"George and I" Chapter 8 (part 2) - The story of a Dog and his Man from operating pool tables in the dangerous South African to real estate

Love this quote by Seneca...makes me think about each day

“Begin at once to live, and count each separate day as a separate life.”

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Zebulon called me at 9.30 o'clock on a Friday night. 

His tavern was full to capacity and the jukebox had a coin stuck in the coin acceptor. 

The drunk customers were irate and a riot was about to break out because they couldn’t listen to their favourite songs. 

That week I had added the latest music and it was payday weekend. 

The perfect opportunity for cash flush revelers to enjoy the latest soundtracks.

Or the perfect storm for a riot if they couldn't.

In the 1990s the music industry in South Africa was engulfed by a new sound that drew from the international house genre, basing its attitude and forms of expression on the newly liberated black youth. 

Kwaito was born.

Quickly rising in popularity, by the late 1990s Kwaito had become the second highest selling music genre in South Africa.

For many young black youths, Kwaito became an emblem of freedom. 

For some, Kwaito represented all that was wrong with black South African youth with its supposed glamorisation of violence, explicit sexuality, and consumerist celebration. 

Anxieties about a youth that was “lost”, combined with fundamental questions of violence, sexual appropriateness, and economic mobility that the youth were asking, converged to create a fertile environment for the music.

Mandoza, a local music artist, had just hit the charts with his music and electric persona. 

He performed a “tsotsi masculinity” that legitimised and provided space for the black township thug (or tsotsi), a figure born out of the post-apartheid trauma. 

Through his music and performances, he resisted elite narratives that positioned the working class and poor black township men as irredeemable tsotsis, best managed by the criminal justice system.

In 2000 “Nkalakatha” hit the charts, breaking all records for songs played in our jukeboxes.

There was going to be a massive party at Zebulon's tavern that night. “Nkalakatha” would be the number 1 song played and danced to, an outlet to the many frustrations experienced by the people living in the area.

And the jukebox would not play “Nkalakatha” with a R1 coin stuck in the coin acceptor.

Zebulon called me to come and fix the jukebox urgently, as his customers were starting to fight and tear his tavern apart.

This was a big problem for Zebulon.

And an even bigger problem for me.

I argued with Zebulon, saying it was too dangerous for me to drive into Umlazi at night in my bakkie (van). 

“Akunankinga, ngizothumela abafana bami ukuthi bazohlangana nawe eLouis Botha Airport. Sizokuphelezela usuke lapho " he said. (No problem, I'll send my boys to meet you at Louis Botha Airport. We will escort you from there)

It was not a discussion. He was in trouble. I was the only person who could help him. I had to go.

45 minutes later I was at Louis Botha. 

Waiting for me at the agreed place outside the petrol station was a minibus taxi. 

I pulled up behind the stationary taxi in the dark and flashed my lights. 

Two men jumped out, one carrying an AK47 and the other a 9mm. 

9mm opened the door of the bakkie and as he was about to get in when he spotted George, lying with his head on the gear mound.

George was staring up at him, his lips barred back from his gums, growling viciously.

Quickly the door was shut. 

9mm jumped onto the back of the bakkie (van) with AK47.

He was not going to sit with George.

I followed the minibus into Zebulon’s tavern and stopped outside.

AK47 stayed on the back of the bakkie (van) to guard the tools and 9mm escorted me inside. 

There wasn’t space to fit another person into the tavern and as I pushed through the sweating, angry crowd they shouted “Sithengele isiphuzo Umlungu” (Buy us a drink white man). 

 I had to do something as it was very uncomfortable being jostled and pushed by a crowd of drunken revelers.

Grabbing a pool cue I shouted to George. 

He thought the stick “throw and fetch” game had just started and started barking furiously, jumping up to get the pool cue. 

The more I waved the stick, the more he barked and the crowd quieted down immediately, nervously backing away from me and an excited George.

As he rushed and jumped to try to grab the pool cue from my hands, the crowd spooked, pushing and scrambling over each other to get out of the tavern and away from George, spilling out of any exit they could find...windows, doors you name it!

It was hilarious to watch as the tavern cleared in record time.

I settled down to sort out the jukebox.

“Eta, leyo nja ihlakaniphe kakhulu!” (that dog is too clever) shouted 9mm to AK47, laughing as he swigged from a black label beer quart left on the counter by a window jumper.

To be continued...

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