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So ja, bra Coks ordered that I be at his residence by seven the following morning. It was to be my first day at work. I went back home, gave the cigarettes that I’d gone to buy and related my good fortune to my family. They were excited.
I slept restlessly and eagerly jumped out of my makeshift bed the following morning. I was at bra Coks’ fifteen minutes before time. On my arrival, I was greeted with a warm cup of soup and six peanut-buttered brown slices. Bra Coks was a caretaker, remember? So the soup, the peanut butter and the bread belonged to the school. One thing the apartheid government despised most, it seemed, was seeing black learners go hungry.
On arrival at bra Coks’, I found my colleagues to be a familiar bunch, neighbourhood boys who were of more or less my age: Manyiki, Ncuzay, the late Bolo, Mcebisi (the boss’s son),
Nqabhebhe, Xolani, Kwanele, Babalo and three more whose names I can’t remember.
They were all bare footed, perhaps because shoes were never clearly stipulated as a prerequisite for the job. In fact, with my ragged pair of old North Star tekkies, I was the only one with shoes on.
“Boys, boys, come now, it’s getting late. Let’s go.” ordered bra Coks. He gave each a pile of well-cut paraffin lamp wicks, about ten scented Lucky Sticks, twenty afro combs and thirty gold and silver sets of earrings. Prices were emphasised and sales targets clearly set.
We soon left for Korsten and, on arrival, we were stationed in pairs at specific spots. I was stationed at Bayview, at the bus terminus with Manyiki, who was going to be my partner. Next to where we were stationed, just outside Ramco’s Wholesalers, a great performance by a
scathamiya male octet was going on. They were doing a perfect rendition of Ladysmith Black Mambazo’s hits. I was star-struck. Wow!
When Manyiki was busy making sales by shouting the prices to passers-by, 110% of my attention was dedicated to listening to the beautiful music. But my appreciation of the lovely music was abruptly interrupted by a slap that left me hearing voices inside my head. Bra Coks delivered a hot clap to my mouth, nose, eyes and a part of the forehead. “I told you to sell, mnqundu! Why the hell are you here for then?”
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I staggered sideways and lost balance, landing on the stoop just in front of the public toilets. I was so shocked and in pain, I kept mumbling an apology. There were exclamations of disgust from those around. “Rhaa maan, that’s abuse! Why do that to a helpless child?”
But Bra Coks didn’t consider this comment worthy of a response. He instead turned around and took the money Manyiki had made and gave him more stock to sell. Manyiki was, at the time, laughing uncontrollably at my fate.
With bits of blood dripping from my tattered lower lip, I struggled to hold back the tears that were already pouring down my cheeks, with an extreme feeling of humiliation. Then this one mama came to me, Feeling sorry for me, she handed me a piece of toilet paper to wipe away both the tears and the blood. She also gave a solid red apple to munch and asked if bra Coks was my father. I shook my head.
The question was a painful reminder of how I had no one playing a father figure in my life, not even in the role of a step.
But there was neither time nor energy for self-pity, so I started shouting, eager to prove my capability:
“20 cents for a lamp wick, 30 cents for knobs, 40 cents for a Lucky Stick, 40 cents for an Afro comb!”
I kept repeating the shouts on the prices and even added a rather creative line I overhead from my partner: “Ungahlal’ ebumnyameni ikhon’ imitya yezbane echeap ngapha, mama! Don’t you dare curse yourself into a life of darkness when we have affordable lamp wicks this side, mama!”
With time, I began making some sales and, just more than two hours later, bra Coks came again and nodded approvingly when he saw what I had made: “See, you must shout. This is good. It’s only your first day and you have already sold a lot. I like you, boy.” I returned his smile, but it didn’t come from my heart. I couldn’t forget how he’d humiliated me.
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At around mid-day, bra Coks summoned us all and informed us that we were to walk to Dassie for more sales. We left and, on arrival, started penetrating bus and taxi queues with our pleading shouts. In there, I made more sales than any of my experienced colleagues and so secured myself a congratulatory pat on the shoulder from the boss.
At around two in the afternoon, we got on to a bus, leaving for the head office, otherwise also known as bra Coks’ residence; where we were given more stock and ordered to go door-to-door, infiltrating Port Elizabeth’s townships.
By the way, that afternoon marked the first time I set my foot in Soweto, an area I had till then only heard about in people’s conversations. Soweto-on-Sea, they call it to distinguish it from Joburg’s. Sowetans were popular for their consistent fight against white supremacy and they were said to be a cruel bunch. It was Kwanele who suggested we go there because his mother and her boyfriend, bra Ike, had a house there.
I remember a story bra Suz once related about a white police officer who got out of the back of a bakkie with an AK-47 in Soweto; shooting randomly at darkies and then, perhaps either by mistake or by intention; his colleagues drove off, leaving him behind, alone with the angry victims.
The officer was stoned from behind, bra Suz went on. He fell down and after they captured him, guess what, he was forced into downing a bucket full of black kak. Sies! The ‘comrades’, I was told, did not kill him but released him, letting him go back home. He was later rescued by the same colleagues. It was said that he committed suicide a few days later; he just couldn’t bear to live knowing he had eaten shit. A popular claim was that the poor officer confessed to having no qualms about eating shit but definitely not from a black arse.
Okay, okay, back to business now. At around six, we left Soweto and walked back to the head office to cash in. Once more, I was congratulated for doing great work.
While bra Coks was busy reconciling the day’s total sales with the cash-ins, we once again kept ourselves busy… accordingly engaging the bread, the peanut butter and the soup.
Then, about thirty minutes later, the boss called us one-one-by-one into his office, doubling as a bedroom. On my turn; I was remunerated with a whopping R2 note. I’d never been that rich.
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