Tuesday, December 5, 2017
kurian's New Age Blog: A POEM FOR BAKOLOBENG STUDENTS., My former Secondary School . It brings back fond memories
kurian's New Age Blog: A POEM FOR BAKOLOBENG STUDENTS: A poem for Bakolobeng students April 25th was a memorable day at Bakolobeng Secondary School for many ...
Monday, November 20, 2017
I was glued to my television screen this passed weekend as I waited the downfall of Southern African's last despot, Comrade, Uncle Bob R.G Mugabe. I guess as it was everywhere, this was riveting news about to unfold in Zimbabwe. At least I was spared crap South African television programming for a while as I awaited History been made. This was big news! Then my television flickered and on came the despot. I could hear pins dropping right across the world as the world listened. Then started the actual speech of the man..."the era of victimization and arbitrary decisions must end". He continued to say that he will preside over his party congress in few weeks..."I will preside over its process, which must not be prepossessed by any acts calculated to undermine it or to compromise the outcomes in the eyes of the public".He used words like vicissitude, mores & assuage. Damn, if our President Zuma was polished liked that! Which then brings me to another question. Don't we always talk of the "English gentleman"?, which for me presupposes the one who should possess a certain , measured disposition about him? Have a certain decorum? You never hear of a German gentleman, a Scandinavian gentleman or an African gentleman. No. It is always an English gentleman. Which for me presupposes a certain degree of measured restraint. Not a blatant defiance shown by Mugabe yesterday. Why is it the Queen's language had made uncle Bob as stubborn as a mule? Going right on...what about his youngest son, Chatunga Bellarmine Mugabe's notorious excesses? I read over the social media this week that he was seen washing his 850,000 Rand watch with an expensive ACE OF SPADES Champagne at a Sandton night club this weekend? Phew! To Zimbabweans I say forward with Operation Murambantsvina! It is about time you clean up this vermin from your midst.
Monday, October 2, 2017
The advent of social media arrived with much fanfare and it promised to be a revolution that needed to be televised, so we were told. Newspaper reels and media theorists across the expanse of information highway had tongues wagging. Here was a novelty about to level the playing fields in a disproportionately uneven information age.In came Facebook in a whirlwind fashion pushing the then MYSPACE out of the way.The promise was to allow a peasant from Kenya or a Shepherd from rural South Africa to engage with issues of the day. An informed citizenry. I remember hearing this from my then esteem Media Studies Professor. How wrong we were! Fast- forward Facebook to 2017 it has become a dumping ground for our degenerative brain cells. Instead of democratizing information social media had led to a high point in narcissism. Selfies and a general useless mutterings that don't make us better human beings had taken center stage. Make no mistake. There is nothing wrong with individuals feeling good about themselves. It is in our innate nature to talk about ourselves. It makes us feel good in otherwise unforgiving economic times. But I guess my gripe with Facebook is the level of stupidity that has since gained ground. I for one I'm fascinated by news that makes me more informed, more better human being than I was yesterday. I often read with mind numbing boredom about individuals posting entries about what they are eating for lunch. Another time a friend of mine posted an entry of him checking in at Kentucky Fried chicken. Another yuppie acquaintance had this posted " Phew, I just had a delicious Sushi" Imagine that?! Well, maybe sushi eating is suppose to be earth-shattering news. We' ll never know. As such I had taken a resolution to stay away from Facebook to get my bearings right. It seems as though I am the odd one here. I long for substantive topics and debates. Tell me something that I don't know about. Teach me about foreign places and cultures. About books and movies that had touched your life. Let me get of Facebook a more informed citizen not feel as if I am missing out. The millennials are the worst kind of people you can find on Facebook. Here in South Africa videos of minor are posted everyday about the sexual escapades of these group. Indeed, I intend to take Mark Zuckerberg to the International criminal Court for crimes against humanity. I cannot take matters lying down. Something ought to give. At the rate we're are going humanity is faced with extinction.
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
In our scattered little villages where I grew up under the tutelage of my late Grandmother, there used to be a neighborhood baddie who harassed all of us. This happened when we were pre teens. Like all the bullies he was generally stupid, if by stupid you mean lack of common sense present in all of us medically certified sane. He had a body like a hippopotamus, a gait like a gorilla. His skin was a hide of a crocodile. As young ones , he used to lord over us. By lording over us I mean harassing us big time; especially those of us who are of slight built as most of my friends were by then. As you'll know with all village boys, herding cattle was our main activity on weekends or when the schools closed for holidays. We would huddle together as a group of young small boys and play all sorts of games in the veld. Marbles, stick fighting or impersonating different characters we used to see on television. Acting out the impersonations of the then hit drama series, Shaka Zulu was our main staple. It was fun, I tell you. We would cluster in groups, with our bare chests and faces smeared with clay just like in Shaka Zulu or we will go swimming to the nearest dam. Everyone of us looked forward to these games in the veld. Some times we will be gone for the rest of the day without going home. Hunger was often forgotten in such instances. But in all of this fun there was one major blemish that disturbed us. It was in the name of the towering George with cracking heels baked with dirt. He would come sauntering like a peacock, biceps bulging and his neckline as if filled with concrete. Ohhh man, George the bully will spoil everything!One thing about him was the grave lack of social skills. The language of violence and fighting was the one he understood quite well. He would come between us with a sneer plastered of his pimply face and laughing that sinister laugh of his. With the voice full of authority he will pick up some loose soil in both of his hands and go like "<i>Dingaan , Themba come here. If you Themba are not afraid of Dingaan slap down this piece of soil off my hand. If you don't then it means you're afraid of him."Mind you Dingaan was his barrel- chested foot soldier who was not afraid to crack open the poor boy's skull with a stick or a stone. To safe face you'll have to fight even though fighting was not your thing. As I have said, me and my company were a peaceful, playful lot. Nothing wrong with that, I guess. With malice, stupid George would lure us into fighting. We will watch at how a poor defenseless boy will be battered. I survived this excursions because of my Uncle who was respected in the neighborhood and we got television at home and nobody wanted to be on the bad side of my uncle by beating me up. So we will watch this onslaught on poor fellows who had nothing of substance to safe their skin. Thuu...thhuu...thwaa!! The fists will fly. In most cases the contestants will be unevenly matched, with the side kick Dinngaan taking the upper hand. The unfortunate kid will be hammered with fists and often blood will flow. At times it will be said. Sometimes the weakling will have a surprise on his sleeve and we will cheer when he stood his ground against the bully. It was stupid George's way of entertainment. Honey combs will be taken from us when we have harvested the bees and George will enjoy most of the honey. Word on the street was that he was quite dumb at school. He ended in grade four whereas most of those kids he use to harass are doctors, accountants and established professionals. Not George who is still hung up with his teen years. His stories are still characterized by the way he used to harass us. Hmf! I guess it shows that his mental capacity has still not risen above his once cracked heels. yes, George was that kind of guy ....until he met his match one day. This came in the form of one boy named Ronnie, but to us he was nicknamed Stone. With lean thighs like the famous Zimbabwean Olympiad, Maria Mutola in her prime stone arrived from the please(Farms). Jesus,he was a nice piece of spicemen.Many said his diet included skimmed milk with porridge everyday, for the White Farmer took off all the cream from the milk to make butter. Skimmed milk and porridge was Stone staple. He was a horse rider of note could and ride a horse on bare back . He had two stallions that belongs to his father. Yes, I remember those....Weeskind (Orphan) and Boesman (Bushman). Stone was a picture of pure muscle. It happened that George the fool and his side kick beat up Stone's cousin while he was looking after the sheep. George was engaged in his usual antics kicking and slapping up the poor boy. The young boy told his cousin Stone what had transpired. Some days passed with nothing happening. One day Stone arrived at the veld just at the right time. You see, Stone like to wear shorts to expose to bulging thighs of his but this time around he opted for the long trouser. Being a good soul that he was Stone could be mistaken for a bangbroek (a wimp) because his younger cousin was always in the group that was beaten by George. The small boy told Stone and some days passed with nothing happening. On that day when Stone arrived he calmly looked at his crying young cousin and asked what was going on. Up stood George with a mealie cob on his hand "Yes, diplasi, a bo re gwaa!". (yes, a fool from the farms get off my face) and slapped him. He should have never said that or done that. We only just heard earth- shattering rhhuuu and dust rising up. Just like in the famous Chinua Achebe's novel when Okwonkwo was throwing down the great wrestler, Amalinze the Cat George was thrown down. He misjudged Stone's shortness of built and thought could do what he was known for. He stood up the....Rhhuuu again This went on for a while. Stone had not for once raise his hand to hit him. He just let the earth do his job for him....by throwing the bully down like a piece of wet rag. Now, this is what happens when a bully had met his match....he becomes a wimp. I remember George, dusty and with quivering voice say ..."He monna Stone o mpusha yang yong? ( Stone how are you pushing me). Then the response was "Ke go pusha stadig" . (I am pushing you slowly). That day George and his side kick lost the fight. Their honey combs were taken, their mealie cobs taken and Stone let every other kid who was once beaten by the bully to have his revenge. He was whipped with sticks and fists. It stopped wen the bully started to bellow. From then onwards we lived in peace ever after...the fun was back. Up to this day George do not wanna talk about that incident every time I meet with him. His is a bit civil now. I guess it took his match to make him human again because he was an animal.....
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
When something unusual happens sometimes you're lost for words to describe what had just transpired. The enormity of the whole thing render you speechless. This blog entry is extremely personal because what follows here happened right in front of my eyes. My love for languages is born of its ability to label things, which will make you, therefore, to deal with them. Its power to describe phenomena and give meaning to things that we're at times unable to deal with them. What I'm about to write in here has the possibility of being explosive. Well, in any case, if it fails in that regard I would have taken off my chest this thing that has eaten at my soul for all these years. The incident happened in my early teens, say, when I was about 7, 8 or 9 years. It affected me greatly as much as I would like to think it affected those whom such evil was inflicted on them. Let me say upfront that I will shy away from naming individuals. You know how it is with such sensitive things... The incident happened when I was in grade 4 or 5. By then teacher were much revered souls. Demi- Gods who were presiding over us. We worshipped the ground the walked on. We feared them. Even on weekends when you're not at school you used to run for dear life or hide when you saw your teacher coming along the street. Not like the kids of today who are protected by a panoply of Rights.Today's kids smoke, experiment with alcohol and engage in various things with careless abandon. Yep, the golden age of Facebook and Twitter! Corporal punishment was the order of the day then. A teacher could smack you for the smallest misdemeanors and you could do nothing about it. You cannot even report him or her to your parents. They will say "uku'laile, Kushuk'uthi awulaleli eklasini" ( Damn right, it means you don't listen in class). They will even smack you for telling on the teacher. Man, that period was Spartan. We were the unlucky bunch. Grew up at the wrong time when South African Society was largely backward, I dare say. Well, this incident involved my former teacher. His evil deeds were mostly directed at girls. You see, our class in the mid-80's was large enough to fill 40 plus kids - both girls and boys. The teacher , an elderly fellow with toothless gums who always smelled of tobacco was with us everyday. He taught us Afrikaans language. Man, I use to hate those Afrikaans periods, precisely for his sick behavior. When the pervert teacher came to our class he preferred to mark out our books right on our desks. Impeccably behaving teachers marked our books right in front of the class or took our books to the teachers room to mark them. Not this creep. Remember those school desk in the time of PW Botha? Yes those. They could accommodate two or three people with them sitting comfortably. This suited the pervert perfectly. Mind you, in class we use to sit two- two on a desk. Two girls on a desk or two boys on a desk, with horizontal rows where it made possible to walk among the desk. Yeah man, apartheid school furniture. Those my age knows them. The bastard will methodically go row by row marking our books. He was quite smart that toothless bastard. By sitting next to a girl child he would thrust his hand right between the poor girl's thighs and rub. This was done stealthily with no one noticing. Those of us who were observant enough were far too much afraid to say anything about it. He was the teacher, remember! Another thing was not knowing what to do with that. We did not know that she was violating the poor girls though it felt wrong. And who to tell about such things? Everything was shrouded in secrecy. Man, that evil old man destroyed many a young girls in my class, let alone other classes that the son of bitch taught. I mean if he was behaving like that in our class what about other classes that he taught? The bastard wracked havoc! All in full knowledge that we will do nothing and the girls were much too ashamed to tell anyone. I use to see girls sitting rigid, frozen with a dirty hand stealthily thrust between their thighs. It felt dirty every time I witnessed it. In my young mind it felt wrong even though I could not rationalize it. Every time he would come to the girl I used to love I could feel bile rising at the back of my throat. I learned some few years back that the old creep is dead. I wish he burn in hell. The perverted sick bastard got away with terrible murder, right in front of our eyes...or those who were savvy enough to witness his wicked behavior. Years back when I left high school and moved on to Johannesburg I used to picture the bastard. My wish was to punch the bastard when I later learned what guys like him did was against the law. He has done much damage to innocent girls. I bet those girls, young women now, are still affected by that incident many moons away in primary school. The sexual exploitation they suffered at the hands of the leering creep is unforgiveable. I still feel dirty when I think about it....*ahem*
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
My days on the slippery world of Corporate - dog - eat - dog madness were still born. They ended one night when I fell down due to exhaustion, over work and the general stress of doing tedius work. Summarizing thick legal documents and the general tedium of writing up reports was not my idea of fun. Add Office politics to the mix... and having that was supposed to be an internal communication sent to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Yes, the powers that be could CC clients with every nugget of internal communication to humiliate you. It set you up as an inept moron who could not get the job done. This put paid too any notion of enjoying yourself in the space, especially when you are made to feel useless and stupid. I have always had an unhealthy relationship with nerds. They drive me up the wall with their demonic work ethic. I tried many times to emulate them but fell flat on my face each time. This is not, in any way, to suggest I'm a slacker. No. I put effort...humanly possible effort, that is. I remember one particular nerd back in Varsity who used to irritate me a lot when it came to typing up our assignments.(Mind you, this is a Third-world South Africa where students don't own personal computers but rely on the University computer labs to get job done). This chap will go overboard....endlessly poliishiiing his work nonchalantly while we waited our turn in front of computers. Wether you will miss your deadline didn't seem to bother him. He will be sitting with toooonnns and toooonnns of reference books while you poor souls had to do with secondary information like the internet or less weighty books. This often made me pass sarcastic remarks that getting an A plus in an assignment should not be a matter of life and death. That by getting himself approved to study at Varsity was enough to tell us about his academic mettle. I even went further to say that getting a good score in an academic paper only meant that you were good at copying others' opinions. Which is what I think academic referencing is anyway. It does not encourage originality. It is an acceptable way of stealing other people's pearls of wisdom. Where is independent thought in that, huh? Now, back to where I was before I got sidetracked. Oh yes, the choking corporate world! It sucks big time! Which is why I have given it a middle finger. It use to bore me to tears listening to all that pseudo-middle class talk of buying cars and houses. On credit, of course. Yes, it had to be on credit. Or the morbid fascination with the need to be seen at the hip and happening places. Clubs, restaurants, gyms, you name it. Yawn!. How I wished to be far away from such conversations. How I crave meeting up with the real world out there and have meaningful conversation with different faces. Yes, I wanted to meet faces and places. My break from that boredom came around the start of 2015 when I decided to join an Organization undertaking Social research. Since joining research field my eyes had been opened up. I have met and sat with the down and out, interviewed thugs and prostitutes. The whole lot Their stories had thus far been enriching in my life. I remember one day in Durban township of Umlazi where I got nearly robbed of my gadgets. It was a group of young men who were smoking drugs. I just found myself in the house and I could not find a way to extricate myself from such potentially dangerous scene. I had to think on my feet to safe my life. Or when I met a hopeless young girl who told me point blank that she tried to commit suicide on numerous occasions. Or a white girl who in Mpumalanga who told me how she was repeatedly raped by a group of black guys. Such stories left me with tears in my eyes. Others were so inspiring. To see a person face his or her desperate situation with courage encouraged me. It taught me the value of life. I cannot reveal the identities of individuals due to research ethics, but then I must say those individuals made me value my life. No matter how insignificant it can be. It offered me the chance to experience life in all its forms.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
I grew up in Apartheid South Africa in the Mid'80s. Now what is interesting with that time was the chasm between black and whites. Growing up in my grandmother's rural homestead I had a lot to learn about human relations. Grandmother, Ennie Nompitimpti Nyauza was one formidable woman. Nompitimpiti means traffic to those uninitiated to the Xhosa vernacular. Grandmother a force of nature as her name implied. she drank a lot, took snuff and was generally energetic. Neighbours in our small village used to brew sorghum beer for her specifically, call her and let her have a time of her life. Drunk, she would come home and harass us all. She would tell me in her drunken stupor that "Yes, I'm struggling with you here while your wayward mother is having fun in Johannesburg. I buy shoes for your, pay your fees at school while nobody cares about you suka![get out of here] " But all in all gradmother was a lady of the people. One side of her that never failed to amaze me was that she was also deeply spiritual. Said her prayers every night when she went to bed. I struggled with these different versions of her. Another fact is her unusual yet cordial friendship with one farmer called Oom Nagel- an Afrikaner boer who use to come to our village and sell everything, from wood, milk potatoes and tomatoes. Mind you, this was at the height of apartheid. Oom nagel with his battered lorry will come every week...toot!, toot! toot! He will hoot. "Ouma melk, tamaties, dikgong (wood) he will advertise his wares as he drove slowly down the street passing our home. Well, you might ask why is this relevant? Here is why: around that time we were taught to fear the white man. He was the baas. The system afforded him such power over the natives. Hey! Not to my grandmother. She could bargain with Oom Nagel each and every time, complaining that his wares are not to good standard. Grandma was able to get her points across each and every time, and each and every time she won. She would buy a load of wood from the old white man and if she was not happy with something she definitely let it be known. "Hhayi, izinkuni zaka Nagel zi manzi. Zenza umsi." [No,no,no, Nagel's wood is wet. It does not burn and it smokes a lot].She would say this in no uncertain terms. Or maybe she would complain "Nagel's milk is watery. It does not have cream at all. I won't buy it next time". Now Oom Nagel was an old man himself...with peeling heels, craggy face that was papery as though it is a scone with too much self-raising agent in it. Week in, week out Oom Nagel will come, and every time grandma will buy something. In my young mind it appeared as though they enjoyed each other's company and the banter that always developed between them was something to behold. Oom Nagel will never pass our house without calling out grandma. It was unheard of then. For a white man to be so cordial with an uneducated African old lady. It taught me one important lesson- that friendship can cut across the colour line...and that human beings are one and the same after all. It does not matter the language you speak. If you can be able to find each other's souls then the world can be a better place.