"Move your shadow..."
Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn | Suicide remarks are torn | From the fool's gold mouthpiece | The hollow horn plays wasted words | Proves to warn | That he not busy being born | Is busy dying.
Bob Dylan | It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)
Wena azi lo golof? Mina hayifuna lo mampara mfan.
Have you caddied before? I don't want a useless boy.
Tata lo saka gamina.
Take my bag of clubs.
Tata ma bol, yena doti. Susa yena nga lo mansi.
These balls are dirty. Clean them with water.
Note: All puns are either coincidental or unintented.
There are some good comments over at sa male prostitute's blog — ultimately, something useful might be learned by local bloggers now following or investigating the scrofulous side of their art. Our intrepid blogger denies he is Juan Uys — naming in his latest client-book discharge said Uys with Vic Shimali, a Bloemfoentein land baron; Ruben, editor of a gay magazine; and Kleinschmidt, an SABC news interpreter for deaf viewers.
He will probably continue to deny being Uys — or whatever or whomever he chooses and will continue to pick off his alleged former customers at leisure. I don't blame him. He's lifting the lid on South African white mischief in a new and novel way.
Conflicting views about linking to this extraordinary site abound — further evidence of SA Web naiveté. The press have had their lawyers advise them not to give the blogger or his alleged patrons the publicity they so richly deserve. Yup, they deserve it. In a circumlocuitous comment posted to the blog, one Johan Swart makes a couple of telling points. One way or another, we are all guilty. It doesn't matter that we might have done nothing — the thing is, having done either something or nothing might well be our crime.
Credit goes to WordPress for not pulling down the blog and Google for tracking it.
I live in a country where scabrous people without scruples rip off others with impunity. To cope, most close their eyes to the deviant nature of The South African Way. But, hey, it's right outside my front gate. The whores are giving it to the cops, the car wrecks are being towed away, the masked gunmen are emptying the corner restaurant, the paramedics are packing away their drips and syringes, and the boer with the 9mm pistol is fucking up the taxi driver who cut in front of him on Main Road. Behind the walls, Joe Soap the local pastor is beating his wife, his son is raping the family dog, and his daughter is batting rocks.
And sa male prostitute is our latter-day bantu boy.
Trust me.
A lifetime ago to some, Republican Party Reptile P.J. O'Rourke wrote a book, Holidays in Hell. We featured prominently. Back in 1988, and to his mind, any white South African not out shooting his black compatriots was blind drunk. Joe Lelyveld captured us perfectly in Move Your Shadow. Welcome to the other side of South Africa.
Now, instead of whining, do something about it.
Muhle wena tula loskati lo-mlungu ena beta lo bol.
You must be quiet when my partner plays a shot.
Tula!
Be quiet.
Noko wena lahlenga lo futi bol, hayikona mali.
If you lose another ball, there will be no tip for you.
Susa lo-mtunzi gawena. Hayikona shukumisa lo saka.
Move your shadow. Don't rattle the bag.
J.D. Bold Fanagalo Phrase book, Grammar and Dictionary, the Lingua Franca of Southern Africa 10th edition, 1977
We sit here stranded, though we're all doin' our best to deny it.
Bob Dylan | Visions of Johanna
