Life is not a Lotto fun without the lottery

We were thinking of the Lotto with fond memories.

We were thinking of the Lotto with fond memories.

We spoke of the serious search for numbers, how desperate we became if we did not remember our dreams from the night before a big draw.

A member of the taxi team reminded us that none of us had ever won with more than three numbers. We did not heed her as one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead.

Auntie Emma is convinced that that minister who deprived us of our fun will relent and bring back the Lotto. I suspect that its return will not generate as much excitement as before.

I am sure that time without it has weaned many people off their gambling addiction. What a pity because then we had so much to talk about.

Remember the Lotto millionaire who blew his money within two years and became a hobo? What about the man who stole his friend's ticket and sold it? Or the one who died within months of getting his loot?

These stories were better than the urban myth about the man who lost consistently on the horses. The day he won the jackpot, he started celebrating with a skaal of pineapple brew.

He told his family to burn the furniture, their clothing and throw out all their old things as he was now rich enough to buy new ones. After the orgy of destruction he discovered that he had burned the threadbare jacket in which he had placed the betting slip.

Sis Shorty says that people have realised how silly they were to pin their hopes of riches on the Lotto. Many will not admit it but they must have consulted church prophets for isiwashoand other concoctions.

Sis Shorty is a nickname I use because she has threatened me with instant beheading if I ever name her as a travelling companion on my taxi journeys.

She said many sangomas made a lot of money by increasing the luck of their clients with muti. It is surprising that these sangomas did not use their muti to win themselves a little lolly.

But I suppose charging each client a whopping R400 a pop for a lucky number, or to wake the ancestors from their slumbers, was a sure winner.

We stopped at a robot opposite Bantu Herbal Shoppe in Bree Street. You know the type of shop. The one our grandmothers used to raise their dainty noses at because they were Christians. A strong smell of impepho - a cleansing incense - wafted out of the shop into the taxi. We all beamed at this unexpected blessing.

Auntie Emma bewailed the waste of impepho. She said it had lost its zip in modern times. She said it is used so often for inappropriate reasons that it no longer reached the ancestors.

She bet us that an entire squad of sangomas was busy with impepho to pray for the return of the Lotto so that they can start coining it again. After all, the Lotto was the real BEE of South Africa.