KOK STORIES: True son of the soil

26 Nov, 2014 - 09:11 0 Views

The Sunday Mail

Last week we said something about South African xenophobia. Xenophobia means the hatred of foreigners and it is often based on chauvinism.

Nicholas Chauvin was a follower of that great Shaka of Europe, the Emperor Napoleon. Chauvin bragged so much about la gloire de la France — the glory of France — such that his name entered the English language as chauvinism.

Chauvinism means exaggerated patriotism or thinking that your group, gender, race, class, etc, is superior to all the rest. A chauvinist is someone who practises chauvinism — and chauvinists are to be found all over the world, not only in South Africa. We have them, too, in Zimbabwe.

One night, after I had had dinner at Adam’s place and Rudo, his wife, had gone off to bed, Adam got very drunk. Then he suddenly started talking about something he had never talked about before — his Griqua heritage. I knew then that something was really eating him up. I was just sober enough to remember most of what he said.

“You know, comrade, there’s this creep at work — Jackson somebody — who sucks up to Ngulube like a vacuum cleaner.”

Cincinnati Ngulube was the editor of the paper Adam worked for. “I’m not going to be tribalistic and tell you his surname, comrade. But this Jackson prick thinks because he is the son of a chief he’s got a monopoly on ‘Africanness’. When he’s not toadying up to Ngulube, he struts around the office like he was the Mwenemutapa or the Lobengula of it. Of which I couldn’t care a rear explosion but I don’t like his attitude, comrade. I don’t like it and I’m going to fix him if he doesn’t shut up. As it is, I gave him hell today.

“Comrade, if I say I am Griqua, I know you understand what I mean. But this Jackson, what does he know about Griqua? He wouldn’t know the difference between a Griqua’s backside and a Quagga’s.”

A quagga is a kind of South African zebra that became extinct in the late 1800s.

“People seem to think the so-called Bantu were the only people here when the whites came and the only ones who were dispossessed, oppressed and fought for freedom. By my ancestors, jack, you know, you and I, we fought the Boers together. But do you even know why I fought them? I never talked about these things before but this Jackson gets my goat.

“Yes, comrade, like you I fought to eliminate apartheid and racism. But that wasn’t the only thing. I wanted revenge. I was fighting to revenge what the whites did to my people.

“At least Zulus, Xhosas, Shonas and Ndebeles still exist. But other peoples nearly went the way of the quagga — like us, the Griquas. The whites didn’t only conquer and rob us, man, they committed genocide against us!

“What do people like Jackson know about what happened to the Hereros and Namas in Namibia? The first genocide of the 20th century! Adam Kok and my grandfather were descendants of what Jackson would probably call Hottentots — if he even knows the word, that is. The Khoi-Khoi (that’s our real name) were my ancestors. Do you know what Khoi Khoi means? It means ‘men of men’! My ancestors used to live side by side with the San, the so-called Bushmen, who used to live all over Southern Africa.

“Man, you can see their paintings on the rocks just down the road at Lake Chivero. Where are they all now?

“This Jackson jerk thinks I grew up in Arcadia or something so he keeps talking to me in a funny accent. Today I had enough. I told Jackson what to do with his chauvinism. I told him that I am the first Zimbabwean. I am the first South African. Stick that in your vacuum cleaner!”

Then suddenly Adam laughed. “Did I ever tell you what happened when I went to get my Zimbabwe citizenship, comrade? No? They asked me who my ‘kraalhead’ was. I told them the only kraal I know is where we used to keep our cattle. But they insisted. Then you know what they did? They made me register my race as ‘Coloured’ — me a Griqua, a man of men!”

He laughed but the tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“The funny thing is, comrade, that is exactly what the Boers did. They classified us as ‘Other Coloured’!” — and he had another bout of laughing — half laughing, half crying.

“And that’s what gets my goat. As far as people like Jackson are concerned, a man without a mutupo and a ‘kraalhead’, is not a ‘son of the soil’ — he’s either coloured, foreigner or white. Remember during the struggle how we used to call each other maAfrika, sons of the soil! If I was to tell this Jackson creep my clan name in Khoi he would think I had a cricket in my mouth. So, jack, that’s me, that’s us, Griquas — from ‘Other Coloured’ to ‘Coloured’ and now non-African. Gothatha, comrade, gothatha! It’s tough.”

For a moment, my old friend looked like he was going to cry — seriously, no joke. Of course, it was the booze that was doing it — plus the pain again. But he perked up as he thought of how he was going to fix Jackson.

“I’ve decided to fix the vacuum cleaner. And Ngulube is the best way to fix him. Remember I helped Ngulube when he found out his wife was cheating on him? Well, just the other day at the office party, true to form, Mrs Cincinnati Ngulube got very drunk.

“While Ngulube was having a serious discussion with the deputy editor and some members of the board, the vacuum cleaner took advantage of Mrs Ngulube’s condition and had her on a desk in one of the offices. The most amazing thing, though, was that not only were they in the editor’s office but the editor’s wife was laid by a staffer on the editor’s desk! I just happened to be looking for somewhere to do likewise with one of the secretaries and poked my head into the editor’s office when I heard the vacuum cleaner wheezing and Mrs Ngulube moaning in delight.

“So I think I’ll just get Juju, the newspaper cartoonist, to draw me a picture of someone having it off with a woman on the editor’s desk. Then I’ll come into the office one morning and greet my friend Jackson and say: ‘Yes, Mr Son of the Soil, I’ve got a present for you. Everyone in the office knows how you suck up to the editor. Well, I’m sure the editor would be very grateful to see how you made sure Mrs Ngulube wasn’t bored at the party the other night while he was attending to the serious business of running his newspaper.’”

And that is exactly what Adam did. The only trouble was he hadn’t looked closely enough at Juju’s drawing. Adam thought he was playing a trick on Jackson. He didn’t realise Juju was playing a trick on him. The man who was laying the woman on the editor’s desk in Juju’s drawing looked distinctly like Adam himself. So when the editor saw the cartoon, given Adam’s reputation, not to mention his own wife’s, he immediately assumed it was Adam who had laid Mrs Ngulube on his desk during the party.

Fortunately for Adam, Mrs Ngulube had been aghast when she woke up sober the next morning and remembered she had allowed that creep, Jackson, to invade her admittedly not very private parts. She allowed lots of men to do so — but not worms like Jackson. Her clients were big men, chefs and tycoons — and that is why her husband’s paper was always the first in the land with the political and business news.

Cincinnati, who felt that, despite his gratitude at all the scoops she brought him, it was a bit much for his wife to commit such an indiscretion at the office party with a staffer on his desk in his office. So he confronted her with Juju’s cartoon — which he had found pinned up on the newsroom noticeboard by the way. Sandra — if you remember that was her name — blushed. At that Cincinnati melted. If you remember too, it was a blush that had brought the two of them together in the first place.

He took her in his arms and said: “Darling, it’s nothing. But please try and behave yourself at my office parties. I have always said Adam is the most immoral journalist in the world. Just like him to take advantage of your tipsy condition . . . ”

“Adam! What do you mean, Adam? If it had been Adam I wouldn’t have blushed. It was that creep, Jackson!”

And that, Adam was very happy to note, was the end of ‘Mwenemutapa’ Jackson, the office chauvinist and vacuum cleaner.

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