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Montle Moorosi

Other People’s Shit

by Montle Moorosi, illustrations by Nolan Dennis and Alastair Laird / 23.06.2011

“Jassis my bru, I want to take a kak in Wembley Square.”
“Yooo my bru, swak, there’s an ou taking a kak right now!”
The two coloured men were laughing at the fact that I was inside a public toilet in the parking garage at the Lifestyle Center, I wasn’t taking a shit, I was just blowing my nose, but then I decided to lock myself inside the cubicle cause I knew they were automatically going to asssume that I’d just given birth.
“Yooo my bru, someone’s been eating masala radishes!” This tirade about the fictional scents my ass was making lasted for at least 2 minutes while they took the longest pisses on earth. They eventually left and I hastily step outside and see my girlfriend waiting, looking worried.
“Oh there you are! I was worried.”
“I’m cool love, lets get out of here, I’m super hungry.”
“Me too.”
“What do you feel like?”
“I dunno, something light but good… Chef’s is closed!”
“Sushi?”
“Yes! Awesome! Have you ever been to Minato’s?” Her face lit up, so did mine, I was still stoned and slightly tipsy.
“Nah, sounds good though”.

We get in the car and all I can think about is the movie we just saw, Limitless, starring Bradley Cooper and his handsome but mediocre face the ladies love so much. At first the movie seemed really stupid but then I started getting into the idea of a drug that makes you smarter, richer and capable of banging your Asian landlord’s wife. In the end Cooper becomes so addicted to being efficient and creative that he has to take this wonder drug everyday in order to survive. I was high on weed at the time, and I need weed to live and be amazing just like he does, so I guess I saw some similarities. But all said and seen, I’d rather just stay slow, sedated and eternally insipid and average than die from being too smart. Because there comes a point in every man’s life where he just has to accept his place in society, no matter how much his subconscious tries to fight it.

My British girlfriend drives out the parking garage and onto kloof, heading for some side street in Long Street to regale ourselves in nigiri palatial. I see hip people on the streets in skinny jeans, leather jackets, Joy Division t-shirts, RVCA caps, Lakai sneakers and the scary coloured bouncer with a pony tail from Fiction standing outside McDonalds. Just another Friday night in the city. I contemplate rolling another joint, then I realise I’d just broken my cardinal rule, bringing the whole bag of weed with me as opposed to a tiny section. I’m tired of sharing my stash with occasional smokers and pigs. We turn into Loop Street, immediately keep our eyes open for a parking spot and are blessed with a plethora of bays to choose from.

Then our daily routine commences:
Remove the face of the radio.
Place the face into the cubby hole or hide underneath the seat.
Lock the door.
Get drunk.

Just as step 3 was accomplished and me and my little master race mistress were about to cross the road for the palatial nigiri, a maroon SAPS Toyota venture drives past us slowly, all 5 occupants of the vehicle staring intently, their focus on my face, grins slowly forming around the edges of their mouths. I walk towards my right to go around the vehicle while my lady goes around the left and i’m almost hit by a speeding Ford focus blasting The Kings of Leon.
“Hey you! Jou fokken poes, come here!” My ears begin to sweat and my spinchter starts to shudder and a silhouette of Johnny Mongrel and Ross Kemp’s voice interjects through the voices I hear coming from behind me. I look down and see that I’m wearing a red hoodie that says “Ghetto Child”, a Star of David pendant around my neck, and of course the black man’s burden… a black beanie floating above my head and cocked to the side.

“I said fucking stop.” I take a deep breath and turn around and start walking briskly as they try suss me out, their view slightly distorted by one or two cars driving past.
“What’s up officer?”
“What you doing with that woman?”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
My hand slowly reaches into my right pocket out of the view of the cops in the drivers seat who was calling me, I feel the plastic bag of weed and quickly pick it up, drop it to the ground and try to kick it underneath the Police van. I succeed but I didn’t kick the bag far enough, just within the shadow of the car and slightly visible. But by then three police men and one woman cop were already out the and car surrounding me.
“Why don’t you come when we call you huh?” Says the white male officer with spectacles.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“YOU DIDN’T WHAT! What you doing with that lady huh?”
“She’s my girlfriend! Her names Cynthia, Cynthia Ruth.”
“DONT TALK KAK TO ME, I’LL FUCK YOU UP!” By that time all their hands were in my pockets, calves, thighs, hips, armpits, chest, back, shoes.
“What’s going on here?” Cynthia cried out.
They bustle her to the side and begin searching her and her car when I’m suddenly grabbed by the neck and shoulders and pulled to the side of the road behind some cars.
“Why the fuck didn’t you come when we called you huh?”
“HEY? JOU FOKKEN POES, DAAR IS DIE GOETES!” The black cop comes up to me and the rest with half a bag of weed and the grip around my neck is tightented.
“You fokken poes, where’s the rest?” At this point they also decided throw me a boot party, the venue: my shins. A very discreet VIP party.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about officer.”
“DON’T TAKE ME FOR A FOKKEN POES!” The coloured one keeps kicking my shins, while the black one begans talking to me in Xhosa.
“I don’t understand Xhosa.” But he carries on speaking in tongues, smiling at me and loving every moment of it. Then the coloured woman starts talking to me in Afrikaans.
“I don’t speak Afrikaans, I’m Sotho.”
“Listen here, where did you get this dagga?”
“It isn’t mine officer, I swear to you, I’m just going to eat food.”
“Take off your shoes.”
“What?”
“DON’T FUCKEN TELL ME WHAT! I SAID TAKE OF YOUR SHOES!” This of course is courteously followed through with a kick or two to the shins and a slap over the head with an open palm.
“Take off the laces.” I’ve been arrested before, this is supossed to happen at the holding station. I comply.
“And the belt”. My pants drop, exposing my boxers.
“You’re under arrest, OK, we gave you a fucking chance.”

They huddle me into the car without putting handcuffs onto me, the female cop on my right and the window and door to my left. Before they shut the door I manage to shout out to Cynthia: “Call Dean!”
“Hey, shut your fucking mouth, she isn’t calling anyone.” The one cop says. They speed off and quickly make an abrupt left not too far away from Bree Street and park the car on an empty side street. This was it, I had finally used up all my luck, lies and faith, I wasnt going to jail, it was something worse. They are going to beat the living shit out of me and then sell me off to some pimps in Sea Point, which at the end of the day I guess is the same as going to Pollsmoor, but with Jews and chinks instead of coloureds and Xhosas.

“Listen, the only way you’re going home is if you eat this dagga.”
“Ok.” I’d done it before back in the day when I first got busted for weed and my dad and the cop watched me swallow a whole joint. It wouldnt be a problem. Fucking civil servant illiterate pigs will never hold me down!
The female cop then hands me a five finger pinch of compressed weed.
I put it in my mouth. Its extremely bitter. Its not cheap weed. I chew and try to compress it into more edible form, this only makes it worse becausae the mixture of the weed and saliva is so bad I almost vomit all over myself.
“Don’t you fokken puke in here otherwise its fucking tronk toe for you bru!” I keep chewing and finally manage to swallow the piece.
She hands me another pinch of weed. This time I have to hold the door handle so hard to prevent myself from vomiting and screaming from swallowing a rough stem… but the taste, my god, the fucking taste. I swear if it was Swazi or Tari it would have been a lot easier to do, but skunk literally tastes like a skunk’s pussy with gangrene.
They begin to drive again.

“Where the fuck did you get this ganja from huh?”
“A guy named Chad.”
“What car does he drive?”
“He doesn’t drive. I meet him on foot.”
“What’s his number?” They pull out my phone and watch me scroll through my phonebook and I give them the number of a Chad in Johannesburg who is a hip hop promoter, even though they’re watching me scroll through my phone they can’t see that right underneath “Chad” it also says “Chad Ganja”. Thank God for bad education and under qualified civil servants. Has anyone ever realised how bad cops are at spelling? Making a statement at the police station is grammatical sodomy at its finest.

“What is he this Chad?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he a coloured, Nigerian, Xhosa what?”
“He’s black.”
“What kind?”
“I dont know, he’s just black.”
“Don’t fucking call him and tell him, cause we have your number and that thing you call your girlfriend.” And just like that, it was over and I was on Loop street, sitting on the curb, putting the laces into my shoes, waiting for my blonde hair and blue eyed love to come and pick me up.

I get to her house and immediately down some olmeca tequila and salt water in an attempt to get drunk and induce myself to vomit. I mostly just drink straight tequila and opt for the finger and vomit out about a quarter of what I ate until I can’t manage to vomit anymore and only a sour yellow bitter liquid comes out. I scrounge around in the cupborads for pieces of old paper with weed in them and find enough to rack up a bong hit. I smoke it with obtuse ironic relish and eventually pass out.

The next day I wake up at about 12, feeling slightly groggy but not as horrible as I thought I’d feel, so I decided I’d go to Beluga for the sushi special. Police brutality shouldn’t stop a man from eating cold, raw whale dicks if he so chooses. We drank Bellinis, gin Martinis, blood red Mojito’s and I had the best sashimi salad I’d ever had, but it tasted tainted, I guess the memory of a rape can’t be totally soothed with the aid of jaundice tanned blonde hostesses and raw fish. It was also at this point when I realised how high I was and became obsessed with the idea that everyone was looking at me and they knew what happened yesterday. I excuse myself to the bathroom and feel the insane urge to take a huge shit.

It’s slow and agonizing, unprocessed fibre and THC crystals cutting my anus. The consistency and fluidity I once knew taken away with my dignity. Clumps of green shit with stems sticking out, the odd chip here and there… some popcorn.

Wembly Square? Try shitting out weed in Beluga nigga.

*Illustrations by Nolan Dennis and Alastair Laird.

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