At some point we must find the liver to admit that, though they may (euphemism for definitely) not be doing it for us, we dicked darkies appreciate the effort black women put in to look beautiful.
This strikes one as yet another trap song rushes from the speakers to find masochist ears to abuse. She – I’d like to call her Tumi, for no other reason than the fact that I have usurped such a right for myself. So Tumi is a very impressionable person, I don’t know this for sure but I do know that whenever whoever says “wiggle wiggle wiggle” she goes for a tentative squat as she presumably ‘wiggles’ her supposed “big fat booty”.
I presume this is what she does because from my vantage point I can only catch the top of her bobbing head with its back confronting my non-wiggling crotch. It is this head that gives me much needed respite from all this pretence that I love myself by smiling with every crude cuss cruising from the deafening monotony of this noise masquerading rather painfully as music.
It is shaped like a blossoming flower – the top of Tumi’s head. She wears thin well weaved braids. There must hundreds of them on the head, tied up in a bun. What is clearly visible is where they make contact with the skin – here one can see the straight tight lines meticulously crafted to give her this crown. The braids themselves, each single one – in my concentration camp we call them singles, if anyone cares – displays a level of care unprecedented. They go on, unless of course the whiskey has rendered my eyesight a liar, for about half-a-metre long. Each inch is perfect. Almost like a three legged model walking down a runway.
I imagine this is how the weaving process goes – there’s the usual banal right-left conundrum, but to spice things up, or rather to make them more stable, a third middle leg is added. So the right leg goes first, over the middle leg, then the left leg joins the fray, over the ex-right now middle leg. Then again the right, which is in fact the ex-middle, goes over the ex-left which is now the middle.
And so it goes, each leg taking equal turns to be right, middle and left, and each having a chance to go over the middle, and each playing the middle got over, for fifty centimetres, a hundred times over.
That’s a whopping half-a-kilometre walk on this runway to beauty. And to achieve such level of perfection each step must be taken in equal measure. It is a remarkable feat of patience. The spiritual significance of the overlapping trinity is another matter worth marvelling at. In the first instance the sheer democracy of it all – not one of the legs of Tumi’s braids is more important than the other. There is no hierarchy.
That is of course something I’d have to reduce to the pick-up line “I’d like to spend all night counting your braids” in the Twitter world of the club wherein one only has a shot of uttering – shouting really – a few coquettish words to random women (itself a delicate dance between seduction and harassment).
But of course this is something that went unuttered, we’d like to believe because besides the braids and a view of the bulging forehead one never got to lock eyes with Tumi, from which one would’ve attempted to discern if he was at the very least not barred to ask “asiyithole ngoba s’hlele khoneni or s’hlele khoneni ngoba asiyithole?”
The above is of course a pertinent question if one fancies Tumi more than a one-time lay but possible future life partner with the view of co-parenting with. It is also too heavy a question to ask at first sight but when your heart has spoken and love calls one must answer – but the latter is impossible without the answer to the former.
At this point Tumi might think you a strange fellow, and because she is generally not a shitty person she will pretend that she didn’t quite catch the question (there’s infinite truth in this) and ask you to repeat – which is either actually a dismissal until the next ‘Yhoooo!’ moment song comes on or (very rarely) a plea for explanation. Because you’re generally an idiot, as we all are wont when in love, you’d assume it’s the latter and you might go on in this fashion:
You see Tumza (can I call you that? Am I not being a bit too familiar? Oh its ok – you’re so cool thanks.) You see Tumza I often imagine driving down the street after a hide and seek game at the park with our twins (would you be vehemently opposed to calling them Mpho le Mphonyana – cheesy I know but…that’s if you don’t mind children to begin with…oh you love kids? Brilliant!)
Now Mphonyana is the more curious of the lot, Mpho is more reserved and waits for her sibling to ask all the important questions of life, except of course when she has to ask for a glass of milk, which she can’t delegate as Mphonyana is lactose intolerant like her father (I really hope you don’t mind that little defect of mine…).
So there we are we stop at the intersection, a quite one but we stop anyway because the light is red and we are trying to raise our kids right, and a beggar suddenly appears in the near distance approaching the car. With your eyes focused on the road you don’t see his advances on the side and drive off as soon as the light turns green. But the twins and I caught the whole spectacle. Mphonyana is quick of the blocks and asks why that man is sad and unwashed. The answer to this would shape their worldview forever – either as seekers of justice or perpetrators of injustice. And this answer rests heavily on your answer to my question.
But of course this is a turn-up not a colloquium so you’d sooner be dismissed with a “yho mati that guy is deep hle” before you even get to the intersection. You know this very well, so that pick-up line would also go unuttered.
But if you really are committed to not waking up next to a body you can’t have morning coffee with you might then want to stick to more current issues like “should fees fall?”, surely you ought to get a satisfactory answer here so that when morning comes you will at least be sure in the knowledge that you’re both woke.