My old ANC-buddies and I still fondly remember those days at Bra Boet’s bottlestore in Khayelitsha, when we used to sit there on the stoep pretending to be drunks –granted, we also did drink, just a little-, whilst plotting to collect some guns and grenades from Botswana to fight the Boers with. The contact has watered down over the past twenty-five years or so. But I took a plane just to hear, directly, from comrades what the witblits is going on there? Some nouveau-riche family from India called Guptas are big buddies with the President? They apparently have old Msholozi in their pockets.
Uncle Tom has been preoccupied with pictures lately. First there was the one of the happy young men who had reached a Greek beach after crossing the Mediterranean from Syria. They made victory signs and took a selfie. With a stick.
Last week my home girl Jeanie, who is now making it big in New York, Rome and Monaco as what I fancy to be the wealthiest escort-girl of all time, sent me this link to the story of a migrant woman. The intro was catchy. The woman had come from poverty, crossed borders, defied challenges and made many sacrifices to provide for her own needs and those of her family. But as soon as I saw the sentence “I am called illegal, disease spreader, prostitute, criminal, trafficking victim,” I knew what Jeanie was on about. She had clearly read the latest US State Department ‘Trafficking in Persons’ report.
Uncle Tom finds out about fund raising in the Gambia.
Uncle Tom takes issue with afrophobia.
I sure had to giggle when, last month, Muhammadu Buhari was elected President of Nigeria as a ‘candidate for change.’
Uncle Tom is a bit happy with Kenya.
Uncle Tom is not scared of Ebola.
Could there be something really wrong with Dutch people?
A trader who calls himself ‘fair’, is just like my local neighbourhood nightclub boss, Honest Jimmy, says Uncle Tom.
Companies and NGO’s are buying up African journalists, says Uncle Tom.
Even my cousin Amos doesn’t want to wear strange hats in the jungle, says Uncle Tom.
When I read about women who leave their villages and families to go become prostitutes in big towns or even in other countries, I think of Jeannie.
Now if my sister Doris knows anything, it’s violence.
How the Maasai make a business out of their traditions and how that is good for them.
Telling other people what to do is a puzzling business.
When Uncle Tom visited his relatives in Crossroads informal settlement in South Africa, no reporters were surprised to see us eating porridge and tomato gravy, taking the bus to town and having an alcoholic uncle (not me, mind you, it’s uncle Boetie) who walks around in a vest and scratches himself.
Well-meaning white man eaten by barbarians in Malawi.