Mphoentle Mageza

I was with Ali G the other day. I had collected him from the airport as he landed from Kazakhstan, and he was carrying a magazine with its title "i" turned upside down so it looked like an exclamation mark. Nifty. On the cover stood four young, black people in designer suits. The headline read: "The Colour of Money". He informed me that this was "breaking news", in a Kazakh accent — charming.

I am certain I am not the only one whose head sometimes spins from trying to keep up, decipher, interpret, reinterpret and pronounce on the monotonous debates, rantings and declarations on black economic empowerment. The incessant commentary has reached such a fever pitch that I am beginning to empathise with Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in the movie <i>Catch Me If You Can</i>.

Man oh man, is King Mswati a troubled king. The biggest scandal of the century has rocked the royal house. Two of his 11 wives have recently run away and are hiding in foreign lands. In my short lifetime, I have witnessed a significant phenomenon of men changing their minds about the kind of woman who has become acceptable to them.

The very first time I visited friends at Dainfern Golf Estate and Country Club in Fourways, scrutinised by high-security fort personnel, my sister and I laughed and squirmed alternately. Never had we imagined that we would one day end up on the local set of <i>The Truman Show</i>. But then there is the little concern, that Dainfern and <i>The Truman Show</i> have too many things in common.