Google me, baby
After a trying week at the office my friends and I got together at our local watering hole, the laid-back and somewhat trendy 8@ the Sandton Towers—a favourite for five minutes with young black professionals in the city.
The dimly lit barroom with plush red-and-black decor is inviting after a gruelling week of toil.
That Friday evening we had gathered to commiserate. The life of one of our friends, Sonto, had taken a decidedly nasty turn. She would soon be out of a job—and in the middle of what is one of the worst financial crises since World War II, being unemployed is not news you want your friend to tackle single-handedly or without at least a bottle of good red wine on a wet and miserable Johannesburg summer’s evening.
So there we were, four women deep in conversation over Sonto’s latest setback. We’re mostly in our early 30s, with one or two stragglers still chasing the big 3-0h. Like Linda, who is 26 and has an infectious but embarrassing cackle that she lets off in public at inappropriate times. Ah youth!
Being single sistas, we generally welcome attention of the male kind and are eager to encourage it, but this was just not one of those nights.
A gentleman (perhaps that’s too kind a description) dressed in a navy-blue suit swaggered over to our table with the confidence of a man in charge.
In retrospect, we should’ve rubbished him the moment we spotted the cravat around his neck. I don’t deign to know a lot about the latest male fashions, but a cravat? Too much for day-to-day office wear, n’est ce pas?
He wasn’t reading the mood very well because he dived right in, in a perplexing attempt to appear suave and worldly by making constant reference to his recent overseas travels. He’d fixed his sights on Sonto after discovering they shared an interest in matters financial.
After he relayed some pretty infantile arguments about the global financial crisis, we quickly ruled him out as potential boyfriend material. But he ploughed on in his verbose style and pseudo-American accent, seemingly oblivious to the snorts and sniggers of derision now emanating from the rest of the table.
As he was about to leave, he produced a business card from his breast pocket. As discretion was not one of his strong points, we were all able to see that “Mister” had a high-paying job at one of the big-four banks. Maria, Jaco, Tom and Michael, you really should be more stringent when you screen these fellas.
Bidding us farewell, he leaned over Sonto suggestively and said: “Google me, baby. You’ll find that I’m well connected.”
Our sniggers had by now turned into full-blown hysteria at the audacity and shamelessness of this pick-up line.
Undeterred by the signature bellow emanating from Linda—who was by now almost catatonic with laughter—he left.
Observing Mr Google as he walked away with his proud swagger and broad smile led me to believe he had no idea that he’d made an absolute fool of himself. Indeed, he was quite pleased with his performance.
Is this to be our lot as single black women? What is it with the newly moneyed that makes them so crass and so devoid of substance?
The encounter with Mr Google reminded me of Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky’s 1868 novel, The Idiot. A recurrent theme in Dostoevsky’s work is exploring what happens to people and society when money rules the world, as was the case in 19th-century Russia and arguably also in 21st-century Russia. The introduction written by Anne Hruska observes that “large sums of money seem to offer hope and salvation, but all too often lead only to humiliation and destruction”.
Contemporary South Africa, I suppose, is quite similar to post-Soviet Russia—we emerged from an apartheid system that deprived black South Africans of their dignity and economic freedom. But the floodgates have opened and black economic empowerment has created untold opportunities for black South Africans.
Although this has been well meant, some of the unintended consequences include the vanity, superficiality and vacuousness that have seized some elements of this new black middle class. The ostentatious display of expensive cigars and flashy cars has become de rigueur.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking money. It’s great to have access to it and the opportunities it provides, but why do so many people, especially men, allow it to define who they are?
The dating dance of preening one’s feathers to impress the opposite sex should not involve flashing one’s wealth. It is in bad taste, a serious put-off and even insulting to the courted party, as it assumes this is what will appeal to them and therefore who they are.
So, brothers, a little heads-up—it’s not what is in your pockets we’re after but that little beating drum behind your breast pocket. Your hearts. Maybe then we’ll see about what’s in your pants.
