In Phelindaba the Old Café are gone. Washed away by the caressing seeping water at the shores of nostalgia’s grey silver laser that burns the things we abhor or hold dear deep within the creases of our brains and bosom, a tug at the heart here and the disturbance of balance there, for a thrill worth Two Bob, Wola!
one is never concerned with a particular topic if the effects of it do not prick one’s own interest towards the alleyway of curiosity.
Yes I do acknowledge the default position, place or situation forced down our throats by fate. In a nyakanyaka-mathatha situation wherein you don’t get to choose your birth country, race, sex even your parents one may find solace in the thought that if all is not well to your liking it is worthwhile to crawl towards the fanciful. An eastern sage, I read elsewhere, says everything that exists is cooked up in the mind. I am not so sure about mathematical problems though. However I hold dearly to the thought that we are animals of ‘belonging’ we want to be a part of a certain group or something, that’s our titillation. And by default we are a result of a particular ‘belong’ even if not of our choosing. All else from there onwards is negotiated.
It was a time when the cell phone was the stuff of science fiction and fancy thinking. knife-ou-kappie or panga-machete was utilitarian weaponry completing the garb of hardened men. When guns were not easily assessable. When your word was bond upon making a promise. When Aids was coming and weed was the only hallucinogen ingested while ducking the police. I am compelled to say that back then Nyaope and Wonga were being conceptualized.