The African National Congress is starting its “dispute resolution process” in a bid to address the a.
I have always said the one thing that will surely drive me away from a man's chest faster than his Doom fragrance is dumb talk.
My friend calls this type of guy "Shut Up and F**k" and with good reason, too. They have to be good for one thing at least.
Me and conversation. I have always figured if you have nothing to talk about you shouldn't be together at all. My drive for the importance of rapport has been fuelled lately by my success in unearthing some bombshells from an ex.
When I first met loser X, he was giggling with a gay guy who was trying to get into his pants. I was miffed. Here was a guy, who was clearly straight, simpering at his chest being assaulted by a gay old fart.
I should have kissed him right there and then. He should have used his mouth against this sexual harassment. But then it was his mantra. Later when I had snatched him, I engaged him in debates he couldn't run away from. Like why he thought his mother was the ultimate, even though she had a moustache and the blackest knees.
By the time I was done with him he could argue with me on so many different levels I knew I had created a monster. He even tried to object when I showed him the door.
I remembered this as I left my expensive, sizzling breakfast on a restaurant table - thanks to my love of talking. The gorgeous stranger said I had chutzpah for daring to ask him to come and sit with me. I hate eating alone.
Then I asked him about his girlfriend. Surely this would kill any notion he had that I was trying to hit on him or, God forbid, was horny? Not that there was anything wrong with my trying to give him my number.
He spoke about how she had played with his feelings and his family's dislike of her "because she is an umXhosa, you see?", he explained.
Having defended my ethnicity from when I could first talk, I was in no mood to shoot him down because of his stupid family.
And I was okay with the content and pace of the conversation until I asked what he did for a living and he said: "I analyse urine and sh*t for drugs." Yes, we were still eating.
This drove even his angelic looks out the window because I used the door to breathe. I have heard of total honesty but to tell people of your stinking job and think they'll be fine with it, is to be gullible.
It reminded me of my former aunt. Former because my uncle divorced her. Took his time about it, too. She never hesitated to tell people the most disgusting pieces of information.
People would be trying to find a seat on a bus and she would tell them about her crazy sister who tried to fit a newborn into a shoebox. If you stayed longer, you would have to hear the story about the goat that was dug from a toilet pit, a woman who walked along Small Street in It's A Pleasure panties, having mistaken them for shorts. Or my favourite, the sister who had the misfortune to have the wrong leg amputated. I mean, why shouldn't people like her get divorced?
I wanted to sympathise with Mr Shut Up And Eat, but I could only judge him. If he tells a stranger something that demeaning and with such a lack of taste, his philandering umXhosa girlfriend had reason for her behaviour. Maybe, it's an isiXhosa thing. We just go for blokes who know their stuff.