It turned out that a friend who lived and worked in Johannesburg, but had family in the Free State, had asked Tsietsi if he could help him move some stuff and build a small shack for storage purposes. Up until that point Tsietsi had not touched an alcoholic beverage in nearly a week. A dry spell by his standards. The Joburger’s request for assistance signaled the end of a long drought and the opportunity for Tsietsi to be a hero amongst his friends. He had quickly placed himself at the center of this project and given the impression that he knew enough people to get the job done.

“I am happy to announce,” said Tsietsi triumphantly, “that if you do exactly as I tell you, I will make sure that the beer and cigarettes keep on coming.” Hiccups punctuated his every word. He had their attention, and he knew it. “This friend of mine from Jozi, needs to move a shack and its contents, but needs manpower. We all know that Joburgers are not only loaded, but seldom know how to do anything for themselves. That’s where you chaps come in. Now my friend has already got two bozos to help him move the shack, but it shouldn’t be a problem to convince my rich friend to ditch these guys and trust me to finish the job.”

T-bos was shaking his head and asked, “Exactly how do you plan on doing that?”

Tsietsi was feeling particularly confident. “I need two of you to help me go and fetch a load of sand. I need another two to help with the mixing and pouring of concrete. Oh, and Tebogo, don’t you have a few sheets of corrugated iron we can use to build a temporary toilet?”

Tebogo nodded as he listened attentively.

“It’s a disgrace that we are still forced to build so-called temporary toilets only to find ourselves using the bucket system 23 years into democracy.” Molefe snarled.

Tsietsi decided that he had told the guys enough to get their buy-in and whet their appetite. He struggled to his feet and staggered over to the jukebox.

“Mamba!” he shouted over Brenda Fassie’s ‘Weekend Special’. “Tlisa crate ya Black moo! They will need the lubrication to get them going,” he laughed.

At another table, three men sat hunched over contemplating their future.

“It’s been months since we were last paid!” Ayanda shouted over the blaring music. “How can old man Joubert still expect us to report to work tomorrow to dig trenches for a new irrigation system knowing full well that he hasn’t paid us a cent?” he continued.

“Re tlameya hoya mosebetseng hosane, Ayanda. I can’t sit at home and have my kids telling me they are hungry, and the wife nagging me for grocery money again. I don’t want to suffer a stroke like MaSontaha who allowed stress and depression to get to her. At least when I report for work I’m distracted from the reality of my situation.”

The third man nodded in agreement.

“That’s the problem right there!” Ayanda retorted. “Joubert exploits us because he knows that we are desperate. I bet you his family eats every night and his grandchildren’s school fees are paid up for the entire year.”

“What the hell were you thinking confronting my wife last night?!” shouted Thapelo at the far end of the shebeen as he slapped the young woman standing near their table. She fell to the ground. Thapelo’s wandering eye got him into so much trouble that some people weren’t even sure if he really was married.

“You don’t take my calls! The only time you remember that I exist is when you want sex!” she screamed. “Your son is about to be kicked out of school because you refuse to give me money for his school fees,” she sobbed.

“O reng? How dare you come in here and embarrass me like this in front of my friends you…” He was about to hit her again when someone caught his arm. He swiveled around violently to be met by Mamba’s gaze.

“Don’t you dare you piece of rubbish,” she snapped.

“I-I was only trying…” he stuttered.

“I don’t give a damn what you were trying to do. Every night you come in here and buy booze for your useless friends, knowing full well that you have a child to support. Give me your wallet?” she demanded.

“My wallet?” Thapelo’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Trap hom!” someone shouted from across the room as laughter erupted all round.

Mamba was not a fan of repeating herself, so she reached into Thapelo’s bulging trouser pocket with her right hand, while she tightened her grip around his raised right arm with her left hand.

“Mamba o yetsang?” he protested. “You robbing your own patrons in front of witnesses. This is criminal!” he shouted.

“So is beating up a woman you philandering drunk. Perhaps if you kept it in your pants you wouldn’t be in this situation,” she retorted.

She pushed him aside and emptied what was in his wallet. Thapelo was about to get up and try and wrestle the wallet away from her, but Mamba’s shear girth made him think twice. He once watched Mamba pick up a man clear off the floor and throw him out onto the street after he tried to fight back.

“Mamba there’s no water again to rinse the glasses,” said her assistant.

“Hape? That’s the fourth time this week that we haven’t had water,” Mamba growled. She threw Thapelo’s empty wallet at him and handed over its contents to the young woman he had just assaulted. “What’s the point of voting for the same party if they can’t even supply us with clean drinking water?” she muttered as she stormed off to the storeroom.

***

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