MY TWO nephews somehow got themselves beaten pink and purple by a bunch of (white) youths at a pool bar the other day.
MY TWO nephews somehow got themselves beaten pink and purple by a bunch of (white) youths at a pool bar the other day.
Their story, yet to be disproved, is that one of their white "friends" lost a game of pool against them, and that started a verbal altercation that ended with about 15 white folks wading into the two boys and two of their (black) friends.
I would have ticked this one off as a normal bar-room brawl had there not been racial overtones. It was made all the more sickening by an elderly white man who stoked the fires by spewing racial rhetoric throughout the attack.
Strange how angry I am after my boys were at the receiving end of racial violence.
It happened to my old friend Stan Mhlongo (may his soul rest in peace) shortly after former president FW de Klerk started making the right noises and giving blacks a whole lot of ideas about their status in this country.
Ol' Stan was an interesting character. He was a short, rotund fellow with oversized false teeth and a Don-King hairstyle. When he was angry and wanted to give you a mouthful he would remove the teeth, let rip and pop them back into his mouth when he was done.
On this day he was in erstwhile conservative Vereeniging and saw a bar frequented by the Klippies brigade; white, farm-grown fellas who refused to be called meneer by blacks - "meneer is 'n kaffir predikant. Ek is jou baas".
You get the type?
The details are getting hazier with the years, but Stan strayed into the bar, took a stool at the bar and ordered a drink.
Stan himself told me several versions of the same story over and over again, but the common thread was that there was a brief confrontation, and he stood his ground: "What the hell? We (blacks) have freedom ..."
Blissful naivety made him believe those who loathed you today could suddenly become besotted with you tomorrow because someone (De Klerk) had signed a piece of paper.
In a nutshell, Stan went into that bar hoping to be hugged and kissed by the white folks - read "brothers". He could not have been more wrong.
He didn't know what hit him. When they got tired of pummeling him, one of his attackers came up with a creative idea: dwarf throwing.
The next thing poor Stan knew he was being tossed from one part of the room to another while his assailants cheered.
In time they got bored and shooed him out of the place, throwing his paper bag carriers after him.
Those days going to the police was useless. They would probably find an excuse to lock you up rather than charge the bastards.
A most unfunny story, this, but Stan told it over and over with tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks.
"They showed me my mother," he would say between bouts of laughter.
Those racist bastards (last week) showed my nephews my sisters, and I am not laughing.
Racists beat up my boys and I am furious
MY TWO nephews somehow got themselves beaten pink and purple by a bunch of (white) youths at a pool bar the other day.
MY TWO nephews somehow got themselves beaten pink and purple by a bunch of (white) youths at a pool bar the other day.
Their story, yet to be disproved, is that one of their white "friends" lost a game of pool against them, and that started a verbal altercation that ended with about 15 white folks wading into the two boys and two of their (black) friends.
I would have ticked this one off as a normal bar-room brawl had there not been racial overtones. It was made all the more sickening by an elderly white man who stoked the fires by spewing racial rhetoric throughout the attack.
Strange how angry I am after my boys were at the receiving end of racial violence.
It happened to my old friend Stan Mhlongo (may his soul rest in peace) shortly after former president FW de Klerk started making the right noises and giving blacks a whole lot of ideas about their status in this country.
Ol' Stan was an interesting character. He was a short, rotund fellow with oversized false teeth and a Don-King hairstyle. When he was angry and wanted to give you a mouthful he would remove the teeth, let rip and pop them back into his mouth when he was done.
On this day he was in erstwhile conservative Vereeniging and saw a bar frequented by the Klippies brigade; white, farm-grown fellas who refused to be called meneer by blacks - "meneer is 'n kaffir predikant. Ek is jou baas".
You get the type?
The details are getting hazier with the years, but Stan strayed into the bar, took a stool at the bar and ordered a drink.
Stan himself told me several versions of the same story over and over again, but the common thread was that there was a brief confrontation, and he stood his ground: "What the hell? We (blacks) have freedom ..."
Blissful naivety made him believe those who loathed you today could suddenly become besotted with you tomorrow because someone (De Klerk) had signed a piece of paper.
In a nutshell, Stan went into that bar hoping to be hugged and kissed by the white folks - read "brothers". He could not have been more wrong.
He didn't know what hit him. When they got tired of pummeling him, one of his attackers came up with a creative idea: dwarf throwing.
The next thing poor Stan knew he was being tossed from one part of the room to another while his assailants cheered.
In time they got bored and shooed him out of the place, throwing his paper bag carriers after him.
Those days going to the police was useless. They would probably find an excuse to lock you up rather than charge the bastards.
A most unfunny story, this, but Stan told it over and over with tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks.
"They showed me my mother," he would say between bouts of laughter.
Those racist bastards (last week) showed my nephews my sisters, and I am not laughing.