I seem to be in a letter writing mood these days so I decided to write another one to our notorious Sunday Times syndicated columnist lately turned blogamist. (http://www.sundaytimes.co.za/columnists/davidbullard/Default.aspx?id=118994)
Dearest David “Bulldog1” Bullard
I was seating at a popular shebeen in Gugs, seeping from a glass of cheap Irish Whisky while waiting for my Chateaubriand—yes we call our braai steaks that now to show our newly acquired sophistication and distinguish ourselves from the hoi polloi—trying to come up with ways of upping my status when I was made privy to some disturbing news. Two BEE guys, driving CLK and Audi TT came to take the house by storm. Chicks started flocking on them like flies to offal. It was as if the rest of us were not even there. It was a massacre I tell you. Most of us struggling black folks are gatvol with these guys; it’s not only a white problem, we’re feeling the pain too in the township.
As I was saying. I eavesdropped on their talk as they were discussing the possibility that the shooting in your house was not random but a calculated stance to scare you. That’s why it was made to look like a robbery. Broer, looks like you’ve enemies in high places. You’ve angered a lot of powerful people in the BEE scale with your foot in the mouth column.
Believe you me I know how it’s like to have cold metal in your flesh, to lie derelict and bereft with blood sipping off your body like a ruptured bag of maize. In my case I was rescued by a taxi-man—bless his soul—who saw the incident and promptly took me to the hospital. You see even the menacing taxi man can be of some use. At least the thugs that attacked you didn’t cut your face. They cut off my nose man, which compounded my problems; because with the ugly scar on my face now the chicks think I’m a thug.
I also know how irritating it is to loose your investment on designer clothes. They took my Addidas takkies. I’m sure you’ve gone back to wearing your designer jeans again, having washed the blood off with cold water once your wife sewed them back. You don’t strike me as the like that’ll have psychological misgivings in wearing the pants again. Leave that jargon to the learned bubbles of Freudians; you are better than that. Believe me I’ve been in your shoes, inyawo zinodaka, as uRingo would say in his song. Do you listen to anything besides the hoarse rumblings of Bob Dylan?
Bulldog, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, or think I’m trying to blackmail you with the information I have—let’s just call it an intercourse based on reciprocal self-interest. But you need to promise to throw some car reviewing bones my direction if you want me to reveal the name of who ordered your hit. I need to be seen driving an executive car to up my status. You know how it is in this new laissez-faire state of South Africa; we are all now slaves to our concupiscible appetites now; greed and ambition are the new virtue. The only freedom we have is that of a fox in the coop broer. You know how Thucydides’ maxim go: the strong do as they can, and the weak suffer as they must. The rich are the strong in our times.
I’m sure you understand the pressures people like me are under in the township with this emergency of BEE cronies. The chicks don’t even take a second look on us anymore, with our battered Sentras. What must we do, speak about the virtues of moderation? I admit I once tried that; giving a drunken lecture about how the unexamined life was not worth living, and the paradoxes of Zeno, to a chick I was infatuated by. When I got to the part about the fleet-footed Achilles never catching the tortoise she wanted to have some of what I had been smoking. Needless to say, I slept alone that night. So now I’ve decided what monkey sees monkey do.
You see our situation is hopeless here. These BEE chaps are like torpedo fishes that benumb with stupid catch-phrases and assumptions of knowledge that are designed to hide their ignorance to anyone who comes near them. Monetary success has won them the palm of ostensibly superior intelligence. Watching them is like being on stage on some opéra comique. Everyone listens to their nonsense as if it were holy writ. At shebeens they don’t even pay for their single malts anymore. Mothers consider it an honour when they go out with their daughters. See what I mean?
I’m sure by now Bull you agree with me that something needs to be done. I’ve a plan that might redeem my personal situation with your help. As I told you, I need to be seen in a SLK or something, even if for a weekend. I need to strut my walk and stalk my bird broer. Hee! I’m sure you can arrange that. Make it look like meritocracy, big white companies are now wary of this affirmative action thing. On second thoughts, I don’t care how you do it, just get me the damn car; or I’m soon going to loose my mind. You’re the one who’s au courant with these big fishes in the motor industry.
If Desmond Dube can do it so can I. I’m sure your word carries a lot of weight with the motor magnates. Get me a German isilahle [coupé]. I don’t want no Korean or Japanese wannabe. And since I know fakol about engines, you’ll have to do the honours of righting the report. Though seeing the likes of Dube and the honky bo-peepers in The Times, I doubt if much technicality is needed. I’ve this motto always ringing in my mind: Never! Ever fake the moves, in the words of The Tribe Called Quest. I don’t expect you to know much about that since, I’m sure—South African sure that actually means suspect—you think rap is degenerate noise of frustrated urbane kids.
By the way I think The Sunday Times sucks these days; it has become nothing but a glorified tabloid of blurbing narcissists with glib analytic pretensions. But we are not talking about that now; I just thought I’ll let you know that I’ve voted with my feet to the Sunday Independent.
So that we’re clear about things between us also. Cicero defined friendship “as nothing other than agreement over all things divine and human along with good will and affection.” It seems undeniable to me that you and I are in general agreement about somethings, but—the proverbial but—I’ve a reputation to maintain. I’m a comrade. You are—judging by the fetish sophistication of a poseur in your column—a secular fundamentalist. Calling oneself Liberal is blasé broer; you must get on with the groove. After all, if the ‘unlikable’ or should that be ‘unsinkable’ Mr. Roberts is to be believed, most of you guys are very illiberal in your liberalism—watch this space for a review of his recent book; ‘Fit To Govern: The Native Intelligence of Thabo Mbeki.’
In any case, there’s an uncrossable line of demarcation between you and me, as an illiberal liberal, and I a budding BEE comrade, I doubt even my rise in the greasy pole might bridge. I’ve heard through the greenflies that Big Brother has eyed me to fill the soon to be vacant position of presidency presently filled by an octogenarian in the ANCYL. So soon I shall be looking down on you as an Epicurean predatory scum of letters. Try not to take my utterance too much to heart, I have to keep up appearances and show that I’ve a sting otherwise I’ll never get anywhere in my political circles.
Fraternising with the you might spoil my BEE chances. I won’t have that. It is verboten in our circles to agree with the enemy no matter how right he might be. I also do not want to see myself dodging bullets and hired daggers. People are watching. So I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t accept any braai invitations to your house. You’re constantly under surveillance from Big Brother. So we’ll have to arrange to meet clandestinely on some exotic restaurant where you’ll be paying—come on Bull, I’m a comrade whose BEE star has not shinned—when you hand me the car.
Take Bull broer. I shall be calling you soon on an untraceable unregistered cell phone. I hope I’ve not been too unctuous. I know how cloying that can be. I’m a comrade remember.
1We call you that name of endearment here in the township because your bite is as fearsome as your bark.
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