing me. Playing games with me. But she wanted me. And she stood out. As if her name was written in the sky. And I stared. Stared at her sitting at the window - with her seductive ways. That’s when I made my move…

Okay, maybe more like on the window. And she wasn’t really sitting. More like stuck on the window. The big letters wasn’t quite written in the sky. Just on the window. But it spoke to me. It said ”Espresso Royale Cafe”. What a name. It sounded all European. All Italian. And I wanted one. I wanted her. A little Espresso. Right there and then. In Newbury Street. And I couldn’t care less who saw me.

<blink>

<gulp>

I know. It is a shocker. Me, Mr Starbucks Triple Grande Latte, was going to let a non-Starbucks coffee touch his lips. Hold on people. It gets way worse. Way worse… I… I… I actually did it! Yes I did. I just couldn’t help myself. I just had to have one. To hell with the consequences. I wanted an little Italian Espresso. And I wanted it now. It brought back memories of my first coffee fling. My little Italian girl. So I just walked right in and had one. Straight up. And it felt good. Real good.

The barista didn’t know my name. And she didn’t ask. So she never got it wrong either. It happens. And the sugar came in little packets instead of the “easy to operate, tilt and let it run” sugar containers of Starbucks. I need the large container you see. It holds almost enough sugar for my standard coffee order. But I didn’t care. I liked it for that moment. Even if I was stabbing my Starbucks barista in the back. Because I still love my Starbucks Triple Grande Latte.

I know those who know me will be shocked. Mr I-Was-Born-With-A-Cup-Of-Starbucks-In-My-Hand. I always have a Starbucks in my hand. I get up at 6 am and I have coffee. In my travel mug. And I have more coffee. And more coffee. It is a running joke. If someone mentions Starbucks everyone looks at me. And if someone wants my advice for free - they know to just invite me for coffee at Starbucks. I am easy that way.

Yes. I love Starbucks. And not only because of the taste of Ethiopian Sidamo. I love Starbucks because, as an ex-Oxfam campaigner who headed up the Coffee Campaign, I know they are pretty good at working with the coffee farmers and they pay a pretty damn good price for their coffee. More than Fairtrade. Yep, you heard it here baby. They pay more than Fairtrade for their coffee. We looked at targeting them when I was at Oxfam, but we didn’t. Because we very quickly realized that they are pretty damn good. Not perfect - no one is. But pretty damn good. And they make a damn good cuppa joe.

You think I care for the mom-and-pop shop? Not much. Three rules for me. Pay a decent price for your coffee so the farmer can benefit, look after those who work for you and make a damn good cup of coffee. What you do with the rest is just white noise to me. It would be nice if it was a mom-and-pop shop. But that is just wallpaper. Pretty pictures. Not substance. Nice to have, not a must have. Starbucks tick the three main boxes so I am pretty happy.

But I also like them because I am a newbie to coffee. I grew up in South Africa people. We are known for our outstanding crap coffee. Come on. Ricoffy, Frisco and Koffiehuis aren’t real coffee. Read my lips. Chicory is not a coffee. It’s a weed. A herb at best. Moer koffie. Ha. Look at the English translation. Beat up coffee. Or to be more specific on how South Africans use the word moer… hum… well… fucked.. hum… to assault. It is an open assault on what we call coffee when South Africans make coffee. Moer koffie. Ha! Tell me another one.

I fell in love with coffee in Brussels. Back in 1999. On my birthday. We were about to catch the train back to Luxembourg where we were visiting our very, very good friends when we saw it. A little coffee shop right on the corner opposite the Bruxelles-Central. Can’t remember the name. But we went in for a quick cup of coffee. We had 30 minutes before our train left. We walked out the café more than 2 hours later. On a buzz after about five cups of bloody strong Segafredo. It was the first time I met the Italian lady. And she got me hooked.

So my little fling in Newbury was nothing but a fleeting moment of weakness. Just a reminder of yesterday. Good memories. But she wasn’t really Italian. Just a good imitation. Like Vegas. But it was still good. I felt young again. Pure again. Good memories. Segafredo. She’ll always be my little Italian lady. And she’s the only little “on the side” I’ll ever have. She ticks all my boxes.

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Another South African made me proud a few days ago. Good old Dave Matthews. Okay, technically ex-South African. But just because he is now a US citizen doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have South African blood running through his veins. His heart is South African. Whether he likes it or not. Anyway, it wasn’t his music that made me proud. I am not a huge fan of his music.

I don’t have anything against his music. It just doesn’t “talk” to me. But I am proud of the dude. Made himself a bit of a name over here I see. But that isn’t really the reason why I am proud of him right now. Nope. It’s not even because he endorsed Obama. Okay, maybe it has a little to do with that, but not much.

Endorsing Obama is the easy part. Having a reason is more difficult. WTF? I mean that it is easy to support Obama because you don’t like Hillary or you don’t like McCain. But that isn’t a good reason to support Obama. That’s just a reason - not a good one. But Dave had a good reason. And that made me proud.

Dave supports Obama because of what he stands for. Something positive. Now that is one novel idea. Last time he was against Bush, now but now he has found something to support and believe in. He supports Obama because of what he stands for. A very novel idea. Supporting someone for what they stand for. Mmmm. Think about it for a minute. Supporting someone for what they stand for. And not because you don’t like the other options. Supporting something because of what it means. Something positive. Not hatred of the other, but belief in this one.

I get the sense that many people support McCain because they don’t like the other options - Hillary or Obama. Does that say something about them? That they are more driven by dislike and hatred than an actual position? Maybe it is because they feel they have no option. There is no alternative for them. But it is sad though. Sad that they can’t mobilize around anything other than what they are against. “McCain. I hate him, but he is better than the other two.” Sad. Just sad.

And the sad thing is that they take it further. They say he is black (true - duh), he is muslim (untrue - stupid), he is liberal (define liberal), he is socialist (dream on or go read) he is… he is… What does it say about them? It says that they have nothing to stand for. That their ideology has run dry. Like the oil wells. Empty words for an empty ideology.

Of course, this is how most candidates have been playing this game. Hillary has been telling us how bad Obama will be and not how good she is. “He doesn’t have experience.” That doesn’t tell us anything of her experience. “He will talk to those who hate us.” It doesn’t tell us anything about who she will talk to. “His reverend is full of hatred.” It doesn’t tell us anything about her Sunday worshipping. He is… he is… It tells me who she isn’t, not sho she is. For me it tells me more about her than him. That she is empty of political will. Empty of political values. Empty of solutions. Empty of a vision. Empty. No substance. Just empty.

And Obama does it sometimes as well. He is no angel. He still stands strong on who he is. His vision. His vision for tomorrow. Who he is and what future he stand for. He sometimes attacks as well. But there is a difference. He doesn’t do it as a strategy. He does it in reaction to those attacking him. Who had to talk about race and racism in this campaign? He did. But only after others raised it and made it an issue. Look at his ads people. And ask yourself. Is it in direct response to the negative attacks by Hillary or out of his own? But still, irrespective of what Hillary says, the people who support him have a very good reason for doing so. They support him because of what he stands for.

That is the fundamental difference between Obama and the others. He stands for something. He puts his stake in the ground and says “this is who I am and what I stand for”. And the others react by saying, “I am anything and everything he isn’t”. And then lies about who he is or stands for. I am proud of being an Obama supporter. Even though I can’t vote. I am proud because he tells me who he is and not who he isn’t. At least I know who I support and what I stand for. Not who or what I am against.

Note: Obama got the endorsement of both Dave and Bruuucccee (The Boss). Good blue-collar musicians right? People who you think would have a bit of substance. It might not swing any voters his way, but it says a little bit. Especially when they are for something instead of against something. Guess who Hillary’s got? Willie Colon. Yes I know, I thought Colon was a McCain medical condition, but Willie is a Hillary supporter. Don’t ask me - I have no clue who is might be. A salsa singer I guess. Now, I have nothing against salsa singers but they just don’t stand for anything I can support…

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