Bafana Khumalo Native Tongue
You know the feeling. It’s late at night and no matter how=20 many times you toss, turn and punch that pillow, nothing=20 happens. You turn to the body next to you, moving closer.=20 She/he/it shakes your hand off, groggily asking, “What on=20 earth do you think you are doing?” You move even closer and=20 the voice gains a harder edge as she butts you, saying, “Ag=20 maan, just behave like a bloody decent human being. Don’t=20 you know that I have work in the morning?”
You momentarily want to remind her what she said about=20 being there for you in times of need but you realise that=20 you might be banished from your own bed. You also remember=20 your resolve not to whinge. Whingeing, you think, is not a=20 peaceful thing to do. You would not feel comfortable=20 preaching about peace in Bosnia or Chechenya if you can’t=20 keep the peace in your bed.
You decide to try and fall asleep but remember the sparring=20 match with the pillow which you lost dismally. It then hits=20 you that we are now a member of the civilised world and our=20 television screens are no longer an all-night test pattern.=20 There’s hope after all.
You grab the remote control, thanking the wonders of=20 western satellite technology. On goes the television and=20 you see a Japanese man in a black robe. You wonder if the=20 SAUK is hosting a martial arts movie festival, until the=20 camera pans to a black man in a suit and a receding=20 hairline. You remember that the first world is watching the=20 continuing saga of the good brother who had jungle fever=20 and later allegedly murdered the source of the fever.
This should be interesting, you think, as you light a=20 cigarette, mentally replaying an episode of LA Law, waiting=20 for one of the black lawyers to jump and object, a la=20 Jonathan Rawlins.=20
A witness is in the box answering a barrage of questions=20 from one of the lawyers. “Did you walk out of the door on=20 the said night? Were you wearing shoes? What colour were=20 your shoes?”
You find a comfortable position as you think, “Hm, very=20 exciting …” LA Law has become OJ Law. An old sports=20 programme replays itself in your mind. A commentator=20 drones, “Ernie Els is now going for a birdy.” You would=20 listen and wonder whether going for a birdy is a good or=20 bad thing to have happen to one. You wonder whether you=20 should extend your condolences to poor Ernie or shout: “Way=20 to go, broer!”
A drone interrupts your little dream as the Sky News=20 anchorman whispers, “Johnny Cochran is really battering the=20 witness …” Another voice — a hired lawyer who analyses=20 the trial for the telly — agrees. “Yes, this is a hostile=20 witness, remember …”
You light another cigarette as you nurse a promising yawn,=20 knowing very well that should you go back to bed, your=20 energy levels will be jumping up and down like a Jumping=20 Jack, or is it a golliwog? One never knows, with the way=20 the English language is being butchered these days. You=20 decide to return to OJ, and discover that he has=20 disappeared. Another excited face is galloping through a=20 million word script: “That DNA evidence was a really a slam=20 dunk bit of testimony which the defence is going to find=20 difficult to refute …”
“There is no hope,” you think, but a sleepy voice from the=20 bedroom calls. You get up, smiling, forsaking OJ . It=20 continues: “… and will you stop stinking up the house=20 with your cigarette. Come back to bed and bloody sleep,=20