homeless


We expect riots to happen in places like Egypt, Libya and Bahrain. Places where people are oppressed in one way or another. Places we see each day on our television and in our newspapers. We follow the stories of those unhappy people on Twitter and social media. It’s them. It’s not us. Good for them to stand up and fight for a better life.

And then London…

What do they riot for? What do they fight for? A television set and a laptop? A few beers and a packet of crisps? Is that what liberation of the West means? Material stuff for a material society?

But it’s not what they do and what they steal and what they burn that makes me worry. The riots are despicable. It’s wrong. It’s meaningless. It’s violence. It’s opportunistic. But it is no more despicable than the rioters burning the houses and businesses of the innocent in those far-off “exotic” places. They are in essence the same people doing these horrid acts for the same reasons.

The lost voices fed by idiot boxes.

They are fed by media who are meaningless. Television of nothing. They are told to stare at the television and absorb all this great information. Information of what? Controlled news. The voices they hear are those of posh people who have what they want. A life. But stare into the idiot box and eventually you find nothing in there. Just empty promises and posh voices. No life. No future. Just an idiot box to make more idiots.

The powerless being fed fake reality.

They are being fed lies about a better life. Watch some reality show and maybe your dream can come true. Maybe you can be somebody too. Maybe that is your way out if the lotto doesn’t do it for you. A quick fix. But the reality of these people is no better future. They are told to follow the stories of those who came from their backgrounds and who made it into this world of those who have. But eventually they see that those are the exceptions to the rule. The majority stay behind with no life. And maybe even a life cut shorter. They don’t make the news. They are just those who live on the other side of the railroad track. The people without a life. Another life lost won’t mean much. It doesn’t make for good reality television.

The hungry being fed brands and consumerism.

They are told to own the latest music system. The latest tablet. The latest sneakers. The latest hip product. Buy it and you will become one of us. And they buy. And buy. They cut corners and steal money to make that dream come alive. And then they get the product and nothing happens. They still live in those same streets. They still live those same lives. Just with cooler products. And then the money runs out and something new comes along. And they are back to where they belong. With no life and just the need for the latest gadget or hip product.

The meaningless being fed politics of change.

They are told that there are people who really care. Who cares about them and their future. That they will make a difference. They will be the difference. But the difference is really aimed at them. It’s aimed at the middle class to keep them happy. The real majority isn’t in the number of people but in the numbers in money. They are told that companies care about them. They can see it in the charity handed out daily. But none of this makes them become one of them. They don’t hire them. They don’t vote for them. They just promise the world and then turn their backs. The only change is that they are told that they are the problem. That they are lazy. That they are uneducated. That they fail to deliver on the promise of this great society. A society they were never invited to. A party for the invited only.

The social being fed social media.

They chat and they talk and they tweet. They like and they poke and they link. They are the heart of social media. They become part of the social movement. They connect with people from all over. They are the social movement in social media. But then they open their eyes and see that it’s still the same. The people following them are still those who sell them promises and the latest hip products. The social media turns into media. The social media become a me-me-me want more-more-more media. The social part of media breaks down like the social fabric of their lives.

How can we be surprised at the riots? It’s happening around us daily. In little ways. The kid get abused. The kid getting hooked on drugs. The homeless guy down the road. The unclaimed victim of a shooting. The drugs on our streets. These are all little riots happening daily.

The sad truth is that when people feel powerless they do stupid things because they see no alternative. They direct their anger at the wrong people. Not because they want to but because they know no better. No one has told them how to raise their voices. The only people telling them what to do are those same people who use them and abuse them daily. But they are not the answer.

I don’t know the answer.

All I know is that middle class people don’t riot. They have too much to lose. No revolution or riot happens from those who have something. We live in a world where the gap between those who have and those who don’t is increasing every single day. Those who have lost little during the recession. Or at least they see some hope and a way out. Those who were on the outside to start off with knows that getting in just got even harder.

The world is burning. They don’t care about tomorrow anymore. They care about today. The system is broken and no one knows how to fix it. It needs too much to fix it. We need people to buy less stuff. We need people to hire more people. We need people to live with each other and not just amongst each other. We need people to be a community. We need businesses driven by social profit. We need those who have to share in their responsibility as members of our society. We need them to embrace their role and not judge their worth on how much they own or their margins alone. We don’t need to fix the system – we need a new system.

I don’t think we will get there. I just don’t think we have it in us to build anything new anymore. Those who have don’t want to change because they are sucked into a world where they have too much to lose. We’ve been invaded by laziness. We’ve been sucked into a world that we created – flashy cars, latest gadgets, better holidays. These things make us dependent on them and we can’t get rid of the drug called ”living the life”. They don’t know that we can lose it all in a flash. They don’t know that they are Mubarak but living in a world of fake freedom and liberty. It’s a fragile house we built around ourselves and we just don’t see it coming. Or we don’t want to see it coming.

We won’t get there. We’ll chip away and try to make it a better place by doing our little bits. And we’ll do it in the system we live in. It’s not the answer but we know no better.

That’s what I’ll do. Keep chipping away at trying to make our broken system a little bit better. Last a little bit longer. It’s not the answer but I have nothing else as an answer. It’s the best I can do with what I know and where I am.

In the meantime they riot because they know no better. They riot because they have not answer. They riot because they know no alternative. They riot because they don’t know what else to do. They will riot because that’s all the system knows.

A life worth living...

A life worth living...

The thing that always surprises me about Africa is not that people die from hunger, poverty, war, diseases, etc, but that so few die when compared to the struggle to survive. I mean really. Have you seen the hellholes in the DRC? Or in the Niger Delta area? Or Sudan?

And those are just the extremes. For many the daily life in Africa is one tough and stretched out battle. Getting the next meal. Staying warm in the shack during winter. Running out of medicine. It comes down to the basics of survival. Not everything in Africa looks like the Kenyan Serengeti. Trust me…

Still. Put a few umlungus in those same circumstances and you’ll have people dying like flies.

But even in this struggle Africans manage to create businesses by selling fruits and other goods next to the road. And they do this and continue to remain proud people. They maintain hope even in the worst of circumstances. Okay, not in places like Rwanda back then, but I mean in the “everyday” world of poverty, hunger, corruption and warlords. How come they can maintain their will to fight, stay strong and proud, live a life worth living, breathe in their ubuntu – while others in Western countries don’t?

Okay, I don’t know how this fits in here but I have this story I always tell to people looking at the charity pictures of Africa. You know, the one with the woman carrying the water bucket on her head or the poor hungry kid with tears in his eyes. Anyway, you look at those women of Africa and you feel sorry for them. Sorry for them? Pity? Puh-leeze! Think Bill Gates. You see those women of Africa selling their goods next to the road. Fruits and vegetables being standard issue. Here you have an African woman with most likely no schooling, definitely no business training, not a smell of financing in a 1,000 mile radius, and struggling to sell her goods next to the side of the road. With a hundred or more competitors each side of her. And she supports an extended family with her daily takings. And you want to feel sorry for her? You should sit down at her feet and learn from the master. Bill-Bloody-Gates I tell you. She is running a business where most of us won’t even be able to survive for a week. And she makes it each and every single day. By the skin of her teeth on most days - but she still makes it. Applaud her. Learn from her. But never feel sorry for her. She is strong. She is Mama Africa! Listen to her instead of telling her what she needs. She knows what she needs. Just be quiet and listen for a little bit. Shhh… L.i.s.t.e.n…

Anyway…

The point I am trying to make is that the greatness of Africa is not defined by the crap going on each day. Warlords? We’ll survive them. Hunger? We’ll share our last meal. Poverty? Of money but not the soul. Diseases? Okay, that one we can’t beat…

I don’t want to romanticize life in Africa. There are too many bad people living amongst my beautiful people. Too many people dying of war or hunger or senseless diseases. Or from a simple thing like dirty water. It is tough out there. It is tougher than you can imagine. But it doesn’t define Africa. And it doesn’t define Africans. Look past all that and you just see people. Proud people. Friendly people. Ready for a laugh. And ready to share their last bit of food with you. With a sparkle in their eyes. Proud and strong.

I am always surprised how few people in Africa look for excuses. You great them with a “howzit” or “how are you doing” and all you get is a smile and a wave of the hand to sit down and share a beer. Talk about Kaizer Chiefs or Pirates (I was a Seven Stars fan so in a bit of a limbo. Maybe Santos if pushed. Ajax on a good day.) Tell a joke or two. At my expense of course… But it’s not just in South Africa. You can go from Zambia to Mali and get the same response. “Sit down brother. Have a drink. So, what do you think of the time Senegal beat the French hey?” Never an excuse of why life isn’t as great as on the telly.

Maybe it is because we don’t define our lives by the material things we don’t have or even the hunger pains. It’s defined by… I don’t know. Something inside telling us that life is okay. As long as we have a little love in our lives and good friends to share anything with. Beer, food or even just a story. The meaning of life takes on many masks in Africa. We make life worthwhile instead of seeking reasons to give up. We just have to look around us to see a reason to moan and bitch. That part is easy. It’s easy to find a reason to curl up and die. But we don’t. We look at the little things that makes it all worthwhile. The little treasures of life – love, family, friends, beer, soccer, meat, putu, and… hum… more beer.

But back to my question: How come they can maintain their will to fight, stay strong and proud, live a life worth living and breathe in their ubuntu while others in Western countries don’t?

You know when I was shocked by poverty for the first time in my life? San Francisco. Yes. The City of Angels. I saw a homeless person in the streets. Nothing new. I’ve seen street kids all over Africa. High on glue or selling their souls on the corner. But it’s the eyes…

I’ve almost always seen hope in the eyes of my fellow Africans. Sometimes it is just a little sliver. A dying flicker of light. But it is there. You have to dig really deep sometimes. You can just make it out in the darkness surrounding it. But you can crack it open a little. Make it a bit stronger. Just by smiling or winking or making a joke or a hug or a shared moment or… the little things.

But in those eyes of the homeless guy in San Francisco? Empty. Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. Not a flicker of hope. It was the eyes of defeat. Of death just waiting to happen. Nothing left to live for. No reason or meaning anymore. Just dead lifeless eyes.

Why? Why do people give up? I know we have problems in this world. I know I am damn lucky. But do we have to stop trying to live when trying to survive to the next meal is tough enough?

Maybe the lesson from Africa is that things can always be worse. Can always get worse. And you can let that define you in two ways – give up and slowly die or stay strong and have the will to keep on fighting and keep on living. Just to live a life worth living for.

I don’t have a clear picture on this. I really don’t know why some people give up and some people somehow find a life amongst the dead and the buried lives and ruined land around them. But what I do know is that I have always been amazed that everywhere I have been in Africa – the slums, townships, war, poverty, dying kids etc – those things hardly ever actually defined the people I met and worked with. It was there but it wasn’t who they were. They were so much more than that in their own eyes.

They are alive in their own eyes. Even when they are dying.

And that make me live life.

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From the Loose Ends files…

I’ve never tried writing fiction. This is a first attempt. Written at midnight. Just a start. Just a beginning of a story that has been forming in my mind. But like I said, I am not a writer so see it as a first shot at something written very late at night. Let me know what you think.

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Waking Up

A blink and he is awake. It’s always like this. Just a blink and his eyes open and he is awake. Nothing but a blink. No tiredness and no dreams to remember. Just a blink and he is awake.

The darkness is total. There is no window to let the light seep in, but he doesn’t need any light yet. He just lies staring at the darkness for awhile; staring at the tin roof hidden in the darkness. Letting his eyes find the first signs of light and life. Any second now the tin roof stars will show themselves. A little spot of dull early morning light that fades through a tiny little hole, first one then another one and another one, turning the holes into dancing stars on the tin roof. His tin roof stars.

The tin roof stars dance around and pop up everywhere. Every nail that was ever used on the tin sheets of the roof is shining and dancing. Every hole left by the nails is a memory of better days; the days before it was a tin roof in a shanty town.

But he isn’t thinking of the memories of the holes. Not this morning. He is looking at the dancing stars to see if a brighter light will shine through any of the holes, because that spells trouble. A brighter light means a hole in the thick black plastic sheets that are spread out and tied down on the roof. These plastic sheets are the defense against the rains. A bright light is a leaking roof. But this morning there is nothing but dancing stars. He smiles into the darkness at his tin roof stars. Today is going to be a good day.

Slowly the shanty town morning noises seep through the walls. The far-off hooting of the taxis at the taxi rank a mile away. Telling the squatters they have space for a few people more and ready to go. The voices of women talking amongst each other as they walk through the narrow passageways between the shacks making their way to the taxi ranks to catch the early trucks selling fruits and vegetables. Fruit and vegetables they’ll need as they lay out their tables at the market before people come to buy their daily goods. Taxis and women are the shanty town voices of the morning.

He’ll be at the market a bit later this morning, buying an apple or banana on his way looking for work. And so will his wife. She’ll be there before she comes home from her day looking for work, buying a potato or two, maybe some carrots to put in the stew that goes with the pap. The market is the main artery of the shanty town. It feeds the people who feed the shanty town.

But right now he just lies in bed and stares at his tin roof stars. And listen to the shanty town morning voices. He lies there for another twenty minutes or so. Slowly the room starts showing itself. But he doesn’t need to look at it. He knows where everything is. He’ll rather just look at his morning beauty, his wife lying next to him.

His wife never wakes up like him. She always takes her time waking up. He watches her every morning as she wakes up. It’s the perfect start to his day. It is life waking up to a new day.

She’s lying on her side cuddled up with the teddy bear he got her from the charity down the road. She starts with little moaning noises like a puppy dreaming. Then the waves start. Her body making slow rhythmic moves as she moves her arms and legs like some underwater dancer seducing the gods. This is when he knows she will open her eyes or whisper to him. The bed is too small for the two of them. Just a single bed mattress made for two. She turns around to stretch out but there is not space. Her hand hits his chest as she tries to stretch. Some mornings she gets a fright as if she didn’t expect someone to be lying there. Not him or anyone. But not this morning, this morning she starts with a smile. His morning beauty.

“Morning baby”, she whispers. Her eyes are still closed but she is smiling. That’s all he wanted, just a smile and a whisper. He kisses her softly on her lips and whispers back, “Molo Beauty”. He pulls the blankets a bit higher to cover her shoulders and then slowly slips out of bed. “Lie down Beauty. I’ll boil some water and make us something to eat”, he says to his wife as he leans forward and gives her another kiss on her forehead.

Thank God it is summer, he thinks to himself. He hates winter. It’s always a rush to get his clothes on before the coldness takes over. But in summer it is easy. He slips on the pair of jeans that has seen better days. More patches of denim and off-cuts than the original jeans. A shirt over his t-shirt and then his boots and he is ready.

He slowly walks over to the little paraffin lamp. Taking special care not to bump against the bed where his wife is still lying with her eyes closed. He picks up the matches lying next to the lamp and takes out one match before turning the knob on the lamp. And in what seemed like it was part of the same movement, he strikes the match and light the lamp while shielding the bright light with is hand. He turns the light down to a shimmer so save on paraffin and to not let it shine too brightly before his wife gets up. He’s done this a thousand times. He doesn’t even think about it anymore. It’s like flipping a switch.

He leans down to pick up the water bucket. It’s empty. His wife forgot to fill it last night. He smiles to himself. He remembers why she forgot. He looks over at her to say something but sees that her eyes are still closed. He shakes his heads with a smile, picks up the bucket and heads for the door. No need to get her out of bed. The taps aren’t far. It’s a quick walk to the community centre and he’ll be back in thirty minutes at most.  It’s one of the advantages of not having a steady job, you can take that extra thirty minutes to go and fill the water buckets. No boss to chase you around if you are late. Beauty will wait for him. It will be over before she knows he is gone. Well, almost. It will be quick. He’ll be back to make them some black coffee they can share in their little shack called home. A moment of peace before they take on their day.

(I am okay with it up to here. Still rough around the edges but it is more or less where I was hoping to go. The rest I am not sure about. Not sure I want to take it there, but thought I would leave it in for now.)

He just stepped outside the shack when he heard someone behind him. He knew who it was. It was Sipho, the boy next door. “Morning Sipho”, he whispered. Sipho was about to say something but he stopped him by waving his finger and whispering, “No Sipho. Beauty is still asleep. Do me a favor and keep an eye on her for me. I’ll buy you an apple today”. Sipho grinned and held up both his thumbs. That was a close one, he thought. Sipho is a great kid but is always making a noise to try and get his attention. He’ll make it up to him later and chase him around the shacks. That always gets Sipho going.

The walk to community centre was quick. He enjoys walking through the shacks this time of the morning when it’s not too busy. There are women walking to the taxi ranks to buy their goods but most people are just starting to wake up. You can still hear your footsteps on the hard ground this time of the morning. He was quickly lost in his own thoughts.

Thank God it’s too early for the queues, he thought to himself, just a few women filling up their containers. He goes to one of the taps and starts filling the bucket. He’s been away for about ten minutes now. Beauty will be up wondering where he is. She’ll see the bucket is gone though and know that he came to fetch water. She might even be getting some bread ready for them to eat together. He smiles thinking of how she always puts too much butter on his bread. She knows he loves butter and they can’t really afford it but she always somehow gets butter just for him.

The bucket is filled; time to go home and make some coffee. The walk back is more difficult because the bucket is heavy. He laughs to himself thinking about the women who carry the buckets on their heads. Men can’t do that. Their necks hurt and they can’t balance the buckets. Whoever thought that men are the tough ones should come to this shanty town and look at the weight that these women carry. He is always amazed at how Beauty carries such a heavy bucket as if it is nothing. His Beauty.

He was still deep in thought when he heard the shouting. It was coming closer to him. Louder and louder. Closer and closer. It was Sipho. He could make out that it was Sipho but he couldn’t make out what he was shouting. He dropped the bucket and started running towards the shouting; his heart pounding in his chest. Did she fall and hurt herself? Oh please let her be okay.

He could see Sipho dodging between the shacks as he was getting closer. Still shouting and calling for him. He didn’t even look where he was going. Sipho was just running like crazy. He kept on calling his name and shouting, “Jonas! Jonas! Quick!”. Sipho looked up while running and saw him coming towards him. He tried to shout for Sipho to calm down, “Sipho! Calm down! What is it?” Then he saw Sipho’s face. The face of fear.

And Sipho kept on shouting and shouting…

But all he could hear was, “It’s Beauty. They are taking her…”

 

It happened in 1995. The awakening…

I was driving back from Cape Town to my home in Stellenbosch. Part of my regular commute. I was working at the Labour Research Service (LRS) in Salt River on the outskirt of Cape Town. The rougher outskirts of Cape Town. The LRS was one of those small nonprofits that supported the trade unions and the liberation organizations during the Apartheid years. Apartheid ended, but the work never stopped. Workers still needed us. Discrimination still happened. And I was working with and for a Pan-Africanist trade union federation – the National Council of Trade Unions (NACTU). But I digress…

Driving this road was never a nice road. Just a week earlier my wallet got stolen by two guys. Some would call it stupidity on my behalf. You know, picking up hitch hikers. Or rather leaving my wallet open for them to take. I saw two guys hitch hiking and I decided to give them a lift. I used to hitch hike a lot myself. I knew how crap it was to stand in the road begging for a lift. Time running out. Cold winds. No sign of life outside those people sitting snug in their cars. Yeah, I gave them a lift. And they stole my wallet.

Oh, nothing happened to me. I had a habit of just throwing my wallet on the backseat whenever I drove anywhere. You know, just flip it on the backseat when I get in the car. Not thinking. Just a standard thing to do.

And I left it there without thinking. Like I always do. They took it without me even knowing. Or noticing. Oh they were nice guys. We had a good chat. Laughing and joking like all good South Africans do when they get close enough to poke fun at everyone and everything. I guess they saw my wallet as payment for the entertainment they provided. I don’t think they were that funny…

The money wasn’t much. I hardly ever have loads of cash on me. A minor inconvenience really. But it was a principle thing. You don’t steal. Full stop. So I decided to not pick up any more hitch hikers. Yes, unfortunately many people were going to stand a little bit longer because one dude in a car just got pulled off the assembly line of lift givers. I didn’t feel too crap about the decision. I made it and lived with it.

And now it was a week later. I was just driving me old car. Singing away to the Cat Steven tape that has been stuck in my radio since 1990. Yes. I know Cat Steven off by heart. Not because I wanted to or that I liked him that much, but because I couldn’t remove the bloody tape. It was stuck. And I just didn’t see spending the little money we had on fixing my car radio. Thank God the tape deck was one of those automatic switch-over gadgets. Or else I would have been stuck on the same side forever (Rewind-play, rewind-play…) So Cat Stevens it was.

The ride went smoothly. Like usual. Lost in my own little world. Not getting pissed off at anyone else on the road. Entertaining myself by singing out loud. Or making dancing moves in the car. Or pulling funny faces. Sometimes looking in the mirror to see if it was a good one or not. And sometimes just waving at people driving past me at a much faster speed.

And then I saw the guy. Hitch hiking. Just standing next to the road with his thumb sticking out. He looked like a typical hitch hiker. Normal clothes and a cap. No luggage. I didn’t pick him up. I didn’t even think of picking him up. The thought never crossed my mind. Not even for a minute.

So I drove on…

About a mile or two later I saw another guy with his thumb out. Hitch hiking. Just a normal guy. Normal clothes and a hat. No luggage. I looked at him as I approached and thought whether I should pick him up or not. Just for a split second. Nothing more than a split second. But I didn’t pick hm up. I drove past him without even looking. But for a split second… For a split second I thought about it…

I didn’t think about it for the next few miles. And then it hit me. Like a ton of bricks. Like someone just knocked me one hard one in the stomach. Cold water tipped over my head. Blood draining from my system…

Damn you! Damn me!

I am a racist…

And I didn’t even know it.

Why?

…The one guy was black… and the other guy was white…

I didn’t pick up either. But I did think of picking up the second guy. It never crossed my mind with the first on. Not even for a split second. Not even for a blink. Okay, it wasn’t a deep thought of picking the second guy up. It was only a flash for a split second. But still… That flash was a split second of thinking of picking the guy up. I rejected the idea immediately. But the point is that I did have a flash with the second guy and not the first guy.

So I am a racist.

Me. The guy who worked for the only pan-Africanist trade union federation in South Africa. The trade union federation who has never employed a white guy in their whole history up to then. A guy who fought the Apartheid system and all the discrimination that went with that. The guy who fought racism at each and every corner. The guy who saw Steve Biko as his man. I made no distinction between white or black. I hated racism. Banned it from even getting close to my kids. I had relationships that was never defined by race. I fought racism since I left my past behind. It has been the one thing that could get me going since my personal “liberation” started. I spoke out against it. Tackled people in the streets about it. I could look in the mirror and tell myself, “I am not a racist”. Hell, I even had a nickname given to me by NACTU – Umlungu (White bastard). I was drenched in anti-racism actions and fighting racism.

But here I was. A racist. And I didn’t even know it.

Which of the hitch hikers was white? Which one was black? What color was the guys I picked up and who stole my wallet? Does it matter? Is it relevant? Really? Isn’t that just justifying my racism? Isn’t that just shifting blame?

Racists. Easy to see. Racist are those people who are bigots. Or so we believe.

Racism. Easy to see. You’ll know it when you see it. Or so we believe.

No. Racists are not always that easy to see. It’s deeply rooted. It’s not something you just switch off. It hides in corners where you can’t see. It’s something you have to work on. You can overcome it. Racism is not part of the natural you. You weren’t born racist. But it is still deeply rooted like a weed when you grow up amongst racists and are taught the racist way when you are young. But it can be overcome. The more you open up. The more you talk about it. The more you look at yourself. The more you face the mirror.

It’s looking back each day and check on yourself. Looking in the mirror each day and ask yourself, “Was I just today?” And judging yourself not as a negative, but to look for those little hidden bigots inside you. And to fight them until they are out of your system. It’s something you should embrace.

Make no mistake. I am not hard on myself about this. I see this as a huge plus. Something I look forward to each day. To face that stupid bigot inside. And then laugh at him and to say, “Cheers, you are out of here”. Embrace it. And celebrate it. Because tomorrow I won’t do that. I won’t have that flash. Each day is about making it a little better.

I have managed to kill that racist inside. He is gone. No more. It feels good. But it’s not just race. It’s how we treat women. It’s how we treat the kids. How we look at the guy dressed in a hoodie, baseball cap and bling who looks like a gangster. How we stare at the women with the short skirt. It’s how we treat the guy begging in the streets. That gay couple down the road walking hand in hand. Or how we treat that person working behind the counter at Wal-Mart. It’s how we treat that worker in the factory. It’s how we treat the farmer in the fields. It’s everything we do. And it is in all of us. Black or white. Gay or straight. Men and women. We all have a little bigot or two inside us.

Bigotry is taught in different ways to us all. Those words our parent told us, “Study hard and you will get a good job. You don’t have to be caught in this life. You are better than this. You can do better than this.” That’s where it starts. When we start telling ourselves that somehow earning more money or having a bigger house make us better. Better than what?

Liberate yourself. Look at the mirror. Smile at the bigot. Because each day he is getting closer to extinction. Bye bye bigot. Death awaits you.

I like who I am. But I know I am going to like who I am tomorrow even more. And I can’t wait.

Are you? Because… I am because you are…

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Why did I write this piece? Because of something I read in the NY Times. It’s not a perfect article, but it reminded me that blatant racism isn’t the problem. It’s the racism we don’t see. The hidden parts that people don’t even see. The bigotry we don’t see in ourselves. It just reminded me why I use the mirror every day.

You might know that my dad and I didn’t get along. Yeah, that might be an understatement. You see, my dad was an ass. But I do remember a story or two that makes me laugh at the old man. And the story of the hubcap guy always makes me laugh.

But before I tell you about the hubcap… My dad collected things. Not just anything. Anything crap to be more specific. He had a garage that could hold three cars and still have some space left open. But he only parked one car in there. His Mercedes. Big old ship of a car. The 300D mid-80s diesel version – silver of course. More like a ship than a silver bullet. But he loved that old Merc of his.

But it was old style diesel. Not this fancy stuff you get today. You had to turn the key one way and let it “warm up” first. A little light will go on and then you turn the key the other way. And “boom” with a puff of diesel smoke the baby will start up. And you could see that petrol/diesel meter drop as you idle while you wait for the engine to warm up. That baby was heavy on fuel.

And that car stood in that garage. I had to wash it and polish it. But he hardly drove the thing. He had this clapped out Toyota Hilux. Another diesel. And it drove like a jackhammer. You felt every little piece of the road. Including that ant you just drove over. Oh he loved taking me for a ride in his “bakkie” (what we call a pickup truck in South Africa). I think it made him feel all farmer. He even bought it from a farmer. Of course it had to be a Hilux. Bloody hell, every guy who bought a bakkie that wanted to be “old school” had to have a Hilux. I drove a 1965 Beetle…

But back to his garage.

His bakkie was parked outside the garage because my dad collected crap. Loads of crap. Anything goes really. And it all had to go into the garage. He had it all. Old toilets he found on the rubbish dump. Tables he took from friends who sold their houses. Nuts and bolts and screws to fill a Home Depot store or two. And a physio table. Yeah. A physio table. I mean WTF? The closest he ever got to being a physio was stretching to put his socks on in the morning or tucking in his shirt. But it was a bargain. He found it in the local paper and bought it. Why? Hell, I asked him that many times. And his stock answer was, “You never know when you need one”. WTF? Can you think of a reason why you might just need a physio table and thanked god that you kept one in the garage “just in case”? He never did find a reason to use it. Apart from putting more crap on it that he got from somewhere else. I guess it was just fine for stacking boxes.

Anyway, this isn’t about his bakkie or his physio table. This is about another bit of crap he bought and how it came back to bite him. This happened many years ago. When my dad and myself were still talking. And still driving together once in a while.

He decided to spoil me and take me to town with his Merc. For a number one haircut I might add. So he parked and found one of the local homeless guys to look after his car while we ran off to the barber. I am sure the guy knew my dad because he was notorious for paying people peanuts. A 15% tip? Hell no. More like a 0.15% tip and an earful about the crap service. Dad, it’s the Spur, what do you expect? (Spur is a chain of restaurants in the line with Uno’s. No, more like a Uno’s with the service of a Denny’s.) So he flipped the guy 20 cents and off we went.

I had my haircut or hair slaughtered to put it mildly. I remember that the guy had shaking hands. Leaving my hair uniquely styled for school bullies to target. I had a few fights at school back then. Defending more than attacking! But I had my hair slaughtered and we were off to go jump in the Merc and go home. At least the drive back home was going to be better than the haircut. And then it happened. Someone made my dad an offer he couldn’t refuse. Offered him more crap to buy.

The guy that was meant to look after my dad’s car came walking towards us and aimed straight for my dad. My dad was pissed off that the guy wasn’t looking after his car after he paid him that “King’s ransom”. But the guy quickly got my dad’s attention when he mentioned something about having a “great deal” on some goods he just picked up. I wasn’t concentrating on the discussion as it was really embarrassing seeing his eyes go all bright with the idea of another “great deal”. He wasn’t even discussing whether he should buy it or not. He went straight into how much he was willing to pay for it. They went this way and that way and eventually settled on an amount. My dad feeling he got ripped off and the guy feeling he got ripped off. Always a sign that both are pretty happy with the deal. So my dad got his goodies and we were on our way back to the car. My dad still looked back at the guy walking the other direction and said, “Is my car okay? I paid you for that you know you lazy bugger.” The guy just kept on walking, waved his hand in the air and shouted, “Ja, ja. It’s okay”.

My dad was now in his element. He got another “great bargain”. I asked him, “What the hell are you going to do with that? You already have four so you don’t need two more do you?” He just gave me a “humpf” noise and shook his head at his stupid boy. What the hell do I know?

We got to the car and it hit me. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. This was revenge. This was justice. There was my dad standing with this “great bargain” in his hands. Two hubcaps. And missing from the Merc?

Two hubcaps.

The hubcap guy just made my day. And taught me a lesson. You want to get what you want and the other person deserve? Just play on the weakness of the other guy and sell it back to him. Thank you hubcap guy. I would have paid you double what my dad did. And that would still be a “great bargain”.

My dad going shopping...

My dad going shopping...

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