I Was At the 2010 World Cup

The World Cup is now approaching its climax. And who would have thought that Brazil, France, Italy and Argentina would bite the dust? In fact who would have thought that South Africa would pull it off? As for Brazil I thought they were just too full of themselves and deserved everything that was coming to them. Ghana on the other hand did us proud even though they left the stage rather unfairly.

Incredibly, I found myself in the midst of it all, driving all the way from Francistown to Rustenburg if not just to smell it. Well I did and saw it too besides feeling it. This came courtesy of a friend from Sweden who landed at the reconstructed Sir Seretse Khama International Airport to watch some of the games even though his home country wasn’t in the thick of it. That is what I call a football fanatic.

Leif Lindström is no ordinary soccer fan. For one he is 60 years old but does not look his age. He has been involved with Orebrö SK, the big team in his native city of in the region of Nårike. So much about geography and to cut a long story short, I find myself in Rustenburg and the World Cup hits me full in the face. It’s the afternoon of the match between Mexico and Uruguay and this little Afrikaner town is abuzz. I can’t imagine how it was like when the English were here.

Reminds me so much of Bulawayo, only that they are more white faces I meet than black. The roads are jam packed and our guest had to fetch his ticket from some centre before working his way to the park and ride from where he was to board a bus to the Royal Bafokeng Stadium. I have to hand it to these forward thinking Bafokeng tribesmen.

Kgosi August Mokgatle, who reigned from 1834 to 1891 started buying land his people had occupied for centuries and 33 years after his death, the world's largest deposits of platinum group metals were discovered under Bafokeng land! They were then able to lease their mineral rights and eventually to claim royalties which they used to build a stadium way before South Africa won the bid to host the world’s greatest showcase.

Now, their investment has brought the world’s soccer stars right to their doorstep and dignitaries such as Bill Clinton and Mick Jagger (know the guy don’t you?) It’s like having Barack Obama at Barbourfields Stadium a stone’s throw from Makokoba! Now who can beat that for planning? Fast forward to Tuesday 22 June and I discovered that there was no way I could drive to marvel at this wonder. It seemed as if everyone and their grandmothers were driving there.

Perish the thought; I did not have a ticket for the game anyway. So my next best hope was to look for the nearest fan pack a catch the Bafana Bafana game against France. The proverbial last kick of a dying horse I presumed right. First, we have to drive Leif to the ticket centre and his hosts in Rustenberg and to think that I had not learnt my lesson in Joburg! Without that ingenious gadget called the GPS we got lost again.

Waterfalls Mall is known to all in this town but none was able to guide us straight to the darned place. It took us another agonising 30 minutes to get there if you take the fact that it was already 20 minutes to the start of the game. Don’t even ask me what hue Leif had taken on for a complexion. Let’s just say flaming red to be conservative. As an African, I was satisfied with getting to Rustenburg in one piece.

If we had not been delayed at the Tlokweng border post because Leif had two passports (in Sweden they are super efficient by the way) and the fact that we had to endure two super roadblocks were the cops searched for ‘firearms’ we would have made it with enough time for an African bath for our visitor. But we all have to thank the World Cup and Bheki Cele, police commissioner, and his storm-troopers that we were not carjacked instead! If only these guys could sustain such enthusiasm after the soccer spectacle.

We eventually dropped off our guest at the Waterfall mall and later got it from him that he got into the stadium 20 minutes into the game. He should have been glad to have watched the game alive at least! So off us plebeians went to look for the fan park were the rest of mankind in Rustenburg were watching their heroes. We got there after driving around aimlessly and by the grace of God bumping into the place.

I should mention that South Africa scored both their goals while we were still looking for our bearings. At least the radio was on and we enjoyed the spectacle of those locals who were unfortunate enough to be at work making fools of themselves, jumping up and down with delight. That was the time I wished I was a South African, because the feeling must have been something else. At that point I wondered whether that is how I behaved when my team Highlanders score.

The Fan Park was located at Fields School and we were made to park our car some kilometres from the venue. It weren’t for the colourful characters that were rushing to the place because the home team scored, I would have given up and driven to Hartbeespoort were we were to retire for the night. But what we found there was incredible. A sea of people of all races, colours and stations in life were brought together in the ecstasy of victory.

The fact that the South African team was knocked out was lost on this crowd. As I have stated elsewhere, that this World Cup has not just been another sporting event. It has changed this blessed country for ever. Blessed in the sense that they had such leaders as Nelson Mandela, whose countenance and very act of reconciliation softened the hearts of his former oppressors.

Well, I saw nothing of those hard hearts here. What I witnessed were whites whose cars were festooned with the national flag and wearing the South African team jersey. When Bafana Bafana scored, they celebrated and hugged their black compatriots. It was hard not to be patriotic during an event were so many nationalities flaunted their national identities with such passion and aplomb.

The Mexicans had their sombreros, the English, well, quaffed their beer, The Ghanains, Nigerians, Ivorians had their masks and drums, the Brazilians had their samba and the Dutch stole in strangely smuggled in German Bavarian beer. They could have used some timely advice from Highlanders supporters on this. And of course, AbeZansi had the ubiquitous vuvuzela which has spawned a culture that is sure to change the culture of the game.

If this World Cup has not done anything significant for the locals as some critics would want us to believe, I can be witness to the glaring fact that the world’s most beautiful game has brought the people of South Africa together. I was there and I felt it!

Stupid answers to stupid World Cup Questions

These questions about South Africa were posted on a South African Tourism Website and were answered by the website owner who, one must agree, has a great sense of humour!

Q: Does it ever get windy in South Africa? I have never seen it rain on TV, so how do the plants grow? (UK)
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.


Q: Will I be able to see elephants in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.

Q: I want to walk from Durban to Cape Town - can I follow the railroad tracks? (Sweden)
A: Sure, it's only two thousand kilometres take lots of water...

Q: Is it safe to run around in the bushes in South Africa? (Sweden)
A: So it's true what they say about Swedes..

Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in South Africa? Can you send me a list of them in JHB, Cape Town, Knysna and Jeffrey's Bay? (UK)
A: What did your last slave die of?

Q: Can you give me some information about Koala Bear racing in South Africa? (USA)
A: Aus-tra-lia is that big island in the middle of the pacific. A-fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe which does not...oh forget it. Sure, the Koala Bear racing is every Tuesday night in Hillbrow. Come naked.

Q: Which direction is north in South Africa? (USA)
A: Face south and then turn 90 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

Q: Can I bring cutlery into South Africa? (UK)
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.

Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is...oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Hillbrow, straight after the Koala Bear races. Come naked.

Q: Do you have perfume in South Africa? (France)
A: No, WE don't stink.

Q: I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth. Can you tell me where I can sell it in South Africa ? (USA)
A: Anywhere where a significant number of Americans gather.

Q: Can you tell me the regions in South Africa where the female population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay nightclubs.

Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in South Africa? (France)
A: Only at Christmas.

Q: Are there killer bees in South Africa? (Germany)
A: Not yet, but for you, we'll import them.

Q: Are there supermarkets in Cape Town and is milk available all year round?
A: No, we are a peaceful civilisation of vegan hunter-gatherers. Milk is illegal.

Q: Please send a list of all doctors in South Africa who can dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in A-meri-ca, which is where YOU come from. All South African snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets.

Q: I was in South Africa in 1969 and I want to contact the girl I dated while I was staying in Hillbrow. Can you help? (USA)
A: Yes, but you will probably still have to pay her by the hour... if she is still alive.

Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first.

Zimbabwe Monopoly

This one really cracked me up. I hope it will tickle your funny bone as much as it did mine!

Getting lost in Jozi and all the Jazz

So we got lost in Gauteng and I said who wouldn’t. Then some clever dick pointed out to me that he never did. What’s the big deal, I wondered. Then I recalled as I drove from petrol station to petrol station asking for directions, that I must have been barking up the wrong tree. These were ‘pedestrians’ giving directions to a ‘driver.’

There is a world of difference between driving in that maze and riding in a kombi. Never mind the fact that it was already dark and there was a lot of construction and detours everywhere. This was my first time driving in Jozi, the last time I was here we were being chauffeur driven courtesy of Mayor Amos Masondo’s office celebrity style.

Not one of those petrol attendants knew where Hartbeespoort was, let alone the shortest route to Lenasia, from where we could easily get to our destination. Then it struck me; this guy who responded on Facebook boasting that he (it must have been a he) ‘never’ got lost in Joburg was a pedestrian in the best sense of the word. I know, full bloodied men do not admit to such things as losing directions, let alone admit that they take a taxi to work.

But then it was through such peculiar circumstances that we managed to get to reach those places they keep warning you about, albeit unknowingly. It was all because we took a wrong off-ramp and we could have as well ended up in cuckoo land. As we drove around in circles for what seemed like ages (in fact it was about four hours) looking for a way out, it also became a life changing moment for my wife Nomusa.

Joel Osteen described a similar situation in his book Become A Better You. It was as if he was there. Nomusa and I were coming from Emperor’s Palace after a very successful business meeting on our way back to the Dlamini’s our hosts. Osteen takes it from here in his version: “I asked Victoria whether I should turn right or left and she said we need to turn right. I looked up and down the street, and didn’t recognise anything to the right, so I said, no, I think we should turn left. Victoria looked in every direction, and said, No Joel, I know we need to go right.”

It is at this point that the man totally loses all reason and asserts himself, which regrettably happened in our case as well. We go back to the Olsen case; “Victoria (Nomusa) our house (Hartbeespoort) is that way, I said, pointing to the left. I know we need to go in that direction. I pulled out and drove in that direction. She said, Well that’s fine, but we are going in the wrong way.”

Now at this point after such a wonderful experience at the meeting, networking and getting motivated, this is when the atmosphere in the car changes. We are uptight and on edge, so were Joel and Victoria.

Joel: “We were hardly talking to each other over something so insignificant. If I would have just swallowed my pride and gone her way, what’s ten minutes going to matter?”

But no, Lenox had to show Nomusa who was right. I had to prove my point. So I started driving...and driving...and driving all over Jozi.

“I was trying my best to act as if I knew where I was going, but I might as well have been in Japan! I had no idea where we were,” continues Joel.

Similarly, we could see the freeway but had no clue as to how we would get on it.

“Every time I looked at Victoria, she’d just smile and say, “Well you should have listened to me, maybe we’ll get home by this time tomorrow.’’ The more she rubbed it in, the more aggravated I became.”

It was after wandering around for thirty minutes that Joel gave in and suggested that they go back and starting afresh.

In our case, Nomusa suggested that we go back to OR Tambo International airport and retrace our tracks. You guessed right, she was overruled. If only I had listened to her, it would have taken us exactly forty minutes to find our way home. But not according to this obstinate clever dick.

We ended up at some restaurant called Jimmy’s somewhere around Eastgate where I stopped to ask for directions. Two chaps who had just knocked off work there offered to direct us to the best point from where we could rejoin the bypass. I told them we wanted to get to Lenasia which they said was on their way home and we drove off with our passengers talking animatedly at the back.

Now there are a few golden rules you just don’t break when in Jozi. One of them is to never give lifts to strangers and the other is not to ask for directions from the same. I broke both. Somehow in the worst of situations, one tends to believe in the innate goodness of man. Judging by the accent of the two, I concluded that they were fellow Zimbabweans, breaking another rule to never trust homeboys. Add that to the fact that 99.9 percent of crime in the Inner Johannesburg area is committed by foreigners, that is if you believe in statistics.

They introduced themselves as Moyo and Dube from the Plumtree area of Southern Zimbabwe. If you are the suspicious type, Moyo and Dube are the two most common surnames in that area. As they directed us through unfamiliar territory we casually broached the subject of crime. It seems uCele (Bheki Cele the Police Chief) was a no-nonsense man and on top of the situation as if that was any comfort to us.

“The cops just shoot your nuts off,” Dube said matter-of-factly as he tried to open the bottle of port he must have lifted from his workplace. Apparently, crime had generally gone down in the inner city and hopefully it isn’t just for the World Cup. In spite of our apprehension these two looked like genuinely concerned yet relieved citizens who were glad that something was working in Mzansi.

Lost in our conversation, Moyo suddenly announced that we were entering Berea. We were passing under the shadow of the Hillbrow Tower with its huge soccer ball and the landscape had suddenly changed. Nomusa had gone deathly quiet as we drove through streets swarming with humanity. This was Jozi’s crime capital and here we were in a nice shiny car, displaying foreign number plates, driving smack right through it with two strangers in the back seat!

Were we another crime statistic waiting to be recorded? The men from Plumtree sensed our apprehension as we drove into yet another dark street telling us “we’d find the lights again”. We later dropped them off along the way to the Helen Joseph Hospital where they told us to ‘drive straight and not to turn’. Relieved yet without much to work with, we realised that our situation was no better that we picked up the guys from Plumtree and that we had just given them a free lift. So it was back to square one and it was time to admit defeat.

“Let us drive back to OR Tambo and start again.” As I retrieved my tail from between my legs Nomusa said something to the effect that Hillbrow wasn’t “such a bad place after all.” Of course she could say that because had driven through it and emerged alive with our car intact!

As we philosophised over our involuntary visit to Zimbrow we realised we that as this drama played itself out we had forgotten all about God, the ultimate giver of all directions. It was that thought alone that led to a major miracle. Four hours later and to the minute, a sign pointing to Lenasia stood right there in front of us and we were no longer lost in Jozi... officially.

When queuing became a pastime

ONE thing we Zimbabweans miss about the days when the bottom fell out of our economy are the queues. The country broke every conceivable record even that of the legendary Weimer Republic leading!

We had to queue just about for everything because things were scarce. When one encountered a queue, you never asked what it was for because it was obviously for an item that had disappeared from the shelves. Be it sugar, bread, salt, matches, gas – nothing could be obtained without queuing.

A lot of production time was lost in hunting for scarce goods or simply queuing. Did I say production time? There was hardly any economic activity taking place in the country anyway. So bad was the situation that the government even announced that it would crack down on professional ‘queuers.’ These were blamed for the emergence of a black market in scant grocery items and were labelled economic saboteurs by a subservient state media which was never short of nasty titles for perceived enemies of progress.

As queuing became part of the culture, some unwritten ground rules emerged. This ‘queue-tiquette’ was a form of survival guide that one had to follow if they had hope of ever getting anything, let alone surviving. One’s chances ranged from slim to none unless one was a member of the uniformed forces (for obvious reasons), or you dutifully stuck to the ‘rules.’ In case your own country fell into the same cesspit we dug ourselves from, here are tips on surviving a queue referred to below as the Q. Let us call it the psychology of the Q.

It was mandatory that you be friendly. It was always advisable to greet the person at the end of the Q. One had to resist the urge to immediately ask what the Q was for. The advice was to catch your breath first, and then say, “So when is the supply of sugar coming?” This is called fishing. They will look at you and if you were lucky, give you two liners to your question. “This is the bread Q. They said they will begin selling at 10 o’clock”. If it’s 7 o’clock, you decide whether it will be worth it to stay in the bread queue or maybe you do not have the three hours to kill, or alternatively you starved.

Drinking lots of water before joining a Q was not advisable. You would lose your place when you left temporarily to answer the call of nature, worse still if you happened to have bladder problems. Often, chaos would reign when you tried to reclaim your place and the Q had to be re-ordered, usually with brute force by overzealous riot police. It is advisable that you eat a couple bananas (which were abundant then at Z$20,000 each!) instead. That way, there would be no urge to go either for the number 1 or number 2 calls of nature.

Never discuss politics in a Q. These are strangers, and you dared not divulge your political opinions by complaining. Talk was in general terms about “our government”, so never, ever mention names for any reason. Talk about the coming rains, the harsh winter, anything else. We went by the motto: “If you have you have nothing to say, please do not say it here!”

Being aware of toxic emissions (bad breath) from the guy behind you in the Q was critical, since toothpaste and expensive mouthwashes had fallen from the “essentials” list in those days. When one’s priority was fending for a hungry brood, issues of oral hygiene became blasé. People no longer used toothpaste because it simply wasn’t there! The solution was to angle one’s head sideways and downwards, so as not to be in the line of fire of any of the halitosis.

If one would rather not talk in a Q, clutching the jaw to indicate a tooth ache or sore gums or mouth sores or better still a sore throat would do the trick.

If the person in front of you in the Q happened to be a lady, it was wise for the sake of one’s health and welfare to leave a discreet gap between the two of you. You are advised not to get too animated in any conversation with her, lest her husband is not the least jealous person in the world. Showing public respect and, depending on her age, addressing her as “granny”, would probably prevent the following from happening:

a. She could look at you accusingly and speak loud enough for all to hear that you are, eh, standing too close to her. That could be a death sentence with any hungry and angry crowd particularly in a Q.

b. The husband could be a few places behind you in the same Q and would be none too pleased to see you sneaking some precious warmth from his wife … especially if he were the bodybuilding kind.

c. Before you knew it, you would be walking away from the Q with your precious loaf of bread plus an unplanned for “small house” (read girlfriend). Some of our sisters really got desperate in those days.

Pushing and shoving in the Q would not lead to a reduction in waiting time by any measure. It would only serve to annoy the person in front of you and create the inevitable chaos that could lead to the queue being dispersed. And this happened very often when members of the uniformed forces felt that order worked against them getting the extra loaf.

If you were a student, carrying voluminous literature or text books would ensure that one used the time in a Q productively. This also discouraged nosy people from starting pointless conversations with you. A simple, “I am writing my O’ Level exams this year and I don’t have time to waste” would sure fob them off.

Always approaching the Q from the rear, not midway or the front, is another handy tip. Or else all those bored individuals would suddenly find a welcome subject of verbal abuse since your move could be misconstrued for ‘cutting in’. In fact, since entertainment was scarce, you ran the danger of being the talk of the town, for the wrong reasons too.

Once you got what you were so agonisingly waiting for in a Q, walking away briskly and with purpose would ensure you did not become a crime statistic. Muggings for food were common as desperados took a seemingly easy way out of hunger, or so they thought.

One should also acknowledge that queues became venues where people could socialise short of the barbecues and shebeens that previously were a sign of the good times. Conversations would begin with the phrase; “While I was at the fuel queue …” as a way of showing off that one could afford to purchase whatever was scarce. Indeed some had become veritable show-offs as a result.

One cannot deny the fact that many a relationship developed out of the queue. Some found future wives, business acquaintances, friends or victims. And in case you thought such things could only happen in Zimbabwe, take my advice. You could well be next!

There is a Zulu in my soup

BY THE time you read this, the High Court in Durban would have decided on a landmark case. Animal Rights Africa took the Zulu King to court over an aspect of a ceremony called ukweshwama.

The ceremony is conducted in December to thank God and the ancestors for the first fruits. It involves a ritual where a group of young men kill a bull with their bare hands. The activists say this is barbaric.

Obviously, none of those in the ARA are Zulu. Otherwise they would have known this has been done for more than a century. The animal rights activists say that animals have feelings too and have a right to be slaughtered humanely. Why now, or am I missing something here? The bull still dies whether it’s strung by its balls, or serenaded to death.

What offends many traditionalists is that this is the same argument that was used when Europeans colonised Africa. Seeing that as long as they stuck to their traditional ways, there was no way they could be defeated. So a concerted strategy was employed to eat away at the base of their power which was their culture and tradition. These were labelled as “barbaric”. Haven’t we been here before?

God created people in their diversity so as to eliminate monotony. Imagine how colourless and boring it would be if we all thought alike, behaved and dressed the same or even ate the same food?

The word exotic would not be part of the dictionary and the variety that languages bring would not be there. There is nothing more entertaining than watching people speaking in a strange language, and doing things differently.

Now let us cut to the chase, what is more barbaric, bullfighting in Pamplona Spain or what happens in this other South American backwater where 3,000 beasts are slaughtered in a single festival?

The Romans tossed people among lions for entertainment. There other examples too numerous to mention that I can quote from the western “civilisations”. I can hear those who are pro-ARA saying that a bad practice cannot be defended, just because it’s been done for centuries.

The problem is that they don’t get it. It’s not about putting a bull out of its misery for the braai stand but it’s about the Zulu identity as much as it would be for the Scots if haggis were banned because it made them appear like vampires!

This whole issue points to one thing: ignorance. The people at Animal Rights Africa, who I presume are white, should have sat down with Inkosi yamakhosi and learnt a bit about the origins and the significance of ukweshwama.

But no, what do they do? They rush to the courts before you can spell “court injunction” if only to gain maximum mileage for their funders and make the barbarians appear, eh, more barbaric.

By the look of things, it seems that the High Court is in a dilemma of sorts. It reserved its judgement at the first hearing because it felt that ARA had not exhausted all the channels before coming to court.

There was the Council of Traditional Affairs to consult and maybe the Cow Rights Commission. Such is the make-up of a democratic state. Even cockroaches have rights mind you, not to mention those representing the poor youth who would have to conduct the ghastly deed. No-one asked their opinion in all this.

One is even tempted to think that the activists would have preferred the studs to go for a full grown male lion if it was a case of displaying bravery.

Taken in another context, I must confess that I enjoy my traditional plate of steaming mangqina or mazondo (cow hooves.) If I cook the horns and the hide as a side dish, that is my damn business.

Who am I to make noise over the Chinese relishing marinated dog and or grilled snake or the French having a thing for snail soup or fried frog’s legs? One man’s meat is another man’s poison. It’s called culture and let sleeping bulls die, to be eaten futhi.

Will lunch break be history?

Talking about issues related to eating, an Italian government minister has proposed that lunch break be banned. I know that politicians have very little to do, but what beats me is that it had to come to this.

Wait for it, he even goes on to say that the reason behind this breathtakingly stupid suggestion is that it reduces productivity and that “the whole country comes to a standstill”!

Methinks it’s his brain functions that have come to a standstill.

I laughed so loud when I came across this until I realised that that this guy was serious and that he could dredge along a sizeable number of likeminded (read dim-witted) sympathisers in governments across the globe. The reaction from the Italian trade union was telling when they wondered whether the minister ever worked in his life.

Those of us who have put in more than our share of sweat in salt mines across the world will attest to the importance of the lunch break. After being overworked, terrorised, humiliated, abused and battered for the better part of the morning, we need to be given time out to collect ourselves together as it were.

What will be illustrative is the fact that the very people who put us through hell (read bosses) are the ones that abuse lunch breaks. They will take extended versions of the break to indulge in what we call the liquid lunch. Chances are high that they are unlikely to return to work, leaving some poor serf to take the boss’s jacket to the club where he would way past round ten.

What will become of the infamous office quickie? Let me not go there suffice to say that it would force some Casanovas to opt for unsavoury venues for their sordid trysts. The office toilet comes to mind, what of the broom cupboard or worse still the car parked in some foreboding thicket?

We would also see a reduction of office babies carrying such ridiculous names such as Desktop, Clipper Copier or even carpet! I have already said too much.

Banning lunch break will help reduce the number of people we see sprawled on park lawns. Contrary to popular belief, they are not the unemployed passing the day by snoozing on the grass. They are actually workers catching up on sleeping opportunities denied at the office.

Show me a sleeping pill that surpasses a staff meeting? If the persistent drone of the boss praising himself doesn’t lull you to slumber, the agenda certainly will knock you out!

However, if you treasure your job, you wouldn’t want to be caught catching forty winks, would you? So lunch hour is a Godsend in this regard.

Back in Italy, the leader of the trade union had the last word. He was quoted as saying that if the government were considering doing away with lunch breaks, while they were at it, why don’t they ban the annoying habit of sleep?

Superstition: Fact or Fiction?

A few years ago a self confessed wizard rocked up at a police station in rural Zaka, Masvingo province and told bewildered officers that he was tired of witchcraft and that he had come to surrender his ‘instruments.’ Unconvinced, the cops asked if he could stage a live demonstration of his capabilities and he gladly obliged but with a health warning. He went into a trance and started chanting incomprehensibly while rubbing together two sticks from his arsenal.

From a clear blue sky a well aimed bolt of lightning struck a huge tree at the compound turning it into an inferno. When he turned to his audience wearing a satisfied smirk on his face, he discovered that the witnesses had fled in terror into the surrounding bundu. I was after a long while that they eventually emerged sending the wizard on his way with the revelation that they were unqualified to deal with matters spiritual. They suggested a long list of prophets.

However, on each occasion, he produced the same results and effect with some of the prophets being said to have fled the district for good. Not until one brave one managed to fix the problem and burn the paraphernalia in front of a cheering crowd that included the local chief. He was ably rewarded with a number of beasts levied on the community.

Why am I telling you this? The issue here is not so much that the whole story sounds like something out of the Twilight Zone, but rather, the fact that here was someone confessing to the fact that he was a wizard with a live demonstration to boot. This incident received wide coverage by the Herald newspaper and the ZBC. Now hold it, before you doubt the credibility of the two sources, I should vouch for them on this point though painfully so.

The question that came to my mind was why witchcraft cannot be turned into doing good rather than evil? I know that I am wading in highly contested territory here, but let us just say that there was a way in which we can tap into this technology which has consistently fallen in between the cracks of superstition, religion and legislation. The Witchcraft Act in Zimbabwe outlaws the practice, in fact, it denies the existence of it and it is a heinous crime to label someone a witch.

Yet the reality, and I am placing my head on the chopping block here, is that these things exist whether we believe them or not. Religious personalities have been known to exorcise evil spirits, products of the principality of the devil. But that is knowledge gone to waste if you ask me. For a start the Zimbabwe Electricity Sometimes Available (ZESA) would benefit immensely from such technology.

Engineers will agree with me that a few channelled bolts of lightning would alleviate Zimbabwe’s nightmare of blackouts and load shedding. The construction industry would use the same to clear land demolish stuff. Lightning might even be bottled for domestic use. Imagine not having to rely on conventionally generated electricity for cooking and lighting which as we all know costs an arm and a leg.

Witches have also been known to travel by other means. They either ‘teleport’ themselves or ride a broomstick or hyena depending in which part of the world you live in. Riding a hyena would not make a pretty sight though. It could get you in trouble with wildlife activists. I know what the sceptics among you are thinking, that this guy is busy legitimising the absurd, cultivating the fertile minds of the primitive among the human race. Or that I am just pain crazy.

While I appreciate the compliments you should accept the reality that Africans are among the most superstitious in the world including the ones who claim to be educated. Many are finding it difficult to come to terms with everyday challenges. We believe witchcraft is real acting to influence, intervene and alter the course of human life for good or bad.

You will sure find people who bear witness to witchcraft or even actively participate in it. Like politicians who in an election year take the beaten path to an Inyanga (traditional medicine man) to boost his or her chances of winning? One was even caught with a human head in the boot of his car!

How about the short hairy creatures we know as Tikoloshi, those short ugly bearded creatures that have incredible strength and a voracious sexual appetite. They are used to gain wealth and come with instructions that are broken to one’s peril. A recent case is Ramotswa in south eastern Botswana; a young man committed suicide after a female manager at his work place called him into some secluded room and showed him her breasts. Before the hot bloodied males among you speculate whether they were worth dying for, there is more to the story.

Apparently, the woman who is much older than the unfortunate young man had pursued him quite some time. The implication being that she desired him in more intimate ways. He had deflected her so many times but realising that his job was on the line he finally gave in. In the suicide note that was found after he was found hanging from a tree, he described the whole episode where the woman said she wanted to show him something. She called him into her office and slowly opened her blouse... to reveal a hairy human like creature suckling from her breast. He must have snapped.

Then there is the portion that enables the user to have sexual intercourse with any woman he pleases without her permission! One such man was severely assaulted at a popular fleamarket in Bulawayo earlier this year. This is how it is said to work: the offender identifies a victim and then ‘imagines’ being intimate with her while clasping the root in his pocket.

The victim will feel everything though the offender could well be standing some distance away reading a newspaper or something. The chap who was caught confessed to using the muti. I should add that it is now inadvisable to read a newspaper with your hand in your pocket at fleamarkets in and around Bulawayo. You have been warned.

I do not believe that rational people are making all these things up given the frequency that they occur. One might argue that unless these incidents are verified and placed under scientific scrutiny, they belong to the realm of fiction. What if these occurrences do not subscribe to known laws of science. Scientists do admit that there is much more that is yet to be discovered. From a religious point of view, the existence of evil is widely accepted in the context of the great controversy that began when Satan was expelled from heaven.

We should be aware of the conflict between the forces of good and evil so that we can take evasive action. Those who have dabbled in witchcraft are paying the price and live a life of regret, if they are not already dead. We just have to walk the world with our eyes wide open and not take things for granted just because one cannot explain them rationally.

Whose Falls are they anyway?

“Come to South Africa and see the Victoria Falls.” This rather incredulous statement is contained in a brochure that I assume was approved by the South African Tourism authority. It was the subject of a conversation I had with a fellow countryman the other day. Me, and my big mouth had mentioned this to him as we discussed how Zimbabwe would benefit from the 2010 World Cup. How could they, he howled beside himself with anger. I said to him that the South Africans have been marketing the Falls as their own for ages while we were busy invading farms and beating each other up and starving each other half to death.

We are all aware where the Falls are but with the global soccer spectacle just around the corner, the South Africans are going to make the most of anything that can channel money in their direction. They even have direct daily flights from Joburg and Cape Town that make sure that their tourists stay long enough to view the Falls and are quickly whisked out before you can shout “Zanu PF Youths!” My friend mentioned that it seemed obvious that the South Africans were giving our country a wide berth when it came to benefits. Granted that the bulk SA’s tourism industry is controlled by whites this is not surprising, he fumed.

We might be the quintessential skunks of the world but allow us to get the benefit of our God given natural resources. A tourist dropping by for the day just to spend on curios and ice cream is not enough. But then who can blame them? Thina the owners are not marketing our tourist attractions enough. So, what can stop others who see potential in them do it for their own benefit? Aren’t we the ones who frustrated Michael Jackson from building a resort along the Zambezi?
We were so full of ourselves that all potential development fled across the border to Zambia. As I speak no less than 4 luxury hotels have been constructed in Livingstone while their airport has been upgraded to take wide bodied aircraft. They have even built an international standard stadium that will host any of a number of world cup bound teams for acclimatisation. The way things are going on the political front in addition to having the likes of Karikoga Kaseke at the helm of tourism in Zim, we might as well forget getting any of those teams even taking a peak from our side of the Falls.

I will accept the Zambians making the most of them because we share this natural wonder, but the South Africans! Let them keep their world cup and will keep ‘our’ Falls. No amount of sweet talking will be able to gloss over the sorry state of our country particularly when war talk remains part of the discourse. As it is said in the bible, we will reap what we sow, which in our case is absolutely nothing. By the way my friend, being of the war talk type had the last word, “Let the South Africans keep their world cup, and we will keep our Victoria Falls!”

‘Hate’ is such a harmful feeling
Did I say some time back that Ian Khama and the Batswana ‘hate Robert Mugabe with a passion?’ Well, allow me to re-phrase that statement without it losing much of its currency. Let us say that Batswana hold a less that flattering view of our Uncle Bob. I regret using the word ‘hate’ because as a prowled the website New Zimbabwe.com before it crashed I encountered several instances of people who said they ‘hated’ Ian Khama, even if they did not present a plausible reason why.

Hate begets hate. There has been so much of it going around in Zimbabwe I don’t want to be the one encouraging its circulation. I tried to search for reasons and the only thing I came up with is the fact that Khama does to like the GPA experiment one bit. I recall an outright attack on Ian by one Jonathan Moyo to the effect that ‘what else could people expect from a country that had more goats than people.’ I felt that was below the belt stuff... until Jonah scampered back cap in hand to Zanu PF. Just typical isn’t it?

As if to rub salt into the wound, the Botswana president repeated his displeasure at Zanu PF’s failure to fully honour the spirit and the letter of the power sharing agreement. Addressing his nation recently he said that in the absence of genuine partnership it would be better for all the parties to go back to the people – conduct genuinely free and fair elections. Talking about free and fair elections...

True democracy is a tangible ideal in Botswana. Batswana exercise one of the basic fundamental rights, that of the freedom of speech. We all know that the same cannot be said about the homeland where there is freedom of speech but not after the speech. Before anyone officially declared yours truly a cheerleader of the Lt General Seretse Khama Ian Khama, may I be allowed to mention the fact that not everyone in Bots is quite enamoured with their president.
Spencer Mogapi, the vocal deputy editor of the local Sunday Standard newspaper has a beef with the fact his president is not directly elected. In Botswana the leader of the party winning the elections automatically becomes president. He writes that it is important that the president should earn those powers directly from the people.

‘Zimbabwe, a country we would like to portray as run by a red-eyed dictator has a better system. Robert Mugabe may be rigging the elections every 5 years, but Zimbabweans are, as of law, allowed, from time to time, to go to the polls to choose who they want to be president,’ Mogapi writes. So there you are. We do get the occasional credit even if it is in a hackneyed sort of way. Pamberi!

The xenophobes have it!
We are in the news again for the wrong reasons too! Zimbabweans have been attacked in South Africa’s Western Cape Province by the locals. Their gripe is that, what for it, Zimbos are allowing themselves to be exploited by the local farmers by agreeing to work for peanuts. Yah, you heard me right. The locals claim they don’t want to work because the farmers are offering wages that are well below the government stipulated ones.

But then here come these desperate foreigners to give the farmers a life line. So their cockeyed solution is to drive them out. We all know how overenthusiastic the South Africans can be when it comes to moering (Afrikaans for hitting) people. The story here isn’t so much the violence but the fact that Zimbabweans have been driven from their own country and resorted to travelling the best of 4000 kilometres (as the crow flies) to the Cape winelands for refuge and sustenance! Now who is the criminal here?

Lenox Mhlanga can be contacted at lenoxmhlanga@hotmail.com and on Face book at www.facebook.com/lenoxmhlanga

And the drink goes down the drain

I am sure that when I informed the editor that I had stopped drinking he must have fallen off his chair. There are many who can’t imagine me teetotal. My history on the bottle is a colourful yet disastrous one that would require more space than this column can offer. There is so much I can recall and philosophise about the devil’s drink. There, I said it.

Anyway, I can attest to the fact that my decision had absolutely nothing to do with the trend in my adopted home of Botswana. Their president Ian Khama hates alcohol and its effects second only to Mugabe. The reasons are personal, his family having been affected by alcoholism, his father Sir Seretse and sister, Jackie being notable victims. We all know how Batswana love their drink. They will drink anyone under the table particularly the women.

So when Khama accepted the presidency on Fools’ Day last year, a day his countrymen will never forget for various reasons, he declared his four ‘D’s’ chief among them DISCIPLINE. Being a military man he should know the meaning of the word. He felt that Batswana have no discipline because they doth drink too much. So he went about sorting out the problem. First, he slapped a 30% levy on alcohol making taking it out of the reach of the majority. Sad to sad they have resorted to Chibuku and other vicious concoctions that I will not care to mention. Then he reduced the operating hourss for liquor outlets, bars, night clubs and declared war on shebeens.

He also banned the operation of braais (barbecues) outside butcheries because he felt that this encouraged people to drink all day while besatshisa inyama. Drunken driving was next in line and a presidential directive increased traffic penalties by 100%! Batswana, while acknowledging their drinking problem, were appalled. In fact, the whole thing was so political that the opposition used it as a campaign tool in the just ended elections.

In fact, the former Minister of Trade and Industry, Neo Moroka lost his Kgalakadi South seat to the opposition because he was the face of Khama’s alcohol prohibition campaign. Kgalagadi is a well known guzzlers’ paradise and they made their displeasure clearly known. An enterprising Botsalo Ntuane, BDP candidate in one of Gaborone’s constituencies, organised a free concert featuring South African pop band Splash on the eve of the elections. He stepped on stage and shouted to the capacity crowd, ‘I love alcohol!’ He won the seat for the ruling party.

Allow me to digress. Here I was in a country renowned for the highest number of drinking holes per square kilometre and all of a sudden I stop drinking! Hard to believe as it sounds I am comforted by the fact that I was never an alcoholic. Otherwise I would have suffered from horrible withdrawal symptoms which I did not. I have always said to people that I was a social drinker and never felt so desperate to drink. I should admit though that this seemed to be the case when I was at the University of Zimbabwe but there beer kept us sane.

We went by the motto ‘We drink daily and pass annually’ more as justification than anything else. But unlike a great many of the UZ Alumni who got their first taste at the Students Union, some of us were already veterans. I am glad that my former roommate at the New Complex Phase One, Finance Minister Tendai Biti was not among us sinners. Such people had a role to play like the time when I went celebrating passing my second year and had one too many smuggled vodkas at Bretts nightclub.

A concerned Laxton Biti, as we knew him then, came to my rescue as I lay immobilised in my room by the mother of all hangovers. He dutifully brought me all my meals and though I never ate any of them I was moved by his concern for someone whose agony was self inflicted. I will not forgive Darlington Masenda, another non-drinking student, who was the DJ because it was partially his music that contributed to the damage.

Arthur Mutambara was another sober individual who I remember for his driving ambition to be in some position of leadership. His futile attempt to get elected as chairman of the Ballroom Dancing club on campus might never make it into his biography which is why I mention it here. He may deny it by witnesses will remember giving his reason to stand for election as his curiosity as to why it was led by people coming from Matabeleland.

His persistence later got him into the Students Representative Council and look where it he is now, Deputy Prime Minister of Zimbabwe! I clearly remember Mutambara’s infamous brush with the notorious CIO that saw him tumbling out of the Phase Two window. Mugabe later remarked that ‘these students boast of being tigers yet when the heat was turned on they jump out through windows like kittens.’ He always boats about this incident claiming he was the first to be arrested by the regime before Morgan Tsvangirayi who only was later locked up for challenging Arthur’s incarceration when he was a trade union leader.

Anyway that is beside the point. I have to admit that I come from a family that drinks as if it were going out of fashion, which in itself speaks volumes. Being of royal blood, kings were known for their liking for the frothy brew, notable among them Mzilikazi kaMatshobana who suffered from excruciatingly painful gout. I recently learnt that I am a direct descendent of Soshangane wakoGasa. If I had a good excuse for drinking this was definitely going to be it.

But then there are many negatives that come with the practice of imbibing. I have lost a great deal of very close relatives, notably uncles, to the bottle. In fact my maternal grandfather’s young brother so idolised beer that he composed a song to entice me into appreciating it when I was 10. I used to accompany him and my father on their fishing trips which I thought were an excuse from them to drown themselves in booze. After taking ‘several’ he would burst into the rendition, “Amahewu, amnandi, amahewu, amnandi sibili!’ They say that the rest is history.

So the question in your minds is now what? I believe we all have quotas and I have exhausted mine. Sad to the brewers this might sound but I think my contribution to the industry stops here. There is this theory that people who don’t drink have more time to indulge in other extra mural activities such as chasing women. Though there might be a grain of truth in that, I would not relish being ‘planted’ in the ground like a flower. There is this disease that is wiping out Batswana and I would not like to be another of its statistics.

Is there anything wrong with making an about turn in life and sampling how it would be like if one’s mind wasn’t clogged with alcohol? There are a lot of things that I appreciate more like family, nature and just being alive. That does not mean that I will shun my former drinking companions. I miss the humour and the antics only now that I will have all my faculties alert enough to fully capture the fun for me to recount to you on these very pages.

Lenox Mhlanga can be contacted on http://www.facebook.com/lenoxmhlanga

Khama and Mugabe: Two sides on different coins

I have been dreading this day and it has finally arrived! To say that it been a long time since I last wrote a column is an understatement. So much good and bad has happened and the Editor is yet to forgive me for the disappearing act. But to be quite honest, living in Zimbabwe was no longer funny. I would personally look forward to a trip to hell if there ever was one. I remember vowing to be the last person to leave, holding the keys to lock up the country after every one had gone.

Today I find myself in a foreign country, Botswana to be exact, licking my deflated ego. How I got here is a very long story which you will pick up bits of with time. In a nutshell, I ended up airlifting my family out of what had become a shell of a country in January. Rewind to the year 2000 at the infamous Men’s bar at the Selbourne Hotel (also known as the ‘Dog Section’) where sitting with my drinking mates we speculated whether Zimbabwe would sink beyond the point we were experiencing at the time.

That was the time when my friend Owen Maroleng had boldly declared that Zimbabwe had not only reached rock bottom, but had begun to dig further. We were to scrap for nine more years after that, each year far worse that the last, the patrons of the Men’s bar dropping off like flies. At one point it became exceedingly impossible to clasp a pint that we thought pubs would be turned into museums. Imagine queuing at the bank the whole day only to withdraw enough to by a couple of buns to feed your family.

Diverting such scarce resources to buy booze would have earned a family man a date with the firing squad. Survival became the watchword. One spent the day scheming as to how he was going to put food on the table. Mugabe had turned us into hunters and gatherers of the Stone Age. Water stopped flowing into our apartment in December, 2008. It was the bleakest Christmas in living memory. I decided there and then that enough was enough. We packed our bags and headed for the Tswapong Hills.

Landing in a foreign land is an intriguing experience. You are at once reminded that you do not belong. The label ‘foreigner’ sticks to you like a bad smell. Not being able to speak their language becomes a major handicap. Batswana get visibly irritated when you use the Queen’s language on them. Not that you would have done anything wrong, it’s just that the language has a tendency of ‘getting under their tongues.’ But looking back at where one was coming from, this was a minor setback in comparison.

Everything here works. There is little stress when conducting day to day activities. The shelves are groaning with food and other things and the Batswana could not care less. God blessed them immensely when compared to our curse. Though there is disconcerting paranoia with ‘illegal Immigrants’ (read Zimbabweans), one should take it the same way that you treat an unwelcome fly that wants to spoil your meal. The Botswana government seems content with spending two million pula a month deporting illegal Zimbabwean immigrants only for the former to make a u-turn at the border.

We accept that some Zimbabweans here can be a nuisance, bringing crime to an otherwise laid back society, we actually make a very significant contribution to the success story that this semi-arid country of just under two million has become. The booming construction industry is supported by Zimbos. The demand for Zimbabwean maids, herd-boys and girls, gardeners, electricians, mechanics, plumbers, nurses is endless. Add the fact that Francistown has been built on the capital brought in by Zimbabwean cross border shoppers. The only problem is that Batswana do not seem to appreciate this for a fact.

However, there is one thing I admire the Batswana and their government for. They hate our dear leader and Zanu PF with a passion. They just can’t understand how a government can be so cruel to its own people. The face of Botswana’s disgust is in the form of none other than their Minister of Foreign Affairs, Phandu Skelemani. He comes from the Kalanga north worst affected by the excesses of the Mugabe regime.

President Lt Gen Seretse Khama Ian Khama and his government do not recognise Robert Mugabe as legitimate. During an interview Skelemani laid this position bare when he said that he accepted Mugabe as a person ‘except when he is pretending to be President.’ Mugabe’s displeasure with Ian Khama came to the fore during the signing ceremony of the Global Political Agreement last year when after a rambling diatribe he turned to the former army commander moaning, “Khama, Khama, Khama, I don’t know what wrong I have done to you!”

Much to Mugabe’s displeasure, Khama has given refuge and comfort to Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirayi. Batswana prayed for him in a moving show of solidarity and sympathy when he lost his wife is that tragic accident. Ian even sent his top men led by Skelemani in the presidential jet to found out whether there was any foul play. They whisked Tsvangirayi to Gaborone to seek second opinion on his condition. As far as the Botswana government’s verdict on the GPA experiment, the jury is still out.

As far as being the bastion of democracy Botswana more than deserves the tag. It’s so refreshing to witness its democratic ideals in action. Arriving at the start of an election year, I got the opportunity to see real democracy in action. I have been moved to tears when comparing the sham of last year’s disputed elections In Zimbabwe. The Batswana have their share of problems, but the ideals of their founding fathers have been jealously guarded for the last 44 years! No wonder the old croc is so peeved these Batswana were making him look really bad as if that wasn’t the case.

Allow me to take you down memory lane to 1984 when I first visited Bots. It was at Francistown’s Bluetown suburb where we had stopped for a few drinks. Just outside the pub were two gentlemen standing about 50 metres apart shouting through loudhailers. I couldn’t catch what they were saying because they were talking in Setswana.

Standing between them was a motley crew, wearing party T shirts from different parties. I leaned over to ask the barman what was going on and he told me that the two were council election candidates, from the ruling Botswana Democratic Front (Domkrag) and the the opposition Botswana National Front. At no point during the event was there violence and not a single police officer was in sight. After the ‘rally’ the two opposing candidates came into the bar bought each other drinks and continued the debate with the patrons. I was totally blown away!

Now if that was that incident affected me then, fast-forward 25 years and here I was witnessing an African miracle before my very own eyes. This month’s elections in Botswana have been such a revelation. They were a stark contrast to those held in March and June of 2008 in Zimbabwe. Which explains why Mugabe is not so impressed with Ian. Figures!

The guy who stole Christmas

Welcome to 2008 and here’s to all those who thought I would not make it. The big story of course wasn’t whether people had the temerity of slipping into the New Year without any ‘scratches’ like what happened to my friend Don. Sorry tshomi I just had to slip that one in somehow. All that advice about going around wearing a helmet complete with bull bars should not go to waste.

The big story was indeed a Christmas without money. It gave the term a ‘cashless economy’ a whole new meaning. Abantu went through hell just to get their hard earned money. Even Umthunywa asked ukuthi yikhisimusi bani engelamali? Yebo sibili, what kind of Christmas was this? And we all thought that this was a time of giving!

Some even refer to our reserve bank Governor as the man who stole Christmas. Do you still remember iKhisimusi eyeReserva with all the sentimentality of visiting the old folks in the sticks? The fact that there was no electricity, only acrid smoke in the kitchens and the Blair toilet were the least of our worries. This was also the time to catch up on the best gossip of the past year.

You were told, and animatedly so, about how Sibanda from behind the anthill had bewitched uMoyo from the swamp because his truent son uBigboy had impregnated his (Sibanda’s) star daughter uEsinathi (who was about to write her ‘O’s) who was earmarked for an arranged marriage to Nyathi the businessman.

Never mind the fact that Nyathi was seeing NakaNtombi, Siziba’s vivacious second wife . Her latest baby’s paternity is in question, of course, but no one dare tell Siziba. The man can wield a wicked knobkerrie, bra! What about old man Dube from near the Mission, struck by lightening on a clear cloudless day after kicking Zulu’s m’gaxa (emaciated dog) but still living to tell the tale.

And our relatives from the Diaspora poured over the border on what many of them termed a humanitarian mission. They brought anything they could carry from water to whisky, food and fuel and of course the precious rands. They were in for a nasty shock when they discovered ukuthi ekhaya, mara, kuyabheda ne! Apart from the cash squeeze, the booze was way too expensive for them to stick around. Like a shot they were back over the Limpopo to lick their wounds. More on injiva next time folks.

What a downright mess…
Two men met at a bus stop and struck up a conversation. One of them kept complaining of family problems. Finally, the other man said: "You think you have family problems? Listen to my situation. A few years ago I met a young widow with a grown-up daughter and we got married. Later my father married my step daughter. That made my stepdaughter my stepmother and my father became my stepson. Also, my wife became mother in-law of her father-in-law. Then the daughter of my wife, my stepmother, had a son. This boy was my half-brother because he was my father's son, but he was also the son of my wife's daughter which made him my wife's grand-son. That made methe grandfather of my half-brother.
This was nothing until my wife and I had a son. Now the half-sister of my son, my stepmother, is also the grandmother." This makes my father the brother-in-law of my child, whose stepsister is my father's wife, I'm my stepmother’s brother-in-law, my wife is her own child's aunt, my son is my father's nephew and I'm My own grandfather!"

And you think you have family problems!

And here’s to your health
To kick in the New Year, we present to you the usual fare of stuff aimed for the rib cage. These are actual writings on some patient's cards at some hospital in the rural area in the back of beyond and it’s all true. Here goes…

1. She has no rigors or shaking chills but her husband says she was very hot in bed last night.
2. Patient has chest pain if she lies on her left side for over a year.
3. On the second day the knee was better, and on the third day it disappeared.
4. The patient is tearful and crying constantly. She also appears to be depressed
5. The patient has been depressed since she began seeing me in 1993.
6. Discharge status: Alive but without my permission.
7. Healthy appearing decrepit 69-year old male, mentally alert but forgetful.
8. The patient refused autopsy.
9. The patient has no previous history of suicides.
10. Patient has left white blood cells at another hospital.
12. Patient had waffles for breakfast and anorexia for lunch.
13. She is numb from her toes down.
14. While in Casualty she was examined, x-rated and sent home.
15. The skin was moist and dry.

Where did the year go?
Where did the year go? Suddenly it is January again and we realize that with giant strides we started last January, within a blink of an eye, 2007 is on its back! A big "Thank You" to each and every single one of you, for the huge impact you had on my life this past year. Especially for all the support and compliments in the e-mails I received.......without you, I'm sure that 2007 would have been extremely boring.

From my side I wish you all a magical New Year filled with loving wishes and beautiful thoughts. This year will be different.May 2008 mark the beginning of a tidal wave of love, happiness and bright futures.

And to those who need someone special, may you find that true love.
To those who need money, may your finances overflow,To those who need caring, may you find a good heart,To those who need friends, may you meet lovely people,To those who need life, may you find GOD!

Have a Prosperous New Year!