Afrikaner Dom

Afrikanerdom...

Afrikaner Dom

So sit jy in die hoekie van die klas, penorent rug teen die muur. Aan jou bruingebrande bene is die khaki wat jy so hard teen geveg het. Om ‘n identiteit te skep. Kyk hoe sit jy daar, “branded” in jou T-shirt, selfoon in jou hand, jou hedendaagse Trompie.

Jy sit daar in jou hoekie vasgevang tussen die muur en die klas. Die onderwyser, Bybel in die hand met gebalde vuis kyk stip na jou elke beweging, daardie onwrikbare Calvinistiese gewete, sy hand warm om jou keel. Jy maak jou oë toe en dink terug na Vrydagaand.

Op die ritme van watookal deur jou are gepomp het, het jy dit afgeskud. Daardie neerdrukkende juk, die naarhied in jou keel as jy nog ‘n straatkind met ‘n geoefende rympie van die hand wys. Jy weet wie jy is... Klippies en Coke, die reuk van nog ‘n warm oggend in die Kerk, tussen Ouma en jou sussie – “sy’s nou ‘n Model hoor!”

Ongemaklik sit jy daar tussen Hemel en Hel ou mannetjie, jy wat jou jeug in die veld gelos het en redding kom vind het in die hande van jou vyand. Die stoel’tjie is klein, maar gelukking vermom jy jouself soms in die strate van Sandton as ‘n “nuwe Suid-Afrikaner” deel van die rainbow nation.

Jy bly sit. Of so kom dit voor, maar erens diep binne, onder al die jare van trek, veg en verloor. Onderdruk, verdruk, klop daar ‘n iemand aan die deur...  

Mediocrity

Up, down. Sigh, up...

Out of bed, the smell of stale cigarettes, dirty socks and me. Bleary eyed I turn on the first song I see on my media player. Tentatively I start to wake up, eyes clear, windows awash with the weather outside. Towel, barefoot run down the corridor and the day begins...

Wet hair and a black cup of coffee, franticly trying to get body and mind to cooperate, messages are being sent, very little received and I am the victim of a broken telephone. Cigarette, sigh. New song, the habitual struggle. Blank stare, eyes moving over the screen, hand darting restlessly across the page, feint and margin directing the flow of ink.  Sweaty patches slowly advancing despite the cold outside. The droplets flying in, little spots of wetness on my desk, straining under the pressure of another underachiever wielding the weapons of six months of subtle indoctrination.

Racing thoughts on this gloomy afternoon. Cigarette, coffee and a yearning for time to pass. “Sitting, waiting, wishing hoping for the best, expecting the worst.” Another cliché heard as I sit sharing some nervous laughter with my house mates, huddled against the cold. The wear and tear of just another year embodied in my routine existence.

"I don’t wanna work in a building downtown / Parking their cars in the underground     Their voices when they scream, well they make no sound / I wanna see the cities rust / And the troublemakers riding in the back of the bus..."

Symptomatic times

escapism
Noun: the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy.


Blood pumping ten-to-the-dozen, saturated veins filled with the cocktail of another evening of hastily made decisions. I take a deep breath and plunge straight into it, the madness of another night. Becoming part of a wild mulling entity swirling, twisting, drawing me into a vortex of super charged vulgarity. The dace floor packed with sweaty bodies jerking to the rhythm of a repetitive track, the bass setting the pace of the swirling mass.


Time wasted, time spent...

"Time is relative," or so we are told by those who impose deadlines.


My ruthless pursuit, a symptom of my time. Never sick, never healthy hanging by the threads of my scull, thinking myself through another day. Lighting another one, in between times spent sitting mindlessly sucking knowledge. Ideas imposed on an already saturated brain, wreaking havoc in the cavities of our collective existence. The products of our predecessors.