Archive for February, 2009

For Brenda, we miss you my brrr!!


Dear reader, our story, begins on Sunday morning, when I picked up the phone, like I always do, to phone my two friends, Clive and Colin.  Both very middle class, both white, and in a very serious relationship, these two fags and I have Sunday breakfast together, at a fabulous little version of FEGO, in La Lucia. Deep in the heartland of white upper middle class South Africa.

Today, their phones were off.

So I drove over, and hooted at the gate of their, big, Fort Nox like home, just around the corner. I hooted. Their neighbor, you know the sort, Rotarian, elderly, and very unimpressed with having faggots next door, glared at me from behind his barred gate, he usually does, but today there was a slightly aggressive stance and a death look to go with the regular order.

I flipped him the bird.

He scowled.

I hooted again.

He clenched his fists.

I put Brenda Fassie louder.

He left.

So did I.

I wondered what had happened to my friends, perhaps they were fighting, they do that, or most likely, they were still asleep. I had tried to break in before, and been met with very upset security guards who came in less than 30 seconds, and just because I threw an avo at the electric fence. I was hoping the alarm might wake them from their slumber. Who knew about silent alarms. Not me.

Dejected, I left and went to the Austrian Coffee shop for an uitsmeiter, eggs, cheese, and ham on a croissant, extra cheese and mustard. Two. Perhaps they would call.

The whole day passed, no call.

Until 5pm.

The phone rang.

I picked it up.

“Jilly Cooopah”, he screeched.

“Where you been ?”

“You have no idea” ,he said

And I had not.

It seems they had gone out for dinner.

Then, they had gone dancing.

Then, full of fizzy bubbelich (feezee – baa – baa – leghhh), which is sort of Isreali style Arabic cum Hebrew for sparkling wine, they had gone to Jo’s pool bar, a delightful dive, right here in North Durban, that is full of interesting people, mostly black.

Just exactly what happened there is any one’s guess, but at around twelve am, it seems that JO’s closed and several car loads of “blacks” and them two, went back to their house, in leafy, conservative, DA type, Durban North.

Just exactly 5 or more cars, fully, fully laden.

Their new to voting friends brought lots of booze, and CD’s, and plenty luxury cars, and two taxis, or so, which parked all around the verge and filled the driveway.

They disabled the beams, the electric fence, and some fellow with a sound sytem big enough to entertain a world cup stadium, opened his car and put on the Kwaito, on and up and loud.

There, in the laager of white middle class, they danced, they laughed, they sang, they had a ball.


Till 3 or 4 or around there.

Then everyone went home.

He said, “ Pretty Black girls were all over the garden, shaking it up ! Boys too!”

“You must come next week,” he enthused.

“And the neighbours ?”

“Oh, they can come too, if they behave.”

Now I knew why I had been at the end of those glares.

He laughed.

I wondered if he realized just how extraordinary an impromptu party, with black men, and women and two white middle class homosexuals, one an Afrikaner, was. Not just here. Anywhere in the world.

It made me proud to be a South African.


All we need is time.

Brenda would have told you that.