Women are seriously afraid of men. There are extremely rational and real reasons why they should be. And women in this country have even more valid reasons to be afraid of South African men.
What is fascinating is how, in this 2,019th year of our Lord, we still have a significant number of men who are offended by such an obvious assertion. This fact is as obvious to me as stating that Donald Trump has carrot blood.
Whether you're tuned into your favourite radio talk show or down in the intellectual sewers that are Twitter and Facebook, you'll see men pushing back against what they consider unfair victimisation and generalisations.
"Not all men are murderers, rapists and abusers," we bleat. "You know, Ntate John [Perlman], I'm a 45-year-old man and I've never beaten a woman," we assert in self-congratulatory tones, suggesting that we deserve rapturous applause. Dung beetle expecting to be rewarded for rolling balls of dung much?
What is even more surprising about the denialism around women fearing men is a fact that we hardly ever talk about: men are petrified of other men. Again, with very good reason.
One of my Facebook friends shared a post by a user called Nandi Azania, who pointed out that if a man is walking home alone from the pub, a bit tipsy, and sees a group of women approaching, he won't feel unsafe. In fact he might even greet them jovially and toss a few "complimentary" catcalls in their direction. All part of good ole Mzansi fun - women getting running commentary on the shape of their buttocks on a daily basis.
However, as Nandi points out, when the same man sees a group of men approaching, unease, trepidation and panic set in. If you're not in danger of being dispossessed of your Google-free Huawei and your wallet, you're possibly guilty of walking in the wrong part of Brakpan while black. Or guilty of looking at them "funny".
Picture it. It is January 2018. The entire family flies down to Durban to accompany the second-born, who is starting at a new school in Botha's Hill. We're booked in one of those Durban Waterfront apartments, so we decide to take a walk to uShaka Marine World to have supper. As we're on the promenade, we come across six young men, aged between 18 and 23 or thereabouts. They're in the middle of a spirited football game.
As one of them attempts to dribble past another, the ball hits my legs and he's dispossessed. I keep walking as the other fellow now uses me as a human shield. The first guy decides I'm "killing his vibe" and shoves me out of his way.
I catch my (then) 23-year-old gym-rat firstborn looking at me, searching for a sign of anger. I shake my head and smile weakly - not because I'm rising above this unnecessary provocation; I'm genuinely afraid of reacting and starting a melee that will end with me using my oversized head as the last line of defence. Especially since we're dealing with hooligans without the elementary knowledge of biology to not kick me in the temple while I'm on the floor.
Just another early evening on Durban's South Beach.
For a country that is not at war, SA sure does have an impressive body count. My physician friends talk about how no-one wants to be on duty on any given month-end, Easter weekend or the weekend of the Soweto Derby because, as a doctor, your suture game is tested to the limits.
We hack, bludgeon and maim each other for the most inane reasons
We hack, bludgeon and maim each other for the most inane reasons. It's not unusual to read in the Daily Sun about how a man stabbed his best friend in the neck with a broken bottle during a fight over a quart of beer.
You would be forgiven for thinking that this phenomenon is restricted to a specific demographic - the poorly educated, unemployed poor. But you would be wrong. Your average double-cab 4X4-driving, steroid-deformed penis-head in formal shirt and skinny chinos is just as battle-ready.
At my 40th birthday, an acquaintance rocked up for the sole intention of kicking the bejesus out of another friend of mine. Why? Because he'd called him a cretin on my Facebook wall during a stupid debate about the Nicholson judgment and Mokotedi Mpshe's subsequent decision to drop graft charges against Jacob Zuma.
As I abandoned my birthday celebrations to broker peace, I was fazed at the number of friends who, upon hearing the story, shrugged and said, "Well, I guess he has that ass-whuppin' coming to him."
This prompted a former colleague to remark, "Jirre, but some of your friends love violence, nê?" He was overheard, prompting the response, "Lomuntu othi sithanda udlame udinga isibhaxu." (This fellow who says we are a violent lot deserves to have his behind kicked).
The plaintiff rests, my lord.
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