Open letter to South Africa’s students‚ universities and government‚ represented by Minister in the .
I THOUGHT I would write about white women who prefer black men. Not the soft, smooth, pink-shirted dudes with pointed shoes that smell sugary from a mile away - often referred to as Black Diamonds.
The type in vogue for these white women is rugged, unkempt, bad-mannered and reek of a combination of foul breath and last week's sweat.
They (the black dudes) spend their days around theatres slugging cheap red wine, smoking and sniffing anything illegal that is smokeable, discussing Charlie Parker and the vanity of Khanyi Mbau.
I wonder why these pretty little misses from good homes and with a good education pick the low lifes among black men. Is it a subconscious desire for the raw jungle?
Is it a craving for an experience unfettered by the niceties of "civilisation"? Where are the clean, normal black boys?
I'm afraid to explore the subject. I have no facts - just gut feel. And I do not want to be suspected of being a closet racist hurling mud at Archbishop Desmond Tutu's dream rainbow nation.
So I digress. I will rather blabber about bad service, of which I see an abundance.
I lie if I say when we grew up it was any better. Shopkeepers were highly respected in the community and with few exceptions the standard chant when you entered a shop was: "What do you want?"
The shop owners themselves were warm, loving "uncles" and "aunts". But their employees were little devils.
Then there was superstition. A friend and I were thrown out of a local shop because we carried a pot and a few dishes from one house to another.
"These things are going to bring me problems," the woman behind the counter said, shooing us out.
Still on superstition, asking for change was asking for trouble. Conventional "wisdom" was that those who asked for change had "worked" their money and it was going to "eat" the funds in the till.
On the same subject, I am told many township shops still refuse to sell salt and paraffin after sunset.
And the jealousy: if you bought bread from Dlamini's shop you could not pop into Mokoena's shop to buy sugar. He would tell you to "go and buy it where you bought the bread".
And then there was Dr Klein, a not too tidy, obese white doctor who had a practice not far from my township, Evaton. He had the largest stomach I had ever seen - and I have seen women expecting twins - and always carried a soiled handkerchief he used to wipe his sweaty face. His breathing came in loud gasps and he looked very ill himself.
They called him Dr Manyonya because he would pull his nose in disgust, sneer and avoid touching most of his patients.
I am bringing up all this because it is true: the more things change, the more they remain the same.
I went into a city mall this week and a young black woman behind the counter looked at me as if I was in desperate need of some favour.
"Yes, baba, what do you want?"
I walked out.