Since my divorce from my previous follicular landscaper five years ago, my barber has been a Tanzanian fellow who operates not too far from the Boksburg taxi rank.
No, I’ve never confirmed whether his papers are in order. I don’t have a “side hustle” as an undercover home affairs officer. We have an informal quid pro quo arrangement where he teaches me basic Kiswahili phrases and I instruct him on “proper isiZulu from the countryside”, as he refers to it. Apparently it’s become a useful survival skill. I, on the other hand, have always harboured a healthy appetite for learning basic Kiswahili. It’s proved useful in many East African nations I’ve visited and plan to visit in the future. The last time I was in Mombasa, my limited Kiswahili helped me get boda bodas quickly.
About a week ago, he’s shaving whatever last vestiges of vegetation are still sprouting on the top of my immense cranium. He’s ribbing me about the fact that I’m still holding on to my sparse fuzz with the same tenacity with which Stevie Wonder held on to the last three dreadlocks he had left for two decades. My comeback was to point out to him that Stevie’s hairline was probably considered pretty healthy in Rwanda.
As part of our cultural exchange deal, I am busy correcting his putrid pronunciation of the Zulu word “indololwane” (elbow). The word has gained urban-legend notoriety over the decades as the acid test to identify a suspected kwerekwere (foreign national). In the middle of the fun, a dark, rotund fellow walks in and dramatically presses R20 into my barber’s palm, followed by: “Thank you for saving my behind. I don’t know how I would have paid for my taxi yesterday.”
The burly fellow then contorts his face into a scowl and, in a heavy Nquthu accent, barks, “Sengikukhokhele ke sbali imali yakho. Kodwa ok’salayo ukuthi uhamba nini. Seku late manje, uJune 30 uyafika maduze” (Now that I’ve paid you, when are you going back home? June 30 is around the corner.) I tense up in anticipation of some unpleasantness. The tension is immediately alleviated by the raucous laughter that follows between them. It seems that this is an inside joke between the two friends, along the same vein as “indololwane”.
It would surprise me if the editor didn’t receive at least half a dozen e-mails complaining about how insensitive a column dealing with the humour displayed by folks who are rightly nervous about their precarious situation is
The frustrations that have led us to this tense period in our history are very serious. The anxiety about the threats of violence against African immigrants is all too real and palpable. I possibly lack the requisite empathy to fully appreciate the boiling anger that many South Africans harbour about the high concentration of migrants in our midst. My imagination is also probably inadequate to appreciate the levels of anxiety experienced by immigrants, particularly in the lower economic strata of our cities, towns and villages. Call it middle-class delusional privilege. If the shoe fits …
The bit that fascinates me about the interaction I witnessed between these two friends is their use of humour to deal with the invisible elephant levitating above them in the room. This is an illustration of the most basic elements of the human condition. We use humour to deal with our fears, our pain, our vulnerabilities and the ugliness that is an integral part of the human condition.
On Facebook a few weeks ago, I enquired of my Durban friends, tongue-in-cheek, whether it is advisable for someone like myself — who has been told that the shape of his head is more Congolese than South African — to walk around downtown. Fred Khumalo, the author, pitched in, asking if his dark complexion wouldn’t get him into trouble.
We are currently living through perhaps the most humour-intolerant era in my 54 years of existence. It would surprise me if the editor didn’t receive at least half a dozen e-mails complaining about how insensitive a column dealing with the humour displayed by folks who are rightly nervous about their precarious situation is. How dare this columnist write so flippantly about this? This columnist’s response will be to point out that one of his roles is to elevate societal absurdities and bring them to the fore. My job is also to illustrate that even in the midst of the most tense periods in society, human beings have this incredible ability to respond in the most human of ways, including laughing about it.
Also, if you run into me in my hometown in the next few weeks, I hope you will understand why I’m likely to be wearing a leopard-print T-shirt and a hat that covers the entirety of my skull.
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