We were not friends by choice.
Our parents became lumped in little lanes,
And us as offspring became mutually familiar
Through school and church and sleepovers.

Do you remember when Mandoza menaced?
I was under attack – alone and helpless.
Amidst all of the guffawing giants,
Et tu, Iron Horse. No – after all, it cannot be.

Always one to swim against the shaky tide of confrontation,
You forced me against noble nature, filling me with burning questions.
In your defence, you justified yourself most artfully,
Leaving me unconvinced at your failure to apologise.

“*******!” Oh, that felt so good!
Not as good as it felt lifting me in the air, I’m sure.
Iron Horse, you kicked really well with your sturdy steel stirrups,
Deadly intent on the ****, but interrupted suddenly.

Is this the sanction for freedom of speech?
Think your blows are going to quell my venomous tongue?
Take the weekend to lick off your wounded ego –
I’ll spend my time sharpening my pink, wet sword.

Say, maybe on Sunday we can hang out?
Your mom’s margherita is killer – the best in town.

“Wayne’s turning 21!” we were all told with jubilation.
Three invitations flew over clear wires – not the envisaged four.
Off we went to see Johannesburg in all her splendid animation,
To see rowdy Bosmont and Hillbrow where one could easily score.

Welcome, welcome. Hug, kiss.
Decorative drinks,
Fiery foods,
Howsthingsgoingshesgoodwerewellthanksohpleasesayhellotosoa­ndso

Young couples and old lonely perverts boogied
To cheesy, overplayed Montel Jordan
As a token of celebration of the coming of age
Of a distant stranger in their shoulder-brushing midst.

Unmoved and unphased by the utterings of
Worn walls which let off more than they should,
I steeped out for air –
All too surprised what I found there.

Head patriarchs and young bucks were locked in a humming imbizo,
Ironing out the kinks and strategizing links.
Circled were the Rat, the Rock and the Rock’s Mirror:
His unknown carbon copy warranted no introduction.

Cheerio, charming castaway.
Sorry our moms couldn’t bury their green feud.
Of all the dirt and grime Jozi spreads,
The memory of our encounter is a most indelible mould.
Meet you on the flipside, lost brother.
You live your life and don’t look back – you deserve better.

Each June for three years, we vroomed
Up the back of a mighty seaside brontosaurus.
The Judge and I knew the deal.
Avoid talk of religion and politics and go to church each Sunday.
And be nice, share and enjoy yourselves. Love you boys.

Whilst we lazed about, cooked and played Sega Mega Drive,
Charlie dashed off in his crisp white BMW
To do Troy knows what
Utterly oblivious (or secretly oblivious) of the Trojan horse that now lay within.

Upon a received revelation of the Rock, I retained reconnaissance
Of Charles’ cunning charms and the beguiling of his brood,
Leaving me unswayed by the generous gifts and family feasts,
Adding to my appetite to attack.

Made to bathe together, Charlie’s Cinder later scalded me
With a coal that turned my heart to ash,
Elevating his own ego and solidifying his own existence
By scoffing at my member as a little worm.

Time to breach the horse, slay and burn,
Taking along only the Helen of healing humanity with me.
No, better yet – I’ll leave you to your adulterous ways.
Forsaking duty, filial predators and mercenary megalomania.

Now that I know you, I wish to flee from your house forever.
Stop me so that you can destroy me. Little secret – aim for the head.

Breakfast now polished, we all climbed in
The warm silver Mercedes automatic,
Headed for Durban’s deep indigo tides for the day
To forget the ache of isolated hills for a brief spell.

The mighty, gargling Tugela passed quickly with its bellowing bovine
As we trekked on through toll booths,
Shell Select shops
And then past Shaka’s Kraal, Ballito and finally into beloved Durbs.

Now parked on philandering Point Road,
We entered The Wheel, South Beach’s green Ferris jewel.
MacRib was struck off the list first with a bony feast,
Then Wimpy knocked off next with a bubbly milkshake.

Two o’clock and we were on Pickering Street,
Where I saw a seated elderly mystic
Searching for truth and enlightenment in a black forest
As told by paint on 7-ply Canadian maple.

On the way home, I saw a man shorn of abode and company.
wheredoeshelivedadwhydoesheaskformoneywhydoeshehavenofri­endsdad
OH – I SEE (why doesn’t this happen at home?)
“Never look down on him – only learn from him,” the Rock advised.

Kind soul nested in rags, teach me your ways.
Loosen my heart from civilsation’s self-fulfilling coil.
I’ll keep the *** warm for tea and marmalade toast
When we meet and dine at the passing of this sordid world.

Cash now spent, a plan must be made.
Got those old sugar cravings in pangs and waves.
Sweet tea and pancakes lifted afternoon hunger to a fade,
Yet, in the braid of my belly, chocolate calls from charmed caves.

“Got a five bob for me?” I asked left, right and centre.
“Sorry, bra,” was the only response.
Suppose I should suppress sensations until later.
No, must go the mall – it’s my only chance.

“S’bo, want to go with me the mall?”
“Sho, laaitie, I’ve nothing better to do.”
CNA was where you could get it all –
Magazines, chocolates – even a stolen chocolate or two.

I supposed it would be best to settle on the Tex –
Aero, wafer and milk chocolate would surely set me on par.
As she help customers find a book on T-Rex,
I stole a Tex from her shop – poor Mrs. Grobbelaar.

“Put it back, laaitie – it’s not worth it.”
**** that – you don’t know what I’m going through! “Let’s go.”
As concerns regret or remorse, I felt not a bit.
How much profit do these companies make? I’ll never know.

S’bo not partaking of the spoil,
I scoffed the forbidden fruit in one fell swoop.
All would have been a neat and well-concealed toil,
Had it not been for the spy Louis the Fly and his interrogating troop.

Whistle blown and Sister Theodelind alerted,
I faced disciplinary action.
Upon the instruction The Bull telephonically emitted,
I gave Grobbelaar an atoning two rand, ashamed at her docile reaction.
Siboniso, you were a most noble friend.
Sorry for my insolence – you were right in the end.

School’s out! – We both passed the term.
A month and a half of blissful idleness awaits –
Hope I never catch ringworm.
Why haven’t I as yet tasted any dates?

“I haven’t taken you guys to Sani Pass,” the Rock realised.
“It’s where I grew up. You’ll love it.”
Now there was a holiday plan, devised
To ice over our indentured past now closed with prayer.

Shabby Underberg Inn was our first hinterland halfway house,
And, with the morn’s dawn, we scuttled way.
Next was Alpine Heath, linen crisp and white as a mouse,
Indeed a far more luxurious stay.

Mountains clothed in lily-white shawls
Abound our abode as the day’s first view.
Too many routine breakfasts, conformers and Texan drawls –
Time to see what lies beyond these confined lawns.

“This is the bridge your grandfather built,” the Rock replied.
I could feel the limp structure yearning the tender touch of his artisan hand.
Next, we ascended the snow and heath of a neighbouring field
To look at the remnants of where the family house once did stand.

“Abandon all hope ye that enter here,”
Old Ridgeway’s sign threateningly testified.
Hey, Ridgeway – the stonemason’s grandson you rule not with fear.
Tell me, what was your last thought as you died?

All seated at the breakfast nook,
We all took turns dividing eggs, toast and ham.
Like a mashed garden of daffodils and roses our breakfast did now look –
Most unlike last night’s roast leg of lamb.

Before long, the pleasant porcine potpourri
Turned acridly sour
As disagreement broke out afresh between mommy and daddy
Afore the clock struck yet another fateful hour.

“I’m going to leave!” pounded the usual threat.
“You’re impossible – you’ve always been.” The Rock’s head tilted to the right.
The Old Bull hurled an avocado at him full-heat,
Smearing the white wall green with all her might.

The Rock retaliated with Peck’s Anchovette,
With a better aim, but no cigar.
As I reached for a serviette,
I realised that my family life is most putrid a tar.

Why didn’t you leave her sooner?
Only flying avocados will celebrate mismatched marriage hereafter.