If looks could kill, I would have been dispatched to my Maker.
If looks could kill, I would have been dispatched to my Maker.
It was some time last year when I accompanied a buddy on a shopping excursion to a Pretoria mall. We were waiting in the queue in a department store directly behind some thick-set white oke with arms like baobab tree trunks.
When he reached the check- out, a darkie girl behind the counter politely told him to reduce the number of items in his basket because his credit limit would not stretch as far as the items in his trolley.
That was the ultimate insult to a dapper boer's pride. It was as if the girl had scorned the entire volk. His face turned blood red and he sweated profusely. He heckled with the poor shop assistant for almost five minutes while the rest of us had to wait and become bit actors in the farce.
Eventually reason returned to the man and he moved aside to off-load some of the stuff. My friend, who had a trolley full of goodies, went past the till with the swiftness of Robert Mugabe's motorcade at noon in Harare. No problem.
Or so we thought, until the man went on a fresh tirade: how come you don't do the same to daai man? His warped mind had done a calculation. My friend had at least three times the amount of items that the man initially had.
Like a boerbul in a China shop, he frothed at the mouth and spat out bile.
"No sir, this gentleman's salary is at least three times what you're earning and that's why his credit rating is higher," the cashier explained.
Now that was the final insult. He turned blue and his veins became as pronounced as piano strings.
He gave us that look that telegraphed shivers down my spine. I sighed with relief when he threw his purchases on the floor and stormed out in utter disgust.
I have seen his type. I have broken bread with them in Canada and quaffed Black Label with them at the Springbok restaurant in London. All of them had a problem with the new South Africa, affirmative action and Mugabe, and so they emigrated.
But I can live with them because they make no bones about their hatred for a black-run government.
But it is those who pretend to be my chommies who give me the creeps. You know that u het nie gespaar nie when a mlungu comes to you and starts telling you that you and him are broers and that Mabeki, yes, Mabeki, is a good oke.
The first lie is mostly this . "Me and you are the same, broer. Een bloed," with the closing line going something like, "het jy nie 'n gwaai nie?"
I always wonder why the creeps don't just ask for a skyf and melt instead of wasting time with that tired old line.
Give me a real boerbul mlungu instead of a fake chommie any day
If looks could kill, I would have been dispatched to my Maker.
If looks could kill, I would have been dispatched to my Maker.
It was some time last year when I accompanied a buddy on a shopping excursion to a Pretoria mall. We were waiting in the queue in a department store directly behind some thick-set white oke with arms like baobab tree trunks.
When he reached the check- out, a darkie girl behind the counter politely told him to reduce the number of items in his basket because his credit limit would not stretch as far as the items in his trolley.
That was the ultimate insult to a dapper boer's pride. It was as if the girl had scorned the entire volk. His face turned blood red and he sweated profusely. He heckled with the poor shop assistant for almost five minutes while the rest of us had to wait and become bit actors in the farce.
Eventually reason returned to the man and he moved aside to off-load some of the stuff. My friend, who had a trolley full of goodies, went past the till with the swiftness of Robert Mugabe's motorcade at noon in Harare. No problem.
Or so we thought, until the man went on a fresh tirade: how come you don't do the same to daai man? His warped mind had done a calculation. My friend had at least three times the amount of items that the man initially had.
Like a boerbul in a China shop, he frothed at the mouth and spat out bile.
"No sir, this gentleman's salary is at least three times what you're earning and that's why his credit rating is higher," the cashier explained.
Now that was the final insult. He turned blue and his veins became as pronounced as piano strings.
He gave us that look that telegraphed shivers down my spine. I sighed with relief when he threw his purchases on the floor and stormed out in utter disgust.
I have seen his type. I have broken bread with them in Canada and quaffed Black Label with them at the Springbok restaurant in London. All of them had a problem with the new South Africa, affirmative action and Mugabe, and so they emigrated.
But I can live with them because they make no bones about their hatred for a black-run government.
But it is those who pretend to be my chommies who give me the creeps. You know that u het nie gespaar nie when a mlungu comes to you and starts telling you that you and him are broers and that Mabeki, yes, Mabeki, is a good oke.
The first lie is mostly this . "Me and you are the same, broer. Een bloed," with the closing line going something like, "het jy nie 'n gwaai nie?"
I always wonder why the creeps don't just ask for a skyf and melt instead of wasting time with that tired old line.