Diary of a Polokwane boy-girl
Friday 14 December
R25-million may about to be pumped into the Limpopo economy, but the ANC is doing nothing for my wardrobe. Stoan, my friend, says kangas are so last season. A pity, really: had already buffed and shone the kraal floors (well, mummy’s lounge), anticipating that some of the virile Zulu boys in “100% Zuma” T-shirts wandering around Polokwane had brought their Nguni cattle along.
Tottered down to the News Café to suck on a cocktail or two with Stoan and catch DJ Glen Lewis. These Zululand boys are rather rural: seems they’ve never bumped into a pair of fake titties before, or a woman trapped in a man’s body. Polokwane is much more cosmopolitan and it’s not just ‘cos of all the Zimbabweans coming over to buy sugar and cooking oil.
I gave a poor fellow named Mandla my number and he started harassing me with SMSs about JZ’s lack of morality and “condomless sex” after his rape trial. Not sure if he was proposing a ménage à trois and a possible golden shower after, but sies! That’s just dirty, don’t you think? Eish, am tired now. Size five pumps weren’t meant for boys-who-will-be-girls with size eight feet. Kisses.
Diary, you know I’ve been preparing for this conference for over a year now: joining the party and brushing up on strategy and tactics (to snag a rich Black Economic Empowerment-type with good government links, but that’s our secret).
So, I was really excited to register as a delegate today. But surprised and saddened that the organisation is so poor: one printer and 24 hours later and I’m still waiting for little tag to get me into the networking lounge. The ANC is so poor, it seems, that the poor printer was housed in a badly-built mjondolo, outside, in the rain.
Did my own networking though: met some lovely singing-and-dancing comrades from Mpumalanga and the Eastern Cape who were talking about the need for change and a renewal of the organisation. I feel this organisation understands me: I need an overhaul too, and I really believe that parts of my sum are revolting.
Sunday, 16 December
Poor Thabo Mbeki. I really do like the salt-and-pepper look he’s got going with his hair. I suppose when you’re about to be shunted out of the “church” you’ve called home for close to 50 years, there’s no real need to visit Zanele’s hairdresser.
But, poor T-Bose. Almost felt like getting up and giving him a little hug after his speech but the semi-woody I got from all the 100-percenters showing off their dancemoves, singing Umshini Wam was embarrassing.
He seemed weary, with that thorny crown still weighing heavy on his head. From where I was sitting, with the Limpopo comrades, it looked horny, more than thorny.
Ooh! now I’m really working myself into a lather. Time for a shower — if this conference really pays out then I may just give myself that sex-change as a little Christmas present. Cheery-bye.