It was one of those weeks when beer drinkers thought that their prayers had been answered when the Price Control guys published a new schedule implying that the much reviled beer price increase was premature and overstated. As I write, nothing resembling a reversal on the part of the brewers has been forthcoming. They are sticking to their barrels, so to speak. I am sure that the hotline numbers have been ringing off line ever since. At least the drinkers have something else to keep them occupied, now that their favorite pastime is near extinction. Gono must be laughing all the way to, eh, church?
With the lack of (alcoholic) inspiration comes a condition called writer’s block for this columnist. Besides writing about drunks and what they do, there is little else with similarly hilarious results to observe. While we wait for our dear friends to adjust to new lifestyles and to regain the ability to make fools out of themselves, we have decided to give you the following gems from around the planet they call earth.
Fungai goes to the zoo
This guy, Fungai, goes to London and is desperate for a job, you know, the usual rese rese Zimbo job. So he decides to apply at the zoo. As it so happened, their star attraction, a gorilla, had died the night before and they had carefully preserved his hide. So, they tell this guy that they'll pay him well if he would dress up in the gorilla’s skin and pretend to be the gorilla so that people will keep coming to the zoo.
Well, the guy has his doubts, but hey, ijob yijob s’bali, he needs the money and he can’t possibly come back to Zim so he puts on the skin and goes out into the cage. The people all cheer when they see him. He plays up to the audience and they just eat it up. This isn't so bad, he thinks, and he starts really putting on a show, jumping around, beating his chest and roaring, swinging around.
During one acrobatic attempt, though, he loses his balance and crashes through some safety netting, landing square in the middle of the lion cage! As he lies there stunned, the unusually thin lion roars. He's terrified and starts screaming, "Maiwe! Maiwe!” obviously thinking kuti pake papera. The lion races over to him, places his paws
on his chest and hisses, "Iwe pfutseke nyarara apa, unotidzingisa basa! Chibenzi chemhuka" (Keep quiet, you will get us both fired, stupid animal!)
A husband working abroad wrote to his wife...
Dear Sweetheart,
I can't send my salary this month, so I am sending 100 kisses.
You are my sweetheart.
Your husband,
Allen
His wife replied...
Sweetheart Dearest,
Thanks for the 100 kisses, below is the list of expenses...
1. The Milk man agreed on 2 kisses for one month's milk.
2. The electricity man agreed only after 7 kisses.
3. Your landlord comes every day to take 2 or 3 kisses instead of the rent.
4. Supermarket owner did not accept kisses only, so I gave him other items...........
5. Other expenses 40 kisses.
Please don't worry about me, I have a remaining balance of 35 kisses and I hope I can complete the month using this balance.
Shall I plan the same for next month? Please do advise!!!
Your Sweet Heart,
Josephine
A dying man’s wish
An old pastor lay dying. He sent a message for a man from the tax office and his lawyer to come to the hospital. When they arrived, they were ushered up to his room. As they entered the room, the pastor held out his hands and motioned for
them to sit on each side of the bed. The pastor grasped their hands, sighed contentedly, smiled, and stared at the ceiling.
For a time, no one said anything. Both the taxman and lawyer were touched and flattered that the old man would ask them to be with him during his final moments. They were also puzzled because the pastor had never given any indication that he particularly liked either one of them.
Finally, the Lawyer asked, "Pastor, why did you ask the two of us to come here?" The old pastor mustered all his strength, and then said weakly, "Jesus died between two thieves, and that's how I want to go".
A very true story
The following is a bow by blow account of what transpired to a friend who had boarded a combi the day they raised the fare. It was in SMS form and It was like in the movies…
“I am in a combi to church and the driver has just parked by the side of the road because pipo do no want to pay 150 grand. Ah! It’s so chaotic and everyone is talking and no one is listening. Ah! Now there is fighting, ooh some passenger is now driving! Ah! What a drama!
Oh! I wish I had my camera. The driver has taken over and God knows where he is taking us. This is hijacking chaiyo! Ah! Ah! He now wants to dump us at the cemetery. I have never seen this happening before. Oh! No! The driver has switched off the engine, jumped out and is running like a mad cow across the graveyard, the hwindi in the other direction!
And we are in the middle of graves, pipo are vowing not to budge. It’s turning sour, paita headboy, mu-War Vet! Mapurisa afonerwa! (Someone has phoned the police!) Pipo from the nearby suburb are now flocking to the place wanting to burn the combi! My friend, I am leaving and it’s turning really ugly. Ah! Hiiiii, water canon! I have removed my shoes and will just allow my legs to carry me off this graveyard before we are sprayed to death! Later!” (… and this actually took place honest!)
And finally, from Melvin Durai
The other day, there was another UFO sighting over America. And just a week or so later, on the planet of Serena, many galaxies away, the Minister of Intergalactic Affairs and other leaders gathered in the main chamber of the House of Serenity to hear a report from Ruba Pontuba, a heroic space traveler who had just returned from her second mission to Earth.
Minister: "Welcome back, most respected Ruba."
Ruba: "Thank you, most honorable minister. I am thrilled to be back. I can't tell you how much I missed being among civilized creatures."
Minister: "Is that so? It was my hope that humans would be quite civilized by now. This is a new millennium for them, is it not?"
Ruba (laughs uncontrollably for five minutes): "New millennium! Ha ha ha! Humans are no more civilized in the new millennium than they were in the old millennium. They still kill each other in great numbers, and then refer to lions and tigers as 'wild animals.'"
Minister: "You mean they haven't made any progress as a species?"
Ruba: "They've made a little progress in science and technology, mostly in helping teenagers keep in touch with each other, but no progress whatsoever in peace and love. During my time on Earth, I witnessed hundreds of conflicts, including Israelis against Palestinians, Americans against Iraqis, Zidane against Materazzi."
Minister: "But don't humans want peace?"
Ruba: "Yes, most humans do want peace. They want it so much; they're willing to fight wars to achieve it."
Minister: "What about love? Don't humans love each other?"
Ruba: "Not as much as they love money. Most humans have one main goal in life: to get rich."
Minister: "But aren't they like us? Don't they want to become rich so they can help the less fortunate?
Ruba: "Well, I heard of one human who won the lottery and said, 'The first thing I'm going to do is sponsor some children in Uganda.' But it turns out that those were HIS children. He was behind on his child maintenance. Most humans, when they get rich, buy themselves a big house, a fancy car and new teeth. Some get new spouses, too."
Minister: "So what happens to the poor?"
Ruba: "Many of them struggle to survive. In some countries, they don't have enough food to eat."
Minister: "You mean there's a shortage of food on Earth?"
Ruba: "I thought there was, but then I visited America and saw people taking part in an eating contest. They were stuffing hotdogs down their throats, hoping to win a prize in this great new sport. A Japanese man won first place. He ate up his competition."
Minister: "Are there any poor people in America?"
Ruba: "Yes, there are. They get fed twice a year: at Thanksgiving and Christmas."
Minister: "So humans are killing each other and not sharing their food and wealth. Are they at least trying their best to eliminate deadly diseases?"
Ruba: "Yes, they are. America, for example, spent billions from its health budget to eliminate a 'cancer' named Saddam. The American leader believes that Earth is now a much healthier planet."
Minister: "What on Earth is he drinking?"
Great mysteries of our time
Can someone answer this question for me? If inyanga (traditional doctors) claim they can make one stinking rich, why are they so dirt poor? It’s like this friend of mine who says his job is to facilitate the migration of locals to Australia in search of greener pastures. How can he be stuck here if he claims that he can arrange for [people to get a better life down under? Makes one think, doesn’t it?
Thursday, November 15
Wednesday, July 11
Shebeens: an idea whose time has come
MANOTSHA wears a wry smile as he beckons me aside. He is extending an invitation that we move from the boring environs of the bottle store to a more comfortable drinking place.
He prefers a shebeen called koMaSamoosa in Gwabalanda. With trepidation, I agree to the proposal, choosing to make this an educational visit.
‘KuBlind!’ he exclaims, almost jumping out of his skin in excitement. You see, in the local parlance, if a place is referred to as ‘blind’ it means it’s really good. I am not that enthusiastic. For one, the police have been raiding these dens of iniquity (so they say) like nobody’s business. They are soft targets for corrupt police officers thirsting for freebies and a few thousand dollars to buy roasted meat.
Second, it’s been ages since I last ‘frequented a shebeen,’ let alone being picked up from one by the long arm of the law. With the economy in the mortuary, I was convinced that shebeens had long gone the way of the Dodo. How wrong I was. They are alive and kicking hard!
We get to MaSamoosa’s humble abode. Her name, I am reliably informed, is derived from the fact that she started off selling spicy samoosas as snacks to patrons in shebeens in the neighbourhood until she accumulated enough capital and skill to establish her own place.
The place is packed to the rafters. The slogan here is, ‘The place might be small but the welcome is big.’ Familiar and not so familiar faces greet us and the conviviality is just too infectious for one to change their mind and leave. The Queen jumps into view and greets us with hearty hugs. There is no doubting at this point that we are at home away from home.
It is said that if you throw a stone high up in the air in one of Bulawayo’s predominantly working class western suburbs, more often than not it is likely to fall on a shebeen. It might seem like an exaggeration but those who have ventured into what was once called the City of King’s Wild, Wild West will attest to this fact. Shebeens are supposed to be illegal by they flourish nevertheless under Zimbabwe’s hawkish laws and in the midst of an economic meltdown.
For the uninitiated, a shebeen is an illicit drinking place that serves all manner of alcoholic beverages to patched patrons seeking a homely atmosphere. It operates from someone’s house and is usually presided over by the Shebeen Queen, usually huge mamas who would give a Yokuzuna a run for their money if given half the chance.
The ‘Queens’ are referred to by their surnames with your MaTshumas, MaMkhize, MaNcube, MaNgwenya or any other Ma’s you can think of. A few are called by their nicknames like MaNtuza, Didiri or Topsy and don’t ask me how they got those.
There were Shebeen Kings but they were a rarity. Here hosts like Silver (pronounced Siliva), Jomo and uBhudi Rho, among others, made their name in the hospitality stakes.
Back at MaSamoosa’s place, the service is quick. Manotsha is already settled in a deep sofa that looks out of place in the small sitting room. As if to declare his sovereignty, he lights up a cigarette and blows the smoke through the corner of his mouth towards the roof. ‘Sit here, Mafana,’ he beckons.
He really is the king of this place. A voluptuous waitress, MaSamoosa’s daughter or nephew or maid - I really don’t care - has already brought the orders. She surely is one of the attractions here besides the beer of course.
Two cold clear Pilsners straight out of the South Pole are plonked on the table in front of us. A ward of Zim-kwachas exchanges hands and the damsel is dismissed with a cursory, ‘Keep change!’ by an increasingly relaxed Manotsha.
I fail to relax. Thoughts of seeing a policeman’s cap protruding round the corner to kill our joy is just too real to ignore. The last thing I need right now is to sleep in the fenced enclosure out in the open at Luveve Police Station, waiting for the morning shift to come, exact their fine and set us free.
The idea of shebeens, a term that is not surprisingly Irish, have their origins in South Africa were they have been legalised. They are almost unique to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe’s second largest city, having taken root during the colonial days when it was illegal for Africans to drink ‘European’ beer.
You see, the whites’ warped thinking was that if they drank with the blacks, the locals would start entertaining thoughts of equality with their white counterparts. That would inevitably lead, so they premised, to the Africans having funny ideas about independence or self rule.
Ironically enough, when the colonial authorities designed and constructed the western suburbs, which were more like labour dormitories then, the first thing they put up was a beer hall. Here, the traditional sorghum brew (also known to some as ‘sand and tonic’) was sold to keep the Africans ‘happy’ and away from mischief. Keeping them drunk outside of working hours was supposed to numb them from the pain of segregation.
Well, the effect of this was the opposite. Shebeens became the havens of defiance. They provided safe havens for rogue politicians who wanted to escape detention and arrest. Which explains why prominent politicians like the late Sidney Malunga, questioned their continued prohibition after independence in 1980. The new government retained most of the pre-independence laws including the ones that made it an offence to patronise a shebeen.
Ever since time immemorial, they have not escaped the attention of law enforcement agencies, with regular, sometimes heavy handed raids being part of the life of operators and their faithful patrons. In fact, being arrested in a shebeen had become part of the fun and a good excuse to explain to the wife why one slept out. Stoic veterans of numerous raids have railed against such laws as retrogressive in an era when government was encouraging self-reliance and entrepreneurship to counter high levels of unemployment.
Since, during the colonial era, the reasons for banning shebeens were both political and economic, that is, to protect the monopoly of white controlled hotels and municipal liquor outlets (beer halls), there are more valid reasons for these to be revisited.
The crowd in the shebeen is a patch-work of the society that lives in Gwabalanda. Working class types, teachers, students and O-jack roller (thugs) are all there. Add the odd celebrity like me and that completes the cocktail. I try to avoid detection but that’s futile. The conversation turns to the police raids which are increasing in intensity. A sign of the times, one man says, the police are hungry so they need to survive the best way they know how – through extortion. Legalisation of shebeens would surely help, says another.
The argument centres around the fact that the decriminalisation of the informal sector, of which shebeens are part, would kick start a burgeoning second economy that would free the scarce resources of the police force as they shift to more serious crime in the neighbourhood. That does not preclude the creation of employment of thousands who would choose formal employment over a life of crime.
Now try telling this to the police, worse still to the characters I observe sharing a quart of beer while throwing glances in our direction. I am convinced that we have just become unwitting targets. Their laughter is laconic. They are showing each other scars from previous battles. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, Manotsha is unperturbed.
One really wonders if legalisation would drive such low-lifes from the streets. It all seems too far fetched. What I know is that there are more voices out there who would violently oppose this, particularly from the clergy. While I entertain these thoughts a fight suddenly breaks out among the tsotsis. It all seems too stage managed for me.
Like a flash, MaSamoosa emerges from the kitchen, grabs the offender round the waist and carries him out with legs flailing helplessly. Her stretch belies her size. I guess one shouldn’t judge a book by looking at its cover. As suddenly as the fracas began, calm is restored. The rest of the brood are given their matching orders. There is nothing as embarrassing as being banned from a shebeen. It’s so painful.
The men of the cloth could be right in the opposition to these dens of iniquity, modern day Sodom and Gomorrah worthy of hell and damnation. All manner of vice is associated with shebeens. Prostitution, gambling, child labour, you name it. Though, I must admit, I never saw any of that in my sojourn koMaSamoosa. Perhaps something was going on away from prying eyes. Such is the operation – carried out with dignity and a measure of respect for anyone who chooses to come spend half his salary there.
‘Hypocrites!’ shouts Manotsha. ‘These church people are all hypocrites. I met Mfundisi Sibanda from the Anglican church koCecilia last week!’
Men of cloth, government aficionado, even senior police officers, people who speak out publicly against shebeens visit them under cover of darkness. You can’t keep a good thing down.
In fact, some operators pride themselves with the high calibre of clientele and it forms part of their marketing strategy. Surely one would not miss the opportunity to rub shoulders with a Minister of government or religion at their favourite drinking hole, relaxing over a pint or two?
As if by sheer coincidence, commotion outside announces the arrival of a troop of police details in full riot regalia. They number twelve which in itself is not surprising these days. They pretend not to be concerned and seek the audience of ‘the owner of the place.’ Grinning like a Cheshire cat, MaSamoosa summons the most senior looking of them into her office which also doubles up as her bedroom and storeroom to boot.
For some queer reason, I am not perturbed. Somehow I am content that MaSamoosa will sort things out. She does and soon the police caps are removed and everyone relaxes.
‘Asazaneni madoda (Let’s introduce each other guys),’ the officer says, and without particularly waiting for a response, settles down for the one or two pints on the house availed by the now overly hospitable shebeen queens. From the rest of us, a collective sigh of relief. At least for today, the fences will be empty.
Lenox Mhlanga is a New Zimbabwe.com columnist. His column is published there (www.newzimbabwe.com) every Friday.
He prefers a shebeen called koMaSamoosa in Gwabalanda. With trepidation, I agree to the proposal, choosing to make this an educational visit.
‘KuBlind!’ he exclaims, almost jumping out of his skin in excitement. You see, in the local parlance, if a place is referred to as ‘blind’ it means it’s really good. I am not that enthusiastic. For one, the police have been raiding these dens of iniquity (so they say) like nobody’s business. They are soft targets for corrupt police officers thirsting for freebies and a few thousand dollars to buy roasted meat.
Second, it’s been ages since I last ‘frequented a shebeen,’ let alone being picked up from one by the long arm of the law. With the economy in the mortuary, I was convinced that shebeens had long gone the way of the Dodo. How wrong I was. They are alive and kicking hard!
We get to MaSamoosa’s humble abode. Her name, I am reliably informed, is derived from the fact that she started off selling spicy samoosas as snacks to patrons in shebeens in the neighbourhood until she accumulated enough capital and skill to establish her own place.
The place is packed to the rafters. The slogan here is, ‘The place might be small but the welcome is big.’ Familiar and not so familiar faces greet us and the conviviality is just too infectious for one to change their mind and leave. The Queen jumps into view and greets us with hearty hugs. There is no doubting at this point that we are at home away from home.
It is said that if you throw a stone high up in the air in one of Bulawayo’s predominantly working class western suburbs, more often than not it is likely to fall on a shebeen. It might seem like an exaggeration but those who have ventured into what was once called the City of King’s Wild, Wild West will attest to this fact. Shebeens are supposed to be illegal by they flourish nevertheless under Zimbabwe’s hawkish laws and in the midst of an economic meltdown.
For the uninitiated, a shebeen is an illicit drinking place that serves all manner of alcoholic beverages to patched patrons seeking a homely atmosphere. It operates from someone’s house and is usually presided over by the Shebeen Queen, usually huge mamas who would give a Yokuzuna a run for their money if given half the chance.
The ‘Queens’ are referred to by their surnames with your MaTshumas, MaMkhize, MaNcube, MaNgwenya or any other Ma’s you can think of. A few are called by their nicknames like MaNtuza, Didiri or Topsy and don’t ask me how they got those.
There were Shebeen Kings but they were a rarity. Here hosts like Silver (pronounced Siliva), Jomo and uBhudi Rho, among others, made their name in the hospitality stakes.
Back at MaSamoosa’s place, the service is quick. Manotsha is already settled in a deep sofa that looks out of place in the small sitting room. As if to declare his sovereignty, he lights up a cigarette and blows the smoke through the corner of his mouth towards the roof. ‘Sit here, Mafana,’ he beckons.
He really is the king of this place. A voluptuous waitress, MaSamoosa’s daughter or nephew or maid - I really don’t care - has already brought the orders. She surely is one of the attractions here besides the beer of course.
Two cold clear Pilsners straight out of the South Pole are plonked on the table in front of us. A ward of Zim-kwachas exchanges hands and the damsel is dismissed with a cursory, ‘Keep change!’ by an increasingly relaxed Manotsha.
I fail to relax. Thoughts of seeing a policeman’s cap protruding round the corner to kill our joy is just too real to ignore. The last thing I need right now is to sleep in the fenced enclosure out in the open at Luveve Police Station, waiting for the morning shift to come, exact their fine and set us free.
The idea of shebeens, a term that is not surprisingly Irish, have their origins in South Africa were they have been legalised. They are almost unique to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe’s second largest city, having taken root during the colonial days when it was illegal for Africans to drink ‘European’ beer.
You see, the whites’ warped thinking was that if they drank with the blacks, the locals would start entertaining thoughts of equality with their white counterparts. That would inevitably lead, so they premised, to the Africans having funny ideas about independence or self rule.
Ironically enough, when the colonial authorities designed and constructed the western suburbs, which were more like labour dormitories then, the first thing they put up was a beer hall. Here, the traditional sorghum brew (also known to some as ‘sand and tonic’) was sold to keep the Africans ‘happy’ and away from mischief. Keeping them drunk outside of working hours was supposed to numb them from the pain of segregation.
Well, the effect of this was the opposite. Shebeens became the havens of defiance. They provided safe havens for rogue politicians who wanted to escape detention and arrest. Which explains why prominent politicians like the late Sidney Malunga, questioned their continued prohibition after independence in 1980. The new government retained most of the pre-independence laws including the ones that made it an offence to patronise a shebeen.
Ever since time immemorial, they have not escaped the attention of law enforcement agencies, with regular, sometimes heavy handed raids being part of the life of operators and their faithful patrons. In fact, being arrested in a shebeen had become part of the fun and a good excuse to explain to the wife why one slept out. Stoic veterans of numerous raids have railed against such laws as retrogressive in an era when government was encouraging self-reliance and entrepreneurship to counter high levels of unemployment.
Since, during the colonial era, the reasons for banning shebeens were both political and economic, that is, to protect the monopoly of white controlled hotels and municipal liquor outlets (beer halls), there are more valid reasons for these to be revisited.
The crowd in the shebeen is a patch-work of the society that lives in Gwabalanda. Working class types, teachers, students and O-jack roller (thugs) are all there. Add the odd celebrity like me and that completes the cocktail. I try to avoid detection but that’s futile. The conversation turns to the police raids which are increasing in intensity. A sign of the times, one man says, the police are hungry so they need to survive the best way they know how – through extortion. Legalisation of shebeens would surely help, says another.
The argument centres around the fact that the decriminalisation of the informal sector, of which shebeens are part, would kick start a burgeoning second economy that would free the scarce resources of the police force as they shift to more serious crime in the neighbourhood. That does not preclude the creation of employment of thousands who would choose formal employment over a life of crime.
Now try telling this to the police, worse still to the characters I observe sharing a quart of beer while throwing glances in our direction. I am convinced that we have just become unwitting targets. Their laughter is laconic. They are showing each other scars from previous battles. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, Manotsha is unperturbed.
One really wonders if legalisation would drive such low-lifes from the streets. It all seems too far fetched. What I know is that there are more voices out there who would violently oppose this, particularly from the clergy. While I entertain these thoughts a fight suddenly breaks out among the tsotsis. It all seems too stage managed for me.
Like a flash, MaSamoosa emerges from the kitchen, grabs the offender round the waist and carries him out with legs flailing helplessly. Her stretch belies her size. I guess one shouldn’t judge a book by looking at its cover. As suddenly as the fracas began, calm is restored. The rest of the brood are given their matching orders. There is nothing as embarrassing as being banned from a shebeen. It’s so painful.
The men of the cloth could be right in the opposition to these dens of iniquity, modern day Sodom and Gomorrah worthy of hell and damnation. All manner of vice is associated with shebeens. Prostitution, gambling, child labour, you name it. Though, I must admit, I never saw any of that in my sojourn koMaSamoosa. Perhaps something was going on away from prying eyes. Such is the operation – carried out with dignity and a measure of respect for anyone who chooses to come spend half his salary there.
‘Hypocrites!’ shouts Manotsha. ‘These church people are all hypocrites. I met Mfundisi Sibanda from the Anglican church koCecilia last week!’
Men of cloth, government aficionado, even senior police officers, people who speak out publicly against shebeens visit them under cover of darkness. You can’t keep a good thing down.
In fact, some operators pride themselves with the high calibre of clientele and it forms part of their marketing strategy. Surely one would not miss the opportunity to rub shoulders with a Minister of government or religion at their favourite drinking hole, relaxing over a pint or two?
As if by sheer coincidence, commotion outside announces the arrival of a troop of police details in full riot regalia. They number twelve which in itself is not surprising these days. They pretend not to be concerned and seek the audience of ‘the owner of the place.’ Grinning like a Cheshire cat, MaSamoosa summons the most senior looking of them into her office which also doubles up as her bedroom and storeroom to boot.
For some queer reason, I am not perturbed. Somehow I am content that MaSamoosa will sort things out. She does and soon the police caps are removed and everyone relaxes.
‘Asazaneni madoda (Let’s introduce each other guys),’ the officer says, and without particularly waiting for a response, settles down for the one or two pints on the house availed by the now overly hospitable shebeen queens. From the rest of us, a collective sigh of relief. At least for today, the fences will be empty.
Lenox Mhlanga is a New Zimbabwe.com columnist. His column is published there (www.newzimbabwe.com) every Friday.
Monday, June 18
Defending the marriage institution
I have often stood accused of having a low opinion of marriage. Let us all agree on one sure thing, that this institution has both been venerated and vilified depending on the state of one’s union, gender, marital status, or on opinions grounded in either fact or fallacy. Mine are based solely on hardened experience. You see, I am happily married (my wife told me to say so) and have been for the past 13 years. So that makes me an expert of sorts on issues marital.
I was startled by statistics that revealed that in the United States, an average of 3 million people divorce each year and the figure is rising. One of the reasons that so many marriages end in divorce is that those men who promised that they'd die for their woman just don't come through. People have divorced because of reasons that range from the way in which the toilet paper should gang, mothers-in-law (of course), lipstick on the belly button to whose turn it was to taking he dog for a very long walk.
I am surprised that the milkman, plumber or the postman did not feature prominently as we would have assumed, but rest assured that if this was in Zimbabwe, they would be top of the list along with the younger brother (or sister) and the maid.
Marriage has been defined as the only war in which one sleeps with the enemy or that enduring state of undeclared civil war. There are others who feel that marriage is not a word but a sentence. In fact the ever witty Winston Churchill once said: “Where does the marriage start? It starts with a young man falling in live with a girl. No superior alternative has yet been found.”
Bachelors have a very low opinion of marriage, granted, they don’t know what they are missing (Look who’s talking now). Marriage, they say, is the sole cause of divorce. The impression given is that the marriage institution is one to avoid at all costs. Among the host of reasons proffered is that of independence. Bachelors claim that they have the freedom to do what they want, when they want and to or with whom they want. They are convinced that married men have imaginary leaches around their necks and are wilfully manipulated by their better half which we emphatically deny.
The sanctions, bachelors say, take the form of tight financial control on the assumption that men are hopelessly careless with money. They go on to say that it is the woman of the house who normally commands the powerful portfolio of finance minister and so it goes without saying that this controls the movements and spending habits of the husband through a system of checks and balances.
If this were true, married men counter, then quite a number of pubs would become extinct. Pubs are full of married men to avoid house hold chores. Now there’s a burning issue if I saw one. Who should do what in the house, how and when? In the traditional set-up, the situation is pretty clear; the women do the entire house work while the man dozes under a tree.
In the 21st century home, things have changed somewhat. Wives are crying out: “Help me, help me!” but it’s actually “Help me exactly the way I tell you!” Housework is repetitive, tedious and physically sapping, but it isn’t difficult. It has only been shrouded in such perfectionist mystique the same way lawyers have done to their profession, so men don’t buy it.
Let’s get back to the bachelors. We all know that they are rabidly reckless when it comes to cash, searching for the ultimate thrill that money can buy, limited only to the depth of their pockets. Married men on the other hand, take refuge in the comfort that their spouses would be there to pull the brakes on those unplanned bouts of unrestricted spending at the local with the lads.
They (married men, that is) deny that there is any so-called ‘home by six’ curfew restriction effected by their allegedly overprotective wives. Instead they point to the inherent dangers of bachelors’ ‘home by the next day’ policy that has left its fair share of casualties in unplanned pregnancies, monumental hangovers and nasty diseases being the tip of the iceberg of total ruin.
If the truth be told, say the married men, bachelors are scared of attachment. They unearth all these excuses about married men living miserable lives under a petticoat dictatorship. Agreed, they are a minority of women who give their spouses hell but they are the exception rather than the rule.
A columnist once posed an all important question: Why do people marry, and came up with the apparent answer that we marry because by nature humans, and animals for that matter, hate being alone. We marry for other reasons like security, children and intimacy. Marriage is not an event but a process and it takes a great understanding between couples.
For instance, here are a few things that wives do not like; things that go bang, the husband’s best friend, the husband admiring her best friend, smelly socks, the internal combustion engine, the internal combustion engine in pieces and anything in a mini skirt. You can also add the fact that they detest men who talk back and dirt. Wives do not see the point of 12 pints of lager, boxing, pin-ups, rugby, many other things involving balls bachelor’s parties and pubs.
So newly-wed flowers are warned that it’s not all marital bliss or a bed of roses, but should beware of the thorns! Men, God forbid, leave the toile seat up, break wind anywhere and everywhere and cut their toe nails in bed. That does not leave out doing press-ups before breakfast, whistling in the shower and dozing away on the sofa a la Andy Capp. Add knuckle cracking, sniffling loudly like a jet engine in reverse, or chewing nosily. It all takes a bit tolerance.
Men, be patient with your wives. Things like riding the clutch, using your newspaper to clean the loo before you read it, sitting comfortably knitting while the kids re-engineer the DVD player, and spring-cleaning the bedroom at dawn after your hard night out with the boys are genetic. So there is hardly anything you can possibly do to change that unless you ship out.
But then who cares if your partner wets the bed, snores like a diesel engine or yodels in their sleep for that matter? It all adds spice to the relationship and a bit of drama too! No one said we were all perfect. One has to hand it to those brave women who are married to mass murderers, dictators, thieves and other social misfits. Real love conquers all, they say. So to you bachelors out there, there is nothing to fear except fear itself. Divorce, in actual fact, is bachelorhood, with strings attached.
I was startled by statistics that revealed that in the United States, an average of 3 million people divorce each year and the figure is rising. One of the reasons that so many marriages end in divorce is that those men who promised that they'd die for their woman just don't come through. People have divorced because of reasons that range from the way in which the toilet paper should gang, mothers-in-law (of course), lipstick on the belly button to whose turn it was to taking he dog for a very long walk.
I am surprised that the milkman, plumber or the postman did not feature prominently as we would have assumed, but rest assured that if this was in Zimbabwe, they would be top of the list along with the younger brother (or sister) and the maid.
Marriage has been defined as the only war in which one sleeps with the enemy or that enduring state of undeclared civil war. There are others who feel that marriage is not a word but a sentence. In fact the ever witty Winston Churchill once said: “Where does the marriage start? It starts with a young man falling in live with a girl. No superior alternative has yet been found.”
Bachelors have a very low opinion of marriage, granted, they don’t know what they are missing (Look who’s talking now). Marriage, they say, is the sole cause of divorce. The impression given is that the marriage institution is one to avoid at all costs. Among the host of reasons proffered is that of independence. Bachelors claim that they have the freedom to do what they want, when they want and to or with whom they want. They are convinced that married men have imaginary leaches around their necks and are wilfully manipulated by their better half which we emphatically deny.
The sanctions, bachelors say, take the form of tight financial control on the assumption that men are hopelessly careless with money. They go on to say that it is the woman of the house who normally commands the powerful portfolio of finance minister and so it goes without saying that this controls the movements and spending habits of the husband through a system of checks and balances.
If this were true, married men counter, then quite a number of pubs would become extinct. Pubs are full of married men to avoid house hold chores. Now there’s a burning issue if I saw one. Who should do what in the house, how and when? In the traditional set-up, the situation is pretty clear; the women do the entire house work while the man dozes under a tree.
In the 21st century home, things have changed somewhat. Wives are crying out: “Help me, help me!” but it’s actually “Help me exactly the way I tell you!” Housework is repetitive, tedious and physically sapping, but it isn’t difficult. It has only been shrouded in such perfectionist mystique the same way lawyers have done to their profession, so men don’t buy it.
Let’s get back to the bachelors. We all know that they are rabidly reckless when it comes to cash, searching for the ultimate thrill that money can buy, limited only to the depth of their pockets. Married men on the other hand, take refuge in the comfort that their spouses would be there to pull the brakes on those unplanned bouts of unrestricted spending at the local with the lads.
They (married men, that is) deny that there is any so-called ‘home by six’ curfew restriction effected by their allegedly overprotective wives. Instead they point to the inherent dangers of bachelors’ ‘home by the next day’ policy that has left its fair share of casualties in unplanned pregnancies, monumental hangovers and nasty diseases being the tip of the iceberg of total ruin.
If the truth be told, say the married men, bachelors are scared of attachment. They unearth all these excuses about married men living miserable lives under a petticoat dictatorship. Agreed, they are a minority of women who give their spouses hell but they are the exception rather than the rule.
A columnist once posed an all important question: Why do people marry, and came up with the apparent answer that we marry because by nature humans, and animals for that matter, hate being alone. We marry for other reasons like security, children and intimacy. Marriage is not an event but a process and it takes a great understanding between couples.
For instance, here are a few things that wives do not like; things that go bang, the husband’s best friend, the husband admiring her best friend, smelly socks, the internal combustion engine, the internal combustion engine in pieces and anything in a mini skirt. You can also add the fact that they detest men who talk back and dirt. Wives do not see the point of 12 pints of lager, boxing, pin-ups, rugby, many other things involving balls bachelor’s parties and pubs.
So newly-wed flowers are warned that it’s not all marital bliss or a bed of roses, but should beware of the thorns! Men, God forbid, leave the toile seat up, break wind anywhere and everywhere and cut their toe nails in bed. That does not leave out doing press-ups before breakfast, whistling in the shower and dozing away on the sofa a la Andy Capp. Add knuckle cracking, sniffling loudly like a jet engine in reverse, or chewing nosily. It all takes a bit tolerance.
Men, be patient with your wives. Things like riding the clutch, using your newspaper to clean the loo before you read it, sitting comfortably knitting while the kids re-engineer the DVD player, and spring-cleaning the bedroom at dawn after your hard night out with the boys are genetic. So there is hardly anything you can possibly do to change that unless you ship out.
But then who cares if your partner wets the bed, snores like a diesel engine or yodels in their sleep for that matter? It all adds spice to the relationship and a bit of drama too! No one said we were all perfect. One has to hand it to those brave women who are married to mass murderers, dictators, thieves and other social misfits. Real love conquers all, they say. So to you bachelors out there, there is nothing to fear except fear itself. Divorce, in actual fact, is bachelorhood, with strings attached.
Wednesday, May 30
Why are men so obsessed with virility?
‘Man dies after taking aphrodisiac,’ screamed the headline in a local paper last week. In another case, two men from Tsholotsho were admitted into hospital with miniature ‘Leaning Towers of Pisa’ in their trousers that refused to go down after taking an unnamed substance to boost their sexual endurance.
Yet another story described how a 50 year-old man could have directly or indirectly caused the death of a 15 year-old girl after a session of artificially induced passion. Claims were made that this was after the said geezer had consumed a liberal amount of a concoction to prop up his libido.
The implication was that given his age the man, at half a century of existence, would not have achieved such high performance levels without the aid of an aphrodisiac. For the record, the man denied ever taking any such concoction. This unfortunate incident occurred in Bulawayo where I come from which makes me a reliable source on the goings-on in the City of Kings and Queens.
Go to any beer hall KoNtuthuziyathunqa (The city where the smoke billows) and you will observe almost without fail, groups of men passing around a piece of khaki paper containing a ground powder called Umvusankunzi. This, in the local SiNdebele language, literally means ‘arouser of the bull.’
When the rest of the world went crazy over the discovery of Viagra, these men must have been wondering what the fuss was all about since the local version had been in existence since time immemorial. Whether the old man mentioned earlier took the concoction or not is beside the point. What concerns us here is why he should have taken it in the first place?
Which begs the question; why are men so obsessed with their virility? The whole psychology behind the conundrum is that while in pursuit of a basic need, which we assume he paid for I hard earned dollars, he had to make sure that he would not be found wanting.
If there is anything that deflates a man’s ego it would be his inability to perform where it matters most. Had he failed, he might have been the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. In this case the girl in question would have broadcast to all and sundry the apparent inadequacies of the man which in lackadaisical sort of way highlights the tragedy of the episode.
Breaking from the story, let us take a hard look at the traditional reasons for taking performance – enhancing concoctions. In the not-too-distant past, when polygamy was the rule rather than the exception, a man was supposed to ‘satisfy’ his numerous wives reasonably well so as to prevent them from taking their business elsewhere.
Knowing the frailty of the human body especially after the exertions of a normal drinking day, it would be near impossible to undertake these essential domestic chores to the satisfaction of the parties involved. So in the spirit of keeping the family happily together, traditional doctors prescribed anabolic steroids to the males.
These were usually doled out in the dead of the night because males with their trademark obstinacy saw themselves quite capable of the task at hand without any artificial assistance when the opposite was true. Not even the favourite wife knew about these nocturnal consultations.
Nowadays the situation has somewhat changed. Most of the men are now in monogamous unions though modern diet, the taxing working conditions and high alcohol consumption are also known to put a huge dent on their stamina when performing their matrimonial obligations. It is a fact that a man dreads being deserted by his wife for any reason worse still if it is because of impotence.
There are some men who find it hard to believe that impotence is a disease. To them, it is just being inadequate, a straight-forward inability to perform, and period! Hence the need to go the extra mile by any means necessary.
Other pertinent questions come to mind. For instance, should the female partner be made aware that her partner takes a herbal performance enhancement drug? What if she fails to satisfy his increased demands? Does it men that he now can go to the next person in a skirt to tame the raging bull?
So it goes without saying that the majority of women in this predicament will never know about their partner’s curious drug habit if I may call it that. That is as long as their part of the contract is reasonably or exceedingly fulfilled. The whole thing is shrouded in a veil of secrecy. I am yet to hear of a man who calls out to his wife to fetch him his 5 gallon container of Vuka Vuka before they retire for the night. Even the passing round of the khaki paper in the beer hall is a ritual in silence. One isn’t even sure it’s the real thing. I suppose the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
Sexual performance enhancement drugs, whether herbal or artificial, open a Pandora’s Box of potential hazards chief among these being HIV contracted in pursuit of a cheap thrill as it was in the case of our 50 year old murder suspect. The two Tsholotsho men are an illustration of what happens to those who overdose or fail to find a willing partner.
Rape is also common in some of the extreme cases as the need for sexual relief borders on desperate. The murder case itself is giving law enforcement officers’ sleepless nights when it comes to its classification. They are finding it difficult to charge the man with anything. Aren’t we going to see a new statute opened in the law books where men can possibly be charged with ‘murder with a friendly weapon?’ Anything is possible these days.
And by the way, this plan to give aeroplane passengers Viagra in order to counter the effects of jetlag and time lapse, just drop it. There just won’t be enough leg room.
Health Warning: This is a serious issue which is normally discussed in low voices by members of the male species.Women are best advised to pretend they are not reading this.
Notes:
This column first appeared in the Daily News in 2000 which has now been banned. It has been rehashed by the author for a web audience on his weekly column 'Breaking the Wind' at www.newzimbabwe.com
Bulawayo is Zimbabwe's second largest city with a population of aproximately 1 million people.Its called the City of Kings because of its historical past as the capital of the ancient Ndebele kingdom of Mthwakazi ruled by Mzilikazi and then his son Lobengula in the 19th century.
Yet another story described how a 50 year-old man could have directly or indirectly caused the death of a 15 year-old girl after a session of artificially induced passion. Claims were made that this was after the said geezer had consumed a liberal amount of a concoction to prop up his libido.
The implication was that given his age the man, at half a century of existence, would not have achieved such high performance levels without the aid of an aphrodisiac. For the record, the man denied ever taking any such concoction. This unfortunate incident occurred in Bulawayo where I come from which makes me a reliable source on the goings-on in the City of Kings and Queens.
Go to any beer hall KoNtuthuziyathunqa (The city where the smoke billows) and you will observe almost without fail, groups of men passing around a piece of khaki paper containing a ground powder called Umvusankunzi. This, in the local SiNdebele language, literally means ‘arouser of the bull.’
When the rest of the world went crazy over the discovery of Viagra, these men must have been wondering what the fuss was all about since the local version had been in existence since time immemorial. Whether the old man mentioned earlier took the concoction or not is beside the point. What concerns us here is why he should have taken it in the first place?
Which begs the question; why are men so obsessed with their virility? The whole psychology behind the conundrum is that while in pursuit of a basic need, which we assume he paid for I hard earned dollars, he had to make sure that he would not be found wanting.
If there is anything that deflates a man’s ego it would be his inability to perform where it matters most. Had he failed, he might have been the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. In this case the girl in question would have broadcast to all and sundry the apparent inadequacies of the man which in lackadaisical sort of way highlights the tragedy of the episode.
Breaking from the story, let us take a hard look at the traditional reasons for taking performance – enhancing concoctions. In the not-too-distant past, when polygamy was the rule rather than the exception, a man was supposed to ‘satisfy’ his numerous wives reasonably well so as to prevent them from taking their business elsewhere.
Knowing the frailty of the human body especially after the exertions of a normal drinking day, it would be near impossible to undertake these essential domestic chores to the satisfaction of the parties involved. So in the spirit of keeping the family happily together, traditional doctors prescribed anabolic steroids to the males.
These were usually doled out in the dead of the night because males with their trademark obstinacy saw themselves quite capable of the task at hand without any artificial assistance when the opposite was true. Not even the favourite wife knew about these nocturnal consultations.
Nowadays the situation has somewhat changed. Most of the men are now in monogamous unions though modern diet, the taxing working conditions and high alcohol consumption are also known to put a huge dent on their stamina when performing their matrimonial obligations. It is a fact that a man dreads being deserted by his wife for any reason worse still if it is because of impotence.
There are some men who find it hard to believe that impotence is a disease. To them, it is just being inadequate, a straight-forward inability to perform, and period! Hence the need to go the extra mile by any means necessary.
Other pertinent questions come to mind. For instance, should the female partner be made aware that her partner takes a herbal performance enhancement drug? What if she fails to satisfy his increased demands? Does it men that he now can go to the next person in a skirt to tame the raging bull?
So it goes without saying that the majority of women in this predicament will never know about their partner’s curious drug habit if I may call it that. That is as long as their part of the contract is reasonably or exceedingly fulfilled. The whole thing is shrouded in a veil of secrecy. I am yet to hear of a man who calls out to his wife to fetch him his 5 gallon container of Vuka Vuka before they retire for the night. Even the passing round of the khaki paper in the beer hall is a ritual in silence. One isn’t even sure it’s the real thing. I suppose the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
Sexual performance enhancement drugs, whether herbal or artificial, open a Pandora’s Box of potential hazards chief among these being HIV contracted in pursuit of a cheap thrill as it was in the case of our 50 year old murder suspect. The two Tsholotsho men are an illustration of what happens to those who overdose or fail to find a willing partner.
Rape is also common in some of the extreme cases as the need for sexual relief borders on desperate. The murder case itself is giving law enforcement officers’ sleepless nights when it comes to its classification. They are finding it difficult to charge the man with anything. Aren’t we going to see a new statute opened in the law books where men can possibly be charged with ‘murder with a friendly weapon?’ Anything is possible these days.
And by the way, this plan to give aeroplane passengers Viagra in order to counter the effects of jetlag and time lapse, just drop it. There just won’t be enough leg room.
Health Warning: This is a serious issue which is normally discussed in low voices by members of the male species.Women are best advised to pretend they are not reading this.
Notes:
This column first appeared in the Daily News in 2000 which has now been banned. It has been rehashed by the author for a web audience on his weekly column 'Breaking the Wind' at www.newzimbabwe.com
Bulawayo is Zimbabwe's second largest city with a population of aproximately 1 million people.Its called the City of Kings because of its historical past as the capital of the ancient Ndebele kingdom of Mthwakazi ruled by Mzilikazi and then his son Lobengula in the 19th century.
Wednesday, May 16
Political Correctness: A Manual
In Zimbabwe we tend to take political correctness a bit too far. For instance, problems here are never referred as such but are couched in cotton wool. The correct term, we are always reminded, is “challenges.” Problems, we suspect, are the direct result of some degree of incompetence or irresponsibility on the part of authorities. Challenges, on the other hand, are a slight diversion from the norm and are to a large extent surmountable. What a load of crap if you ask me.
Well let’s steer away from that minefield which a lot of colleagues have discovered, much to their horror, that this is a hard hat area… Zimbabwean politics I mean. It also explains why I avoid it at all costs, not that I am apologizing. It’s called common sense. You just have to watch your backside in this very dirty game. Some time last year, I did some research on ways in which one could address certain deficiencies among us without offending the subject.
For example I discovered that one is never referred to as short, but rather, “vertically challenged.” Now we are told that no one's tall anymore. They are "vertically enhanced" people, not implying of course that those of us who are tall are offended by their extraordinary height above sea-level. But one would if he were called a ‘tower light.’
I am sure that quite a number among our student population would be glad to know that no one fails in class anymore; you are merely "passing impaired." Neither are you detained after school, you're just one of the "exit delayed." Your room at college isn't cluttered; it's just "passage restrictive."
These days, a worker isn't referred to as lazy. He's "energetically declined.” His or her locker isn't overflowing with junk, but "closure prohibitive." Kids don't get grounded anymore. They merely hit "social speed bumps."
And do you remember those days when it was difficult to complete your homework? And you had to stand before the teacher and lie through your teeth about how the dog came into your room and promptly without provocation ate through your homework exercise book? Take heart because there is a new term floating around these days. Yes, your homework isn't missing; it’s just having an "out-of-notebook experience."
Sleeping in class was not an unusual phenomenon, particularly when the lesson or the teacher or both, where boring you to death. During our time we used to strategically position ourselves in the back row for that much sought after before-lunch snooze. I am quite sure the teachers did notice but rather chose to allow us to exercise our democratic right of non-participation in the lesson. Those who are still in the practice (of dozing) will be glad to know that sleeping in class is now referred to as "rationing consciousness."
Being late for school for some of us was the rule rather than the exception. So the prefects would put our names down in their books in advance for the rest of the week cock sure that we would always crawl in late. I should add that the school administration thought that my case was so exceptional that they made me a prefect in order to curb my bad habit of coming late. If you are ever late, do not search for some far-fetched excuse. Just say you have only had a "rescheduled arrival time."
Hair was another sticking point at school. If wearing an afro was your preference, which by the way is on the boomerang these days, you just had to have an afro-comb on stand-by. The problem was that some of us lacked the energy needed to lift that comb to the head. And as a result one would look more like Don Kings’ illegitimate son. Now here is a good turn-off for those bothersome teachers who make a fuss out of nothing. Just tell them that your hair is not unkempt but that you're suffering from "rebellious follicle syndrome."
In the area of personal hygiene, we always had those who were averse to water. We used to refer to them as cowboys, after that famous local soap advert where a boy would wail to his insistent mother, “Mama, wake wabona ama “cowboy” egeza?” (Have you ever seen cowboys taking a bath?) And that chap had a point. At boarding school guys wore their socks continuously until they could stand on their own when placed on the floor with stink starch. Now they tell me you don't have smelly school socks anymore, rather they are referred to as "odour-retentive academic footwear." You would be interested to know that at boarding school and later at varsity, that particularly overpowering pong was inexplicably referred to as “Noise” (Umsindo).
Here is one for those who are shy. You’re supposed to be “conversationally selective." At school, initially I was in this select group. I would nearly faint when a girl spoke to me. But then something happened. They call it adolescence and now I am referred to as someone who is “abundantly verbal."
Then there was this irritating habit of passing notes in class. Teachers really detested this disruptive behaviour, especially when the teacher was the subject matter of these surreptitious missives. I should add that this was another sure sign that the lesson in question was in intensive care. So to add a bit of daring and excitement to the proceedings we wrote little notes which circulated in class faster than a rumour in Harare. The problem was getting caught after which, I dare say, you were humiliatingly asked to read it aloud in class.
About 99.9% of these notes were vulgar and reading it aloud was like playing Russian roulette. Unless you popped the piece of paper into your mouth, where the least you would receive was a thunderous clap, as compared to ‘six of the best’ from the Head. Or better still you could get away with the explanation that you were "participating in the discreet exchange of penned meditations."
Did I mention the dreaded trip to the headmaster’s office? At Fletcher High where I did my O levels, it was ominously called the “office.” Our teachers would use it in the form of a threat when they would hiss, “Okay my boy, I will report you to the office.” And one sorry trip to the “office” was enough for you not to wish for another. Actually, the ‘office was so efficient that a whole class of errant pupils would be canned in one afternoon!
It was so prevalent that some of us were convinced that the teachers also regularly went for canning too! We even renamed the area where the “office” was located, “The Corridor of Death.” The next time you are called to the “office” just tell your friends that you're "going on mandatory field trip to the administrative building."
I never thought they would find a phrase that would replace the word gossip. From now on it will be known as "the speedy transmission of near-factual information."
This also reminds me of a recent meal at a local hotel that will remain nameless to protect the innocent (as in yours truly). I wouldn’t’ dare call the food they serve at their eatery awful. It's just "digestively challenged."
And finally, remember the column on the touchy subject of gate crashing? Well, the HR man at a local tyre maker has a politically correct term for such pests. At a company function during the just ended Zimbabwe International Trade Fair, he referred to them as “sympathizers.” How cute!
Well let’s steer away from that minefield which a lot of colleagues have discovered, much to their horror, that this is a hard hat area… Zimbabwean politics I mean. It also explains why I avoid it at all costs, not that I am apologizing. It’s called common sense. You just have to watch your backside in this very dirty game. Some time last year, I did some research on ways in which one could address certain deficiencies among us without offending the subject.
For example I discovered that one is never referred to as short, but rather, “vertically challenged.” Now we are told that no one's tall anymore. They are "vertically enhanced" people, not implying of course that those of us who are tall are offended by their extraordinary height above sea-level. But one would if he were called a ‘tower light.’
I am sure that quite a number among our student population would be glad to know that no one fails in class anymore; you are merely "passing impaired." Neither are you detained after school, you're just one of the "exit delayed." Your room at college isn't cluttered; it's just "passage restrictive."
These days, a worker isn't referred to as lazy. He's "energetically declined.” His or her locker isn't overflowing with junk, but "closure prohibitive." Kids don't get grounded anymore. They merely hit "social speed bumps."
And do you remember those days when it was difficult to complete your homework? And you had to stand before the teacher and lie through your teeth about how the dog came into your room and promptly without provocation ate through your homework exercise book? Take heart because there is a new term floating around these days. Yes, your homework isn't missing; it’s just having an "out-of-notebook experience."
Sleeping in class was not an unusual phenomenon, particularly when the lesson or the teacher or both, where boring you to death. During our time we used to strategically position ourselves in the back row for that much sought after before-lunch snooze. I am quite sure the teachers did notice but rather chose to allow us to exercise our democratic right of non-participation in the lesson. Those who are still in the practice (of dozing) will be glad to know that sleeping in class is now referred to as "rationing consciousness."
Being late for school for some of us was the rule rather than the exception. So the prefects would put our names down in their books in advance for the rest of the week cock sure that we would always crawl in late. I should add that the school administration thought that my case was so exceptional that they made me a prefect in order to curb my bad habit of coming late. If you are ever late, do not search for some far-fetched excuse. Just say you have only had a "rescheduled arrival time."
Hair was another sticking point at school. If wearing an afro was your preference, which by the way is on the boomerang these days, you just had to have an afro-comb on stand-by. The problem was that some of us lacked the energy needed to lift that comb to the head. And as a result one would look more like Don Kings’ illegitimate son. Now here is a good turn-off for those bothersome teachers who make a fuss out of nothing. Just tell them that your hair is not unkempt but that you're suffering from "rebellious follicle syndrome."
In the area of personal hygiene, we always had those who were averse to water. We used to refer to them as cowboys, after that famous local soap advert where a boy would wail to his insistent mother, “Mama, wake wabona ama “cowboy” egeza?” (Have you ever seen cowboys taking a bath?) And that chap had a point. At boarding school guys wore their socks continuously until they could stand on their own when placed on the floor with stink starch. Now they tell me you don't have smelly school socks anymore, rather they are referred to as "odour-retentive academic footwear." You would be interested to know that at boarding school and later at varsity, that particularly overpowering pong was inexplicably referred to as “Noise” (Umsindo).
Here is one for those who are shy. You’re supposed to be “conversationally selective." At school, initially I was in this select group. I would nearly faint when a girl spoke to me. But then something happened. They call it adolescence and now I am referred to as someone who is “abundantly verbal."
Then there was this irritating habit of passing notes in class. Teachers really detested this disruptive behaviour, especially when the teacher was the subject matter of these surreptitious missives. I should add that this was another sure sign that the lesson in question was in intensive care. So to add a bit of daring and excitement to the proceedings we wrote little notes which circulated in class faster than a rumour in Harare. The problem was getting caught after which, I dare say, you were humiliatingly asked to read it aloud in class.
About 99.9% of these notes were vulgar and reading it aloud was like playing Russian roulette. Unless you popped the piece of paper into your mouth, where the least you would receive was a thunderous clap, as compared to ‘six of the best’ from the Head. Or better still you could get away with the explanation that you were "participating in the discreet exchange of penned meditations."
Did I mention the dreaded trip to the headmaster’s office? At Fletcher High where I did my O levels, it was ominously called the “office.” Our teachers would use it in the form of a threat when they would hiss, “Okay my boy, I will report you to the office.” And one sorry trip to the “office” was enough for you not to wish for another. Actually, the ‘office was so efficient that a whole class of errant pupils would be canned in one afternoon!
It was so prevalent that some of us were convinced that the teachers also regularly went for canning too! We even renamed the area where the “office” was located, “The Corridor of Death.” The next time you are called to the “office” just tell your friends that you're "going on mandatory field trip to the administrative building."
I never thought they would find a phrase that would replace the word gossip. From now on it will be known as "the speedy transmission of near-factual information."
This also reminds me of a recent meal at a local hotel that will remain nameless to protect the innocent (as in yours truly). I wouldn’t’ dare call the food they serve at their eatery awful. It's just "digestively challenged."
And finally, remember the column on the touchy subject of gate crashing? Well, the HR man at a local tyre maker has a politically correct term for such pests. At a company function during the just ended Zimbabwe International Trade Fair, he referred to them as “sympathizers.” How cute!
Sunday, May 13
How the coalmen took care of me
Apologies are in order for my no-show last week, and for those vendors who were assaulted for selling an incomplete product at a time when the price of this paper went up. It was just a coincidence, no harm intended. Blame the economy for its unpredictable histrionics doing untold damage to the pocket. Any excuses? I must admit that I was buried under an avalanche of Trade fair Cocktail parties only to emerge on the very Sunday you were unfortunately expecting to see my visage and the associated nonsense.
You see, being the celebrity that I now am, everyone and their grandmother want a piece of me, particularly these Harare types whose source of dough knows no end. Everyone loves to be seen with someone famous and to buy them drinks too! I was so overwhelmed! Even ZTV wanted me to present their ‘five-minuters’, which I politely declined and passed on to my good friend Walter. My schedule was just too tight.
But let me tell you something for nothing. Those who say that there is no money in this country are lying. Even if they are printing it, there are people pout there who know how to spend it. And they came to the Trade Fair to do just that. Every firm worth its name threw a shindig to end all shindigs! For the uninitiated in the language of the oppressors, a shindig is a party, my friend.
The only brewer in the country had journos scrambling for superlatives to describe it; until a ‘consultant’ decided it was time up, telling all and sundry it was time to go to bed. Now, you and I know that a journalist and his beer are never parted except when they surface for air. The crime was that this person actually ordered workers to pack ice cold beers away. What a travesty! Even Black Scorpion was appalled. The rule of the function is that you let the booze run out, you do not run the guests out.
I liked the tyre maker’s cocktail. My former employer always gets the formula right only that this time there was far much more Coke than pints. There the ever-so-cool Tshuks the HR man taught us all a new term for gatecrashers. They are now known as sympathisers. How cute!
The guys who supply us with timber and other building things missed the point of inviting people to sample their hospitality. You don’t hold people captive for hour on end to near starvation just to launch some product. Luckily, I sauntered I when the MC was conducting the draw when the cream of the crown were already turning in their sleep at home. Then I discovered the ruse. There was so little food and drink that even izibhonda (the destitute) would have complained. Marks out of ten? Zero!
The Coal-miners (never mind the fact that there is hardly any to throw at each other these days) did their best to monopolise me. I was literally embedded to their humble but imaginative pavilion which by the way won the best Zimbabwean exhibit prize, and to think that I had nothing to do with it. Winning the prize, I mean. I was being spoiled rotten by these guys for the second year running and it paid dividends for them to! I look forward to their scooping a couple more prizes next year.
I must admit that I did gatecrash at least one function, even though I was later to discover later that I had been invited after all. Here I was well and truly cornered in a corner. While the wise waters flowed to no end, I was put to task and found myself having to justify my column, its contents and my very existence. So much for being a celebrity; it has certain, eh, ‘uncomfortable’ responsibilities. Save to say that it was a truly enlightening experience, I found myself having to flee the excuse being that I had more pressing issues elsewhere.
On a more sobering note, haven’t we suffered enough already? We should at least get the service that we deserve from the money we fork out in taxes, service charges and purchases. The major problem is that Zimbabweans have perfected the art of celebrating mediocrity. We pay an arm and a leg and we get horse manure in return only for us to smile and say ‘Thank You very Much!’
I have experienced the worst kind of service delivery imaginable. The impression one gets is that you have to beg for the service you are paying for. Putting commuter omnibus crews aside (they have a unique disease those), we just have to stand up and fight this scourge. Where the heck is the Consumer Council? We deserve better for our hard earned money, even if it’s stolen. And this is how it should be; receive shoddy service, shift your business elsewhere. When was the last time you did that? Tell those people straight in the face that you will not brook ant nonsense and that you are leaving… with your money.
Commercial Banks, particularly the established ones, have long been playing Fiddley-Dee with our custom and money. Apart from outrageous bank charges and other equally despicable demands on small fry like us, we are lumped together at one branch like cattle in the name of rationalisation. One ever gets the feeling that they would be happy if we closed our accounts and shifted our cash into the pillows and gardens.
More culprits can be found polluting the hospitality industry at a time when they need every Zim dollar that blows their way. To some of them the word hospitality is just a decoration on their brochures. What justification is there to charge a glass of Coke Z$25! Unless the drink can sing the national anthem at my command, I see no plausible reason at all. Why kill the goose that lays the golden egg?
One of them, and I will not name names here said, ‘If we had time we would explain to the gentleman how we come to those prices he is moaning about!’ My foot! The solution I guess is to keep away or take our business to Maunga. At least he understands what customer care is all about more than some of these glorified shelters.
Why rob tourists of their foreign currency? The idea is to tease it from them, not daylight robbery! Charging Bulawayo tap water masquerading as bottled ‘Mineral Water’ for as much as US$20! Now that is my whole salary! When bottled water costs that much, do you expect the tourist to come back to buy more? Not on your life! In fact, you will be the one moaning about ‘negative publicity’ destroying your business, when the negativity originates at you very door!
Yes, it makes one’s blood boil! Customer care should be priority for any proprietor who wants to stay in business in these hard times. A customer who walks in from the pavement has to be given reason to choose on and spend his money. One customer lost through bad service translates into a horde when the word spreads. Make the customer feel important; kiss his feet (God forbid) if you can. And be rest assured he will be back.
This greed must stop. Some advice for the long suffering consumer: Make every cent that you spend count. Do not feel obliged to reward second rate (horse manure) service when you can get first class across the road for the same amount. Accept no excuses. Make you opinions about shoddy service known and loudly too, which is exactly what I am doing on this page.
You see, being the celebrity that I now am, everyone and their grandmother want a piece of me, particularly these Harare types whose source of dough knows no end. Everyone loves to be seen with someone famous and to buy them drinks too! I was so overwhelmed! Even ZTV wanted me to present their ‘five-minuters’, which I politely declined and passed on to my good friend Walter. My schedule was just too tight.
But let me tell you something for nothing. Those who say that there is no money in this country are lying. Even if they are printing it, there are people pout there who know how to spend it. And they came to the Trade Fair to do just that. Every firm worth its name threw a shindig to end all shindigs! For the uninitiated in the language of the oppressors, a shindig is a party, my friend.
The only brewer in the country had journos scrambling for superlatives to describe it; until a ‘consultant’ decided it was time up, telling all and sundry it was time to go to bed. Now, you and I know that a journalist and his beer are never parted except when they surface for air. The crime was that this person actually ordered workers to pack ice cold beers away. What a travesty! Even Black Scorpion was appalled. The rule of the function is that you let the booze run out, you do not run the guests out.
I liked the tyre maker’s cocktail. My former employer always gets the formula right only that this time there was far much more Coke than pints. There the ever-so-cool Tshuks the HR man taught us all a new term for gatecrashers. They are now known as sympathisers. How cute!
The guys who supply us with timber and other building things missed the point of inviting people to sample their hospitality. You don’t hold people captive for hour on end to near starvation just to launch some product. Luckily, I sauntered I when the MC was conducting the draw when the cream of the crown were already turning in their sleep at home. Then I discovered the ruse. There was so little food and drink that even izibhonda (the destitute) would have complained. Marks out of ten? Zero!
The Coal-miners (never mind the fact that there is hardly any to throw at each other these days) did their best to monopolise me. I was literally embedded to their humble but imaginative pavilion which by the way won the best Zimbabwean exhibit prize, and to think that I had nothing to do with it. Winning the prize, I mean. I was being spoiled rotten by these guys for the second year running and it paid dividends for them to! I look forward to their scooping a couple more prizes next year.
I must admit that I did gatecrash at least one function, even though I was later to discover later that I had been invited after all. Here I was well and truly cornered in a corner. While the wise waters flowed to no end, I was put to task and found myself having to justify my column, its contents and my very existence. So much for being a celebrity; it has certain, eh, ‘uncomfortable’ responsibilities. Save to say that it was a truly enlightening experience, I found myself having to flee the excuse being that I had more pressing issues elsewhere.
On a more sobering note, haven’t we suffered enough already? We should at least get the service that we deserve from the money we fork out in taxes, service charges and purchases. The major problem is that Zimbabweans have perfected the art of celebrating mediocrity. We pay an arm and a leg and we get horse manure in return only for us to smile and say ‘Thank You very Much!’
I have experienced the worst kind of service delivery imaginable. The impression one gets is that you have to beg for the service you are paying for. Putting commuter omnibus crews aside (they have a unique disease those), we just have to stand up and fight this scourge. Where the heck is the Consumer Council? We deserve better for our hard earned money, even if it’s stolen. And this is how it should be; receive shoddy service, shift your business elsewhere. When was the last time you did that? Tell those people straight in the face that you will not brook ant nonsense and that you are leaving… with your money.
Commercial Banks, particularly the established ones, have long been playing Fiddley-Dee with our custom and money. Apart from outrageous bank charges and other equally despicable demands on small fry like us, we are lumped together at one branch like cattle in the name of rationalisation. One ever gets the feeling that they would be happy if we closed our accounts and shifted our cash into the pillows and gardens.
More culprits can be found polluting the hospitality industry at a time when they need every Zim dollar that blows their way. To some of them the word hospitality is just a decoration on their brochures. What justification is there to charge a glass of Coke Z$25! Unless the drink can sing the national anthem at my command, I see no plausible reason at all. Why kill the goose that lays the golden egg?
One of them, and I will not name names here said, ‘If we had time we would explain to the gentleman how we come to those prices he is moaning about!’ My foot! The solution I guess is to keep away or take our business to Maunga. At least he understands what customer care is all about more than some of these glorified shelters.
Why rob tourists of their foreign currency? The idea is to tease it from them, not daylight robbery! Charging Bulawayo tap water masquerading as bottled ‘Mineral Water’ for as much as US$20! Now that is my whole salary! When bottled water costs that much, do you expect the tourist to come back to buy more? Not on your life! In fact, you will be the one moaning about ‘negative publicity’ destroying your business, when the negativity originates at you very door!
Yes, it makes one’s blood boil! Customer care should be priority for any proprietor who wants to stay in business in these hard times. A customer who walks in from the pavement has to be given reason to choose on and spend his money. One customer lost through bad service translates into a horde when the word spreads. Make the customer feel important; kiss his feet (God forbid) if you can. And be rest assured he will be back.
This greed must stop. Some advice for the long suffering consumer: Make every cent that you spend count. Do not feel obliged to reward second rate (horse manure) service when you can get first class across the road for the same amount. Accept no excuses. Make you opinions about shoddy service known and loudly too, which is exactly what I am doing on this page.
Thursday, January 11
Why Injiva could not last another day
If you are a family man in Zimbabwe, who is law abiding and is not into shady deals, you have had it. There is practically no way you can tell me that things are fine for you at this time of year, particularly ‘this’ time of the year. Personally, I am seriously considering putting my family under judicial management. Then I don’t have to worry about all the monies that I owe people. Or better still, I could ask that my family and I be turned into state property.
The only problem with the former would be that I would have to wait until the next budget to be funded. Now that is a very long time to wait for a stipend. At any rate, unless you are a gold-panner (know as Makorokoza) or a diamond dealer who has escaped the jaws of Operation Chikorokoza Chapera or some form of corrupt activity…you should be on your knees praying for a miracle.
Things are tough, mshana. But some get by through divine intervention alone. Take the guy who earns Z$20,000 (revalued as opposed to devalued) and is supposed to pay school fees worth Z$80,000, not to mention shelling Z$40,000 for transport. That leaves absolutely nothing for rent, food and beer! Even injiva, as migrant workers from South Africa are known here, felt the heat. They beat a hasty retreat towards Beitbridge the moment they discovered that their rand wasn’t worth jack. Those who had planned to stay a couple of weeks more were spotted pawning their cell-phones on Boxing Day just to enough fuel to reach the border, heyi wena!
‘Mara kuyabheda apha ekhaya fethu!’ they were heard cursing under their breath. What they failed to do, arrogant as they usually are, was to ask those of us with experience on survival tactics, such as pushing your car half way to town from Pumula to save fuel. We would have told them about ‘cruising’ (with the engine switched off) from ‘D’ Square to Happy Valley, as long as the ‘robots’ are green or amber or unless that police road block cum toll gate at the Nguboyenja fly-over isn’t there for some inexplicable reason.
They also made the mistake of driving around with a car bearing GP number plates. Unless you robbed a bank in Nelspruit, that is a red flag for the traffic police. My advice was for them to park it out of sight and borrow a ‘better-than-walking’ from the neighbour. He would be so glad because it would be the first time in years that the jalopy had a full tank of fuel.
Better still, they should have melted into the crowds by using what we plebeians use for transportation…good old kombi, Bra! We might be risking our lives on a daily basis but what other choice do we have? Walking? Ungabi ngucleva when riding a ‘commuter’ asking uwhindi (tout) such silly questions like whether he got a receipt at that road block. Hell hath no fury like a tout scorned! He is likely to eject you with the words, “Hamba wena uyebabuza ukuthi yindaba!” (Go and ask them yourself!) Such is the life of survivors, to mind your business when others are doing theirs. No matter how elicit.
What about the queues? Not the ones at the bank, nor the ones for bread at the supermarket. I mean the queues at every school in the country. Parents are begging headmasters to give them enough time to rush off to Marange or Bocha (where there is an outbreak of the precious stone) so that they can raise money for the fees. There is practically no way a salaried person can afford those fees, never, unless the head is a distant relative or a drinking buddy, khohlwa sibali.
And this thing about rising prices each time we turn our backs. Greed is one thing but what is happening nowadays defies definition. I think its time those handcuffs did their job on some unscrupulous individuals once again. Just ask the managers from that bread company though it seems to have worked well for them. Hours after being sprung from the cells did the legal price of bread quadruple. It definitely sets a bad precedent for crafty capitalists. I hope we are not going to see some managers volunteering to be arrested for illegal price hiking so as to coax a higher figure from the authorities. Funny things really do happen sometimes.
Quote of the Week: “Help a man when he is in trouble and he will remember you when he is in trouble again.” Unknown
What it means:
Injiva or Imtshifana. Zimbabweans who have gone to South Africa through various ways and means are come back to show off their being well off. Usually loud, pompous and arrogant.
Gold Panners. (Makorokoza) have wreaked hovoc on the environment answering the call of greed by digging anywhere they think gold is at.
Currency revaluation. What happened to Zimbabwe's currency by striking off the last three zeros to allow suffreing citizens to carry decent loads of cash made near useless by quadruple digit inflation.
Operation Chikorokoza Chapera (Lit: Gold Panning is finished) A police dragnet that attmpts to arrest the widespread destruction at its perpetrators.
‘Mara kuyabheda apha ekhaya fethu!’ "Its tough at home for sure"
GP number plates. The licence plates found on vehicles from Gauteng Province (Joburg) as called 'Gangster's Paradise' with good reason
'Ungabi ngucleva' Don't be clever and a half.
Marange or Bocha. These are places in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe where a diamond rush of sorts is in progress, making instant millionaires out of once dirt poor peasants.
Khohlwa, sibali! Forget it
The only problem with the former would be that I would have to wait until the next budget to be funded. Now that is a very long time to wait for a stipend. At any rate, unless you are a gold-panner (know as Makorokoza) or a diamond dealer who has escaped the jaws of Operation Chikorokoza Chapera or some form of corrupt activity…you should be on your knees praying for a miracle.
Things are tough, mshana. But some get by through divine intervention alone. Take the guy who earns Z$20,000 (revalued as opposed to devalued) and is supposed to pay school fees worth Z$80,000, not to mention shelling Z$40,000 for transport. That leaves absolutely nothing for rent, food and beer! Even injiva, as migrant workers from South Africa are known here, felt the heat. They beat a hasty retreat towards Beitbridge the moment they discovered that their rand wasn’t worth jack. Those who had planned to stay a couple of weeks more were spotted pawning their cell-phones on Boxing Day just to enough fuel to reach the border, heyi wena!
‘Mara kuyabheda apha ekhaya fethu!’ they were heard cursing under their breath. What they failed to do, arrogant as they usually are, was to ask those of us with experience on survival tactics, such as pushing your car half way to town from Pumula to save fuel. We would have told them about ‘cruising’ (with the engine switched off) from ‘D’ Square to Happy Valley, as long as the ‘robots’ are green or amber or unless that police road block cum toll gate at the Nguboyenja fly-over isn’t there for some inexplicable reason.
They also made the mistake of driving around with a car bearing GP number plates. Unless you robbed a bank in Nelspruit, that is a red flag for the traffic police. My advice was for them to park it out of sight and borrow a ‘better-than-walking’ from the neighbour. He would be so glad because it would be the first time in years that the jalopy had a full tank of fuel.
Better still, they should have melted into the crowds by using what we plebeians use for transportation…good old kombi, Bra! We might be risking our lives on a daily basis but what other choice do we have? Walking? Ungabi ngucleva when riding a ‘commuter’ asking uwhindi (tout) such silly questions like whether he got a receipt at that road block. Hell hath no fury like a tout scorned! He is likely to eject you with the words, “Hamba wena uyebabuza ukuthi yindaba!” (Go and ask them yourself!) Such is the life of survivors, to mind your business when others are doing theirs. No matter how elicit.
What about the queues? Not the ones at the bank, nor the ones for bread at the supermarket. I mean the queues at every school in the country. Parents are begging headmasters to give them enough time to rush off to Marange or Bocha (where there is an outbreak of the precious stone) so that they can raise money for the fees. There is practically no way a salaried person can afford those fees, never, unless the head is a distant relative or a drinking buddy, khohlwa sibali.
And this thing about rising prices each time we turn our backs. Greed is one thing but what is happening nowadays defies definition. I think its time those handcuffs did their job on some unscrupulous individuals once again. Just ask the managers from that bread company though it seems to have worked well for them. Hours after being sprung from the cells did the legal price of bread quadruple. It definitely sets a bad precedent for crafty capitalists. I hope we are not going to see some managers volunteering to be arrested for illegal price hiking so as to coax a higher figure from the authorities. Funny things really do happen sometimes.
Quote of the Week: “Help a man when he is in trouble and he will remember you when he is in trouble again.” Unknown
What it means:
Injiva or Imtshifana. Zimbabweans who have gone to South Africa through various ways and means are come back to show off their being well off. Usually loud, pompous and arrogant.
Gold Panners. (Makorokoza) have wreaked hovoc on the environment answering the call of greed by digging anywhere they think gold is at.
Currency revaluation. What happened to Zimbabwe's currency by striking off the last three zeros to allow suffreing citizens to carry decent loads of cash made near useless by quadruple digit inflation.
Operation Chikorokoza Chapera (Lit: Gold Panning is finished) A police dragnet that attmpts to arrest the widespread destruction at its perpetrators.
‘Mara kuyabheda apha ekhaya fethu!’ "Its tough at home for sure"
GP number plates. The licence plates found on vehicles from Gauteng Province (Joburg) as called 'Gangster's Paradise' with good reason
'Ungabi ngucleva' Don't be clever and a half.
Marange or Bocha. These are places in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe where a diamond rush of sorts is in progress, making instant millionaires out of once dirt poor peasants.
Khohlwa, sibali! Forget it
Wednesday, January 3
The Mother of all hangovers
I know exactly how you feel; severely hung-over. It is that feeling you feel after you felt you had to have the feeling that you never felt before. You are now counting the losses and you are classified as a casualty of your own merriment. The evidence is there in the form of the red crates piled behind the kitchen door, or the burgeoning rubbish bin, which gave way to a huge hole you dug in the garden trying to hide the fact that you had an extravagant festive season. Yes, you really overdid it this time Jeki.
What about the school fees, mfo! You should have thought of that as you sipped expensive wine like you were Bill Gates himself. What about the rent, lamanzi, lamagetsi? Don’ you feel like killing yourself? I do too! But something tells me that I have to count my blessings. The fact is that I am alive and kicking in 2007 is some mean achievement, don’t you agree? What it means, in a few words, is that you have been chosen to face the very problems mentioned above for another full year! Yeah! Aren’t you just lucky?
On the bright side think of all those things that are provided for you free of charge. Like the air you breathe, the sunshine, free entertainment in the form of chirping birds and stinging bees. And to think that you are not alone in feeling the feeling. Take comfort in the fact that a problem shared is a problem halved. And you don’t hear me taking about challenges. Whoever coined that horrible, deceptive word? A problem is a problem, period!
But then I digress. My subject matter at the beginning was that of the hangover. I did some research and came up with some interesting stuff courtesy of howstuffworks.com
It is a fact of life that hangovers have plagued people throughout history. The Bible even makes mention of the pain that follows a night of heavy drinking: "Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink" (Isaiah 5:11).
And Shakespeare knew the unwanted effects of alcohol, as shown in his play Macbeth (Act 2 scene 3):
Macduff: What three things does drink especially promote?
Porter: Marry sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine.
It is written that it's no secret intoxication has a number of immediate negative consequences. "Among other things, it impairs judgement, it impairs the ability to do most things and it can bring on a depressed mood. But even after a drinker has sobered up, alcohol can still be causing the body trouble. More than 75 percent of alcohol consumers have experienced a hangover at least once; 15 percent have one at least every month; and 25 percent of college students feel symptoms weekly," quoteth howstuffworks.com. As if we didn’t know that already.
And of course, the New Year came with a bang. In fact, so many bangs that one felt like being caught in the middle of World War 3. I have never seen such a wild display of fireworks in my entire life! And then you have the Zimbabwe Republic Police playing the party pooper right in the midst of all of the gaiety. What in God’s name got into our inspired police force to issue a statement that fireworks were a no-no at the last minute? We were ‘urged’ to register at the nearest cop shop or else!
One would have thought instead, that a word of caution over their use was in order, seeing that one or two people nearly blew their fingers off and one was shot in the head on the eve. If they were really serious, they should have barred the sale of fireworks in the first place. If you were watching TV even the Australians, who had the privilege of being among the first to celebrate the arrival of 2007, were in on the orgy of fireworks. We wonder how many people registered, or were arrested for breaking the law. Which law for that matter?
And then we had commuter omnibus operators spoiling the party unilaterally hiking transport fares by 100% .Who do they think they are, fouling up the festive season like that? In fact it was after I overheard a driver and uwindi discussing another travesty, the rise in the bread price, that they wondered when they should take their turn to raise fares to $100,000 just like that! And to make it worse, we all lapped it up and quietly accepted the preposterous increase. When are we ever going to wake up and smell the coffee? Just you wait until they raise the fares to $200,000 then lizazibonela!
What about bread? What bread, you might ask. More precisely, bread crumbs. Try cutting it and it disintegrates into nothingness. I have even tried to glue the stuff together without much luck. And to think that bakers were awarded much more than what they were arrested for. What really troubles me is why we continue to accept this excuse for confectionary that is sold to us at extortionist prices. What happened to quality control? Where is the Consumer Council? Where is our appetite?
Finally, some sobering words of advice: If you feel the urge of taking one more drink, and that you are prone to sweating after a night out, and your mouth feels dry all the time and all you can think of is ‘One more Mr barman!’ then contact your local Alcoholics Anonymous. You are in serious need of repair.
Glossary
Jeki - slang for 'Jack'
Amanzi/amagetsi - SiNdebele for water and electricity
Uwindi - Transport touts
"Lizazibonela" - You will see (SiNdebele)
What about the school fees, mfo! You should have thought of that as you sipped expensive wine like you were Bill Gates himself. What about the rent, lamanzi, lamagetsi? Don’ you feel like killing yourself? I do too! But something tells me that I have to count my blessings. The fact is that I am alive and kicking in 2007 is some mean achievement, don’t you agree? What it means, in a few words, is that you have been chosen to face the very problems mentioned above for another full year! Yeah! Aren’t you just lucky?
On the bright side think of all those things that are provided for you free of charge. Like the air you breathe, the sunshine, free entertainment in the form of chirping birds and stinging bees. And to think that you are not alone in feeling the feeling. Take comfort in the fact that a problem shared is a problem halved. And you don’t hear me taking about challenges. Whoever coined that horrible, deceptive word? A problem is a problem, period!
But then I digress. My subject matter at the beginning was that of the hangover. I did some research and came up with some interesting stuff courtesy of howstuffworks.com
It is a fact of life that hangovers have plagued people throughout history. The Bible even makes mention of the pain that follows a night of heavy drinking: "Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink" (Isaiah 5:11).
And Shakespeare knew the unwanted effects of alcohol, as shown in his play Macbeth (Act 2 scene 3):
Macduff: What three things does drink especially promote?
Porter: Marry sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine.
It is written that it's no secret intoxication has a number of immediate negative consequences. "Among other things, it impairs judgement, it impairs the ability to do most things and it can bring on a depressed mood. But even after a drinker has sobered up, alcohol can still be causing the body trouble. More than 75 percent of alcohol consumers have experienced a hangover at least once; 15 percent have one at least every month; and 25 percent of college students feel symptoms weekly," quoteth howstuffworks.com. As if we didn’t know that already.
And of course, the New Year came with a bang. In fact, so many bangs that one felt like being caught in the middle of World War 3. I have never seen such a wild display of fireworks in my entire life! And then you have the Zimbabwe Republic Police playing the party pooper right in the midst of all of the gaiety. What in God’s name got into our inspired police force to issue a statement that fireworks were a no-no at the last minute? We were ‘urged’ to register at the nearest cop shop or else!
One would have thought instead, that a word of caution over their use was in order, seeing that one or two people nearly blew their fingers off and one was shot in the head on the eve. If they were really serious, they should have barred the sale of fireworks in the first place. If you were watching TV even the Australians, who had the privilege of being among the first to celebrate the arrival of 2007, were in on the orgy of fireworks. We wonder how many people registered, or were arrested for breaking the law. Which law for that matter?
And then we had commuter omnibus operators spoiling the party unilaterally hiking transport fares by 100% .Who do they think they are, fouling up the festive season like that? In fact it was after I overheard a driver and uwindi discussing another travesty, the rise in the bread price, that they wondered when they should take their turn to raise fares to $100,000 just like that! And to make it worse, we all lapped it up and quietly accepted the preposterous increase. When are we ever going to wake up and smell the coffee? Just you wait until they raise the fares to $200,000 then lizazibonela!
What about bread? What bread, you might ask. More precisely, bread crumbs. Try cutting it and it disintegrates into nothingness. I have even tried to glue the stuff together without much luck. And to think that bakers were awarded much more than what they were arrested for. What really troubles me is why we continue to accept this excuse for confectionary that is sold to us at extortionist prices. What happened to quality control? Where is the Consumer Council? Where is our appetite?
Finally, some sobering words of advice: If you feel the urge of taking one more drink, and that you are prone to sweating after a night out, and your mouth feels dry all the time and all you can think of is ‘One more Mr barman!’ then contact your local Alcoholics Anonymous. You are in serious need of repair.
Glossary
Jeki - slang for 'Jack'
Amanzi/amagetsi - SiNdebele for water and electricity
Uwindi - Transport touts
"Lizazibonela" - You will see (SiNdebele)
Saturday, December 30
Hard tips for the New Year
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!
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!
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.
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