Dear reader, how petty are you? On a scale of 1 to 10, say? After careful consideration, I think I’m about a 25.
In 1993, I was waiting for a Mynah bus on Durban’s Gillespie Road. A fellow I know called Ambrose Nkomo approached me and told me he was feeling hungry. I fished out a R5 note from my bag and asked him to get us a large packet of fries.
And I was specific too. Fries with mustard and tomato sauce. I watched as he crossed the street and went inside the café. That was the last time I ever saw Ambrose Nkomo.
Almost 30 years later, this still does not sit well with me. I want my R5 back. If not, then I want my French fries and R2.70 change. I wish I was joking about this. But I’m not. I’m not at all OK about that incident.
I’m reliably told that we all get significantly pettier as we age. I believe this. I will never forget the letter that our former president Thabo Mbeki wrote to then ANC president Jacob Zuma, rebuking him for announcing that he would be campaigning for the ANC in 2009.
He essentially reminded Zuma that, just 13 months earlier, the ANC national executive committee had sent comrades Kgalema Motlanthe and Gwede Mantashe to tell him that the ANC had lost confidence in him. So, how could they “within a fortnight” expect him to campaign for the same ANC? I have never laughed so hard. The letter read like a script from a Chinese movie based on warring 5th-century fiefdoms. “You killed my master 30 years ago. Now I kill you.”
About a year before the "Mynah bust stop French fries" incident I had another situation. Nomonde Mkhize from section E in Ntuzuma township promised me the wildest coitus of my life. In order to facilitate this earth-shattering feat, she just needed R7.50 to catch a Durban Corporation municipal bus to visit me at my flat. I obviously obliged her. Nomonde never showed up. I’m still waiting. If not, I want my R7.50 back. If she’s reading this I hope her conscience is killing her. I hope she’s gained 50kg since the last time I saw her and has arms too short to reach the perpetual itch between her shoulder blades.
Shaka used to take extremely public baths to showcase his Zulu spear
One EA Ritter wrote a beautiful, fantastical novel on the Zulu king Shaka kaSenzangakhona in 1955. Short of Shaka walking on water and eating live babies, there is nothing more ludicrous Ritter could have written about him.
My favourite part of the book is where Ritter describes Shaka’s grooming regimen. Apparently, when he was a pre-teen, Shaka got a lot of ribbing for his rather, er, unimpressive manhood. But, according to Ritter, by the time he ascended to the Zulu throne, things had taken a turn in magnitude. As a result, Ritter asserts, Shaka used to take extremely public baths to showcase his Zulu spear. The story seems extremely unlikely but I just love the allusions to pettiness from the man his subjects referred to as izulu eliphezulu (the high heavens).
I am not planning on taking any public baths. But I’ll tell you this for free. Whoever is going to be around me in my 70s is going to be watching an epic movie. Earlier today I made a R199.95 purchase. I presented a crisp R200 note to the teller. I did not get any change. For starters, I don’t even understand why anyone prices anything R199.95, knowing full well that 5c coins are out of circulation. But also, where is my 10c change? When I’m 70, I’ll be that mkhulu asking for the manager to demand my money.
On my birthday in January, the missus booked us 90-minute Thai massages. Well, they started at 14h06 and finished at 15h24. I don’t know how good your arithmetic is but it seems to me that I have a 12-minute credit at the place. When I’m 70 I’ll yell out, “Young lady with dodgy English, I need more pampering!” If not, then I’ll insist on a happy ending. Just call me Petty Officer Ngcobo reporting for duty, sir.
