This and that with Maluphosa: - Daddy's friends

Those of us who grew up in the rural areas, do you remember daddy's friends, abanye abaxakayo nje? Well, I still remember quite a number, because father was like a celebrity emakhaya. He was one of the few men who worked in town and would come home every Weekend, le-brandy, legwayi lemhlanga, and a dozen loaves from Downing's.

And most of his friends would come early Saturday to get their share of these delicacies. We, the children, did not like some of father's friends, though it was difficult to tell him. We secretly gave them nusty names which helped us get at them.

Amongst them, we had Tymela, who would appear almost from nowhere every-time food was ready; Mabhanke, who had rickets as severe as brackets; Lunguza, whose penis, a thick, black, shrunken worm was almost always peeping out like a private telescope; Spot, whose only method of talking to us was growling like father's dog, Spot; Mabatha, whose feet faced sideways, like the manual grass-cutter; Piki, whose occiput was pointed like the digging pick; Makhenyembula, because he was very short and rolly-polly, and walked with a funny bounce, Ndonye, because he had eyes not looking in parallel, and Zipikil, because all he spoke about was nails.

Of course, they and father had their own history – the ties that bound them together; like the schools they went to, the battles they fought and lost or won; the mischievous adventures they ventured into as young men; their common hatred of amakhiwa as cadres of ZAPU, and so on.

These kept them glued together. At times in family arguments, father would be asked to mediate, and he was never fair because he was like an interested party, being friends with one of the parties. They, in turn, would support father's unpopular decisions, and teach him to "Tshaya abafana nxa bedelela;" or "Umfazi uyatshaywa!" or "Phumani phandle abadala basakhuluma."

What irritated us the most was the abuse we suffered in the hands of daddy's friends. They took advantage of their camaraderie with father to abuse us. One of them would send us to the shops, 10 kilometres away, to buy a packet of tobacco. When we came back, he would say,

"Bafana, I forgot matches; please run and get me a box." We would run another half marathon to the shops, just to get him a box of matches.

When we came back, another obviously drunk Mabhanke would shout; "Yeyi bafana, are you going to the shops?" "No we are from the shops," we would answer back with disinterest and obvious disdain. The man would not be deterred; "I didn't see you go." But we knew he was lying.

"Please go back and get me amaphilisi ekhanda!" Mother would try to come to our rescue; "Basadla abafana." "Hayi, bazabuya besidla!" the man would bark at her fiercely. We would drag our exhausted starving little bodies back to the shops, trying to take as much time as we possibly could. When we came back, quite late, a vengeful Mabhanke would report us to father. Father would admonish us, beat us, or send us back to the shops, depending on how close he was with this rickety man.

They were worse bullies sebedakiwe; hurling insults and missiles at us for the mere reason that we were tired, until mother intervened. She would call us aside and tell us "Hambani liyebutha inkomo and come back at nightfall."

It was hectic in summer. We worked like construction dudes.

Most of father's friends had no families and depended on us to cultivate their fields, while they went around looking for the booze.

We also had to gather their harvest and make sure it was stored safely.

If there was any type of function at one of daddy's friends' we had to cut logs of fire-wood and fetch drums of water for them. All this was meant to show solidarity with his friends and it raised his 'graph' as a friend indeed. But we were never asked for an opinion in all of it. We were supposed to abide by whatever father decided, regardless of how we felt. At the same time it made father feel great, autonomous, and helpful. In all this, never once were we thanked. And never once did we challenge father's authority.

Gaddafi would undoubtedly have fallen amongst these type of friends. I am sorry he had to die under a culvert, like a sickly old goat during a storm. But then he brought this upon himself. I know most of you would say a son of the soil was assassinated and - cry cry cry. But he was assassinated by his own people. We are just as good as spectators, just like the dead-wood which is the African Union. But the Libyans settled this the best way they could. This is what they were advised to do by the AU, and now they are to be investigated?

Think about the names he had been given by the international community and his own people; these had a reason. Even in the face of death, he remained ruthlessly brutal, megalomaniac and idiosyncratic. But then you cannot stop an idea whose time has come.

His crazy dream of becoming THE President of the United States of Africa also perished under that filthy culvert, like it will perish for a few more like him. And I am aware governments would send their condolences – The people of the Banana Republic are with you in this time of sorry, and whine whine whine. In the end, Gaddafi knew the value of life when it was his he was about to lose, something he never thought of when he sent iziporoli zakhe to annihilate innocent civillians and any type of opposition in Libya.

One guy who is not happy is Dee. He says he would love to have killed Gaddafi slowly – by randomly cutting a piece from Gaddafi's body until he was a lump of festering stinking maggot infested cabbage!

"Well, what about the United nations or the AU?"

"I wouldn't send him there; not even for a Zillion Zimbabwe Dollars. Dictators use these platforms to justify their satanic and gory deeds to their people, and try to convince everyone that they are being persecuted for fighting for their people.

And the epitaph, what would you right on it? "Here lies a rat who lived like a king but died in the gutter like a true rat!"

Siza says we create these Gaddafis ourselves. She remembers songs that are sung at independence gatherings, extolling, nay, homaging these mortals until they feel like demigods, or God himself.

We, the lesser humans are forced to dance, shout our support, get out of the way or stand at attention each time these demigods zoom past in their expensive noisy convoys. And then they re-write history so that we feel eternally indebted to them for 'liberating' us. We let them abuse state wealth for their spoils system, while we are instructed to tighten our belts, until the whole country is in a state of collapse.

Then we are urged to re-construct. We also ululate when they go "Pasi na-ningi, pamberi neni chete," as they bulldoze their way to electoral victory. When they have looted state coffers and feel it is not enough 'thank-you-for liberating-us', they covet our blood. And when finally they are exteriminated we are supposed to feel sorry. In all this, I feel like the little boy I was when father's friends abused me - small, irrelevant, helpless, powerless, starved, exasperated and used!

Before anybody sends a message of condolences to Libya on my behalf, qala ungibuze. After all, I am part of the POVO – People Of Various Opinions. So I guess my opinion counts too.

Ngiyabonga mina!!