After guzzling 12 beers I was tipsy. I could do nothing but observe, carefully studying the movement of their lips. I was getting dizzy and nauseous. I was unable to process the lyrics and sound of the music, which was playing in the background of our conversation.

“You know what I was thinking maqabane (comrades)?” Mpinga asked sheepishly.

I hadn’t heard him talk the whole evening. It was so unlike him. Well, I heard him once when he requested a skyf [cigarette] from a friend across our table. Maybe he kept things to himself, for they say, “maturity is a fine wine”.

He broke the silly talks and indulged straight into hard matters that needed our attention, just like everyone knew him to do. uMpinga uMawawa (sing praises) madoda.

“When all of these ongoing negotiations are over, what will a segment of white paper mean to us?” he asked abruptly.

There was a dark silence amongst us. Everyone dropped what they were doing and gave their undevoted attention to their kasi-hero.

“After all that we fought for, all these years, and we’re going to settle for a white blank paper? I’m gonna use that piece of paper to wipe my shit,” his questions were now uttered in furry, and the mood was escalating to a sort of riots stance.

Something tells me that someone still remembered the spectacle at our house when they arrested everyone in my family, including my infant father, but chose to sweep it under the table we put our beers on. It was because of these kind of talks, rage and alcohol that the mass decided in a scorching hot day to torch a Health Care Centre that was situated near the Community Hall. Apparently it was abandoned and was turned into a witchcraft hotspot for the ghosts of this town.

Because of the increment of municipality service charges for the blackfolks in the formal settlement, he claimed that they were being excluded from a plethora of services and denied their legitimate right to health care services. How could he fight for people who paid their own tariffs charges and taxes? I don’t remember him having a job to keep his arse running, and couldn’t feel the pain of the tax cuts inside the taxpayers deep pockets, oozing blood. But somehow he remains their kasi-hero.

“I feel like we’re being patted on the head like puppies, this is ridiculous!” exclaimed Mpinga in a girlish tone.

After that outburst, he needed to gulp down a beer quickly and went deep into the bottom of it. He sank into despair after that long sip in an attempt to refresh his soul.

“Viva Mandela Viva, amandla maqabane Amandla!”

It was getting rather late, but my friend here, Mkhululi, that I happened to follow, was chanting his voice out. Waking the neighbourhood, we had decided to sit outside, you know, cooling off, so we could drink more beers, knowing that no policeman was going to disturb our peace now, no Vele with his acrid humor.

“Now what’s left of us, huh maqabane?” asked the third guy, who was not a stranger to Mpinga’s theatrics and habits.

He was a man of a grotesque structure with a red and black pupil. Tall figure with a sloppy body, an alienated form.

“Struggle stalwarts, who are enjoying the pleasures of Mama Yandicaz’s home-brewed Pinetops? We don’t have it in us anymore, no more fight comrades,” he justified his point, and managed to twist the arm of the drunkards.

After his series of questions, he burped and turned his grotesque structure to my sight and sort of informed me about their struggles.

“Heyi Ndoda! We’ve fought for you, yet we have nothing to put on the table. Except slug holes and crooked hands we cooped during the struggle.”

For years, this topic was forced down my tiny throat. I looked carefully for something to support my argument. That he could be a father of a child or two, and that he comes home reeking of alcohol every night and doesn’t see his children frequently. For their so-called ‘father’ left the house 10am after his breakfast to return at 11pm. Walking late among these dead streets, singing and swearing the witches on his way to his death.

I said nothing, because I existed in a disabled space.

“Heyi ndoda ,ndiyathetha nawe! (I’m talking to you!)” he emphasized with the gratification of seriousness, awaiting a response from a spectacle.

Tell us: What did you think of the story?