“Find out just what people will submit to, and you have found out the
exact amount of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them;
and these will continue until they are resisted with either words or
blows, or with both. The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the
endurance of those whom they oppress.”

- Frederick Douglass (1818-1895)

It’s been a strange week, ladies and gentle-folk. For the first time in a long time, I actually have nothing to complain about! Granted, Zimbabwe still sucks ass, power blackouts continue, prices rise daily and it’s cold as fuck; despite all this, I can still find time to appreciate life. That’s why I’m taking this chance (for once) to be thankful for a few of the good things in life, like…

- heaters. Dunno how I’d survive winter without them, especially now that I spend most of my nights at home instead of the warm pub.
- a loving girlfriend. Nothing beats the comfort of knowing that no matter what, someone out there isn’t tired of your shit. For now.
- Madam and Eve. For keeping me sane.
- broadband internet. For all sorts of reasons, including providing a livelihood and a source of endless entertainment.
- nieces and nephews. Unconditional love is a wonderful thing. Wait, are sweets a condition?
- true friends. In short supply, but they’re out there.
- and finally, web-cams. Don’t ask.

This doesn’t mean I’ve lost my cynicism. There’s still a lot of things that get on my tits, but in the midst of the rubble one can always find something positive (no matter how difficult that is).

And it’s hard to be an arsehole when you’re happy.

It’s official – I am past my prime. You know you’re well past your sell by date when you intentionally leave the house with a book in your handbag as you head out to a club. The book being the back up plan to staving off boredeom an hour or so into proceedings because either…

a) you don’t know any of the songs everybody is hollering to and, you don’t really care,
b) you find yourself complaining that the music is too loud and you can’t hear yourself think,
c) those shoes you thought were such a good idea when you left the house are giving you a backache, a headache and creating mutant bunions or, in the most unfortunate circumstances,
d) …all of the above!

A friend invited me out Saturday, and I was loath to go, coz nowadays a good book and my substantially pimped out futon (in the manner of Xzibit and his rides), a glass of Diet Pepsi and soulful music wafting out of the computer is my idea of a good night out. Here, annoyingly, you can’t leave the club at 3am coz there is no transport; the first train around 5.30 is your first chance of escape. People jump on that train like a fat chick on chocolate cake after a stint at the Fat Farm (I should know). So armed with the book in my bag, I headed out to the club.

Legend has it that white people can’t dance, I guess that’s because nobody has ever seen the Japanese version of dancing. It’s excruciating; needles-in-your-eyes or burning-coals-being-branded-into-your-skull painful doesn’t do justice to what passes for dance moves here (that they try to emulate from MTV). The Japanese version.

So of course now it’s up to a sister to represent and tear up the dance floor. But it is at this point that my joints decide they have other plans, and tolerating 5 creaking hours of abuse does not constitute part of their mandate. They know they should be at home lying down. So one thumping song later (incidentally Luda’s Move bitch get out the way etc), tail tucked between my legs, I got out the way, slinked into a corner and 4 hours later, left the club having worked my way through a couple of hundred pages.

I guess at some point I should express regret at no longer being able to keep up with my younger compatriots, but to be fair, I did my bit for the cause in my day, because hey, ndakambo representa. On a scale of 0 to 1 for representing, I was a 2. To the extent of being marked on the register at Circus every Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

So shove in the false teeth, bring forth the carpet slippers, the cane, the bifocal glasses, coz I am officially taking my first steps towards geriatry.

Hunched over, shuffling and proud.

It’s amazing what a little change can do.

Like, since I got my locks back, albeit baby locks for now, it’s amazing how much play a brother’s getting. The ladies are loving the new look, and I’m starting to wonder – why did I cut my hair in the first place?

This isn’t the first time I’ve made this observation, either. What is it about a guy with locks that makes some women goggle-eyed? Is it the perception that a healthy head of hair means a healthy body? A free spirit? An “artistic” inclination? This has always mystified me, although I must confess I took full advantage in my younger, wilder days.

I’m much older and much, much wiser now.

All together now – “I’ll let you whip me if I misbehaaaaave…”

Talk of music from back in the day made me realise that my spring chicken status is fast becoming an off layer status (without having laid; being laid doesn’t count). I have eaten many Christmases. This prompted a quick trip down the memory lane of my misspent youth. Don’t regret a minute of it though.

Remember when back in the day, if you were lucky enough to have a walkman, and you would save on batteries by not pressing the fast forward/rewind button, but instead take a ballpoint pen and spin the tape around. And as presents went, it was cool to give other people mix tapes. As long as you made sure to erase the bit where the DJ was announcing the number of the hit on Hitsville.

Then there were afternoon sessions at Archies. Gigging at 3pm and getting home in time before the parents got home from work. And if you were lucky, there might still have been some cartoons on TV that were actually worth watching (Voltron with the 5 lions immediately springs to mind, the Transformers wasn’t bad either). And you read comics like Archie and Jughead and had a whole barter system going on.

What about the days before mobile phones, where the best you could do was leave a message with the maid, and hope to God that the person you were meeting had actually left the house. No being hounded by irate partners demanding ‘Urikupi?’ in that irate demanding partner kind of way.

When it was still cool to wear your clothes backwards. That or those MC Hammer baggies. And you had a boxcut to match, coz you couldn’t get no Jerry Curl.

Being able to actually buy an ice cream for less than a dollar, AND have change.

Riding the bus home because your parents had better things to do with their time than to pick you up from school. After all, they dropped you off the morning. Loving it coz you could meet boys and girls from other schools. When Zupco was actually still reliable and even had a timetable. That they followed.

Your parents had two cars: one each. Your dream was not to be bequeathed the latest Mercedes or BMW, but simply be bestowed with the good fortune of being allowed to drive THE CAR one utopic day.

You didn’t know what powercuts were. Having no electricity was the preserve of the rural communities.

All the white girls wanted to be Shannon Doherty and all the white guys Luke Perry, but the rest of us got nada from the Beverly Hills ninety two ten (a la Zimbabwean) crew. Mr T was about as close to TV role models as most black people got. The guy from Miami Vice didnt really count coz he was just Don Johnson’s side kick. And of course there was only one TV in the house, and one station, so options weren’t many, but we did alright.

Having to go kumusha during the school holidays and hating it coz frankly you were denied all your creature comforts like running water and flushing toilets, no electricity and all its attendant glories. Oh wait, let me think, that’s modern day Zim.

And the joy of being able to go to THE SHOW during the August holidays and Luna Park. Well, it was a big deal in H.

Finally discovering the joys of Circus and clubbing at night. Dancing until your feet hurt and your back gave in, but refusing to get off the dance floor coz you still had to do your thing and practise those moves that you saw on Sounds on Saturday.

Halcyon days.

p.s. Salt n Pepa, let’s NOT talk about sex, we will be having none of that here.