A disquieting sunset before another night of a full moon, the sun a red ball sinking into a westerly pitch of pink foamy scatterings of clouds; it is weekend in sleepy Kokosi.
From the east, a full moon rises, bright
and glowing, obstructed only by slim clouds serenely drifting in the high
winds.
There is a chill in the autumn air, and the
smell of rain lingers with every whiff of the draft sweeping through the dusty
streets.
Above the Apollo lights, a storm brews,
plumes of dust rising crimson like a wave in the moonlight, a colossal blanket
riding high above heads bobbing towards places of leisure.
Another raucous evening starts at Thandabantu, music thumbing skins of
tired mineworkers with swollen pockets, while young breasts erect their nipples
to the chill of colorful beverages.
Everyman seems horny here, the full moon
gone menstrual in all thighs seated on crates and young boys burying cases of
Lion lager and pangas to impress schoolmates.
The DJ booth is a precarious cage, smaller
than a cell of a birdcage in a zoo, and once in a while bottles are flung
against the metal bars having missed a head of a would-be victim by an inch.
Looking about, familiar bruised faces of
jobless vagabonds that can be missed in any crowd sip on Milk Stout in gangs, each greedy gulp causing rage to the one who
bought the beer.
Blood is always about to curdle here, and
as anticipated a rumble begins rhythms of House Music wizardry, dust rattles
tin roofs and shacks shake on their poles.
A nose is bleeding among some gang of
frantic big-spenders, plonk in floral boxes waved over braided heads of fat
women fighting with slender girls, hurling bottles and plastic cups at their unkempt
weaves.
A drizzle begins in time to save the music
from drowning under thunder and womanly spite, but haunted streaks continue to crawl
ragingly across a biliously clouded sky.
Smudgy puddles form under dancing feet,
stomped black and sprinkled in bottle caps, blood and piss washing off the
walls.
All die-hard drunks are mesmerized for
those few minuties, a brawl and a rising moon floating in a bulge, red on the
far end of the storm to whence winds seem intent on chasing for a ball
hastening its ascent up the black expanse.
Screeching screams of girls pretending
superstitions cause the mayhem to gain a pitch, men howling like wounded dogs
in mimicry of werewolves, all this with piercing wails of the one who lost a
nose and the bass rattling torn speakers with serenaded thuds.
The joke was horrendous, considering shacks
were being uprooted in nearby Ninety-Nine, yet the DJ kept on point, providing
soundtracks to the dismal anecdotes of a fun night in Kokosi.
Gathering chains of uncertain morality
about my feet, I choose to leave with others who bet their last on a night well
spent, but friends start streaming in rushing from the rain I was intent on
battling.
And it is then that the rain begins to pelt
harder, the whizzing bellows of an angry breath of demons raging on the night
of a full moon and fanning homicidal tendencies haunting inebriated teens.
Accents begin to change with curses hurled
at thunder spilled by drenched rap fanatics, mouths damning acts of nature in
rhyme improvised over anthems on caged decks and ghetto rants of fame.
Night of blood commences, this place will
see many crucified for its future wealth, body parts lost in debris of broken
bottles and crumpled potato chip packets.
Ambulance lights will soon illuminate this
concrete stage of our stupefied euphoria, stretchers wheeled in over toes of
revelers in a daze of song.
The sales booth’s ever tiny at this ‘tavern
that loves people’, more now with rain frothing on vomit of quick drinkers, and
you know logic has gone out of circulation when three people queue to buy a
single bottle.
But my friend and I wade through that mess
of arms tossed for attention, among names hailed like deceased generals of
unknown personal wars.
We get our set of Black Label quarts and tiptoe back to our corner perfumed by piss and
shit under a noisy tin roof, our view from behind women’s dancing backs a
carnival of lopsided asses stuffed in faded g-strings, chocked by glittering
plastic belts.
Talk about global warming, mineworkers with
constant nosebleeds and weekly wages, women working at an explosives company and
the moral merits of Fanakalo as a
language of indenture.
We’re incensed by this lack of tangible options
in township life, where we could not even score a lay for a night this cold,
purged from the mainstream mentality of motivational speeches and emotional
gambles.
But eventually the mess catches on and we
are huddled on crates among juveniles flaunting their hard earned wages from
stints of crime or exploited labor.
We thus proceed killing hours with
jailbirds and fugitives from unschooled laws of Bogroep - that infamous jail
that forges unpaid laborers for farmers from prison populations.
A rope that will drag us into the mires of
depravity laying woven by desensitized youths telling us about rapes, about
plots to slit a warden’s throat, and their garrulous talk about girls they gang
fucked behind beer crates one night of binges at this tavern.
Last night one of them nearly died, they
say.
He lies in hospital while they blaze last
roaches of long dead joints crammed into bottle caps, rolled into leftover
shred of telephone directory books.
Never call a man a cripple in front of his
crew, that’s the rule.
And as the story goes, there were bottles
flung against a scar ridden head in retaliation to such slander.
Lost they might seem, but they ride a crest
of a high wave propelled by instant cash from loan sharks and victims of
muggings turned to unmarked graves in municipal cemeteries.
There is even gossip among young men here
about lost dockets, police officers who have AIDS, about who are addicts and
pimps; and who is smuggling marijuana from Swaziland or the newest dealer with
first-grade Tleketleke.
Talk of brawls with mates who couldn’t
stomach their liquor, bouts of bloodthirsty fits of rage when a friend was
stabbed for having suspicious money to afford a bottle of Three Ships.
These are the common harangues of bored
boys in filthy backyard shebeen rooms, sock stench suffocation beyond relief of
cheap air-freshening tags and tobacco smoke.
And once the rain had subsided, we decide
to leave the raucous company of sterile chatter and Tlokwe carton beer bingers,
with their supine women trembling in the sobering chill.
Skidding on mud and puddles hiding in
passageways to anywhere, we camouflage with colors of night under blinking
street lamps and a startling moon after a hail storm.
Others are nursing wounds as blood mingles
with flowing streams of sewage, nauseating melodies of mediocre leisure keeping
nightmares alive for many left gathering remains of shattered shacks.
The night sky breathes crystal air and a
gentle draft wafts between soaked dog pens, forgotten napkins on wires and puppies
shaking stubborn droplets from rabid fur coats.
A gang sings prison anthems and slogans in
the distance, a couple staggers from around a corner, feet sliding on sodden
grass patches, dizzy from a steamy quickie behind a pile of crushed bricks.
We have a night to remember we remind
ourselves and laugh; the morrow yet another beast to feed with our perpetual
defeat and failing tricks.
But we love the people here, downtrodden ghosts
and their lucid squalor; tracing our steps through morbid streets towards other
distractions like homes and mattresses to unfold.
