Frik was a large, rugged Afrikaaner with a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth. He sat down on our cooler box, evidently unconcerned by the streaks of tomato sauce and boerewors juice spewed across the surface. He tore a corner from the lid of his cigarette box and, using it as a plectrum, began to play. The guitar looked more like a ukelele against his belly.
When he finished, I offered him a skottel-braaied crumpet for his efforts. His response, and in fact the entire scene, could not have been scripted better.
He coughed. Then in the same gruff voice with which he sang, replied, “Only if it’s got gunja…”.
Photocred: Ernst van den Akker
The disbelief was palpable. Luckily they turned out to be biscuits.
I burst out laughing. Sharleen, the person at whom the above comment was directed, didn’t even twitch. Vicky, the person who had made the comment, continued on to the lift.
There are many things I love about advertising, but by far the best part is its people. They’re smart, witty and couldn’t give a fuck*.
*Case in point.
We hear it all the time. And we stop there, blocking off our minds to the possibility of comparison. But trust Google, they actually made it possible.
There was a sadness in her eyes, one that I couldn’t ignore as I left the train. I felt guilty for being white. Guilty for being privileged. In South Africa it seems that the two cannot be separated – not yet at least. I left the station only to have a black (for lack of another word) man spit at me. It seems he knew what I was thinking. Apartheid isn’t over – not yet at least.
I didn’t know where he was talking about…but instantly knew I needed to go there.
He mumbled sheepishly from behind a grizzly beard. Cigarette at hand. It wasn’t exactly the image I’d had in mind, but I was grateful nonetheless. He was to rescue me from the peril of my inconsistent Fiat Uno that had broken down outside his coffee shop.