Chapter 2...

Jaleels Story:
The first time I took something that was not mine was when I was 9 years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. And that was the start of things to come. I stole R5 from my auntie’s purse, while she was visiting us. I remember the thrill of opening her handbag, a big brown ugly thing, and finding the coins closely wrapped in a old hankychief. The old people always carried change like that, so that it would not make a noise and give the skelms any indication they had money on them. Auntie had about 10 R2 coins and 10 R1 coins in the hanky, but my thieving instincts had already taken root. If I took everything, she would know it was me, but if I took just 2 and 1, she would not notice. Auntie was rich – her husband worked for Tramways – he was a bus driver and everyone knew he was helping himself to some coins when the inspectors were not looking. That’s why Auntie always had coins with her. And that’s how my story started.
Growing up in the flats back in those days was hectic, my bru. We had to be on the lookout for the law all the time. As 12 year olds, me and my best friend Gakkie, used to steal where we could, when we could. Then he got caught one day, trying to rob the Shoprite, and ended up shooting a cashier. She had a weak heart and died more from the shock, but anyway, Gakkie cot 20 years and he and I ran a lekker racket on the inside at Pollsmoor. But in 1994, the game changed big time. Pagad was causing a lot of problems for the dealers and we all had a meeting in Cape Town. Ha! It was like real business meeting. We all drove to the Waterfront, and met in the hotel boardroom. People must have kakked themselves that day and if the Law was there, we would have been arrested all at once, like a Whitney Houston song! But the leaders were all there, and me, just 18 years old and a big chip on my shoulder, I was 2IC (2nd in charge) to the leader of the Naughty Boys – Jimmy ‘’Killer’’ Pawns. But today, the ouens had to put aside their differences. All the brasse was there..Mickey Blue Eyes, leader of the HL’s (Hard Livings), SKOENE Visagie, leader of the Americans, Gino ‘’Tanne’’, leader of the New Mongrels, and Sally, leader of the Velvet Girls and last, Richard Smith, leader of the Crazy Kids.
The problem was that PAGAD were taking out the dealers one by one, and all the gangs were losing money. Jimmy had a long talk planned but the other guys had other ideas, and eventually the meet turned into a shouting match, until Sally shouted ‘’STOP”. She told me to come forward. And did I shine that day. Those hardened criminals shut up, and listened to me! They were hanging on my words, on my lips, to every word I said. And did I give them the speech! Carol had prepped me well. Her drama classes taught me some eloquence, how to use words to capture an audience, but also, how to put on a show! By lunch time, the only person not on board was Mickey Blue Eyes, but already the tide had turned. We agreed an alliance, to fight the PAGAD boys on our turf, with a united front. And Mickey would lose out, maybe even more than just his turf. By 5pm we had a draft worked out, and I had the job! I was in charge of my first operation, and the hit was out on the PAGADleader – Boeta Gamieldien, or Boeta Achmat to his friends and enemies.

Chapter 1 - Untitled Book Draft...

So a few months back, I had an idea to start writing a book. I tossed the idea around with my good friend Ronel Roos, and together we started writing something - it was supposed to be a book based in a local South African context. Then we both got busy with other things and the book stagnated.

A few days ago I came across the first draft of 3000 + words. So I thought I would put it out here in the blogosphere and gets some comments, criticism, compliments...perhaps get some encouragement from other budding writers out there?

Introduction:

Cassiems Story:
I was born in the bo-kaap, in 1955. My Oemi (grandmother) was a boere tannie from Worcester – she always said she was a de Wet, or a de la Rey, I cant remember so lekker anymore. Oemi always told us stories of how she met boeya (grandpa). He was a coloured gentleman, and used to be a door to door salesman back in the days, she said. Boeya was a handsome bliksem, with his wet brylcream hair (the oil used to run down his head by the time he got there to Worcester). Boeya used to live in Paarl, on someone’s backyard, and used to collect his stuff in Cape Town. Boeya used to get a lift to Worcester and Oemi was the daughter of one of the farmers he used to go and sell his stuff to on a Saturday morning. Oemi said when she seen Boeya for the first time she knew he was the one, cause she always likes chocolate and not vanilla! Aai! Oemi was sieker 12 or 13 at the time.
She and Boeya had to run away, and Boeya couldn’t show his face there anymore after the skandaal hit the dorpie. Then the Imam didn’t want to perform the Nikkah cause Oemi was from the Dutch Reformed Church, and she had to first ‘’draai’’ and become a slamse woman. Oemi said the Iman was full of kak, but she had to do it, otherwise she couldn’t marry him. Anway, to cut a long story short, Oemi and Boeya eloped and got married, and soma a year later my mother was born. I never really know her, she just left one morning, and never came back. Someone later told me she got a lekker job on the docks, but I never knew what she did. She was a beautiful woman, and I think tha her looks sometimes caused her some trouble. I think my pa was also from somewhere far, and thats why I got the straight hair in the family.
Anyway, I was raised by Oemi, and she did it by hand – a lot of the time. Aai! That woman. A pillar of the local community, they used to call her motjie Boer. She had light color hair, and skin which was nice and brown from the time in the sun. I remember her hands, and her hair – it always smelled of coconut oil that came out of a can. Later, just before she died, I remember her hair was gray, and the smell of the oil was in her room for months afterwards.
I met Ghaliema in 1972. She came from a family of proper Malay people. Her mother and father were both Malays, and they had some family still in Malaysia, or so she said. Ghaliema was the oldest of the children, and had to look after the younger children when her Mummy got sick with the TB. Ghaliema, yoh! She could bake the whole day on that Defy stove that her Pappie gave us for the wedding present. I remember now…it was a yellow color, but faded from the sun. It ran on electric, and was very modern for the time. Ghaliema used bake in that oven! From the morning through the day and night. Toe se die mense soma da kom Ghaliema Tertjies…a nickname that stuck till today. My wife, Ghaliema tertjies …
We got married in 1975, when I turned 20. Then our people didn’t do the dating thing like today. You met the girl, you got married. No blerri nonsense like today. Now everyone is on Mixit and the laities don’t have time to do things right, or do the right things. Now I am glad the group areas kept us from the White people, with their funny habits and music and parties. ’76 was a tough year for us. The Black people were making a noise about our language and that it was not what they wanted to learn. They had some marches and some people got killed in a march somewhere. But for us here in Cape Town, we were very isolated from the rest of the country. We heard the stories, ma onse bruin mense wassie involved nie. It was a black vs white thing, and anyway, I was going to work for Mr Lipshitz at the law firm. Ja it was hard, I could have been a lawyer, but we never had the money so I had to settle to be a clerk for Mr Lipshitz. That guy was the Pa of the Mr Lipshitz who is now the baas here, but anyway, I am going to fill the gaps as I go along. Anyway, I got a job and got some money, so me and Ghaliema got married straightaway. The Imam from the Muir Street mosque married us and we had a small reception afterwards. My friend Andy came to fetch us in his mothers Mercedes – a 220 Avocado Green color car – that matched Ghaliemas dress. And there was place for the two bridesmaid also. We went to take photos in the Gardens, before the boere came and chased us out – I still have a photo with the one boere laaitie – shame, he just said he was doing his job, sorry to disturb, but can we please leave. Fanie or Fanus was his name on his badge. But ja, it was a nice day to get married – a sunny day in June…
But today I got a big problem, and I dunno how to figure this one out. I seen something, something I shouldn’t have seen. And very soon, this thing is going to explode, and I got to do something, and quick, or the kak is going to hit the fan…

Why I cannot vote ANC again..

I'm sitting here, contemplating the forthcoming local elections and I am sad that for the first time I will not be voting for the ANC. Before anyone starts jumping up and down, hear me out as to why I have given the ANC my vote before.

When I went to vote for the first time in 1994, I voted with my heart. I voted for the only option. I voted with my heart and believed that this country could be a shining light for the world. I voted for the ideal proposed by Nelson Mandela just after his release from prison, 27 years after his incarceration. I believed that the ANC would be the saviour of this country, and for a short while I believed this. I witnessed a Minister of Finance take office who was prepared to step up to all the challenges he knew was waiting - Comrade Trevor, I salute you. I saw the ANC stance on communism wither in the wake of the fall of the Berlin Wall. I saw a new leadership take responsibility. I saw a measure of accountability - to the people and to the world. I saw hope. I saw progress. I saw an economy grow stronger than any South African economy before, a strong Rand, business opportunities (for all) and non racialism proliferate. I saw this. And much more. But the light was too bright, and blinded me. Badly!

I then witnessed the coming death of the dream for many. After one term, the Mbeki era was ushered in. Slowly, the blinkers came off. But again, I voted for the ANC. I still wanted to believe. The economy was still growing, slower yes, but sustainable, or so I believed. The rot was starting to set in, with the SABC becoming a state organ. We heard what the state wanted us to hear, and the ears of the people were fed with promises. Lies were told. The people believed.

Till now. Our ANC government of today is fat and bloated, and just like a fat and bloated pig, this animal needs to be fed constantly. Ministers driving R1 million rand cars. Living in estate mansions. But the people have seen nothing but visions of prosperity. I lived in Gauteng for a while, and drove through Diepsloot on my way to Fourways/Sandton one day. And all I saw was shack upon shack upon shack. Running water was in scarce supply. And electricity a luxury. I saw people queuing for taxi's at 5.00 A.M, waiting to take the fortunate few to jobs in the city. But the majority of people in that township still living in the hope that something better would be coming. And so we come to today..

Today we stand on the brink of another election. The ANC have asked us to vote them into power again. They have asked us to vote for incompetent city officials who have squandered away the legacy of the ANC. They have asked us to vote for lazy, corrupt city officials who have only empowered themselves. They have asked us to vote for a local government who promise the people of townships electricity by 2014, proudly, as part of the election manifesto!

So, today, I say to my fellow comrades – I can no longer stand by and idly wait for you to destroy what is left of our former glory and legacy. Today I have to vote for the opposition. I base my vote on service delivery. I base my vote on accountability. And I base my vote on the need for continued growth on matters that matter!

Sorry ANC – I have seen the light – and it is not Green and Gold and Black any longer.

I wanted to share these beautiful words about South Africa written by Jonathan Jansen...

My South Africa is the working-class man who called from the airport to return my wallet without a cent missing. It is the white woman who put all three of her domestic worker's children through the same school that her own child attended. It is the politician in one of our rural provinces, Mpumalanga, who returned his salary to the government as a statement that standing with the poor had to be more than just a few words. It is the teacher who worked after school hours every day during the public sector strike to ensure her children did not miss out on learning.

My South Africa is the first-year university student in Bloemfontein who took all the gifts she received for her birthday and donated them - with the permission of the givers - to a home for children in an Aids village. It is the people hurt by racist acts who find it in their hearts to publicly forgive the perpetrators. It is the group of farmers in Paarl who started a top school for the children of farm workers to ensure they got the best education possible while their parents toiled in the vineyards. It is the farmer's wife in Viljoenskroon who created an education and training centre for the wives of farm labourers so that they could gain the advanced skills required to operate accredited early-learning centers for their own and other children.

My South Africa is that little white boy at a decent school in the Eastern Cape who decided to teach the black boys in the community to play cricket, and to fit them all out with the togs required to play the gentelman's game. It is the two black street children in Durban, caught on camera, who put their spare change in the condensed milk tin of a white beggar. It is the Johannesburg pastor who opened up his church as a place of shelter for illegal immigrants. It is the Afrikaner woman from Boksburg who nailed the white guy who shot and killed one of South Africa's greatest freedom fighters outside hishome.

My South Africa is the man who went to prison for 27 years and came out embracing his captors, thereby releasing them from their impending misery. It is the activist priest who dived into a crowd of angry people to rescue a woman from a sure necklacing. It is the former police chief who fell to his knees to wash the feet of Mamelodi women whose sons disappeared on his watch; it is the women who forgave him in his act of contrition. It is the Cape Town university psychologist who interviewed the 'Prime Evil' in Pretoria Centre and came away with emotional attachment, even empathy, for the human being who did such terrible things under apartheid.

My South Africa is the quiet, dignified, determined township mother from Langa who straightened her back during the years of oppression and decided that her struggle was to raise decent children, insist that they learn, and ensure that they not succumb to bitterness or defeat in the face of overwhelming odds. It is the two young girls who walked 20kms to school everyday, even through their matric years, and passed well enough to be accepted into university studies. It is the student who takes on three jobs, during the evenings and on weekends, to find ways of paying for his university studies.

My South Africa is the teenager in a wheelchair who works in townships serving the poor. It is the pastor of a Kenilworth church whose parishioners were slaughtered, who visits the killers and asks them for forgiveness because he was a beneficiary of apartheid. It is the politician who resigns on conscientious grounds, giving up status and salary because of an objection in principle to a social policy of her political party. It is the young lawman who decides to dedicate his life to representing those who cannot afford to pay for legal services.

My South Africa is not the angry, corrupt, violent country whose deeds fill the front pages of newspapers and the lead-in items on the seven-o'-clock news. It is the South Africa often unseen, yet powered by the remarkable lives of ordinary people. It is the citizens who keep the country together through millions of acts of daily kindness.

Sh!t happens..a breakdown..

Shit happens.

How many times have you heard this expression?

How can things go so wrong, so quickly? And why is it that some people simply go on, without a care in the world?

What could have been?

A beautiful relationship, with the perfect client, a long term, mutually beneficial agreement, and it went horribly wrong..and this is how it happened.

A client, lets call him client X, had a need for a very specific piece of work.

A service provider had the required skills within their company.

A very good understanding was reached and everyone was all smiles and happy.

But, as we all know, often the best intentions get misread. Accusations fly, high and very low, so low that Client X starts to think - "WTF??". What am involved in here. Millions of Rands later, and all the client sees is a terrible trail of troubles - more accusations, blame, zero responsibility from the SP, and the cycle continues to degrade like an organic compost heap..very slowly, everything starts to decompose...

So, to break it down. Functional specs were vague, instructions were sometimes unclear, and the scope of the product changed often. As is the nature of the beast, scope change is accepted as part of a development cycle, and both sides needed to give way, and often.

And then the final straw. The deal maker gets the short end of the stick. Because the SP cannot manage his business effectively. The Client is pissed off, and wants nothing to do with the SP any longer, but due to circumstances, they need to get to certain agreed upon milestones.

The SP have been making a decent profit. But now that the client has downscaled his requirements, the SP sits with a massive overhead, a business that is no longer sustainable. And the deal maker get the smack in the head. Commission payments are withheld indefinitely, starting another round of a viscous cycle. And the integrity of the deal maker is at stake. The SP walks away, with not a care in the world!

Is it fair to withhold an agents commission when business takes a downturn?

No! but shit happens..and we move on..another day another place another time

Brand New Day...

If you were born today, in 1990, Nelson Mandela would still have been in jail.

The ANC was still to be unbanned.

F W de Klerk was the president of South Africa, the last white man to be in that position in this country.

South Africa stood on the brink of change. Apartheid was dying, and you were taking your first breath of life.

If you were born to a typical black family, you would most probably have been born in a Government Hospital.

In Cape Town, it would most likely have been Groote Schuur Hospital (loosely translated, Big Shed)

That Hospital was probable staffed by white nurses, who were trained by the then still Apartheid Government.

The Doctor, probably also a young white man, doing his internship, would most probably have delivered you as a baby.

The same white hands that could so easily have carried a R 1 rfile, in a township, under conscription, under the same Apartheid regime.

So, to recap - you were born in an Apartheid Hospital, delivered by an Apartheid trained doctor, nursed by a white nurse - guess what? You were born in Apartheid, From Apartheid, By Apartheid!!

But, something else was born that year too...the birth of a stillborn promise! This is your legacy...

You would still go to a school in a Township - Kalafon, Tembisa, Khayaletsha, Kayamandi....

Your teachers who fought in the struggle, would continue to struggle...

Your brother and sisters, those old enough to work, would still earn minimum wage...

Your cousin would still be working for that people in Bishops Court - making tea...

But now you had freedom..

And a promise...

Houses, Uncle Joe promised, would be for everyone, then sadly, he died...

Jobs, promised, but not delivered, but you are free..

Healthcare, promised, but who was to pay for this?

But a promise must be kept, you say?

Today, you turn 21, and what do you have to look forward to?

If your parents were lucky, they moved to a newer township, less stink, maybe running water?

Maybe, just maybe, you were lucky enough to get electricity..

Running water? Toilets?

You, last Apartheid baby, you laugh? you cry?

So, Happy Birthday, hope you have a good one, hope your dreams come true, cause this is what you have..

A dream..

A dream where people will not have to live in fear,

where you are your master...

where no one will discriminate against you...

where equal opportunities will abound...

So, today I give you your 21st birthday present...

It used to be a key, and big party..

The key symbolized the unlocking of your adulthood, perhaps locking the closed door of your youth...

You are an adult now..

Take responsibility

And like I always tell my children...the first rule...don't panic