It's amazing how trends get recycled

My children have disowned me. No, it's not because I ran away from home.

Neither have I excluded them from my will, nor have they come home to discover that I have eaten all the food in the pots and the fridge.

They did not catch me in flagrante delicto with a strange woman.

My sin is simply that they caught me humming Lale, ilalilale! Wavuk'ekseni, awaz'ulalephi!

Now, the most maddening part is that they did not confront me about this alleged misdemeanor. Instead, they went online, as I discovered later.

The first one wrote: "Tell your daddy to stop ukuthanda izinto!" Stop "liking things".

The other one responded: "He thinks he is all cool and happening."

Had they bothered to confront me about my alleged crime of "liking things" that are supposed to be the preserve of the younger generation, they would have discovered that the line I was humming, which has been sold to the market as Babes Wodumo's song, is actually an old ditty from my childhood.

We used to recite it when we caught one of our age mates in a compromising situation.

When I was "caught" humming the line, I was merely on a nostalgic trip to my youth - not realising that there even existed somebody called Babes Wodumo. But I lie. As an undiscriminating newspaper reader, I had, of course, read about this person called Babes Wodumo.

But I had no clue what she sounded like because I do not listen to radio stations where her noise - mistaken for music by many philistines - gets played.

After my children "outed" me as a dirty old man who likes to "put himself" into young people's things, I took the trouble to find Babes Wodumo's alleged music, so I could, first of all, ascertain if her alleged music sounds vaguely similar to the words I had been "caught" mumbling to myself.

Indeed, the words were the same.

So, I went back to the Khumalo Kangaroo Court.

I explained to the prosecutors who also doubled as judges and executioners that I had, in fact, started chanting "ilali lale" probably long before Babes Wodumo's parents even met.

But the judges-prosecutors-executioners simply rolled their eyes, turned their backs on me, and started fingering their hand-held electronic devices.

A new charge of "fabricating things" had been added. I'm always accused of fabricating things.

A couple of years ago, they were outraged when they saw me dressed in my pink shirt, orange trousers and green sneakers. They howled - through their hand-held devices of course - how this old man was trying to be isikhothane.

Needless to say, I had no clue what isikhothane was; nor did I know what "colour blocking" was supposed to be.

I got dressed the way I did simply because it had been a while since I had worn that colourful outfit, which I keep for special occasions, when I mingle with my age mates and we go down memory lane - play Earth, Wind and Fire, Dianna Ross, the Commodores, Smokey Robinson, and others.

For the benefit of these accusers who live under my roof, eat my food, ride my cars - I had to explain that back in the day I used to belong to a social movement called American Dudes.

You see, again, social movements are not new!

As the Dudes, we wore semi high-heeled shoes, our hair in greasy perms and we were always resplendent in clothes that used to make bees and butterflies faint in sheer disappointment on discovering that we were actually not flowers, but human beings dressed tastefully.

One could say the Dudes were the precursors of the izikhothane, except we were careful with our money, not this madness of going down the street burning mounds of banknotes.

My children, when I wear my delela, I am not trying to imitate you. I started wearing delela last century, when Mandela was still in jail. Think about that.

We old geezers "have been having it", as the man in the MTN advert said. You think izikhothane are "lit", we've been having it.

You guys aren't creating anything new. You plunder and regurgitate our stuff then point an accusing finger when we start rolling the sh*t out the proper way.

You can't even sing or play musical instruments - you simply bark and grunt, and rely on computers to make that doof-doof noise you call music. Yuuurgh!

We twerked before you were born, but we called it istshwetla. We cut our pants so they looked too short - and called them "don't-touch-my-qakala".

Yet today, you think you've just come with a new innovation called qoks. Duh!

Now, my children, on your knees. Repeat after me: "thank you, old timers, for the style and the music".

lKhumalo's new book Dancing The Death Drill now in bookstores