Ndaba Sibanda grew up in Bulawayo. He has contributed to poetry anthologies such as It's Time, Poems For Haiti , Snippets, and Voices For Peace. In 2013, his hard-hitting poetry collection, The Dead Must Be Sobbing was published. His debut novel, Timebomb is set to be published in the UK in November 2014.
The Ranger's Flair
He said he it was just a cut
He claimed he made everything
look right and light
Alleged he had
degrees in poaching
They would go into the forest
the slippery maestro-
a cut above the rest
would pinch the rhinos’ horns
smile his way to the bank
One day a ranger with a natural flair
for sniffing out rhino pinchers
showed him one or two
tricks about law
and in jail he languished for years
and the rhinos felt free and loved.
Hailing Anything That Heals
Sing for me that piece that heals my soul
Pen for me a poem that restores my past
Energy and freshness. Please, not foul
Words or else my patience will thin out fast
Please heal me with those memories of humour
That saw our camaraderie grow and conquer
All the bodily sicknesses, including silly tumour
Natural foods heal and turn me into a healthy yonker
Patience is a must
I will be calling each of you who have
Come to this earth to remind you that
People aren`t electrons and, so don`t
Expect them to behave in the same manner
Under similar conditions, they won`t!
Don`t be shocked if you show them love
And they flash at you unconcealed hate
Be glad that at least they `re true to you!
Some were taught by parents to smile
Whenever possible, but they frown
Even if it isn`t called for and strenuous!
I know you aren`t virtuous, either
But try to be patient and people-wise!
Again, I do respectfully and thankfully
Ask for your patience in this regard!
I WILL TELL HER
SekaBuhle gulps and looks at the brown bottle as if to say: how can I replenish you? How can I repay you for your sweet, soothing cascading into my belly? Without you social life is a joke dead and buried. How can I thank you for giving me so great a peace of mind in a world full of countless and unimaginable headaches and human indiscretions? You deserve my tender kisses and hugs every day.
The cocktail bar is abuzz with revelers and ladies of the night. Gestures, smiles and winks are not an uncommon way of communicating and interacting here. One can spot smart men in executive suits laughing as if they need to display a Learner sign on their lips because such laughter seems to veer off the road of good manners with a certain baffling measure of childishness and carefreeness. Some are dancing a dance characterized by naughty bottoms that wiggle suggestively and shamelessly in the direction of the fairer sex. A number of revelers are immersed in some bingo game, in bubble-gum love, yet others in chats that pass for shouts. There is a couple seated near the doorway that does not want to be outdone. It is singing with a discord of its life. What an orchestra! It is a hive of activity. The noise is bombarding the patrons` eardrums with a certain fury but not nobody seems to feel for them or feel it. It is show-time…
SekaBuhle has made up his mind and this is what he is imagining: I will tell her in the face that there is only one bull which is supposed to bellow in that house.
Me! That’s it! Full stop! Period! It has to stop, this business of whimpering: SekaBuhle, where have you been? Can`t you see it`s midnight? You`re as drunk as a makorokoza(an illegal gold digger) who has struck gold! Why behave in an unsuitable fashion like an illegal gold panner? That`s unacceptable. Reprehensible. I mean, your behaviour leaves a lot to be desired. Behave in a dignified way please! You`re an accountant for God`s sake!
She has the nerve to tell me: Give me a break, Muzi, I`m on the pill. Please wake up from your Stone Age dream. I’m no childbearing machine for God`s sake! Buhle has many companions in the neighbourhood. She has good playmates. Worry, instead about your hopeless drinking sprees and chronic late -coming. Don’t worry about my daughter! Don’t call her a granny either! Maybe your girlfriends are! The other day I threatened Thola with a rough slap and before I could even lift my hand she was behaving the cry-baby way: I will sue you for emotional, mental and physical abuse. I will tell my parents or my lawyers or the police or the women`s organizations. Wathinta umfazi wathinta imbokodo(you touch a woman , you touch a boulder). Don`t dare press the wrong button. The law will give you a black eye in the twinkling of an eye. (She did not even excuse the pun, lol!) Try it and you will rue the moment you slapped me! Mthwakaz`omuhle!
(People!) That day she sobbed histrionically. I saw with my naked eyes a tornado of tears roll down her cheeks like I`d drown in them. I did not touch her (one can never be sure!) And later she complained that I was good at kissing the mouth of a beer mug or other women! Lo! She said she was sleeping fitfully because l was not giving her enough attention and affection. I told her to shut up because her cries were not my lullaby. She cried more loudly! Lol! I am sure our neighbour`s eyebrows were easily raised. That they are always on the lookout and are nosey is written all over their ears, lips, eyes, faces and actions.
My wife has a talent. One who has seen the antics of actors and actresses knows what l am talking about. I think l should seek audience with the producers of one of South Africa`s most-followed drama series. Maybe she can cut her teeth in acting on that popular soapie.. She seems to be a perfect disciple of moral bankruptcy, too. To think she is an executive secretary by virtue of my generosity.
Her father paid her school fees up to grade seven and that was as far as the old fellow deemed fit. At that stage, my would-be father -in -law must have folded his arms with contentment, and said: you have the wings, fly away and conquer the world. I think she flew towards my direction, and with my sharp catapult of heart, l aimed at her, and scooped my target with charm. Bingo! The rest is history.
The big day arrived in style. At our wedding people danced till toes literally peeped through shoes. That day her mouth crackled with love, wit and humour. We were cozy. There was the lovey-dovey spirit that kept our hearts, jumping, pumping, jumping, pumping in that order for several days on end.
The other day she told me to shut up. She said: please adhere to basic maxims of conversations like turn-taking. Now l am talking, do yourself a favour, listen. We can sing together at the same time, but we can`t talk together at the same time. Be quiet for a while, is that too much to ask really?
I was pissed off. I could have swallowed a live chameleon there and then had it appeared. Where in the world have you heard this? In my culture this is taboo. Not even a husband who has had overdoses of zwanamina( “taste me” or man-stupefying concoctions) would accept that arrogant behaviour. No! His relatives would disown him on the spot! Not only that. They would dismiss him as dead! I , right in my mind, her one and only husband ,supposedly being sheepishly ordered to shut up while she talks , and talks nonsense for that matter! She had better castrate me first before l could become her acquiescent mkhoba(allegedly resurrected human being used as a witchcraft tool).
How dare her! The one I paid handsome lobola (the bride price) for. Does she have a short memory or what? I will remind her that in a short and sharp manner that I can demand the return of all those ten fat cattle from babazala (father-in law). Please, she should not push her luck too far. A bombshell can implode in her hands.
Yes, l can. After all, she has born me one child; Just one and imagine, Buhle is seven years now. My wife has a disturbing habit. All she does is swallow. She keeps on swallowing up those maggot-like things from the clinic. And when I tell her: Thola, I want another child. Can`t you see that Buhle is lonely and old? She laughs for ages and says: I think you have nothing to say. Silence is golden.
Then, the following day, there we were on honeymoon on a hilly lodge. I must have been drunk with her love, because l fell off a little rock we had seated on, rolled over downward three times. Hurriedly, she pulled me up and sat me on her laps. l was seeing several confusing stars of dizziness. I exclaimed with a tinge of embarrassment: Honey, what a free-falling honeymoon. Who said miracles don`t happen?
And my suit was in a mess. She asked me how l felt, before uttering countless “sorrys “ and, brushing my suit with her tender hands as if it were cobwebs. I said, my nurse of tenderness, l am perfectly fine. This was in spite of the fact that l had just escaped the fall with one little bruise on my forehead.
A few months after the wedding l could see the sparkle of happiness in my parents` eyes when they saw her. They were aglow with joviality. They affectionately and respectfully called her malukazana(bride). She respected them in a way that made me a proud connoisseur of decorum and diligence .She worked like a burrowing mole day in day out ,making our homestead one of the most beautiful homes to live in. She never burrowed into the blankets like when the rays of the sun peeped into her room and announced morning time.
These days when she is off-duty she is sleepy and lazy all day long. Alas, as if that were not enough headache for me for a single day, she accuses my mother of witchcraft. She also blames the woman who brought me into this world for many unfounded things like gossiping and malevolence and competing with her as if she is my wife too! Lol! She maligns my mother and expects me to side with her! Even with shovels and shovels of zwanamina being subtly offloaded into my mouth, I won`t do such a crime of blind partisanship!
Is this her way of thanking my dear mother for bringing her an accountant husband like me? I have not accused her mum of witchcraft. No. Of course, my father-in-law has, on several occasions! He even said prophets have confirmed it. I have refused to rope myself in that issue. However, what l know is that she has on many occasions implored my wife to respect me and avoid labelling me a hopeless drunkard.
I recall the good old days. My wife was very understanding and respectful then .She always knelt down while serving me with food .She referred to me as baba. Not hopeless drunkard, l dare say! She was at my beck and call, as they say, doing laundry and keeping the house clean. We did not have a domestic worker then.
I felt like a real man. I was proud of her as my wife. I treasured the respect she had for me. She never called it fear. No single day ever passed by with her arguing with me over trivial things. I don`t remember her quarrelling with me, calling me an ever- bossy and righteous husband. Or telling me to modernise my ways and thinking.
Nowdays we argue about almost everything. From parenting ways, TV programmes to watch, to why l do not take her out for an expensive lunch or phone her every day or go to church. She says l am a nomadic nightrider. .Is this not an insult, really? Does going out with friends for a good drink amount to drifting? She also accuses me of not being fashion-conscious. I have not accused her of being a spendthrift, and one of these days l shall say it in a loud and clear way!
Oh, how can l bring back those days? During those good days, she did not spend money on useless things. Maybe, she does so to send a statement that it is her money, after all. She never complained when I came home late. I did it every day. There was no issue. I did not need to attend her boring kangaroo court after that. She never bothered to ask me where l was, and what the heck l was up to.
Now… It is a crime. A serious crime for that matter. It`s like l have committed some unpardonable murder or what. I don`t get it. How on earth can coming late at home be equated with committing a gruesome murder?
Oh, l wish l could turn back the hands of time. I mean going back to those great days when she treated me like a king… She showered rivers and rivers of love upon me. I bathed in her love. I drowned in her love. I swam to safety in her love. I cherished the respect she showed for me, and the care and love she poured out .She would say: Utshonile baba (Afternoon, dad) with a beaming face. A kiss was never an issue. She never questioned why I sent her to stay a few months in my rural home with my parents. She obliged and worked in the fields and fetched firewood and water like all good wives. Now she sees too much .Eh… In my mother she sees a witch! In her absence she sees small houses (mistresses)! She says l smile too often with our helpmate. Am l supposed to frown at her because she is our domestic worker? Is she not human? Is that the reason why my wife is firing domestic workers like a mother changing a child`s nappies?
She won’t visit my rustic parents. Of kisses she ransoms me to them in the mornings and afternoons with a hungry seriousness that can huddle me to the Hague for crimes against humanity! Abdication of the kissing game is no option. It is like l am caged.
My friend once warned me: He said I was buying myself an axe that would be used on me by helping her further her studies. Right he was … Dead right. She is recalcitrant and arrogant. She forgets I paid through the nose for her. I ask her to make me some tea after work and what does she say? She says I forget that she was at work too! Is that a polite way of responding to one`s husband, really? I know parents taught her good manners. She has been misled by her so-called friends and human rightists. .The tragedy of it is that she cannot see it. She is blind to her failings and follies.
Sometimes she uses big words to insult me. She says I’m a lazy egotist who after work comes home and rots in the sofa with crossed legs while reading the paper till amen and amen! She has the audacity to remind me of the presence and responsibilities of our domestic worker! Can you imagine what she says? She declares: if you want loyalty please buy a dog! How can a woman and a wife for that matter say that to her man? I am not supposed to be her king? Am l not one?
My friend makes me laugh at times. For example, he boasts of having divorced three times in his life. Of the first divorce, he says he caught his first wife red-handed, wearing a pair of new blue jeans when he came back home unceremoniously one day. I exclaim: what crime now! I ask him whether the crime was because of his suspicion that some man had bought her the trousers or what but he says no. The fact of the matter is that he did not allow his wife and girlfriends to wear trousers! He says he has since had change of heart over the trousers issue. I say amen, man.
He tells me that the second wife was “fired “for secretly keeping an ominously looking plastic vibrator under their bed. I am not sure whether it was making noise, vibrating crazily from underneath in his presence or committed other crimes in his absence. The third wife was shown the red card after seeking to serve him with food spiced with “taste me”. I ask him how he knew that there was korobela in the food. He denies being a superstitious man. He claims to have had a dream the previous night that warned him not to eat food from his wife for a week. So he says on that stupid day, he just asked the wife to tuck into her food because he did not have an appetite. She also said she did not have an appetite. That was too much of a coincidence, he says.
My friend tells me that a woman who wears a garment with an image of another man or even another woman is not to be trusted. He says the picture displaced on a lady`s T-shirt should be that of her husband or boyfriend, full stop. I say to him: Friend, are you not being extremist about the loyalty you expect from women. He says no, he is being practical and prudent. In his words: Women are hearers and perceptive people and as such they tend to be influenced easily by what they hear or see on a daily basis. They can see how one walks, l mean her gait, how and what one eats, how one woman`s make-up has been over-applied, how her colours clash in a clearly vicious way, how she over-dresses when she goes to church, and so forth and so forth. Men may not see all these things or even bother a whit about them. Now here comes a problem. Women may hear something at first and feel an outburst of disgust rioting inside their bodies. That`s good. However, after some time, when a person keeps on bombarding them with the same message, they tend to give in. How often do you propose to a woman and she says she is not interested in oneself at all, yes at all, forget it in one`s lifetime. Then eventually boom, she makes a big U-turn and says Yes! Yes! Yes! You`re welcome!
That cold Friday night at our usual drinking well, I said to him: Friend, l think you make women look really cheap, childish and gullible. Not only that. You are also saying they cannot be trusted, and this raises issues about your possible personal indiscretions of insecurity. Don`t you feel insecure and inadequate? He responded with a chuckle: No, not at all. If you miss one taxi, and another one heaves in sight, you flag it down and hop into it. I am secure because l have enough ammunition to deal with any eventuality.
The moment l slapped my eyes on her, l saw somebody l thought was worth marrying. Someone to treat as one`s queen for the rest of my life. I wanted to give her the opportunities that her family could not offer her. I did not know that l was giving her wings to fly away, and defy some of my instructions as her husband. I thought I was parachuting her out of darkness into the light. Now she uses that light to dazzle me. Can you imagine that gratitude! She is elusive and slippery l don`t know how to deal with her wildness. I don`t know how to make her see that all l want is to be treated like a king.
The other day l asked her that. And she said: First treat me like your queen, then l will crown you my king. If you treat me like a little rag, l will treat you like crap as well! That`s how the marriage equation is like!
I don`t get it. The institution of marriage is more sacred that her warped equation, whatever it is. I give her concrete examples that her equality dream is nothing but a mere dream or a pie in the sky. For example, women athletes don`t compete on the same tracks with their male counterparts. It is the same story when it comes to wresting. Why? And, of course they make more noise than they exhibit their wrestling dexterity .l go on… Some universities demand lower minimum academic entry points for women than men. Why?
She counters like one boxer who gets a blow on the cheek and in turn unleashes her knockback on her opponent with a hungry vengeance. She claims I make a series of incredulous claims. I over-analyze. I over-simplify. In short, l drivel fulltime! I babble big time! I must grow up.
Mthwakazi (People)! I drivel fulltime? I am an overgrown baby? Is this not a big insult? Again. Again.
I am not going to pander to the politicians’ whims and tricks. If these insects called equal rights are like this, then l don`t want them in my home. Let the politicians who give these women these so called rights keep them! Here… Nope! No, please, Mr. Politician, in my backyard, don`t off load your so-called rights. My cultural lights are bright enough to keep us going in the right direction as a family. Tell you what, in my house l am supposed to be the king. Fullstop. Rule your country and l rule my household. That politician who gives women these rights must be told, he has gone too far in his search for elusive votes. Next time, he would possibly be telling us how to love them, how to caress them and so forth and so on, if he is not stopped now. These so call-rights drive the womenfolk crazy and wild! I have never seen a single sane woman who listens to what politicians say!
SekaBuhle ploughs his hands onto the middle bottom of the bottle .For a while he admires the structure and contents of the container as if it holds the centre of his very existence. Gleefully the man mumbles to himself: l’m having a ball. Beer l can`t bid you farewell. If there has to be divorce in my life, then it should not affect you. No woman can stand in between you and me. The world would be dead hell without you! Dead and dull. Women of all colours, sizes and shapes- though they light up the world in one way or the other- would not mean a thing if you are nowhere! Zilch! Transcendent waters you swim me in bliss and triumph! Wise waters you transport me to the most exciting zones filled with fun and friends. You are better than orgasm itself. You`re long lasting.
And his chubby mouth proudly digs deep into the bubbly depths of cocktail waters. Not once, neither twice, but thrice. And this is thoroughly and religiously executed in style by any definition or standard. The mouthfuls seem to rejuvenate him into a reverie of acrobatic jiving and diving like his bones are truly elastic. One lady on a mission does a calculated get-down with him -like they share a placental affinity which cannot be broken- while pampering him with flirtatious winks and strong body whiffs and whispers. He is elated.
But… a hand suddenly tows him from the back .He screams: Whose bloody hands are these? Is it a bloody sin or crime to enjoy one’s bloody money in this bloody country? Son of… But he discovers who the party-popper is.
It’s Thulani. His bulging stomach is obscured by the crimson double breasted suit that he is flaunting today
“Nice suit, my man," SekaBuhle observes.
He fidgets rather clumsily on the cozy chair like any time from now he would be heading for the restroom. “Even nicer is this queen who’s keeping me company. I’m sorry to say I had to wrench you off that female with stunning looks. You were certainly socking it out with a woman who can curse every innocent child in the world with a series of nightmares after slapping their innocent eyes on her!”
SekaBuhle knows that Thulani`s talks on women are usually filled with pride .He remembers Thulani saying: Women`s wings have to be clipped. Don`t let her be an opposition to your position. The problem is that you behave like a little playground and walkover for your wife. Have a ball in your yard, don`t let her behave as if she has balls. No woman under this sun can play antics on me. Forget. Not even my wife touches me if l don`t want. I can swing up into the air and sting her like a disturbed bee. My wife does my bidding. She can`t cow me into submission. No ways. She knows her place.
“SekaBuhle, it is my singular honour and privilege to proclaim: meet the queen who treats me with brimming care ehh … and love like no other in a world teeming with rough and rogue partners!”
SekaBuhle gazes at his friend’s girlfriend and utters,
“Hi Queen of his eyes” Their hands clasp together and boy oh boy, SekaBuhle feels the amazing crudeness of her hands .And he is almost tempted to ask: How many houses have you plastered so far?
He looks at the bums…Oh no, there is nothing to write home about. Lol, they look like a little boulder precariously stuck on a hilly place! People, please hold them, let them not tumble, he thinks. They seek to escape from the firm grip of that tiny skirt or what! Even if we were together, just the two of us on earth or Mars for that matter, l would just look away.
She smiles with the mischief and pride of an innocent school girl who has just been told by her flattering and fooling boyfriend that she is the best thing to have happened to him since he landed on mother earth!
“Hi. Miss Hlahla is the name to watch. And she will bring you a lady almost beautiful as the one you’re fixing or rather feasting your eyes on. Yeah. Stay close to this beauty for more!” So brags the mini-skirted slim lady with a wink and a smile, resting her equally tiny if not somehow lifeless right hand on the left expansive shoulder of her lover.
Together they down the bottles with an appetite that can surely rival that of three thirsty camels in a desert. But if SekaBuhle were to give away a “camel’s trophy” to one of the threesome, beyond a shadow of a doubt -his friend’s girlfriend would easily be the medalist. She beats both at their game. Indeed there is something SekaBuhle is not comfortable with. Fancy somebody taking gulps with a
determination that defies description. She is baptizing herself with the wise waters like a convert who seeks to wash away her most stubborn imperfections on earth.
That`s none other than Miss Hlahla. Just a single swig and the aftermath drives SekaBuhle wild. She drowns in the waters and when she does so, her mind seems to experience some short circuit.
Like an electrical challenge in a house, the drinking times usually see mental fault running supreme in her head. Fine, the noise she makes reminds him of some furious water running down some smallish canal in his dry rural area or a downpour hitting forcefully on some dry and squashed land.
The nagging thing is her belching and frothing mouth! Sorry times ten but all this behaviour puts SekaBuhle off! He says to himself: All this makes beer-drinking feel like a pain rather than a pleasure. Beer-drinking is pure sweetness itself. This over-excited fellow spoils it with her sourness. Honestly, this is not funny at all. This bloody unimpressive plasterer gives beer-drinking a bad name. Her hands! Lord of Lords! They almost lacerated my fingers! At her back or on her hands words like: You shake hands with me at your own peril should be inscribed boldly and clearly .She reminds me of a jagged water lizard called Uxamu!
Hlahla seems to be supercharged with love. Now and then her hot kisses land on Thulani`s neck, lips, cheeks and forehead with an amazing hunger. She even pinches her lover`s back with a giggle or two. SekaBuhle is wondering: Is this her first? Seems the love bug has bitten her for the first time? No, this passion, or rather infatuation is not right. She needs to slow down. She must be slapped with a ticket for over-speeding.
SekaBuhle is not amused at all. Her giggling does not make things any better either. The three discuss how they were confident that their candidates would win and give them something to smile about, yet it turned out to be another mysterious fiasco. SekaBuhle says he is tired of voting for ghosts. Then his friend asks him what exactly he means by ghosts. He claims voting has always been a gimmick, a rat race he is not prepared to take part in next time
. Suddenly he changes the subject and dwells on how ill-mannered and peevish and mulish his wife has become over the years .SekaBuhle tells them:
“She is damn stubborn like a black millipede. Henry Ward Beecher (1813 – 1887) a prominent clergyman, social reformer, an abolitionist and a speaker once said: The difference between perseverance and obstinacy is that one comes from a strong will, and the other from a strong won’t.
She basically won’t accept that l am the head because culture and the Bible decreed that she should be submissive to me full stop! I don’t like her aunt .And what does my wife say? That’s emotional abuse! You can’t separate me from my relatives. I say tonight is the night. And what does she say? No, not tonight. I don’t feel like playing ball!
Then my question becomes: Haven’t you played ball already? And hence you are not in the mood?
It`s my body and l know how l feel. You don`t want to be jailed for marital rape! That`s her lame excuse. Oh my goodness! That’s taboo! She queries what’s taboo? To take her and her body for granted!”
Miss Hlahla says he should worry no more on that front. She will definitely arrange something for him to sedate his feelings and thoughts. She goes on to tell them about her stay overseas, “Life has not been rosy for me out there in the UK. For example, one chilly evening whilst l was just strolling on the streets for fun some overzealous police pounced on me. And accused me of soliciting sexually. The next thing I was handed down a deportation order. Do l look like a streetwalker. Gentlemen?”
The rhetoric question gets SekaBuhle taking a slow swallow while swinging his head back and forth and saying to himself: Cut the crap, street walkers are not identified by words or some uniform they wear but by their actions. On that score, all credit goes to the British police for arresting a law-breaking dull-looking wanderer who was not going to give her clients value for their money anyway! Where did my friend get this fake and uninspiring woman?
She continues:” I came back home. Then a year later l flew out and landed in Canada. l landed myself a somehow lucrative job as a personal secretary, but my boss would enter my office and say funny things like: you know what each time l look at you my biological clock ticks madly and l feel like winging away with you to Africa for good! And one day he pleaded with me to massage him because of sciatica. He was a good man. l couldn’t rebuff his request just like that. And so l set out on rubbing him. The man started wheezing and screaming”.
SekaBuhle, coughs for good measure, then starts making a wincing gesture before quizzing, “Was this because of pain or was he convulsing because he had a certain disease?”
Thulani gnashes his teeth: “Nonsense! Of course he was moaning with pleasure”
Miss Hlahla downs another bottle, sends out a gust of groaning oral air before disclosing:” I was fired on the spot by the jealous wife!”
SekaBuhle now drunk and clear-cut like a disc jockey on a horseback, adds, “For having clawed away some of the poor man’s skin!
TThulani blurts out, “Did you smoke weed? Don’t be ridiculous, my girl is the most romantic soul alive!” SekaBuhle looks as his friend as if to say: l see today you repose your faith in this stranger? All of a sudden l have become a crazyweed smoker to be yelled at in public? Whoever said women wield power and rule over men was not wrong.
After a few minutes have elapsed, SeKaBuhle asks, “Are you a builder or what by profession?”
Ignoring the question Miss Hlahla continues: “In Canada l also worked in the bushes hacking off tree branches. The severe cold and the hazardous snakes and malaria eventually forced me to bid my workmates farewell”.
“In Hungary one of my major tasks was to catch bats and rear bees for university researchers. But one researcher constantly made disingenuous derogatory remarks about the audacity of some people who fail to snitch out the sting of worn-out war criminals in the very backyards of their country and think they could somehow successfully and magically catch slippery bats in foreign lands!”
SekaBuhle invites the trio to gyrate and leave bat-catchers to do what they know best. He says:” Sorry guys but this bat-catching thing does not look like a nice holidaying excursion even in front of my closed eyes! I think the people who were saying you should leave foreign bats alone were not wrong or mischievous. They meant to help a hapless bat-catcher! Let’s dance and be blind to our problems as bats!”
But their dancing is short-lived…
It`s Thulani`s wife. “Loose woman, let me teach you a lesson you won`t forget!” She grabs Miss Hlahla by her chin, and bangs her three times against the yellow-painted wall.
The poor girl collapses on the floor, her world is flighty. Her blood and vomit cascade on the floor, but the man`s wife is not through with her mission. She seizes the girl’s skirt and in a matter of seconds it is screaming, “Creee! Creee! Creee!” as it tears apart. The small-figured lady is screaming for mercy as well.
Once done, she turns toward her husband. SekaBuhle, knows his friend does not take nonsense from any woman, or so he has been told by his drinking chum. He watches for his reaction as the big-figured woman grabs her man by his very manhood, and hauls him out, much to the shock of the other revelers as well.
He watches in horror as his friend who has been giving him bold tips on how to handle women winces and hobbles into the dark. One female reveler remarks, “Oh that woman, she can surely castrate all empty male vessels who claim to be this and do that with her bare finger nails! .That man howled like a beast facing imminent slaughter, lol. Poor man, hope his manhood has not been uprooted by now”.