Alright, you all want me to be predictable and give some advice for the New Year. No predictions, just plain good old advice that I would recommend you seriously take heed of. I must admit it is hard to take anything in this column seriously, but for once please take that silly smirk off your face and try to. Not only because I am not the source of what follows.
The following advice is from experience and, with sincere apologies to one Mary Schmich (Chicago Tribune, 1997) and slight modifications, it will be laid bare. In 2007 you should eat well. If I could offer only one tip for the future, eating well would be it. The benefit of food has been proven by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me on this, in 20 years you will look back at photos of yourself and recall how fabulous you realy looked at the time. You are not as fat as you imagine, but damn it, you have aged.
Don’t worry too much about the future, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve a mathematical equation by chewing gum. Real troubles are apt to ambush you at 4pm on an idle Tuesday. Do at least one thing that really scares you, like singing. Eat a live frog first thing in the morning and I bet you nothing worse will befall you for the rest of the day.
Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts and don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. Brush your teeth. Remember compliments, forget insults. Keep old love letters. Throw away old bank statements. Exercise, a lot. Don’t feel guilty if you don’t yet know what you want to do with your life. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t know what to do with theirs.
Be kind to your knees. You will miss them when they are gone. Maybe, you will marry, maybe you won’t, and maybe you already have. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t, and maybe you already have several. Maybe you’ll get divorced this year, maybe you will dance the kongonya at your 75th wedding anniversary party. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself or berate yourself too much.
Dance while you can, because you will rue the day you can’t find your feet. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. If you are a woman, do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly. Get to know your parents. You never know when they will be gone. Be nice to your siblings. They are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you when the chips are down.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. The older you get, the more you need people who knew you when you were young. Travel. Accept these certain truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You too will get old. And you will fantasise that when you were young, prices were reasonable politicians were noble and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders. Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you will marry a wealth spouse. But you will never know when either of them will run out, or away. Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re 40 it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you take, but be patient with those who give it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the rubbish bin, wiping it off and recycling it for more that it’s worth. But trust me on the food. My best wishes for the New Year go out to family and especially uTatu’ Phezulu and Auntie, who despite the fact that their legs are nearly gone with age; they still are the nicest people around. Don’ worry, Lolo will keep his promise. The rest of you can queue behind me for your share of blessings. Hola 2007!
Saturday, December 30
Sunday, December 24
Is this the season to be jolly?
I struggle to find the words to describe what is to become this year’s Christmas. Bleak, black, bland or just simply plain? Time there was when it was the time to holler, open presents and generally party until the break of dawn. It was the time to travel to the rural areas to flash around those dollars and bring cheer to the back of beyond. It was an experience they would not stop bragging about until the following year.
As I write this piece, I face one of my greatest challenges ever. Such that Christmas will just be another day as I contemplate my fate and future. The fact that all is in God’s hands is the only comfort. Perhaps I will witness to you all when all this is over, or is it just he beginning?
In the meantime, we get the therapy that we are now all used to; to laugh at ourselves, in the vain hope that we will dismiss all of this as one sick joke. But in spite of everything, there are things that will never change. The churches will be filled to the brim with believers and non believers alike, hoping to receive the special blessings that the day holds. Or better still to display plumage so specially acquired for the festive season.
Siwela will, as always, lug his 3 speed cycle onto Pelandaba bus for the long journey to see family and relatives in Kezi. He would have saved enough groceries through the club at work to take home goodies such as rice, cooking oil, bathing and washing soap, sugar. That is not to forget a ‘straight’ of Viceroy for abadala and Skippers for iziporori. Omama will not mind Mazoe or any such like imitation. The local stores will have to supply bread and buns along with iLotion to take care of the post Christmas bhabhalazi.
In the city, Sibanda will save the best for the last. Opting to wait to be invited by better endowed relatives or friends who would have found instant wealth through some benevolent relative eDiapora endaminya. The rand would still have a semblance of value come Christmas Day, but not so after New Year. Sibanda will wait to savour the sweat of his labour, by having Mrs Sibanda cook rice and chicken with salad, with plenty to drink. And the good old Philips blaring out the latest UMaqondana with the speaker perched outside for all to hear.
The young ones will be out in full force, because this is indeed their day. They we be resplendent in the usual and unusual paraphernalia. While their parents ponder about next year’s school fees, all forms of blackmail and subterfuge would have exacted all manner of trinkets and dollies. Christmas is not Christmas without presents isn’t it? The bank might be broken, but there are things that are not for negotiation.
As I write this, we are preparing for our annual binge here at WORK. It means two things, there is lots of money to throw around that the bosses don’t care to admit (come January) and, we still have enough energy to pretend that things are just the way they were last year and the years before that. As a parting shot, our administration released this festive season memo. If you toil like a drone at my place of work and you missed it, then it means you don’t matter.
Anyway, here goes…and it always has to start with any apology:
Sorry for the delay...our Lawyers just approved the following Holiday Greeting:
To: All Employees
From: The Administration
Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit our best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the Christmas holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all . . . and a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition
of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2006, but not without due respect for the many cultures whose contributions to society have helped make Zimbabwe great, (not to imply that Zimbabwe is necessarily greater than any other country or is the only country in sub-Saharan Africa or the world for that matter), and without regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform or soccer club of the wishee.
By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms: This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/him self or others, and is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher.
This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
A merry Christmas everyone, and a thoroughly different and optimistically wonderful 2006 to you all. Peace!
Glossary
Iziporori - Hangers on
Abadala - The elders
Omama - Mothers
iLotion - a popular Sorghum beer presented in cream containers
Ibhabhalazi - Hangover
As I write this piece, I face one of my greatest challenges ever. Such that Christmas will just be another day as I contemplate my fate and future. The fact that all is in God’s hands is the only comfort. Perhaps I will witness to you all when all this is over, or is it just he beginning?
In the meantime, we get the therapy that we are now all used to; to laugh at ourselves, in the vain hope that we will dismiss all of this as one sick joke. But in spite of everything, there are things that will never change. The churches will be filled to the brim with believers and non believers alike, hoping to receive the special blessings that the day holds. Or better still to display plumage so specially acquired for the festive season.
Siwela will, as always, lug his 3 speed cycle onto Pelandaba bus for the long journey to see family and relatives in Kezi. He would have saved enough groceries through the club at work to take home goodies such as rice, cooking oil, bathing and washing soap, sugar. That is not to forget a ‘straight’ of Viceroy for abadala and Skippers for iziporori. Omama will not mind Mazoe or any such like imitation. The local stores will have to supply bread and buns along with iLotion to take care of the post Christmas bhabhalazi.
In the city, Sibanda will save the best for the last. Opting to wait to be invited by better endowed relatives or friends who would have found instant wealth through some benevolent relative eDiapora endaminya. The rand would still have a semblance of value come Christmas Day, but not so after New Year. Sibanda will wait to savour the sweat of his labour, by having Mrs Sibanda cook rice and chicken with salad, with plenty to drink. And the good old Philips blaring out the latest UMaqondana with the speaker perched outside for all to hear.
The young ones will be out in full force, because this is indeed their day. They we be resplendent in the usual and unusual paraphernalia. While their parents ponder about next year’s school fees, all forms of blackmail and subterfuge would have exacted all manner of trinkets and dollies. Christmas is not Christmas without presents isn’t it? The bank might be broken, but there are things that are not for negotiation.
As I write this, we are preparing for our annual binge here at WORK. It means two things, there is lots of money to throw around that the bosses don’t care to admit (come January) and, we still have enough energy to pretend that things are just the way they were last year and the years before that. As a parting shot, our administration released this festive season memo. If you toil like a drone at my place of work and you missed it, then it means you don’t matter.
Anyway, here goes…and it always has to start with any apology:
Sorry for the delay...our Lawyers just approved the following Holiday Greeting:
To: All Employees
From: The Administration
Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit our best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the Christmas holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all . . . and a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition
of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2006, but not without due respect for the many cultures whose contributions to society have helped make Zimbabwe great, (not to imply that Zimbabwe is necessarily greater than any other country or is the only country in sub-Saharan Africa or the world for that matter), and without regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform or soccer club of the wishee.
By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms: This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/him self or others, and is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher.
This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
A merry Christmas everyone, and a thoroughly different and optimistically wonderful 2006 to you all. Peace!
Glossary
Iziporori - Hangers on
Abadala - The elders
Omama - Mothers
iLotion - a popular Sorghum beer presented in cream containers
Ibhabhalazi - Hangover
Monday, October 16
There is nothing called a good maid
Where have all the good maids gone? The last one we had lasted exactly 2 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 5 hours, 20 minutes and 45 seconds. This is in itself a record. The one before her lasted less than two weeks. And the one before that, well…Gone are the days when you could have a maid for life. As I was growing up, I fell under the keep of exactly three maids. That gives you a good idea of their staying power.
In spite of the fact that they ran the household with an iron fist, I will be the first to admit that they were good. This explains why my mother kept them for so long. At that time they were known as domestic servants. Their brief was simple and straight forward; clean the house, do the laundry, cook the food and knock the spoiled brats (us) into shape.
Nowadays they are referred to as Domestic Workers with capitals. It’s called political correctness. They are so educated, some coming in with “A” levels, that you can hardly tell them anything. They will tell you about something called ‘Rights” which strikes the fear of God into any employer. Just try sneaking in some work into their programme and they tell you, “Ende mina ama-RIGHTS ami ngiyawazi, fethu!” (I know my rights, Mister!)
In fact, employers partially celebrate when a domestic decides to hit the road of her own volition. The Labour Act is so tight that it takes you going as far as the High Court just to fire your maid. So the easy way out is to hire Nkazana (Girlie) fresh from the sticks, preferably a relative. The problem is that they gat clever too quickly, usually because of too much television and the garden boy, if you get my drift.
I understand the logic of employing relatives. There are a lot of risks in taking in a total stranger and entrust her with the custody of your children and precious property.
Take form me, relatives are the worst. When they have had a feel of city life, they are more likely to disappear with your prized possessions, to e-Ndaminya (Joburg), usually with the garden boy as well.
The general rule is that the wife chooses and interviews the maid, who is invariably female. It has to be the boss of the house otherwise men are tempted to use other criteria that have little to do with domestic chores. The message is very clear, keep your hands off the maid, or else. However, some men never listen. And this explains why some maids never last, particularly if they look like Miss Zimbabwe. The wife ensures that she employs the Ogre of Westphalia if not just to preserve her marriage.
I refer to risks associated with employing maids. The moment you disappear round the corner on your way to work, the party begins. How do you ensure that the maid puts in a decent day’s work while you are away? You can’t! Out form the woodwork come their relatives, friends and boyfriends. Sad to say, the marital bed becomes a trampoline and the CD and video collections take a walk. Groceries never last the month and the maid becomes fatter than the whole family combined.
If yours is a quest to seek out the perfect maid, then I will sooner show you the eye of a louse. The truth is that there is nothing like a good maid. Just pray that they will last the distance without fleeing with your prized television set, wardrobe or worse still, your husband.
In spite of the fact that they ran the household with an iron fist, I will be the first to admit that they were good. This explains why my mother kept them for so long. At that time they were known as domestic servants. Their brief was simple and straight forward; clean the house, do the laundry, cook the food and knock the spoiled brats (us) into shape.
Nowadays they are referred to as Domestic Workers with capitals. It’s called political correctness. They are so educated, some coming in with “A” levels, that you can hardly tell them anything. They will tell you about something called ‘Rights” which strikes the fear of God into any employer. Just try sneaking in some work into their programme and they tell you, “Ende mina ama-RIGHTS ami ngiyawazi, fethu!” (I know my rights, Mister!)
In fact, employers partially celebrate when a domestic decides to hit the road of her own volition. The Labour Act is so tight that it takes you going as far as the High Court just to fire your maid. So the easy way out is to hire Nkazana (Girlie) fresh from the sticks, preferably a relative. The problem is that they gat clever too quickly, usually because of too much television and the garden boy, if you get my drift.
I understand the logic of employing relatives. There are a lot of risks in taking in a total stranger and entrust her with the custody of your children and precious property.
Take form me, relatives are the worst. When they have had a feel of city life, they are more likely to disappear with your prized possessions, to e-Ndaminya (Joburg), usually with the garden boy as well.
The general rule is that the wife chooses and interviews the maid, who is invariably female. It has to be the boss of the house otherwise men are tempted to use other criteria that have little to do with domestic chores. The message is very clear, keep your hands off the maid, or else. However, some men never listen. And this explains why some maids never last, particularly if they look like Miss Zimbabwe. The wife ensures that she employs the Ogre of Westphalia if not just to preserve her marriage.
I refer to risks associated with employing maids. The moment you disappear round the corner on your way to work, the party begins. How do you ensure that the maid puts in a decent day’s work while you are away? You can’t! Out form the woodwork come their relatives, friends and boyfriends. Sad to say, the marital bed becomes a trampoline and the CD and video collections take a walk. Groceries never last the month and the maid becomes fatter than the whole family combined.
If yours is a quest to seek out the perfect maid, then I will sooner show you the eye of a louse. The truth is that there is nothing like a good maid. Just pray that they will last the distance without fleeing with your prized television set, wardrobe or worse still, your husband.
Monday, October 2
How to tackle those exams
I am renowned for my natural aversion for anything called an examination. At this time of the year my sympathies go out to all those who are about to endure this form of intellectual torture. I have always entertained the thought that people who set examinations have a tinge of sadism, that is, enjoy inflicting pain on others. In actual fact, a former maths teacher of mine used to hiss the adage; ‘No Pain, No Gain!’ This article serves as both community service and humanitarian assistance for all you exam sufferers. How you cope with all that studying and what methods are sure to bring the required results, that is, falling short of bribing the examiner and/or invigilator, or ‘shopping’ for a qualification on the internet.
I will dig from my huge reserves of experience in preparing and sitting for exams having seen it all right from the Pre-School entrance exam through to the university degree. Grade 7, which we derogatively referred to as a test, was a walk in the park. We all got our places at secondary school well before the results were out. Failing such an exam, was taking being daft to greater depths if you ask me. And yet we had people failing the ‘test’ left, right and centre.
We never ‘studied’ in the true sense of the word. We crammed information. In fact, this was rammed into our supposedly thick heads through the liberal use of the rod by our Gestapo trained teachers. This was particularly so with mathematics, the worst subject in living memory. The drill was to wake up at such an ungodly hour that one would occasionally bump into a witch from her nocturnal mission. We were then required to sing everything from the multiplication table right down to geometry until the rest of the school trooped in wondering whether we had slept there.
We passed all right, but that did not prepare me for the horror that we were to encounter at high school. First, we had too many subjects and this I bitterly complained to my father, who reminded me that he had studied more. Secondly, our crop of teachers literally terrorised us. I would have been convinced they had been discharged from some boot camp for using excessive force on their charges.
I was later to learn that this was the case with all boarding schools. It was part of the culture that only blood, sweat and tears produced results. Studying became an obsessive affair. People read books until smoke came out of their ears. Some of us would go for days without any sleep. This was done with the aid of ‘wake up’ pills which were available at any reputable supermarket in town.
Others, tired of cramming, would employ drastic and sometimes, baffling measures in a futile attempt to short-circuit the rigorous studying process. It was a pervasion of the principle of osmosis, that is, the movement of water molecules from an area of high concentration to an area of low concentration through a permeable membrane. In this case, one would go to sleep with a voluminous textbook under the pillow - we used to refer to a very thick textbook as a ‘volume’ – in the vain hope that information would then travel from a dense medium (the volume) to an extremely less dense medium (the thick head) overnight. Whether this worked or not is yet to be put through empirical testing. Some of us passed the exams through divine or spiritual intervention.
University was a different bottle of beer...quite literally. How was one expected to pass when right there, smack in the middle of campus, was the cheapest bar this side of Tropic of Capricorn? Coming as they did from a very cloistered existence at some religious boarding school, some of our colleagues literally drowned in alcohol. They would only emerge for air and lectures and the toilet. Exams were just an irritating formality. The motto was: “We drink daily and pass annually.”
Interestingly enough, it was the sober ones who could not take the pressure. The number of students who were sent down that is, taken to the local mental facility rose as exam time approached. In one classic case, a medical student decided that it was through the digestive tract that he could absorb information. He literally swallowed half a ‘volume’ journal before being taken to hospital to have his stomach pumped.
Or this other student, who after pumping his brains full of ‘aerodynamics’ thought he could put that into practice by jumping out of the third floor window of the library. Unfortunately for him, the hard concrete floor below had other ideas. At least he managed to delay sitting for his exam by a year while his Plaster of Paris bound body healed. Needless to say that he is now a very successful politician having completely lost faith in Pure Science.
But then I digress. This article was supposed to offer tips on passing exams. The best advice I can give is that you should take comfort in the fact that you are not alone. When in an exam room, take a look to your right, then left, and then right again and you will see what I mean. Be calm, drink lots of water (avoid alcohol) and have plenty of sleep. Burning the midnight candle will burn you out. The cold fact is that if you have not grasped it by now, then you never did.
I will dig from my huge reserves of experience in preparing and sitting for exams having seen it all right from the Pre-School entrance exam through to the university degree. Grade 7, which we derogatively referred to as a test, was a walk in the park. We all got our places at secondary school well before the results were out. Failing such an exam, was taking being daft to greater depths if you ask me. And yet we had people failing the ‘test’ left, right and centre.
We never ‘studied’ in the true sense of the word. We crammed information. In fact, this was rammed into our supposedly thick heads through the liberal use of the rod by our Gestapo trained teachers. This was particularly so with mathematics, the worst subject in living memory. The drill was to wake up at such an ungodly hour that one would occasionally bump into a witch from her nocturnal mission. We were then required to sing everything from the multiplication table right down to geometry until the rest of the school trooped in wondering whether we had slept there.
We passed all right, but that did not prepare me for the horror that we were to encounter at high school. First, we had too many subjects and this I bitterly complained to my father, who reminded me that he had studied more. Secondly, our crop of teachers literally terrorised us. I would have been convinced they had been discharged from some boot camp for using excessive force on their charges.
I was later to learn that this was the case with all boarding schools. It was part of the culture that only blood, sweat and tears produced results. Studying became an obsessive affair. People read books until smoke came out of their ears. Some of us would go for days without any sleep. This was done with the aid of ‘wake up’ pills which were available at any reputable supermarket in town.
Others, tired of cramming, would employ drastic and sometimes, baffling measures in a futile attempt to short-circuit the rigorous studying process. It was a pervasion of the principle of osmosis, that is, the movement of water molecules from an area of high concentration to an area of low concentration through a permeable membrane. In this case, one would go to sleep with a voluminous textbook under the pillow - we used to refer to a very thick textbook as a ‘volume’ – in the vain hope that information would then travel from a dense medium (the volume) to an extremely less dense medium (the thick head) overnight. Whether this worked or not is yet to be put through empirical testing. Some of us passed the exams through divine or spiritual intervention.
University was a different bottle of beer...quite literally. How was one expected to pass when right there, smack in the middle of campus, was the cheapest bar this side of Tropic of Capricorn? Coming as they did from a very cloistered existence at some religious boarding school, some of our colleagues literally drowned in alcohol. They would only emerge for air and lectures and the toilet. Exams were just an irritating formality. The motto was: “We drink daily and pass annually.”
Interestingly enough, it was the sober ones who could not take the pressure. The number of students who were sent down that is, taken to the local mental facility rose as exam time approached. In one classic case, a medical student decided that it was through the digestive tract that he could absorb information. He literally swallowed half a ‘volume’ journal before being taken to hospital to have his stomach pumped.
Or this other student, who after pumping his brains full of ‘aerodynamics’ thought he could put that into practice by jumping out of the third floor window of the library. Unfortunately for him, the hard concrete floor below had other ideas. At least he managed to delay sitting for his exam by a year while his Plaster of Paris bound body healed. Needless to say that he is now a very successful politician having completely lost faith in Pure Science.
But then I digress. This article was supposed to offer tips on passing exams. The best advice I can give is that you should take comfort in the fact that you are not alone. When in an exam room, take a look to your right, then left, and then right again and you will see what I mean. Be calm, drink lots of water (avoid alcohol) and have plenty of sleep. Burning the midnight candle will burn you out. The cold fact is that if you have not grasped it by now, then you never did.
Sunday, September 24
Are Lawyers paid to lie?
It is said that a philosopher is a fool who torments himself during life, to be spoken of when dead. While a criminal is a guy no different from the rest of us except that he got caught. A doctor is a person who kills your ills by pills, and kills you with his bills while a lawyer is someone who is paid handsomely to lie on our behalf when we are in hot soup.
Let me state from the outset that I have friends or relations who are lawyers. So I have nothing against them. The material used here is very true, nothing but the truth. Knowing lawyers as I do, they will laugh it off in public then privately sue my socks off. All I can say in my defense is that I am just a messenger. And you wouldn’t shoot the messenger because he is the bearer bad news, would you?
Much has been said about the law profession, but not enough. Lawyers are rarely on the receiving end. I guess because they have the singular distinction of playing hero and the villain at the same time! That depends on which side of the law you happen to fall. The lawyer is supposed to lie you out of trouble. That is his job. You pay him, he lies, you are freed, end of story.
Edward Ward (who the hell is he?) once said that a good lawyer is a great liar. An “anonymous” individual went one better by defining a lawyer as a liar with a permit to practice. It is hard to say whether the doctors of law or of divinity have made the greater advances in the lucrative business of mystery, so said movie mogul Samuel Goldwyn. Jean Giradoux, another individual who was not well endeared to the law profession once said that there is no better way to exercise the imagination than in the study of the law. ‘No artist ever interpreted nature as freely as a lawyer interprets the truth,’ he said.
Some five years ago, if those of you can remember, I came across some lawyer barbs which were quite, eh, funny. For instance, how many lawyers does it take to change a light bulb? None, they'd rather keep their clients in the dark. How do you know when a lawyer is not lying? When his lips stop moving. In the United States, one juror was overheard saying to another..."You'll notice that neither the prosecutor nor defense attorney swore to tell the truth!"
A man sat down at a bar, looked into his shirt pocket and ordered a double scotch. A few minutes later, the man again peeked into his pocket and ordered another double. This routine was followed for some time, until after looking into his pocket, the man told the bartender he'd had enough. The bartender said, "I've got to ask you-what's with the pocket business?"
"Oh," said the man, "I have my lawyer's picture in here, and when he starts to look honest, I know I've had enough."
In another situation, a university committee was selecting a new dean. They had narrowed the candidates down to a mathematician, an economist and a lawyer. Each was asked this question during their interview: "How much is two plus two?" The mathematician answered immediately, "Four." The economist thought for several minutes and finally answered, "Four, plus or minus one." Finally the lawyer stood up, peered around the room and motioned silently for the committee members to gather close to him. In a hushed, conspiratorial tone, he replied, "How much do you want it to be?"
Two lawyers were walking along negotiating a case.
"Look," said one to the other, "let's be honest with each other."
"Okay, you first," replied the other, and that was the end of the discussion.
Lawyer to client: "Now that you have been acquitted, will you tell me truly, did you steal the car?"
Client: "After hearing your amazing argument in court this morning, I'm beginning to think I didn't."
For their profession, lawyers would love this as their motto: “The facts in a case, although interesting, are irrelevant.”
Had enough? Wait until you get a load of this. These are insightful witnesses getting their own back on stunningly stupid questions lawyers sometimes ask:
Q: "Doctor, how many autopsies have you performed on dead people?"
A: "All my autopsies are performed on dead people."
Q: "Do you recall the time that you examined the body?"
A: "The autopsy started around 8:30 p.m."
Q: "And Mr. Ncube was dead at the time?"
A: "No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy."
Q: "You were not shot in the fracas?"
A: "No, I was shot midway between the fracas and the navel."
Q: "Are you qualified to give a urine sample?"
A: "I have been since early childhood."
Q: "Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?"
A: "No."
Q: "Did you check for blood pressure?"
A: "No."
Q: "Did you check for breathing?"
A: "No."
Q: "So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?"
A: "No."
Q: "How can you be so sure, Doctor?"
A: "Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar."
Q: "But could the patient have still been alive nevertheless?"
A: "It is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law somewhere."
Disclaimer: This article is not intended to ridicule lawyers. Any resemblance to the conduct of a lawyer either dead or living is purely coincidental.
Let me state from the outset that I have friends or relations who are lawyers. So I have nothing against them. The material used here is very true, nothing but the truth. Knowing lawyers as I do, they will laugh it off in public then privately sue my socks off. All I can say in my defense is that I am just a messenger. And you wouldn’t shoot the messenger because he is the bearer bad news, would you?
Much has been said about the law profession, but not enough. Lawyers are rarely on the receiving end. I guess because they have the singular distinction of playing hero and the villain at the same time! That depends on which side of the law you happen to fall. The lawyer is supposed to lie you out of trouble. That is his job. You pay him, he lies, you are freed, end of story.
Edward Ward (who the hell is he?) once said that a good lawyer is a great liar. An “anonymous” individual went one better by defining a lawyer as a liar with a permit to practice. It is hard to say whether the doctors of law or of divinity have made the greater advances in the lucrative business of mystery, so said movie mogul Samuel Goldwyn. Jean Giradoux, another individual who was not well endeared to the law profession once said that there is no better way to exercise the imagination than in the study of the law. ‘No artist ever interpreted nature as freely as a lawyer interprets the truth,’ he said.
Some five years ago, if those of you can remember, I came across some lawyer barbs which were quite, eh, funny. For instance, how many lawyers does it take to change a light bulb? None, they'd rather keep their clients in the dark. How do you know when a lawyer is not lying? When his lips stop moving. In the United States, one juror was overheard saying to another..."You'll notice that neither the prosecutor nor defense attorney swore to tell the truth!"
A man sat down at a bar, looked into his shirt pocket and ordered a double scotch. A few minutes later, the man again peeked into his pocket and ordered another double. This routine was followed for some time, until after looking into his pocket, the man told the bartender he'd had enough. The bartender said, "I've got to ask you-what's with the pocket business?"
"Oh," said the man, "I have my lawyer's picture in here, and when he starts to look honest, I know I've had enough."
In another situation, a university committee was selecting a new dean. They had narrowed the candidates down to a mathematician, an economist and a lawyer. Each was asked this question during their interview: "How much is two plus two?" The mathematician answered immediately, "Four." The economist thought for several minutes and finally answered, "Four, plus or minus one." Finally the lawyer stood up, peered around the room and motioned silently for the committee members to gather close to him. In a hushed, conspiratorial tone, he replied, "How much do you want it to be?"
Two lawyers were walking along negotiating a case.
"Look," said one to the other, "let's be honest with each other."
"Okay, you first," replied the other, and that was the end of the discussion.
Lawyer to client: "Now that you have been acquitted, will you tell me truly, did you steal the car?"
Client: "After hearing your amazing argument in court this morning, I'm beginning to think I didn't."
For their profession, lawyers would love this as their motto: “The facts in a case, although interesting, are irrelevant.”
Had enough? Wait until you get a load of this. These are insightful witnesses getting their own back on stunningly stupid questions lawyers sometimes ask:
Q: "Doctor, how many autopsies have you performed on dead people?"
A: "All my autopsies are performed on dead people."
Q: "Do you recall the time that you examined the body?"
A: "The autopsy started around 8:30 p.m."
Q: "And Mr. Ncube was dead at the time?"
A: "No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy."
Q: "You were not shot in the fracas?"
A: "No, I was shot midway between the fracas and the navel."
Q: "Are you qualified to give a urine sample?"
A: "I have been since early childhood."
Q: "Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?"
A: "No."
Q: "Did you check for blood pressure?"
A: "No."
Q: "Did you check for breathing?"
A: "No."
Q: "So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?"
A: "No."
Q: "How can you be so sure, Doctor?"
A: "Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar."
Q: "But could the patient have still been alive nevertheless?"
A: "It is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law somewhere."
Disclaimer: This article is not intended to ridicule lawyers. Any resemblance to the conduct of a lawyer either dead or living is purely coincidental.
Monday, September 18
One hell of a night!
With apologies to Melvin Durai. Visit his hilarious site at www.melvindurai.com
The price of beer has gone up, again, yet he is sticking to his old ways. Don’t ever kid yourself that he will change. The battle lines have only been re-drawn. You then really wonder where he would have been when he rocks up the front door at six in the morning and you assume that he has been lying in the arms of Mary. Wrong again! Don’t die from worry asking yourself whether he has been arrested, kidnapped or worse, run over by a bicycle! Well, if you didn’t know, he would be having a time of his life!
Every wife would surely want to know what really goes through his mind at that time. Allow us to open an ‘X’ file most men would have liked to be kept a state secret…until now. Seek comfort in the fact that you are not the only “beer widow” in the neighbourhood no matter what that nosy Mrs Perfect tells you about her angel of a husband. What really would have happened to your man when he crawls up the front porch at the crack of dawn? What really goes on in his brain, women often wonder.
According to humourist, Melvin Durai, there are 5 levels of drinking and for argument’s sake we will analyse all five even though some of us men would not care to admit it, technically speaking.
LEVEL 1:
It’s 11o’clock on a weeknight, you have had a ‘few’ beers though even that figure is debatable. A little angel appears on your right shoulder; “Time to pack it in old chap, the wife and kids are getting worried.” You get up to leave because you have work the next day and one of your friends buys another round. Here at level one you think to yourself, “Oh come on, this is silly, why as long as I get seven hours of sleep (snaps fingers), I’m cool.”
LEVEL 2:
It’s midnight. You have had a ‘few’ more beers. You have just spent 20 minutes arguing against artificial turf. You get up to leave again, but at level two, a little devil appears on your left shoulder. And now you are thinking,” Hey! I’m out with friends! What am I working for anyway? These are the good times! Besides, as long as I get five hours sleep (snaps fingers) I’m cool.”
LEVEL 3:
One in the morning, you have abandoned beer for some poison with a name you can’t even pronounce. It’s served in tiny glasses and you have to ignite it with a match before one slugs it to the back of the mouth. You have just spent 20 minutes arguing FOR artificial turf. And now you are thinking,”Our waitress is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!” At level three, you love the world. On the way to the toilet, you buy a drink for the stranger at the end of the bar because you like his face. You also like the reflection of your face on the water inside the toilet bowl. Aren’t you the most handsome guy in the universe? But at level three, that devil is a little bit bigger...and he is buying. And you’re thinking,”Oh, come on, come on now. As long as I get three hours sleep...and a complete change of blood (snap fingers), I’m cool.”
LEVEL 4:
Two in the morning and the devil is bar tending. For the last call, you ordered a bottle of Jamaican Rum. You ARE artificial turf! This time on your way to the toilet, you punch the guy at the end of the bar, just because you don’t like his face. Your friends decide to leave, right after you are thrown out, and one of you knows an after-hours bar. And here, at level four, you actually think to your self, “Well...as long as I’m only going to get a couple of hours sleep anyway, I may as well...STAY UP ALL NIGHT!!! Yeah! That would be good for me. I don’t mind going to the staff meeting looking like Alcoholics Synonymous. Yeah, I’II turn that around, and make it work for me. And besides, as long as I get 31 hours sleep tomorrow...cool.”
LEVEL 5:
Five in the morning, after unsuccessfully trying to negotiate with the bouncer at the door for free entry, you and your friends wind up in a sleazy night club across town with guys who have got out of prison as recently as...that morning. It’s the kind of place where even the devil is going, ”Uh, I have to turn in. I have to be in Hell at nine. I can’t miss that breakfast meeting with Idi Amin.” At this point, you are drinking some kind of clear liquid, powerful enough to power a Boeing 747 to the Island of Bora Bora and back. A woman with fresh stitches comes over, and you think to yourself, ”Someday I’m going to marry this girl!” One of your friends stands up and screams, ”WE’RE DRIVING TO THE MOON!!!”-And passes out. You crawl outside for air, and then you hit the worst part of level five - the sun. You weren’t expecting that were you? You never do. You walk out of the club into broad daylight, and you see people on their way to work. And they look at you shaking their heads asking, “Who the hell beat up this guy?”
Let’s be honest, if you are 19 and you stay up all night, it’s a victory like you have beaten the night. But if you are over 40, then that sun is like God’s flashlight. At this point you say that ever-common prayer. It goes something like this:”I swear, I will never do this again as long as I live!” And some of us have that little addition, “and this time I mean it!” Famous last words.
So ladies, the next time he rocks up at dawn, after giving him the traditional work over with the frying pan or rolling pin, at least give his story some credit if he told you that he had ONE HELL OF A NIGHT!
The price of beer has gone up, again, yet he is sticking to his old ways. Don’t ever kid yourself that he will change. The battle lines have only been re-drawn. You then really wonder where he would have been when he rocks up the front door at six in the morning and you assume that he has been lying in the arms of Mary. Wrong again! Don’t die from worry asking yourself whether he has been arrested, kidnapped or worse, run over by a bicycle! Well, if you didn’t know, he would be having a time of his life!
Every wife would surely want to know what really goes through his mind at that time. Allow us to open an ‘X’ file most men would have liked to be kept a state secret…until now. Seek comfort in the fact that you are not the only “beer widow” in the neighbourhood no matter what that nosy Mrs Perfect tells you about her angel of a husband. What really would have happened to your man when he crawls up the front porch at the crack of dawn? What really goes on in his brain, women often wonder.
According to humourist, Melvin Durai, there are 5 levels of drinking and for argument’s sake we will analyse all five even though some of us men would not care to admit it, technically speaking.
LEVEL 1:
It’s 11o’clock on a weeknight, you have had a ‘few’ beers though even that figure is debatable. A little angel appears on your right shoulder; “Time to pack it in old chap, the wife and kids are getting worried.” You get up to leave because you have work the next day and one of your friends buys another round. Here at level one you think to yourself, “Oh come on, this is silly, why as long as I get seven hours of sleep (snaps fingers), I’m cool.”
LEVEL 2:
It’s midnight. You have had a ‘few’ more beers. You have just spent 20 minutes arguing against artificial turf. You get up to leave again, but at level two, a little devil appears on your left shoulder. And now you are thinking,” Hey! I’m out with friends! What am I working for anyway? These are the good times! Besides, as long as I get five hours sleep (snaps fingers) I’m cool.”
LEVEL 3:
One in the morning, you have abandoned beer for some poison with a name you can’t even pronounce. It’s served in tiny glasses and you have to ignite it with a match before one slugs it to the back of the mouth. You have just spent 20 minutes arguing FOR artificial turf. And now you are thinking,”Our waitress is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!” At level three, you love the world. On the way to the toilet, you buy a drink for the stranger at the end of the bar because you like his face. You also like the reflection of your face on the water inside the toilet bowl. Aren’t you the most handsome guy in the universe? But at level three, that devil is a little bit bigger...and he is buying. And you’re thinking,”Oh, come on, come on now. As long as I get three hours sleep...and a complete change of blood (snap fingers), I’m cool.”
LEVEL 4:
Two in the morning and the devil is bar tending. For the last call, you ordered a bottle of Jamaican Rum. You ARE artificial turf! This time on your way to the toilet, you punch the guy at the end of the bar, just because you don’t like his face. Your friends decide to leave, right after you are thrown out, and one of you knows an after-hours bar. And here, at level four, you actually think to your self, “Well...as long as I’m only going to get a couple of hours sleep anyway, I may as well...STAY UP ALL NIGHT!!! Yeah! That would be good for me. I don’t mind going to the staff meeting looking like Alcoholics Synonymous. Yeah, I’II turn that around, and make it work for me. And besides, as long as I get 31 hours sleep tomorrow...cool.”
LEVEL 5:
Five in the morning, after unsuccessfully trying to negotiate with the bouncer at the door for free entry, you and your friends wind up in a sleazy night club across town with guys who have got out of prison as recently as...that morning. It’s the kind of place where even the devil is going, ”Uh, I have to turn in. I have to be in Hell at nine. I can’t miss that breakfast meeting with Idi Amin.” At this point, you are drinking some kind of clear liquid, powerful enough to power a Boeing 747 to the Island of Bora Bora and back. A woman with fresh stitches comes over, and you think to yourself, ”Someday I’m going to marry this girl!” One of your friends stands up and screams, ”WE’RE DRIVING TO THE MOON!!!”-And passes out. You crawl outside for air, and then you hit the worst part of level five - the sun. You weren’t expecting that were you? You never do. You walk out of the club into broad daylight, and you see people on their way to work. And they look at you shaking their heads asking, “Who the hell beat up this guy?”
Let’s be honest, if you are 19 and you stay up all night, it’s a victory like you have beaten the night. But if you are over 40, then that sun is like God’s flashlight. At this point you say that ever-common prayer. It goes something like this:”I swear, I will never do this again as long as I live!” And some of us have that little addition, “and this time I mean it!” Famous last words.
So ladies, the next time he rocks up at dawn, after giving him the traditional work over with the frying pan or rolling pin, at least give his story some credit if he told you that he had ONE HELL OF A NIGHT!
The mouse comes out to play
The woman of the house (read, W-I-F-E) has gone on a ‘business trip’ Down-Under. That is far enough for this mouse to come out to play and write things that would get him in very hot soup. The fact that this column is public record and is printed in indelible ink, I would strongly advise all men out there to pray for one of their own the day SHE sets her eyes on what I am about to write. In fact, a phenomenon known as Tell-A-Woman will ensure that the Mrs gets an uncensored version of this article in Real Time. Which means by the time I finish writing this, the offended party would rather swim the shark infested Indian Ocean to box me round the ears. Kungasenani, here goes:
Those of you who are computer literate will enjoy this one; the IT (Information Technology) derived descriptions of a woman. We have the Hard-Disk Woman: She remembers everything, FOREVER. RAM Woman: She forgets about you, the moment you turn her off. WINDOWS Woman: Everyone knows that she can't do a thing right, but no one can live without her. EXCEL Woman: They say she can do a lot of things but you mostly use her for your four basic needs. Screensaver Woman: She is good for nothing but at least she is fun! Internet Woman: Difficult to access. Server Woman: Always busy when you need her. Multimedia Woman: She makes horrible things look beautiful. CD-ROM Woman: She is always faster and faster. E-mail Woman: Every ten things she says, eight are nonsense. And finally, the Virus Woman: Also known as "WIFE"; when you are not expecting her, she comes, installs herself and uses all your resources. If you try to uninstall her you will lose something, if you don't try to uninstall her you will lose everything......
Just thinking out loud; perhaps it’s time to review the life of a married man. Just think, if it weren't for marriage, men would go through life thinking they had no faults at all. Actually, should the truth be known, there are a lot of good ways to "handle" a woman. Unfortunately, not a man alive knows any of them. And if he did, he'd be wise not to try. Personally I think one of the greatest things about marriage is that as both husband and Father, I can say anything I want to around the house. Of course, no one pays the least bit of attention. Did any of you other married guys out there ever wonder whether it's better to have loved and lost, than to have loved and won?
But again, men do not come out winners in the battle of the sexes. Take this story as an example. A man feared that his wife wasn't hearing as good as she used to and he thought she might need a hearing aid. Not quite sure how to approach her, he called the family Doctor to discuss the problem. The Doctor told him there is a simple informal test the husband could perform to give the Doctor a better idea about her hearing loss.
"Here's what you do," said the Doctor, "stand about 20 metres away from her, and in a normal conversational speaking tone see if she hears you. If not, go to 15 metres, then 10 metres, and so on until you get a response."
That evening, the wife is in the kitchen cooking dinner, and he on the veranda.
He says to himself, "I'm about 20 metres away, let's see what happens."Then in a normal tone he asks, 'Honey, what's for dinner?" Noresponse. So the husband moves to closer to the kitchen, about 15 metres from his wife and repeats, "Honey, what's for dinner?" Still no response.
Next he moves into the dining room where he is about 10 metres from his wife and asks, “Honey, what's for dinner?" Again he gets no response, so he walks up to the kitchen door, about 5 metres away."Honey, what’s for dinner?" Again there is no response. So he walks right up behind her. "Honey, what's for dinner?""James, for the FIFTH time I've said, CHICKEN!"
The moral of the story is that the problem may not be with the other one as we always think, it be could be very much within us! Confront yourself before blaming the other. Just like the dilemma of who’s impotent between the two.
Those of you who are computer literate will enjoy this one; the IT (Information Technology) derived descriptions of a woman. We have the Hard-Disk Woman: She remembers everything, FOREVER. RAM Woman: She forgets about you, the moment you turn her off. WINDOWS Woman: Everyone knows that she can't do a thing right, but no one can live without her. EXCEL Woman: They say she can do a lot of things but you mostly use her for your four basic needs. Screensaver Woman: She is good for nothing but at least she is fun! Internet Woman: Difficult to access. Server Woman: Always busy when you need her. Multimedia Woman: She makes horrible things look beautiful. CD-ROM Woman: She is always faster and faster. E-mail Woman: Every ten things she says, eight are nonsense. And finally, the Virus Woman: Also known as "WIFE"; when you are not expecting her, she comes, installs herself and uses all your resources. If you try to uninstall her you will lose something, if you don't try to uninstall her you will lose everything......
Just thinking out loud; perhaps it’s time to review the life of a married man. Just think, if it weren't for marriage, men would go through life thinking they had no faults at all. Actually, should the truth be known, there are a lot of good ways to "handle" a woman. Unfortunately, not a man alive knows any of them. And if he did, he'd be wise not to try. Personally I think one of the greatest things about marriage is that as both husband and Father, I can say anything I want to around the house. Of course, no one pays the least bit of attention. Did any of you other married guys out there ever wonder whether it's better to have loved and lost, than to have loved and won?
But again, men do not come out winners in the battle of the sexes. Take this story as an example. A man feared that his wife wasn't hearing as good as she used to and he thought she might need a hearing aid. Not quite sure how to approach her, he called the family Doctor to discuss the problem. The Doctor told him there is a simple informal test the husband could perform to give the Doctor a better idea about her hearing loss.
"Here's what you do," said the Doctor, "stand about 20 metres away from her, and in a normal conversational speaking tone see if she hears you. If not, go to 15 metres, then 10 metres, and so on until you get a response."
That evening, the wife is in the kitchen cooking dinner, and he on the veranda.
He says to himself, "I'm about 20 metres away, let's see what happens."Then in a normal tone he asks, 'Honey, what's for dinner?" Noresponse. So the husband moves to closer to the kitchen, about 15 metres from his wife and repeats, "Honey, what's for dinner?" Still no response.
Next he moves into the dining room where he is about 10 metres from his wife and asks, “Honey, what's for dinner?" Again he gets no response, so he walks up to the kitchen door, about 5 metres away."Honey, what’s for dinner?" Again there is no response. So he walks right up behind her. "Honey, what's for dinner?""James, for the FIFTH time I've said, CHICKEN!"
The moral of the story is that the problem may not be with the other one as we always think, it be could be very much within us! Confront yourself before blaming the other. Just like the dilemma of who’s impotent between the two.
Friday, August 25
More memories that last a lifetime
Do you still remember all those years ago, when going into town seemed like going somewhere very special like heaven and your mother made you "dress up" for the trip or threatened that if you don't finish your food uyasala. And when in town, wailing for fresh chips from ko-Royal Sunflower and a coke?Sipping the 300 ml bottle of coke for ever ungafuni iphele?
Remember racing with old tyres or half bricks, to see who was the fastest. Today they are shoving bricks at each other. Playing soccer with ibhola lamaphepha (plastic/newspaper ball) and not smoking imbanje. Going to the shops to go play i-slug (table soccer) and not robbing defenceless women? And if you ran out of money, usually 10 cents, you then filed down two cents or hammered a one-cent coin flat to use instead and it always got stuck? And u-Davie wemagrosa would be out to get you and your tshomis. Those were the crimes then.
What about the fights? About you falling out with your buddies and because they threatened ukukubamba? NGIZAKUBAMBA (I will deal with you) meant that you had a hard time going to the shops unescorted. You were forced to go the long way round to avoid them but you never told umama or ubaba. It was the same with the end of the school term, as we approached the beginning of the holidays.
You had to be on your best behaviour to avoid someone saying -NGIZAVALA NGAWE! Running away was not an option because the whole school knew which fights were on the closing day bill. Not that some did not- leg it (run away) because kwabo kwagwala akulasililo. Disputes were settled by simply amabele enhlabathi. Having a weapon in school meant being caught with an Eversharp pen pea shooter or an eraser catapulted by a 30cm ruler and not i-Okapi (knife) of nowadays.
And then kwakulabo MATHANYELA, the Bulawayo City Council sweepers who hated being called that, kumbe oma-bhimu (Garbage collectors.) What about the work crews zako BCC ababepheka izitshwala zamagabha. And amongst them there was always a Phiri, Banda, Sibanda or Ndlovu. When you saw them riding along in their big BCC trucks or walking along the road in their navy overalls, you would shout, Sibanda! or Phiri! and wave in their direction and one of their number, a Sibanda or Phiri would respond in like manner waving frantically obviously very impressed at being recognised and you and your friends would laugh your lungs out.
I'm not finished just yet. Can you still taste and smell, eating raw jelly from the packet, ukukhuma itshukela, powdered milk, kumbe i-Milo? You would forget to wipe off the evidence and the usual katsi-katsi (hiding) would follow? What about ice-lollies made from cold drink in plastic holders in the freezer, eating Willard's Peanut Butter on the fattest slice of fresh Lobel’s bread? Eating guavas till your stomach hurt and being constipated for days after that. Lisa khumbula umabrosi, imango, ama-peaches lomumbu owosiweyo emgwaqweni? And you knew that come mumbu (maize) season you would have it for breakfast, lunch and supper including inopi, umxhanxa, inkobe lembambayila, of course.
Having relatives overseas or in South Africa was a very big deal. For relatives abroad, it was essential for the whole family to go to the airport and wave goodbye by the balcony. And when they came back, you expected them to bring you new shoes (which you wouldn't wear, coz you were saving them for Civics day) and Mars bars or Chappies.
Remember when, there were two types of takkies, o-Tommie and North Stars! And the only time you wore them at school, was on Civies, (from civilian clothes as opposed to uniform day.) Which for some reason we called CIVICS day. Do you remember when nearly everyone's mom was your mom and they could thuma (send) you to amagrosa (shops) and reward you with i-five cents for amatshaps (toffees.) There was no danger of you absconding because after all she was your mum anyway!
Remember racing with old tyres or half bricks, to see who was the fastest. Today they are shoving bricks at each other. Playing soccer with ibhola lamaphepha (plastic/newspaper ball) and not smoking imbanje. Going to the shops to go play i-slug (table soccer) and not robbing defenceless women? And if you ran out of money, usually 10 cents, you then filed down two cents or hammered a one-cent coin flat to use instead and it always got stuck? And u-Davie wemagrosa would be out to get you and your tshomis. Those were the crimes then.
What about the fights? About you falling out with your buddies and because they threatened ukukubamba? NGIZAKUBAMBA (I will deal with you) meant that you had a hard time going to the shops unescorted. You were forced to go the long way round to avoid them but you never told umama or ubaba. It was the same with the end of the school term, as we approached the beginning of the holidays.
You had to be on your best behaviour to avoid someone saying -NGIZAVALA NGAWE! Running away was not an option because the whole school knew which fights were on the closing day bill. Not that some did not- leg it (run away) because kwabo kwagwala akulasililo. Disputes were settled by simply amabele enhlabathi. Having a weapon in school meant being caught with an Eversharp pen pea shooter or an eraser catapulted by a 30cm ruler and not i-Okapi (knife) of nowadays.
And then kwakulabo MATHANYELA, the Bulawayo City Council sweepers who hated being called that, kumbe oma-bhimu (Garbage collectors.) What about the work crews zako BCC ababepheka izitshwala zamagabha. And amongst them there was always a Phiri, Banda, Sibanda or Ndlovu. When you saw them riding along in their big BCC trucks or walking along the road in their navy overalls, you would shout, Sibanda! or Phiri! and wave in their direction and one of their number, a Sibanda or Phiri would respond in like manner waving frantically obviously very impressed at being recognised and you and your friends would laugh your lungs out.
I'm not finished just yet. Can you still taste and smell, eating raw jelly from the packet, ukukhuma itshukela, powdered milk, kumbe i-Milo? You would forget to wipe off the evidence and the usual katsi-katsi (hiding) would follow? What about ice-lollies made from cold drink in plastic holders in the freezer, eating Willard's Peanut Butter on the fattest slice of fresh Lobel’s bread? Eating guavas till your stomach hurt and being constipated for days after that. Lisa khumbula umabrosi, imango, ama-peaches lomumbu owosiweyo emgwaqweni? And you knew that come mumbu (maize) season you would have it for breakfast, lunch and supper including inopi, umxhanxa, inkobe lembambayila, of course.
Having relatives overseas or in South Africa was a very big deal. For relatives abroad, it was essential for the whole family to go to the airport and wave goodbye by the balcony. And when they came back, you expected them to bring you new shoes (which you wouldn't wear, coz you were saving them for Civics day) and Mars bars or Chappies.
Remember when, there were two types of takkies, o-Tommie and North Stars! And the only time you wore them at school, was on Civies, (from civilian clothes as opposed to uniform day.) Which for some reason we called CIVICS day. Do you remember when nearly everyone's mom was your mom and they could thuma (send) you to amagrosa (shops) and reward you with i-five cents for amatshaps (toffees.) There was no danger of you absconding because after all she was your mum anyway!
Thursday, August 17
Memories that last a lifetime
When I turned more years old last June, I really felt the weight of aging on my shoulders. I guess I have been trying to fight a losing battle in pretending to younger than I am. However, the death of my beloved grandmother two weeks ago at 95 has changed my thinking. I could well last as long so I have to enjoy every bit of it as I go along.
My grandmother was the most humorous person I know, after my mother that is. She had such a bag of tales. You can now guess where all this came from. I will really miss her. None the less, memories of days past are something to treasure, and I have decided to share this with you to jog those of us who grew up when stones were still soft and money was money.
“Thank God that I had such a wonderful childhood in such a beautifulcountry. Think back to the time, before the Internet or the ATM, before Play Station and DSTV, and CD's and DVD's and Bearer cheques. Way back,I'm talking about the time of umacatshelana (hide and seek) engadini... or ingqobe or umalalisa ngo come tenesi at the square. Games like Jim-Bass, u-tap tap, u-a-ra wuru, umatshayana, kick and run, stop sweetie-sweetie, and Christopher Columbus, and how everyone wanted to be the Soviet Union or the USA!
How about building a swing from a piece of rope tied to the protruding branch of a tree yompintshisi there were guarantees that the rope would withstand all the strain put on it the resultant broken limbs would earn one a thorough hiding?
And what about the times when you were lucky enough to go to the Centenary Park to each candy floss (utshinda) and riding the miniature Choo-choo train. Watching the peacocks parading their glamorous plumage and how about the Fountain with its constant shower of water spray which you awaited and relished fiendishly when it sprinkled you with its cold, albeit refreshing freshness or its changing colours at night. How about the Trade fair that my then 4 year old sister called in Fair fair! You lived for that.
What about the dreaded bath times? Taking a bath at 4:00pm, then having tea eka 4 lembambayila from Lower Gwelo in your pyjamas-if you had these-more like izigqoko eziclean. And you knew that nxa usugezile, no more playing outside. Closing the windows at 5 ukuti singalunywa yimosquito, while waiting for TV 1 to start and watching the Muppets, o-Flintstone and hey-hey-hey Fat Albert, Voltron, Care Bears, Button moon, hen it was time for Star Trek, Hawaii 5-0 or Kojak.
When the weather report started, you were sent to bed, after the parents hadinsisted you observe great silence during the news. Strictly no noise, okunye was because isikhiwa sasibeqa abadala and you did not want to be blamed for the old man not getting the news fully. How about their own periodic exclamations of, hmmm uyatshinga uSmith..., uzondile uThatcher..., asazi sizabona ngakho...
School holidays meant ekhaya or ama extra lessons. Few days before schoolstarted again you would plead with your parents to get you new socks because all the ones you have had izikhala. At Christmas, it was a time for negotiation. Ufuna izigqoko zeKrismas or ufuna i-uniform? But most times, of course, you got both. Oh, our loving parents, how they managed you can never say.
The night before the first day of school you couldn't get to sleep. Shoes werepolished until you could see your name in large capitals, uniform pressed and new stationery (that your parents got from work!) First thing in the morning, you would get your lunch box with isinkwa, and cool drink. Who would forget the smell of Mazoe Orange juice? With Dandy bubble gum going for a cent, ice-cream from the Dairiboard happy chappie on the corner with hislittle cart. Yes, running to the corner to buy ama rama, amaputi, ama pennycool kumbe ichongo, all for not more than a dollar? Do you remember?”
My grandmother was the most humorous person I know, after my mother that is. She had such a bag of tales. You can now guess where all this came from. I will really miss her. None the less, memories of days past are something to treasure, and I have decided to share this with you to jog those of us who grew up when stones were still soft and money was money.
“Thank God that I had such a wonderful childhood in such a beautifulcountry. Think back to the time, before the Internet or the ATM, before Play Station and DSTV, and CD's and DVD's and Bearer cheques. Way back,I'm talking about the time of umacatshelana (hide and seek) engadini... or ingqobe or umalalisa ngo come tenesi at the square. Games like Jim-Bass, u-tap tap, u-a-ra wuru, umatshayana, kick and run, stop sweetie-sweetie, and Christopher Columbus, and how everyone wanted to be the Soviet Union or the USA!
How about building a swing from a piece of rope tied to the protruding branch of a tree yompintshisi there were guarantees that the rope would withstand all the strain put on it the resultant broken limbs would earn one a thorough hiding?
And what about the times when you were lucky enough to go to the Centenary Park to each candy floss (utshinda) and riding the miniature Choo-choo train. Watching the peacocks parading their glamorous plumage and how about the Fountain with its constant shower of water spray which you awaited and relished fiendishly when it sprinkled you with its cold, albeit refreshing freshness or its changing colours at night. How about the Trade fair that my then 4 year old sister called in Fair fair! You lived for that.
What about the dreaded bath times? Taking a bath at 4:00pm, then having tea eka 4 lembambayila from Lower Gwelo in your pyjamas-if you had these-more like izigqoko eziclean. And you knew that nxa usugezile, no more playing outside. Closing the windows at 5 ukuti singalunywa yimosquito, while waiting for TV 1 to start and watching the Muppets, o-Flintstone and hey-hey-hey Fat Albert, Voltron, Care Bears, Button moon, hen it was time for Star Trek, Hawaii 5-0 or Kojak.
When the weather report started, you were sent to bed, after the parents hadinsisted you observe great silence during the news. Strictly no noise, okunye was because isikhiwa sasibeqa abadala and you did not want to be blamed for the old man not getting the news fully. How about their own periodic exclamations of, hmmm uyatshinga uSmith..., uzondile uThatcher..., asazi sizabona ngakho...
School holidays meant ekhaya or ama extra lessons. Few days before schoolstarted again you would plead with your parents to get you new socks because all the ones you have had izikhala. At Christmas, it was a time for negotiation. Ufuna izigqoko zeKrismas or ufuna i-uniform? But most times, of course, you got both. Oh, our loving parents, how they managed you can never say.
The night before the first day of school you couldn't get to sleep. Shoes werepolished until you could see your name in large capitals, uniform pressed and new stationery (that your parents got from work!) First thing in the morning, you would get your lunch box with isinkwa, and cool drink. Who would forget the smell of Mazoe Orange juice? With Dandy bubble gum going for a cent, ice-cream from the Dairiboard happy chappie on the corner with hislittle cart. Yes, running to the corner to buy ama rama, amaputi, ama pennycool kumbe ichongo, all for not more than a dollar? Do you remember?”
My experience in a ZESA queue
I never intended this to be a gripe column. But one incident has forced my hand, so to speak. We all know that ZESA, the power utility, has had its fair share of bashing in this and other media, but I feel that they sometimes bring it on themselves the state of their bill payment halls being a case in point. More specifically at Hylett House. What I will detail below is a true story. Names have been excluded to protect the innocent (and inconvenienced.)
Day One: Yours truly, being a conscientious citizen, decides to pay his electricity bill, even though I last received a bill in ninenteen-gocha nhembe.I calmly queue in front of the Enquiries Desk with a 200-page novel, well prepared for the long haul. Thirty minutes later (this queue was short) the kind gentleman behind the desk tells me that I have not been billed. So could I be a nice consumer and pay a million dollars (old currency) which he tells me is a guesstimate.
Looking at the long and winding payments queue, I decide to write a cheque as I normally do under such circumstances. Lo and behold I find the cheque box sealed. The security guard standing nearby politely advises that I join the queue and pay cash. Cheques are not being accepted because they might ‘bounce’ because of the currency revaluation. Seeing the prospect of spending the rest of my short life in the payments queue, I give up and head for work.
Day Two: I am pleasantly surprised by the short queue at the enquiries desk. There are just two of us there. This is going to be nice and quick, I sing to myself. The chap at the counter informs me that there is a ‘problem’ with my electricity account.
“Go round and join the Credit Control queue labelled BYO East,” he advises. I then discover why the enquiries queue is so short. It has reformed at Credit Control. For those of you who did not know, the Credit Control queue is composed mainly of sheepish looking people whose supplies have been disconnected for non-payment. The difference is that I am yet to be disconnected, which is why I want to find out how much I owe.
Remember, I have not received a bill since dinosaurs roamed the earth. The queue is visibly longer than the one at the ‘BYO’ West counter and is not moving an inch. The lady there is busy cleaning her keyboard. I assume she is the cleaner by the way she meticulously scrubs the computer. We later discover otherwise and that there is a ‘problem’ with her terminal. We are then shunted to another one and she promptly starts work.
Meanwhile, the BYO West queue has disappeared and the lady there is dutifully telling anyone who strays there that she deals only with the WEST. Our queue has grown much longer and soon I regret the folly of having moved from Gwabalanda to Parklands. After going through two customers, the ‘cleaning’ lady abruptly moves back to the first terminal which is now working after some tinkering by a very smart looking young man in glasses.
By then the bearded white fellow behind me has blown a couple of fuses. In fact, he is on the verge of inciting a riot. It also doe not help matters that an old white lady has cut the queue in the process. Apparently, he has been queuing since the day before and wonders aloud why there are no bills being sent out and why the computers don’t seem to work. Good questions those, but the rest of us are like new-born kittens.
It’s now my turn and the ‘cleaning lady’ informs me that I have a credit, meaning that ZESA owe me money instead! However, since bills are sure to materialise this century, I’m advised to pay an estimated amount. This, I am kindly warned, is the prudent thing to do because when the bills do eventually arrive and I am found wanting, I will surely be cut off. It’s a small victory for a small man like me to be owed money by a utility. I take a glance at the payments queue and I decide that I do not want to miss seeing my children grow into adulthood standing there.
Day One: Yours truly, being a conscientious citizen, decides to pay his electricity bill, even though I last received a bill in ninenteen-gocha nhembe.I calmly queue in front of the Enquiries Desk with a 200-page novel, well prepared for the long haul. Thirty minutes later (this queue was short) the kind gentleman behind the desk tells me that I have not been billed. So could I be a nice consumer and pay a million dollars (old currency) which he tells me is a guesstimate.
Looking at the long and winding payments queue, I decide to write a cheque as I normally do under such circumstances. Lo and behold I find the cheque box sealed. The security guard standing nearby politely advises that I join the queue and pay cash. Cheques are not being accepted because they might ‘bounce’ because of the currency revaluation. Seeing the prospect of spending the rest of my short life in the payments queue, I give up and head for work.
Day Two: I am pleasantly surprised by the short queue at the enquiries desk. There are just two of us there. This is going to be nice and quick, I sing to myself. The chap at the counter informs me that there is a ‘problem’ with my electricity account.
“Go round and join the Credit Control queue labelled BYO East,” he advises. I then discover why the enquiries queue is so short. It has reformed at Credit Control. For those of you who did not know, the Credit Control queue is composed mainly of sheepish looking people whose supplies have been disconnected for non-payment. The difference is that I am yet to be disconnected, which is why I want to find out how much I owe.
Remember, I have not received a bill since dinosaurs roamed the earth. The queue is visibly longer than the one at the ‘BYO’ West counter and is not moving an inch. The lady there is busy cleaning her keyboard. I assume she is the cleaner by the way she meticulously scrubs the computer. We later discover otherwise and that there is a ‘problem’ with her terminal. We are then shunted to another one and she promptly starts work.
Meanwhile, the BYO West queue has disappeared and the lady there is dutifully telling anyone who strays there that she deals only with the WEST. Our queue has grown much longer and soon I regret the folly of having moved from Gwabalanda to Parklands. After going through two customers, the ‘cleaning’ lady abruptly moves back to the first terminal which is now working after some tinkering by a very smart looking young man in glasses.
By then the bearded white fellow behind me has blown a couple of fuses. In fact, he is on the verge of inciting a riot. It also doe not help matters that an old white lady has cut the queue in the process. Apparently, he has been queuing since the day before and wonders aloud why there are no bills being sent out and why the computers don’t seem to work. Good questions those, but the rest of us are like new-born kittens.
It’s now my turn and the ‘cleaning lady’ informs me that I have a credit, meaning that ZESA owe me money instead! However, since bills are sure to materialise this century, I’m advised to pay an estimated amount. This, I am kindly warned, is the prudent thing to do because when the bills do eventually arrive and I am found wanting, I will surely be cut off. It’s a small victory for a small man like me to be owed money by a utility. I take a glance at the payments queue and I decide that I do not want to miss seeing my children grow into adulthood standing there.
Monday, July 31
Why alcoholics should stop drinking
Alcohol doesn’t solve problems, but then again, neither does milk. The fact that millions in Zimbabwe spend so much time and money drinking should be a significant issue for debate. The big question is why people drink, while the alcoholic will wonder why people don’t. There are many ‘social drinkers’ out there. The excuse, “I drink to socialise,’ is as common as a hangover for the alcoholic in denial.
The most incredible answer I have heard was the friend who said that by drinking beer he was being humanitarian. If he were to stop drinking, he surmised, a lot of people in the brewing industry and other downstream industries would lose their jobs. The worst was a friend who said, “"Terrorists, Lenox. They've taken over my stomach and they're demanding beer."
You can easily classify Zimbabweans into two groups; those who go to church and those who go to the bottle store. Trying to get the two to meet has been on of life’s greatest challenges. The debate has divided Christians, with the Catholics and Anglicans allowing their flock (and their priests) to take alcohol ‘with moderation,’ the major problem being the extent of ‘moderation.’ To the imbiber, that term can range from 2 pints to 20 as long as he is still standing. To the full blown Christian fundamentalist, a sip is one too many.
The topic that dominates the bars and pulpits is about the rising in the costs of alcohol. The Christians, admittedly, aren’t claiming victory just yet. They know that the drought is only as long as beer drinkers can’t afford a tipple. When the economy does turn around, the reality is that the new converts would desert faster than you can spell the word ‘beer,’ ‘reality’ being the illusion that occurs due to lack of alcohol. The challenge that the churches face is how to keep these chaps inside and away from the booze.
Christian institutions should sponsor an interactive campaign using available new media to discourage drinking. This is to counter those cynical adverts by the alcoholic beverages manufacturing fraternity that speak with a forked tounge and proclaim that consumption of alcohol may be harmful to one’s health. Then going on to extol the refreshing qualities of the slow poison! What cheek!
As a community service may I offer the Christian fraternity examples of the realistic messages they can push in their campaign:
The most incredible answer I have heard was the friend who said that by drinking beer he was being humanitarian. If he were to stop drinking, he surmised, a lot of people in the brewing industry and other downstream industries would lose their jobs. The worst was a friend who said, “"Terrorists, Lenox. They've taken over my stomach and they're demanding beer."
You can easily classify Zimbabweans into two groups; those who go to church and those who go to the bottle store. Trying to get the two to meet has been on of life’s greatest challenges. The debate has divided Christians, with the Catholics and Anglicans allowing their flock (and their priests) to take alcohol ‘with moderation,’ the major problem being the extent of ‘moderation.’ To the imbiber, that term can range from 2 pints to 20 as long as he is still standing. To the full blown Christian fundamentalist, a sip is one too many.
The topic that dominates the bars and pulpits is about the rising in the costs of alcohol. The Christians, admittedly, aren’t claiming victory just yet. They know that the drought is only as long as beer drinkers can’t afford a tipple. When the economy does turn around, the reality is that the new converts would desert faster than you can spell the word ‘beer,’ ‘reality’ being the illusion that occurs due to lack of alcohol. The challenge that the churches face is how to keep these chaps inside and away from the booze.
Christian institutions should sponsor an interactive campaign using available new media to discourage drinking. This is to counter those cynical adverts by the alcoholic beverages manufacturing fraternity that speak with a forked tounge and proclaim that consumption of alcohol may be harmful to one’s health. Then going on to extol the refreshing qualities of the slow poison! What cheek!
As a community service may I offer the Christian fraternity examples of the realistic messages they can push in their campaign:
- WARNING: Consumption of alcohol may cause you to thay shings like thish.
- Consumption of alcohol may make you think you are whispering when you are not.
- Consumption of alcohol may cause you to tell the same boring story over and over and over and over and over and over….
- Consumption of alcohol may leave you wondering what the hell happened to your trousers.
- Consumption of alcohol may cause you to wake up with breath that could curdle a pint of milk at 100 metres.
- Consumption of alcohol may cause you to roll over in the morning and see something really scary (whose species and/or name you can't remember).
- Consumption of alcohol may lead you to think people are laughing with you.
- Consumption of alcohol may actually cause pregnancy.
What’s my position in all this? I will leave you with a quote from Stephen Wright who once said, “24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a crate. Coincidence?”
Tips on how to gatecrash a function
Recent developments have resulted in beer drinkers being down-listed to Appendix 3, endangered species. The rise in prices – yet again – of beer has had wives celebrating and placed die-hards munguva yakaoma chaizvo, chaizvo. Yes, some are calling it quits after failing to cope with the hikes without having to starve their families to death. The honeymoon had to end at some point. The brewers for their part are finding it hard to justify the punitive increases and their very existence.
So much for moaning, as they say, desperate times demand desperate measures. In spite of the price-induced beer drought that is scotching the nation, there remain institutions that are so well-heeled that they perceive hikes to be a minor nuisance. The country will never run short of individual and companies that will throw the occasional function to celebrate one thing or the other. Now, do you get what I am driving at?
It was Karl Max who wrote about societal inequalities and the redistribution of wealth. So in a sense, those companies that have money to throw around should consider a bit of social responsibility and share the loot with the unfortunate members of society. Those who, for reasons entirely beyond their control, can’t even afford a single drop of their favourite brew. However, for some selfish reason, these same said companies forget to extend a simple invitation to these poor souls. This leaves no choice but for them to invite themselves to the party! Yeah!
Do not misconstrue my intentions here. I am not about to advocate for anarchy. No ways. I am just saying that people need to be innovative, to think outside the box, as it were, if they are to survive the beer drought. Bluntly put, to gatecrash a function seems just about the only solution. Unless, of course you won the Lotto or suddenly found yourself in the last will and testament of some stinking rich but very dead relative.
So in the interest of sanity and the good of the inebriated side of humanity, I will share a few tips on the dos and don’ts of gate-crashing a function. First, you got to have a plan in place, ne? Target your functions carefully and do some background research. Is it a celebration or a serious gig? Banks are bound to throw both of a kind. Are there any bouncers or security at the door with long invitation lists, or do they employ the pesky PR types who seem to know everyone by face?
Dress for the occasion. Avoid looking as if you are a crime waiting to happen or as if you just fell off a very tall tree. Invest in a dark suit, it speaks volumes. Look the part and be prepared to drop a few important names in your conversations. It means that, God forbid, you have to watch ZTV so that you can recognise the faces that matter. Getting past the entrance requires great skills of deception. You have to look as if you are supposed to be there. Do not wait to be interrogated or fidget around. Chances are that whoever is manning the gate is in no mood to be chasing uninvited guests round the venue. Unless you are dealing with a bouncer or worse still a security guard.
Once you are inside, you have to maintain your composure. The PR types are sure to smell trouble a mile away. Their job, by the way is to keep the function off the front page of Umthunywa. Tempted as you may be, imbibe within reasonable limits. I know that the word ‘reasonable’ does not exist in an alcoholic’s dictionary. But at least you can try.
Get to know who the host is to avoid what happened to my young brother some years ago. After successfully making past the bouncer, he ended up being the barman. He made the mistake of denying what he thought was a super-arrogant guest his share of whisky. He was to discover, after being tossed over the durawall by a very big monya for hire, that the chap he had called a village idiot was the owner of the party!
Glossary
Appendix 3: Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Flora and Fauna (CITES) classifies elephants in this category.
Nguva yakaoma: hard times
ZTV: Zimbabwe Television
Unthunywa: A gunk unearthing Ndebele language tabloid
Durawall: Pre-cast wall.
Monya: Slang for bouncer
So much for moaning, as they say, desperate times demand desperate measures. In spite of the price-induced beer drought that is scotching the nation, there remain institutions that are so well-heeled that they perceive hikes to be a minor nuisance. The country will never run short of individual and companies that will throw the occasional function to celebrate one thing or the other. Now, do you get what I am driving at?
It was Karl Max who wrote about societal inequalities and the redistribution of wealth. So in a sense, those companies that have money to throw around should consider a bit of social responsibility and share the loot with the unfortunate members of society. Those who, for reasons entirely beyond their control, can’t even afford a single drop of their favourite brew. However, for some selfish reason, these same said companies forget to extend a simple invitation to these poor souls. This leaves no choice but for them to invite themselves to the party! Yeah!
Do not misconstrue my intentions here. I am not about to advocate for anarchy. No ways. I am just saying that people need to be innovative, to think outside the box, as it were, if they are to survive the beer drought. Bluntly put, to gatecrash a function seems just about the only solution. Unless, of course you won the Lotto or suddenly found yourself in the last will and testament of some stinking rich but very dead relative.
So in the interest of sanity and the good of the inebriated side of humanity, I will share a few tips on the dos and don’ts of gate-crashing a function. First, you got to have a plan in place, ne? Target your functions carefully and do some background research. Is it a celebration or a serious gig? Banks are bound to throw both of a kind. Are there any bouncers or security at the door with long invitation lists, or do they employ the pesky PR types who seem to know everyone by face?
Dress for the occasion. Avoid looking as if you are a crime waiting to happen or as if you just fell off a very tall tree. Invest in a dark suit, it speaks volumes. Look the part and be prepared to drop a few important names in your conversations. It means that, God forbid, you have to watch ZTV so that you can recognise the faces that matter. Getting past the entrance requires great skills of deception. You have to look as if you are supposed to be there. Do not wait to be interrogated or fidget around. Chances are that whoever is manning the gate is in no mood to be chasing uninvited guests round the venue. Unless you are dealing with a bouncer or worse still a security guard.
Once you are inside, you have to maintain your composure. The PR types are sure to smell trouble a mile away. Their job, by the way is to keep the function off the front page of Umthunywa. Tempted as you may be, imbibe within reasonable limits. I know that the word ‘reasonable’ does not exist in an alcoholic’s dictionary. But at least you can try.
Get to know who the host is to avoid what happened to my young brother some years ago. After successfully making past the bouncer, he ended up being the barman. He made the mistake of denying what he thought was a super-arrogant guest his share of whisky. He was to discover, after being tossed over the durawall by a very big monya for hire, that the chap he had called a village idiot was the owner of the party!
Glossary
Appendix 3: Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Flora and Fauna (CITES) classifies elephants in this category.
Nguva yakaoma: hard times
ZTV: Zimbabwe Television
Unthunywa: A gunk unearthing Ndebele language tabloid
Durawall: Pre-cast wall.
Monya: Slang for bouncer
How we would win the World Cup of Complaining
If complaining were a competitive sport, then Zimbabweans would surely win the World Cup hands down. We complain about everything and anything. Are we just outright rabble-rousing pests or it’s simply because we always get the short end of the stick when it comes to the products and services that we shell our hard earned cash for. That, of course, depends on which side of the counter you are standing. However, one cannot deny the fact that it is our constitutional right to complain. Even if there is nothing specifically wrong. For them to know who exactly is king, we have to keep these guys on their toes.
One has to admit that at times clarity becomes an issue when we attempt to put our case across. I should know because I was, in one of my nine occupational lives, the Senior Public Relations Officer of the City of Bulawayo. Entertaining complains and trying to solve them took a significant chunk of my time and I must admit that some of the gripe turned out to be quite hilarious. I will attempt to share some of the complaints with you having carefully edited out the authors. Many were anonymous, of course. But if you are one of those who make it a habit of writing letters of complaint to the City Council, then you should be very embarrassed to read these, here we go:
- I wish to complain that my father hurt his ankle very badly when he put his foot in the hole in his back passage.
The lavatory is blocked; this is caused by the boys next door throwing their balls on the roof. - This is to let you know that there is a smell coming from the man next door.
- The toilet seat is cracked, where do I stand?
- I am writing on behalf of my sink, which is running away from the wall.
- I am still having trouble with smoke in my built in drawers.
- I request your permission to remove my drawers in the kitchen.
- Our lavatory seat is broken in half and is now in three pieces.
- Can you please tell me when our repairs are going to be done as my wife is about to become an expectant mother.
- The toilet is blocked and we cannot bath the children until it is cleared.
- Will you please send someone to mend our broken path? Yesterday my wife tripped on it and is now pregnant.
- Our kitchen floor is very damp, we have two children and would like a third, and so will you please send someone to do something about it.
- Would you please repair our toilet, my son pulled the chain and the box fell on his head.
- Will you please send a man to look at my water; it is a funny colour and not fit to drink.
- This is to let you know that our lavatory seat is broken and we cannot get the ZBC.
- When I applied for a rebate you said that you would have to take something off. Now that you have taken it off, I have been told that you should have put some on. So will you please take off what you took off and put on what you should have put on when you took it off?
And now a special request to you. If you are planning to send a complaint to the City fathers, why don’t you wing it by us first so that we can have a very good laugh and then file it for future columns? That’s being a sport. If all of you did that, then we will have enough material to take our mind of these depressing times. And I am dead serious on this one futhi!
Enter the landlady from Hell
There are landlords (ladies) and lodgers. Some would prefer to be called tenants because it sounds sophisticated. But it’s the same thing, that is, someone who pays rent to live on someone else’s property. Not everyone chooses to be a tenant and no one wishes to be one forever. But due to circumstances beyond their control, some people find themselves in this untenable position, to excuse the pun.
What is wrong in being a lodger…eh…tenant? On the surface, nothing, but to the landlord there seems to be something definitely wrong. It has something to do with one being in the over-class or the underclass where the latter is made to feel really downtrodden, to borrow revolutionary phraseology.
Take the term ‘Lord’ which means “a man who rules over people.” From the experience of some poor souls who have had to endure the excesses of being at the mercy of property owners who think they are gods, one wonders whether its really worth going through the ordeal.
A friend decided to move out of the ghetto to conform to his newfound status that afforded him a more spacious abode in one of the leafy eastern suburbs. The family’s landlady, if we may call her that, owned two houses next to each other, one of which she decided to rent out, a classic Diaspora success story.
The first problem, which initially did not seem obvious, was the fact hat my friend had a car which the landlady, for some inexplicable reason, did not possess. One morning he was told that he revved up his car too loudly in the mornings. This he took to be a reasonable complaint. Then he was told his car, Willowville Mazda 323, was “too heavy” for the driveway. Next thing he was asked if he could possibly leave it at work!
That was just the beginning. He was to endure surprise inspections for which his brave wife bore the brunt. The landlady would animatedly harangue the wife or maid, (depending on who was home at the time) about the way the family ‘depreciated’ the value of her property. The besieged family’s sins included hanging too much laundry outside, “crowding” the house with furniture and entertaining too many visitors.
The crunch came when my unsuspecting friend acquired a satellite dish. He received a strongly-worded letter asking who he thought he was causing such a major defect on her outside wall without consulting the landlady? Initially, he thought this to be a joke. Not until he came home one evening to find the offending gadget removed and grounded in the garage.
Why? You guessed right. How dare a tenant enjoy the sophistication of watching several television channels when the lord of the manor had none? My friend’s tenancy lasted two action- packed months. Apart from giving him enough tales to entertain his workmates for years, he says it tested the limits of his tolerance. He says all being things being equal, he could have strangled the lady the very week he moved in.
Have you had a ‘Landlord Experience’ you would love to share? Like the one where a house owner attempted to impose some rudimentary from of population control by telling his tenants that he would be “very happy if they kept the size of their family within reasonable limits.” Tenants (read lodgers) in the Western Suburbs have to endure the misdemeanours of their landlords, like having their property attached. Or which tenant will turn down the amorous advances of the landlord or lady if there was the threat that you could find your expensive property exposed to the elements at the drop of a…eh…hat? Let us share those juicy tales.
What is wrong in being a lodger…eh…tenant? On the surface, nothing, but to the landlord there seems to be something definitely wrong. It has something to do with one being in the over-class or the underclass where the latter is made to feel really downtrodden, to borrow revolutionary phraseology.
Take the term ‘Lord’ which means “a man who rules over people.” From the experience of some poor souls who have had to endure the excesses of being at the mercy of property owners who think they are gods, one wonders whether its really worth going through the ordeal.
A friend decided to move out of the ghetto to conform to his newfound status that afforded him a more spacious abode in one of the leafy eastern suburbs. The family’s landlady, if we may call her that, owned two houses next to each other, one of which she decided to rent out, a classic Diaspora success story.
The first problem, which initially did not seem obvious, was the fact hat my friend had a car which the landlady, for some inexplicable reason, did not possess. One morning he was told that he revved up his car too loudly in the mornings. This he took to be a reasonable complaint. Then he was told his car, Willowville Mazda 323, was “too heavy” for the driveway. Next thing he was asked if he could possibly leave it at work!
That was just the beginning. He was to endure surprise inspections for which his brave wife bore the brunt. The landlady would animatedly harangue the wife or maid, (depending on who was home at the time) about the way the family ‘depreciated’ the value of her property. The besieged family’s sins included hanging too much laundry outside, “crowding” the house with furniture and entertaining too many visitors.
The crunch came when my unsuspecting friend acquired a satellite dish. He received a strongly-worded letter asking who he thought he was causing such a major defect on her outside wall without consulting the landlady? Initially, he thought this to be a joke. Not until he came home one evening to find the offending gadget removed and grounded in the garage.
Why? You guessed right. How dare a tenant enjoy the sophistication of watching several television channels when the lord of the manor had none? My friend’s tenancy lasted two action- packed months. Apart from giving him enough tales to entertain his workmates for years, he says it tested the limits of his tolerance. He says all being things being equal, he could have strangled the lady the very week he moved in.
Have you had a ‘Landlord Experience’ you would love to share? Like the one where a house owner attempted to impose some rudimentary from of population control by telling his tenants that he would be “very happy if they kept the size of their family within reasonable limits.” Tenants (read lodgers) in the Western Suburbs have to endure the misdemeanours of their landlords, like having their property attached. Or which tenant will turn down the amorous advances of the landlord or lady if there was the threat that you could find your expensive property exposed to the elements at the drop of a…eh…hat? Let us share those juicy tales.
Tuesday, July 25
If you swear and drive, you must be sick!
I am not alone in thinking that there is something intrinsically wrong with most commuter bus drivers and their foul-mouthed touts. It was not until I read an article in the Journal of Psychiatry that there are people who suffer from a disease that manifests itself when one is on the road. To you, that angry, swearing, horn-blasting, moron has road rage. But doctors have another name for it - intermittent explosive disorder or IED for short. A new study suggests it is far more common than we realised, affecting up to 47% of all drivers.
People think its bad behaviour and that one just needs an attitude adjustment, but what they don't know, writes Dr Emil Coccaro, chairperson of psychiatry at the University of Chicago's medical school, is that there's a biology and cognitive science to this. Road rage, temper outbursts that involve throwing or breaking objects and even spousal abuse can sometimes be attributed to the disorder, though not everyone who does those things is afflicted, thank God. The disorder typically first appears in adolescence; in the study, the average age of onset was 14. Remember throwing those tantrums at the toy shop when uBaba refused to buy you that 4x4 jeep toy car? Ehe!
By definition, intermittent explosive disorder involves multiple outbursts that are way out of proportion to the situation. These angry outbursts often include threats or aggressive actions and damage to property…and individuals. Sounds familiar? Now that places our dear commuter drivers and touts firmly in this sphere of illness, mental illness my dear friends and this is dead serious!
For instance I was shocked beyond words the other day when I eavesdropped – if one can call it that – on a casual conversation between a driver and his trusted companion (read uWindi) on how they would be able to afford a straight of brandy if they unilaterally raised the commuter fare to $150,000. Now, are these chaps sick or what? Which goes to show how unjustified some of the increases are, motivated by greed more than anything else.
Coccaro said the disorder involves inadequate production or functioning of serotonin, a mood-regulating and behaviour-inhibiting brain chemical. Treatment with anti-depressants, including those that target serotonin receptors in the brain, is often helpful, along with behaviour therapy akin to anger management.
Now these psychiatrists seem to have found that IED is more common than previously thought. Yeah, right! Thina, we knew it all along that these guys, and quite a sizeable number of drivers need help and fast before they kill someone.
Which reminds me of the following incident where a father, who worked away from home all week, always made a special effort with his family at the weekends. Every Sunday morning he would take his daughter out for a drive in the car. One particular Sunday however, he was so full of cold that he really didn't feel like driving at all. Luckily, his wife came to the rescue and decided that for this week she would take their daughter out. They returned just before lunch and the little girl ran upstairs to see her father.
"Well" the father asked, "Did you enjoy your ride with mummy?"
"Oh yes Daddy" the girl replied, "And you know what... we didn't see a single bastard!"
People think its bad behaviour and that one just needs an attitude adjustment, but what they don't know, writes Dr Emil Coccaro, chairperson of psychiatry at the University of Chicago's medical school, is that there's a biology and cognitive science to this. Road rage, temper outbursts that involve throwing or breaking objects and even spousal abuse can sometimes be attributed to the disorder, though not everyone who does those things is afflicted, thank God. The disorder typically first appears in adolescence; in the study, the average age of onset was 14. Remember throwing those tantrums at the toy shop when uBaba refused to buy you that 4x4 jeep toy car? Ehe!
By definition, intermittent explosive disorder involves multiple outbursts that are way out of proportion to the situation. These angry outbursts often include threats or aggressive actions and damage to property…and individuals. Sounds familiar? Now that places our dear commuter drivers and touts firmly in this sphere of illness, mental illness my dear friends and this is dead serious!
For instance I was shocked beyond words the other day when I eavesdropped – if one can call it that – on a casual conversation between a driver and his trusted companion (read uWindi) on how they would be able to afford a straight of brandy if they unilaterally raised the commuter fare to $150,000. Now, are these chaps sick or what? Which goes to show how unjustified some of the increases are, motivated by greed more than anything else.
Coccaro said the disorder involves inadequate production or functioning of serotonin, a mood-regulating and behaviour-inhibiting brain chemical. Treatment with anti-depressants, including those that target serotonin receptors in the brain, is often helpful, along with behaviour therapy akin to anger management.
Now these psychiatrists seem to have found that IED is more common than previously thought. Yeah, right! Thina, we knew it all along that these guys, and quite a sizeable number of drivers need help and fast before they kill someone.
Which reminds me of the following incident where a father, who worked away from home all week, always made a special effort with his family at the weekends. Every Sunday morning he would take his daughter out for a drive in the car. One particular Sunday however, he was so full of cold that he really didn't feel like driving at all. Luckily, his wife came to the rescue and decided that for this week she would take their daughter out. They returned just before lunch and the little girl ran upstairs to see her father.
"Well" the father asked, "Did you enjoy your ride with mummy?"
"Oh yes Daddy" the girl replied, "And you know what... we didn't see a single bastard!"
Monday, June 26
There is no stranger language than English
When I read in one edition of the Sunday magazine some time ago I was shocked to read that a local model was on the verge of great things but had hit a pothole. She could not speak a stitch of English and yet she had an O level certificate! I was tempted to hitch a lift to rural Plumtree to investigate before I had a serious rethink. What’s so particular about the English language after all?
In fact the people at Heads Modelling Agency had their priorities right. Why deny Julie an opportunity of a lifetime just because she can’t tala Engelsk? Beauty first, then communicate later, which is exactly what happened and to cap it all, the tall rural beauty is making very good progress.
With apologies to all English Language teachers, I will be the first to admit that English is indeed a foreign language to all of us. As they say in Shona, “Chakauya nengarava!” We try too hard sometimes. I mean thina amaZimbos. Have you heard what they say about our spoken skills? They say we speak English better than the English themselves!
Why are we so fussy about pronunciation, spelling grammar, pronouns, nouns, conjugating the verb and all that jazz? Life would still go on if we broke the Queen’s language here and there. Go to any other European country and you will discover that you are unlikely to be shot by firing squad if you did; decapitate the English language I mean. As long as you can get the message across it’s fine.
Just to show you that there is no stranger language that English, swallow these for size. These are signs that have been found throughout Africa;
In a restaurant in Zambia: "Open seven days a week and weekends."
On the grounds of a private school in South Africa: “No trespassing without permission."
On a window of a Nigerian shop: “Why go elsewhere to be cheated when you can come here?
On a poster in Ghana: "Are you an adult who cannot read? If so, we can help."
In a hotel in Mozambique: "Visitors are expected to complain at the office between the hours of 9.00 am and 11.00am daily."
On a river in the Democratic Republic of Congo: "Take note: When this sign is submerged, the river is impassable."
In a Zimbabwean restaurant: "Customers who find our waitresses rude ought to see the manager."
A sign seen on a hand dryer in a Lesotho public toilet: "Risk of electric shock. Do not activate with wet hands."
In a maternity ward of a clinic in Tanzania: "No children allowed!"
In a cemetery in Uganda: "Persons are prohibited from picking flowers from any but their graves."
In a Malawi hotel: "It is forbidden to steal towels please. If you are not a person to do such a thing, please don't read this notice."
A sign posted in an Algerian tourist camping park: "It is strictly forbidden on our camping site that people of different sex, for instance a man and woman, live together in one tent unless they are married to each other for that purpose."
In a Namibian nightclub: "Ladies are not allowed to have children in the bar."
And you thought Julie had a big problem with English, did you?
In fact the people at Heads Modelling Agency had their priorities right. Why deny Julie an opportunity of a lifetime just because she can’t tala Engelsk? Beauty first, then communicate later, which is exactly what happened and to cap it all, the tall rural beauty is making very good progress.
With apologies to all English Language teachers, I will be the first to admit that English is indeed a foreign language to all of us. As they say in Shona, “Chakauya nengarava!” We try too hard sometimes. I mean thina amaZimbos. Have you heard what they say about our spoken skills? They say we speak English better than the English themselves!
Why are we so fussy about pronunciation, spelling grammar, pronouns, nouns, conjugating the verb and all that jazz? Life would still go on if we broke the Queen’s language here and there. Go to any other European country and you will discover that you are unlikely to be shot by firing squad if you did; decapitate the English language I mean. As long as you can get the message across it’s fine.
Just to show you that there is no stranger language that English, swallow these for size. These are signs that have been found throughout Africa;
In a restaurant in Zambia: "Open seven days a week and weekends."
On the grounds of a private school in South Africa: “No trespassing without permission."
On a window of a Nigerian shop: “Why go elsewhere to be cheated when you can come here?
On a poster in Ghana: "Are you an adult who cannot read? If so, we can help."
In a hotel in Mozambique: "Visitors are expected to complain at the office between the hours of 9.00 am and 11.00am daily."
On a river in the Democratic Republic of Congo: "Take note: When this sign is submerged, the river is impassable."
In a Zimbabwean restaurant: "Customers who find our waitresses rude ought to see the manager."
A sign seen on a hand dryer in a Lesotho public toilet: "Risk of electric shock. Do not activate with wet hands."
In a maternity ward of a clinic in Tanzania: "No children allowed!"
In a cemetery in Uganda: "Persons are prohibited from picking flowers from any but their graves."
In a Malawi hotel: "It is forbidden to steal towels please. If you are not a person to do such a thing, please don't read this notice."
A sign posted in an Algerian tourist camping park: "It is strictly forbidden on our camping site that people of different sex, for instance a man and woman, live together in one tent unless they are married to each other for that purpose."
In a Namibian nightclub: "Ladies are not allowed to have children in the bar."
And you thought Julie had a big problem with English, did you?
Thursday, June 15
No instruction manual for parenting
Last Sunday was Father’s Day and I thought about reflecting on the occupation called parenthood. A word of warning to those reckless characters that are intent on sowing their wild oats and becoming a parent; there is no instruction manual. You have to learn on the job. The worse thing is the fact that your own childhood is of little preparation to bringing up today’s generation. This makes things a bit trickier.
Wanting to be the good and caring father the other day, I decided to phone home and chat to the boys who were home back from school. As usual, our effervescent last born son Anele (8 years) picked up the phone. Stumped for what to say next I proceeded to ask him what I later discovered to be the most stupid question in living memory. The conversation went something like this:
“Yes Anele!”
“Hie, Dad!”
“How’s my son today?”
“I’m fine!”
“What did you do at school today?”
“Learn. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do at school, Dad?”
“Well, duh!”
I am convinced that after that conversation, my son has begun doubting my sanity.
For one, today’s children seem to mature faster, know more and are wont to claiming whatever rights are due to them. Even the stuff they play with as toys are high tech gizmos that will take a degree in electronics to master. Ever tried tackling Play station? If you suffer from technophobia, just forget it and stick to draughts. During our time the ultimate toy was the half brick which accompanied by the necessary grunts, squeals and shrieks was our sports car. We would drag it for hours on end, never mind the disastrous landscaping that we perpetrated. The full brick, by the way, represented a typical bus.
Whatever happened to the plastic World Cup? Today’ children either play with the real thing or are staging the World Wrestling Federation in their bedroom. No matter how many times they are warned, “Never to try this at home,’ be sure that they are body slamming, clothes lining and one-two-threeing on your very expensive furniture while you are at work.
If you thought that your maid can control them then you are in for a shock. They are capable of blackmailing and even terrorising the domestic. Ever wondered why they don’t last. It might not be because of the motor-mouth wife but try interrogating the little imps. You will be very surprised. During our time our parents hired maids straight from the Gestapo. They were very effective in mental and physical torture and better still, they knew how to put us in our proper place.
Today we know for a fact that the only reason why parents employ minders is to prevent their children from razing the house to the ground. It goes to show that parenting is something which parents would rather have someone else do the dirty work for them. Meaning that when next you are tempted to manufacture babies, just re read this article.
Wanting to be the good and caring father the other day, I decided to phone home and chat to the boys who were home back from school. As usual, our effervescent last born son Anele (8 years) picked up the phone. Stumped for what to say next I proceeded to ask him what I later discovered to be the most stupid question in living memory. The conversation went something like this:
“Yes Anele!”
“Hie, Dad!”
“How’s my son today?”
“I’m fine!”
“What did you do at school today?”
“Learn. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do at school, Dad?”
“Well, duh!”
I am convinced that after that conversation, my son has begun doubting my sanity.
For one, today’s children seem to mature faster, know more and are wont to claiming whatever rights are due to them. Even the stuff they play with as toys are high tech gizmos that will take a degree in electronics to master. Ever tried tackling Play station? If you suffer from technophobia, just forget it and stick to draughts. During our time the ultimate toy was the half brick which accompanied by the necessary grunts, squeals and shrieks was our sports car. We would drag it for hours on end, never mind the disastrous landscaping that we perpetrated. The full brick, by the way, represented a typical bus.
Whatever happened to the plastic World Cup? Today’ children either play with the real thing or are staging the World Wrestling Federation in their bedroom. No matter how many times they are warned, “Never to try this at home,’ be sure that they are body slamming, clothes lining and one-two-threeing on your very expensive furniture while you are at work.
If you thought that your maid can control them then you are in for a shock. They are capable of blackmailing and even terrorising the domestic. Ever wondered why they don’t last. It might not be because of the motor-mouth wife but try interrogating the little imps. You will be very surprised. During our time our parents hired maids straight from the Gestapo. They were very effective in mental and physical torture and better still, they knew how to put us in our proper place.
Today we know for a fact that the only reason why parents employ minders is to prevent their children from razing the house to the ground. It goes to show that parenting is something which parents would rather have someone else do the dirty work for them. Meaning that when next you are tempted to manufacture babies, just re read this article.
Friday, June 9
That crazy event they call the World Cup
Women the world over will agree that they were created to bear the brunt of the fanatical excesses of men. When one is referring to the passion that accompanies the world’s most beautiful game, any full-bloodied male would find this accusation very incredulous indeed, especially when it’s another man who is laying it on the line. Let us wait until the World Cup in Germany is over, and then you will understand what I am trying to say.
Its because that’s only when a negligible minority would have realised that women would have had to go through many long and lonely nights as their mates sit transfixed in front of the television set. And that includes absentee husbands glued to the big screen at the pub. Count the “Christian” better half among this breed. After all what’s wrong with being in a pub when does not take a single drop of alcohol? In fact what better excuse is there besides the World Cup?
“Honey, I was at the pub.”
“Evangelising the sinners, my dear husband?”
“Well sort of. I dropped a few verses and advised them not to swear too much when Ronaldinho misses.”
“What about the beer?”
“At least they poured their pints over me instead of drinking them. Alleluiah!”
It takes a degree in psychology to understand man’s fixation with football. There is no greater crime than not showing interest in the sport. It’s as if it were eminently normal to like it. Is it truly sensible to spend huge amounts of one’s essential rather short life watching 22 grown ups kicking a spherical object around a piece of turf? What other human activity allows people to lose their heads without the fear of them being carted off to a mental institution? And we are just talking about celebrating a goal here, kuphela! Even football mad bosses are expected to turn a blind eye to bleary eyed workers stumbling in several hours late at work.
Let’s call it World Cup Fever. A disease that leaves a trail of destruction in homes as football widows multiply. Are there any solutions for the millions of long suffering women who will be tearing their hair out in frustration? All because of that ludicrous month-long sporting event taking place in Germany?
Most attempts at recreating the pub/club environment at home have failed to keep men within those four walls. Women are known then to have invested in digital satellite systems or even gone on to declare an amnesty by allowing their husbands to bring their noisy and annoying friends along the games. Others have employed to good effect the adage that face powder might catch a man but it’s the baking powder that keeps him.
For those who go the extra mile, it’s hard enough for them to understand the rules of the game. It’s even worse to pretend you like it. Like the poor woman who decided to accompany her hubby to the first soccer match in her whole life. After what was a thrilling match (for the husband of course) he asked his wife how it felt like.
“Well, alright I guess. But I really felt pity for the guy in black. He ran so hard through out the game and yet they never passed the ball to him even once!”
She was referring to the referee! Enjoy the World Cup guys, while you can.
Its because that’s only when a negligible minority would have realised that women would have had to go through many long and lonely nights as their mates sit transfixed in front of the television set. And that includes absentee husbands glued to the big screen at the pub. Count the “Christian” better half among this breed. After all what’s wrong with being in a pub when does not take a single drop of alcohol? In fact what better excuse is there besides the World Cup?
“Honey, I was at the pub.”
“Evangelising the sinners, my dear husband?”
“Well sort of. I dropped a few verses and advised them not to swear too much when Ronaldinho misses.”
“What about the beer?”
“At least they poured their pints over me instead of drinking them. Alleluiah!”
It takes a degree in psychology to understand man’s fixation with football. There is no greater crime than not showing interest in the sport. It’s as if it were eminently normal to like it. Is it truly sensible to spend huge amounts of one’s essential rather short life watching 22 grown ups kicking a spherical object around a piece of turf? What other human activity allows people to lose their heads without the fear of them being carted off to a mental institution? And we are just talking about celebrating a goal here, kuphela! Even football mad bosses are expected to turn a blind eye to bleary eyed workers stumbling in several hours late at work.
Let’s call it World Cup Fever. A disease that leaves a trail of destruction in homes as football widows multiply. Are there any solutions for the millions of long suffering women who will be tearing their hair out in frustration? All because of that ludicrous month-long sporting event taking place in Germany?
Most attempts at recreating the pub/club environment at home have failed to keep men within those four walls. Women are known then to have invested in digital satellite systems or even gone on to declare an amnesty by allowing their husbands to bring their noisy and annoying friends along the games. Others have employed to good effect the adage that face powder might catch a man but it’s the baking powder that keeps him.
For those who go the extra mile, it’s hard enough for them to understand the rules of the game. It’s even worse to pretend you like it. Like the poor woman who decided to accompany her hubby to the first soccer match in her whole life. After what was a thrilling match (for the husband of course) he asked his wife how it felt like.
“Well, alright I guess. But I really felt pity for the guy in black. He ran so hard through out the game and yet they never passed the ball to him even once!”
She was referring to the referee! Enjoy the World Cup guys, while you can.
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