Empty Your Pocketsby Montle Moorosi, illustration by Nolan Dennis / 14.01.2011
“I want you to do a story about racism in Cape Town clubs.” Said my editor.
“Not much of a story there, every kaffir in Cape Town knows they aint shit.”
“But white people don’t.” He implored. Six years ago when I was living in Cape Town I became accustomed to having my feet stepped on and being told, “fuck you, why don’t you grow smaller feet you fucking black ape.” But hey, if it makes a good read and brings up a lot of dark memories then why not. Bitch, I’m the Kunta Kinte of this art fag shit. I got this.
So I called up my two favourite half breed friends (coloureds) Dmitri and his girlfriend Yana who are an aspiring Barrack and Michelle Obama, both studying law and all sorts of other philanthropic communist shit. We drank wine like coloureds usually do and then we went off to Long Street and started at Zula, where we stayed for most of the night. The bouncers were friendly wet backs, fresh off the boat, and they even gave us a discount on the cover charge which was great because it left space for cocaine money. Yes I know, there’s a whole group of uneducated, angry, cat owning, child molesting, menthol cigarette smoking, tampon recycling, Yaris driving, Neil Diamond listening, bird shit skin complexion having, wicker furniture owning, bitch ass, petri dish licking people on the internet who say I’m a small penis re-enactment of Hunter S. Thompson…
I got sidetracked, so I’m in Zula, having a good time trying my best to fit in by doing stuff like lying about my political beliefs (I have none) and making jokes about how the name “Zula” sounds like “Zulu” yet they don’t allow pangas inside. That was a real hit. I’m back, I’m finally back. I’ve got money, I’ve got friends, I get Facebook groupies and drugs and drinks. Usually a man only has all of this when he eventually takes the eternal dirt nap and somehow bullshits his way through the pearly gates and gets to suck the greatest white man’s cock ever, that good old boy Jesus and his highly debated olive-toned dick. There’s something about the air in Cape Town that makes one become preoccupied with penis even though your quest is for vagina.
As I’m walking back onto the dance floor, after a quick bathroom intermission, I catch sight of a fairly attractive white woman, I’m assuming she was American because she actually fucking wore sandals to the club. More pertinently, she was being Chris Browned by a black man with a very dark complexion and dreadlocks, who I’m going to assume was a Shona Zimbo because they are very likely to pull off such brave stunts in a public place, and in Cape Town for that matter. Rhodesians. He pulled her by the hair and attempted to break dance on her face, something inside of me, like cocaine, made me intervene and I said something like: “That’s not how you treat a woman!” Although I think I meant to say “white woman”. The Zimbo flared up and so did his accomplice, Yana tried to intervene and got caught in the melée. Now a coloured woman had been Chris Browned too. “Nooit bru”.
Yana told me not to get involved with it, she was right, because I was morbidly terrified and like I said earlier, I’m just keeping up appearances. I’m getting by and living the good life in pure fear. Or maybe a part of me was saying, “fuck it, they can have the white woman, she won’t have sex with me no matter how much I like sushi and Annie Lennox.” Nothing made sense, nothing ever has. I tried to save a white woman and I almost lost my life to some savages and whitey even told me to stay out of it.
I sniff more cocaine and drink some more and try forget about the scene with the cannibals trying to boil the white woman alive. Then I spot this blonde-haired blue-eyed dude with a jaundice tainted tan, dressed in an old surfing t-shirt and some sif jeans, and he’s just staring at me with his sinister Aryan eyes. After a few seconds he comes up to me and says: “Hi, can I please check your pockets? I just lost my phone.”
“Excuse me?!” I heard him all right, I heard him loud and clear.
“Can I check your pockets please, my phone has been stolen.”
“So why the fuck are you asking me? I don’t see you asking anyone else?!”
“I am… I…” He stammered.
“No, you haven’t you little cock sucking racist cunt, I’ve been watching you staring at me… what the fuck are you trying to say huh? Fuck you!”
I storm off to look for the troops, I find Dmitri by the bar talking about the modern approach of Marxism and Socialism to a contemporary society and how that relates to Rihanna’s tits.
“Dee, some white mother fucker is saying I stole his phone and disrespecting me. I’m going to go handle this, and I need you to watch my back.”
“No wait, let me go talk to him.” Dmitri intervened. I led him to the blonde fucker, but as we got to him I let off a barrage of “fuck you and dies”. Dmitri stopped me and told me to stand aside while he talked to him. Their conversation didn’t last long, but by the time they were done talking I was totally out of it, I just didn’t care anymore. My mind wandered to the time I once went to Teazers with some white friends and the bouncers told me the cover charge was R100 for my friends and R500 for me. It was time to go home.
Image © Nolan Dennis.