Animal Secretsby Montle Moorosi, images by Jamal Nxedlana / 20.09.2010
“Would you be offended if a white guy offered you a banana?” – Nthato Mokgata
First impressions do not always last. A party picture of you and your friends toasting and lip smacking at Gin, or some other art fag jol, may look great at first sight, by yourself, until you call all your friends around to look at the picture and you realise that you all have red eyes, deep dark filthy satanic albino rat red eyes.
The devil is a photographer and we all love the devil because he makes us feel good, he Photoshops our acne and he say’s its ok to do drugs… but that doesn’t mean he won’t take a poo in your lounge.
Jean Rene Onyangunga was born in 1984 in unknown parts of the Congo. As of late it has surfaced that he was a reverse feral experiment conducted by post colonial Belgian scientists whose ultimate goal was to shave a Gorilla, give it a perm, teach it French and English with the hopes that one day the monkey would overthrow the ruling government. These plans were however thwarted by the swift philanthropic actions of a wealthy and newly wed Congolese couple who decided to buy/adopt him from the scientists in exchange for their silence on the matter of the scientist’s crimes against an endangered species of gorilla. The scientists agreed. Two weeks later the scientists were found in an alley in Kinshasa with their small intestines ripped out their stomachs and shoved in their mouths and their sphincters protruding from their ears.
*Image © Justin McGee.
The Onyangunga’s moved to South Africa in the early 90’s to start a small butchery in Durban which ended up becoming an abatoir and eventually, of course, they used the same freezer that stored their lamb to sell counterfeit Ed Hardy T-Shirts and True Religion jeans. The irony or paradox here, because my black brain does not know the difference, is that when I first met Jean Rene he was wearing such an outfit usually only worn by Nigerian drug dealers in Sandton or Lebanese guys from Bedfordview. The scientists had obviously had a relative success in the short span of time they had with him because even though he physically and aesthetically looked like a primate with a mullet, he spoke fluent jock, was slightly chubby and all he wanted to do was to party, take pills and sleep with prostitutes.
This was an extreme derivative of their objectives but it was a great step because a few years ago all he did was eat bananas and flick his feces around with his finger and now he had homosapian wants and needs, “dreams and aspirations”. A rich coloured girlfriend with a Porsche and credit was at the top of his list. But Jean Rene did not want to be Patrice Lumumba or King Leopold, like his parents and the Belgian scientists thought he would be, Jean Rene wanted to be an art fag with money, he wanted to be Lady Gaga without any question of whether he has a cock or not.
It was in the Autumn of 2010 when Jean Rene and his fancy bushman friend Jamal Ndxela came up with the idea of an event that would combine their love for fashion and selling clothes, music, and of course a place where art fags can meet and talk about photography and their blogs which cover topics such as who sells the best shoe laces and the best place in town to talk about the symmetry of Andy Warhol’s pubes.
The first few Dirty Secrets were a relative success in the sense that even though they did not yield a high number of attendants they did create a solid buzz for a new scene which ultimately led to the biggest Dirty Secret party to date with the likes of Spaza Shop Boyz, Big Space (that’s me), Dirty Paraffin, Musical Chairs, Spoek Mathambo, Bhubesi and Little Kat all performing. Jean Rene had finally found his niche, selling clothes and organising events was the only vagina big enough to fit his larger than life phallic persona, which smells of cheese.
On the morning of the event which was incidentally in the same building that my wonderful illegal alien girlfriend lives in, I woke up in an unusually good mood, which is a rare occasion for me. But I, of all people should know that a morning glory does not necessarily guarantee a fuck. Jean Rene was supposed to arrive at 8am to open up the venue for the sound equipment and set up anything that had to be sorted out. Jean Rene arrived expectantly at 12 noon alongside the Irish Kaffir Justin McGee and a dirty white woman named Eve. Jean Rene was draped in nothing but a pair of tight grey flannel pants I had given him which made his ass look like a Griqua’s and nothing else but a bare chest and my gold chain he had borrowed from me the day before and a 550 HD Canon camera he had borrowed from parts unknown. In his arms were a milk crate containing about 10 bottles of Black Label beer, a bottle of Jameson Whiskey, Jack Daniels, two bottles of Jose Cuervo tequila and a Korg Mixer with a built-in Kaos pad and a set of Senheiser headphones. They all gallantly bragged that they had stolen them from The Woods the night before while Eve screamed random profanities and nonsensical whims about cats and trees, as she tried to steal my girlfriends clothes.
Jean Rene had not yet organised the CDJ’s for the sound system and even worse he was suffering from sanpaku, which is a Japanese term for when the whites in your eyes can be seen through your iris due to serious malnutrition. For the past six months or so Jean Rene has been living in Westdene on a strict diet of poverty, cocaine and one meal a week which consists of over-salted burnt chicken livers. He eats in his lounge which also doubles as a long drop toilet. Ever since his imaginary girlfriend left him, Jean Rene has not been the same man, it suddenly seemed as if the slippery fishy crevice he so longed to backstroke through had turned into a canal of mud and blood.
“ I dont give a fuck anymore” said JR.
“You have people coming all the way from Soweto for this, you cant flake out now.” I said.
This drew a blank stare on his gargantuan face as his bull like nostrils flared and his mephistophilic eyes stared into a blank abyss I dare not try to understand but slightly fear and guiltily adore. For a minute I thought I hated him, but then I saw Justin McGee vomit on girlfriend’s carpet and decided I would rather hate him because it is so much easier to hate a dirty, filthy old white man who I am convinced wants to see me dead before the year ends.
“Jesus, you’re so straight, why are you so strict? I bet there’s a woman involved!” Said Eve who was now sitting on her haunches as if she was about about to join Justin with the faecal desecration of girlfriend’s Mr. Price Home carpet. It was at this point that I finally understood what Chris Brown meant when he said “I can transform you” which means he will beat a bitch up so bad she will change her life and career around for the better, and become a huge success. I wanted to give Eve this gift, I wanted her to be Rihanna after a knuckle sandwich or two. Eventually Eve and Jean Rene left the apartment and slept outside in Justins car while I was left to handle his responsibilities. In a sudden fit of rage and frustration I decided to start drinking again after about a 3 week period of relative sobriety.
I remember DJing a set and spilling redbull and tequila all over Little Kats’ CDs, then I made amends with old friends who had turned into enemies and made enemies with people who think I’m still their friend. I was then told that Jean Rene had left the party before the party had even begun. I woke up later that night at 3am on the bathroom floor covered in a blanket and my own vomit to an empty building and an empty bed.
I’m getting old and insanely boring along with everyone else in this wretched city that has not afforded me the luxury of being killed of before I hit the age of 25. Being old in this city and not having an events company, a Canon camera or at least a level 1 BEE enterprise is certified social death. I called Jean Rene two days later, he started crying because he thought he lost his borrowed camera, my girlfriend told him it was safe and I promised to take him out for some trout in the future. Jean Rene is still continuing with Dirty Secrets which has also led me to the conclusion that primates may not be as smart as Human beings when it comes to things like iPhones but they are definetly meant to survive the elements of evolution and whatever the changing climate may bring, whether a new era brings in a new civilisation or a way of life, all a monkey wants is its banana and its 550 HD Canon Camera.
*Images © Jamal Nxedlana.