OR Tambo – A gift from Nkantolo to the world

On 27 October 1917, the village of Nkatolo in the town of Bizana, nestled between the modern-day provinces of Eastern Cape and KwaZulu Natal, saw it fitting and necessary to gift South Africa and the world a son. His parents would give him the name Kaizana. The people outside his family and beyond the view of Nkatolo would come to know and revere him as Oliver Reginald Tambo. True to its generosity, Bizana would later in 1936 bless South Africa and the world with another lodestar – the indefatigable Nomzamo Zanyiwe Winfred “Winnie” Madikizela-Mandela.

Kaizana Oliver Reginald Tambo, or OR as he was affectionately called, was a remarkable personality. This was an ordinary man – that is what he often implied about himself – whom circumstances threw into an extraordinary situation, and with the benefit of hindsight, we should be grateful to those circumstances – albeit unpleasant – for blessing us with the person and leadership of OR Tambo.

This is how he described his earlier plans to his wife, before the life of struggle for a free South Africa pointed him in another direction. He says: ‘I had other plans for my life. I wanted to be a minister of the Anglican Church with Bishop Clayton. After we married, I was going to train for the ministry in Cape Town. But God had other plans for me. God’s plan was for me to fight in the political liberation for my people.’ It must have been exasperating for Mme Adelaide to hear such clever retorts whenever she asked her husband to slow down from overworking himself. Such witty remarks were typical of Tambo. But then again who could challenge or argue with God’s plan?

One Canon John Collins was also a recipient of Tambo’s sharp replies. He had dared to challenge Tambo about his camaraderie with communist countries, particularly the Soviet Union, a topic that had become common amongst Westerners and one that OR seemingly relished. He said to Collins: ‘If you are drowning and somebody throws you a rope, you don’t stop to ask about his political beliefs.’

In 1960 the leadership of the ANC (African National Congress) instructed OR Tambo – then deputy President General of the liberation movement – to leave the country and continue the struggle beyond the borders of South Africa. The apartheid government, with its relentless might and power, was clamping down on leaders of the liberation movements – especially those of the ANC and the PAC (Pan Africanist Congress) after the Sharpville Massacre on March 21st. Mangaliso Robert Sobukwe, president of PAC and other senior leaders of the organisation gave themselves up at Mofolo police station and other police stations around the country to be arrested. Sobukwe would be imprisoned beyond his sentence by a mindless state that had no care whatsoever for black lives. Sharp, learned, eloquent and feared by the government, Sobukwe would be described by then Minister of Justice BJ Voster as ‘a person who has a strong, magnetic personality’. Even the not so bright apartheid government could recognise talent when they see one, their inhumanity notwithstanding. Realising that Verword’s government could cripple them, the ANC sent Tambo and other senior leaders of the movement into exile to keep the fire burning.

President General – a title Tambo would reluctantly assume – led the people’s movement for thirty years in exile, creating enough noise that forced the regime, business and the masses around the world to pay serious attention to the cries and struggles of black people in South Africa. Possessed with a spirit that could only be compared to a driven and ambitious entrepreneur, Tambo traversed the globe, pitching the ANC to ‘investors’ – governments, business and civil society – as a startup with the right tools to steer South Africa into the straight, eventually building the organisation into the largest liberation movement on the continent – a startup evolving years later into a major corporation that currently leads Africa’s most southern country. Some had opined that the ANC under the leadership of OR had become a government ruling South Africa from outside the country. The people enjoyed an opportunity to remind the Nationalist Party that their rightful leaders were either in prison or in exile, something that riled the apartheid thugs.

For all his years as the leader of the ANC, OR Tambo never let power corrupt him, often saying that he was only holding the ropes for his comrade and friend Nelson Mandela who was then serving a life sentence in prison. Unlike some amongst us who today hog the seats of power – the talentless, mindless and tainted who are quick to invoke his name as if to hide their own shortcomings – Tambo remained steadfast and loyal to the liberation of his people until the end. ‘Perhaps I shall not live to see the Promised Land, but my people shall have reached it’, he said to his wife in his last days.

Many of his comrades have praised Tambo’s leadership, wisdom, humanity and arresting, quiet intellect. In 2001 his protégé Thabo Mbeki described his mind thus: ‘OR was an intellectual in the best meaning of that word. He was a person of reason, a person of rational thought and rational action…With Oliver Tambo, you had a person who could deal with both the concrete and the abstract, the specific, the particular and the general; between tactics and strategy – that dialectical interaction, OR understood very well.’ This superior quality, Mbeki argued, ‘was central to OR’s make-up and central to his behavior.’

In 1993, April 23, a mere few days after the horrific death of Chris Hani, another outstanding ANC leader, OR Tambo also made an exit from the world of the living. To borrow directly from his biographer Luli Callinicos, ‘An extraordinary life had ended.’ Of this extraordinary life, Nelson Mandela spoke glowingly at the funeral of his friend and comrade. ‘Oliver lived not because he could breathe. He lived not because blood flowed through his veins. Oliver lived not because he did all the things that all of us as ordinary men and women do. Oliver lived because he had surrendered his very being to the people. He lived because his very being embodied love, an idea, a hope, an aspiration, a vision.’

This year, the year 2017, is exactly a century since Bizana looked upon South Africa and realised that she needed hope, that she required something of value, an idea to aspire to, and for 75 years we were blessed with exactly that and more. Had he been alive Kaizana Oliver Reginald Tambo would have been celebrating his centennial birthday anniversary. It is a pity and maybe a shame that the Nelson Mandela Foundation, in preparation for the commemoration of Madiba’s own 100-years birthday anniversary in 2018, will steal this deserved limelight and rob us of the memory of OR Tambo. The mandelarisation of everything, a phenomenon that is growing at an alarming rate – something that would certainly annoy Nelson Mandela himself – particularly by the Nelson Mandela Foundation is something that South Africans should guard against as it threatens to further divide our nation. For as former president Thabo Mbeki correctly argues: ‘Oliver Tambo has not taken his rightful place in our national memory…the contribution of this humble but brilliant patriot and mentor of our movement has been overlooked.’ One would hope that Sello Hatang and his team at the Nelson Mandela Foundation would kindly permit that 2017 be the year that the memory of OR Tambo comes alive in the minds of South Africans. Kgotsong!







Meeting Mbali

Dressed in a black t-shirt, a pair of blue faded jeans and black and white Converse sneakers, an assistant at Exclusive Books store at Cavendish Mall in Claremont noticed a young man who was rummaging impatiently through the South African History and Politics section with no apparent luck. He appeared as if he is ready turn over the entire store. Besides looking frustrated about not finding what he was looking for, the assistant thought the impatient young man was not bad looking. ‘He is cute’, the assistant admitted to herself.

‘Hi there. Can I help?’

The young chap was now reading the back of Cyril Ramaphosa’s biography by Anthony Butler, a Politics lecturer at UCT, when he heard a female voice greet him. He turned, and suddenly calm, he registered the face belonging to the voice.

He responded, ‘Oh, hi…Yes, I am looking for Thabo Mbeki: The Dream Deferred.’

She could see the frustration melting away from his eyes. Like an animal that has been tamed the anger was no longer there.

‘The Dream Deferred…by Mark Gevisser right?’ That is the one, Tshepo answered. ‘Let me check on the system if it is still available. It is a very popular book.’

She turned and walked towards the counter. He followed suit. There was no doubt that he was smitten.

The day was Monday but the bookshop appeared as if it was the weekend. People were milling about. Some were seated in the adjoining building which served as a coffee shop. An old white couple sat at a table drinking coffee with muffins; the old timer glued to a newspaper as if to avoid his spouse while the old lady seated across him just sat starring at her husband, visibly annoyed. Others were engaged in laidback conversations, not in hurry to rush any place, and occasionally interrupted by a waiter who wished to know if they were still alright while the rest with shopping bags walked in to buy books.

‘Is everything still okay here’, he enquired in a subservient tone.

One lady, blonde and maybe in her early forties, asked rather excitedly to be pointed in the direction of Danielle Steel’s oeuvre. Her taste, while hers and one she was entitled to, caught Tshepo off guard and he found himself questioning her intellectual judgement. Seeing all this rustle and bustle of people, most of whom were white – the only black people he mostly saw in places like these were employees – Tshepo wondered to himself, ‘When do these people work?’

Due to the store being busy, which was most of the time, there was no computer that was immediately free. The assistant asked one of her colleagues to check if they had Thabo Mbeki: The Dream Deferred in stock. The colleague ran a search and the book was not available. Tshepo was disappointed, and just as he was about to leave he was assured that a new batch would arrive in the next two days, which was on Wednesday. ‘I could call you to let you know when the stock arrives. I will keep a copy aside for you’, the assistant offered.

Tshepo thought it a great idea. He had been looking for the book for the past few weeks and he could not find it.

‘Please write your name and contact details here’, she handed him a small rectangular paper and a pen. Tshepo wrote his details and gave back the paper to the assistant.

He found her to be extremely attractive. ‘Thank you very much. I really appreciate it’, he said. ‘I did not catch your name’, Tshepo the smooth talker had now kicked in.

‘Excuse me? I did not get that.’

‘I mean what is your name? So I know who to look for when I come for the book.’ He felt the urge to explain, avoiding to come across as forward. ‘Oh, my name is Mbali.’

Tshepo was surprised by the name but he made sure she did not notice. I am sure she gets this all the time, he thought. Instead he smiled and bade her farewell. Even though he did not make his intentions clear to her, at least he has her name and where she works. Plus, he will be back for the book. That will be his opportunity to ask her out.


Khayelitsha and The White House

Phumelela Residence in its heyday was the least known residences of CPUT. Located on the corner of Malleson Road and Durban Road opposite UCT’s Liesbeek Residence in downtown Mowbray, the residence resembled more a private house than a student dwelling. The university’s decision to purchase the house was not planned, more a desperate knee-jerk reaction. Having realised that they had admitted more students than a number they could handle, the school’s management, with egg on their face, hurried to buy the property. The residence had two buildings – the larger building housed about seventeen students while the smaller one – The White House – accommodated only three students. The White House which was slightly to the back of the larger house yet directly faced with the electric gate and had more style and finesse, thus warranting its naming after the official residence of America’s presidents by Pule.

So just like that, the university had purchased the house, filled it with male students only and then to forget about it. The students benefited from the amnesia, or faked amnesia, for it never made sense how a property in a suburb like Mowbray could be so ‘conveniently abandoned’. It is not like the students were staying for free. Evidently someone, or some people, were benefiting from the forgotten existence of Phumelela; not that students were complaining about being left alone. To them the absence of authorities from university fit perfectly with the lives they imagined about tertiary life. The freedom and privacy they were afforded, a privilege unheard of in all the university’s student residences. In addition to the privacy and freedom, the near anonymity of the residence among other students made Phumelela a romantic myth. This romanticism could always be gleaned on the faces of the girls brought over to visit. ‘Is this a really a res of CPUT?’ Mohau was asked one day by one of his string of ‘girlfriends’. He would playfully refer to them as his ‘perpetrators’. He on the other hand was their ‘cooperative victim’. ‘Welcome to The Lodge ma’am’, he said. ‘Hayibo! You even call it The Lodge? Akusemnandi apha.’ The young lady was impressed. The young men who stayed at cnr Malleson and Durban Road nicknamed Phumelela ‘The Lodge’ because of its exotic white setting tucked away between large trees in the discreet southern suburb of Mowbray. Pule called the larger house Khayelitsha because the building resembled poverty and suffering. This comparison never sat well with Mohau and Olwethu, the only two in the group who were part of the residents of the larger house. Despite what was a futile protest on their part, the name stuck. Anyone who knew of Phumelela – or The Lodge as its denizens preferred it to be called – understood very well that the property had two houses: one large and called Khayelitsha and the smaller one known as The White House.

The food was ready. Pule had finished preparing pap, chakalaka gravy and Olwethu who was trusted with the meat was also done. In other words, lunch was served. The boys stood up and gathered at the tap outside the house to wash their hands. A cellphone rang. By now their faces were proof that with enough alcohol in his system, man can momentarily lose his natural looks. No matter how dashing he may be, liquor had the power to change all that, transforming him into a creature that could upset the most delicate and sensitive among a family of men. The overflowing of cans in the dustbin when you entered the common area in The White House was another visible sign that this chorus of young men had not been drinking milk. They had been praying something higher and mightier than they could ever handle.

‘Hey you.’ Tumelo answered his mobile phone.

Yonda, Mohau and Olwethu took turns to wash their hands. Tshepo stood a few meters, talking on the phone.

‘How are you doing? Did you manage to wake up after last night?’

Instead of proceeding into the common area where Pule was dishing, the gang decided to stick around and eavesdrop on their friend’s conversation. Leading the pack was the nosy Yonda who kept on asking in hushed tones, ‘A ke ene? A ke ngwana wa maabane?’ Being a natural Isizulu speaker, he was coming along well in mastering leleme la marena – King Moshoeshoe’s language. The crew tried very hard to repress their cackles. Tshepo walked away, ignoring Yonda as if to swat away an irritating fly. The boys laughed some more and entered the common area to join Pule, who like an overbearing mother, kept calling for them to come and eat.

Beer can in hand, Tshepo continued with his conversation while the boys walked in the house to eat. On the other side of the phone was a voice of a lady whose call had suddenly put a big smile on Tshepo’s face.


Chris Hani: An Ordinary Hero

In her emotive and rousing piece of Chris Hani – the late ANC (African National Congress) struggle stalwart – the academic and activist Nomboniso Gasa writes so beautifully and movingly of the welcoming party this national hero received upon arriving in his home village of Sabalele, Cofimvaba in the province of Eastern Cape. Thembisile Martin ‘Chris’ Hani was born in this village on 28 June 1942. Over two decades later he was forced to leave his country to fight for the freedom of the land and the people he loved dearly. Here he was in the early 1990s, finally home.

Nomboniso Gasa, a talented writer, one blessed with not only the gift on an essayist but a novelist – the latter being the most difficult of literary disciplines to undertake – offers us a rare glimpse into the atmosphere that reigned when Hani returned to his birthplace, and perhaps in extension, giving us a picture of the sort of mood that was commonplace during that period when political parties were unbanned, exiles coming back home after spending years in places unimaginable to their loved ones and political prisoners being released. It must have been truly an emotional experience tempered with jubilation.

In a passage of the article Gasa describes vividly how Hani responded to his aunt who had ventured to ask of her nephew what he had been doing all these years. The poor lady could not have expected what was to come, and the reader is also caught off guard, forced to ponder what might have visited Hani to perform this stunt. ‘He beckoned one of the soldiers to give him his assault rifle’, she writes. ‘Almost playfully, he stood behind his aunt, gave her the AK-47 and balanced it in her hands. He supported her with his own weight. He put her finger on the trigger and pointed the rifle towards the sky.’ Gasa informs us that at the time Chris Hani’s aunt had lost her vision and therefore relied on her hearing to register her nephew’s presence. ‘This and many other things is what I learnt when I was away, dadobawo’, he apparently said to his blind and unwary dadobawo (aunt) before firing a single shot into the air. ‘She jumped, shocked and amazed. He gave back the AK-47 to his comrade. They said nothing as people ululated. She touched his face and led him and his family to his mother who waited in the house.’

Perhaps the most touching of Gasa’s story is when the mother of this hero of the people entered her home – herself a brave hero in her own right, for she ‘endured torture and threats’ at the hands of apartheid South Africa for being a parent of Chris Hani. Her sin was that she had given birth and nurtured this revolutionary, this warrior of the poor and downtrodden, a man who had become a thorn on their side, and therefore she, like many other parents around the country, deserved to be punished. When Hani entered she ‘tried to stand up as a sign of respect’ as ‘he was no longer the son she had sent to fetch water and wash dishes.’ In the eyes of Nomayise Hani, the mother of the commander of Umkhonto we Sizwe, ‘He was a hero now, a leader.’ He belonged no longer to her but to the nation, to South Africa, to the rest of the continent and just about anyone who aligned themselves with the ideas and principles that Chris Hani espoused; and thus he deserved her respect.

To defer to his mother and show her that nothing had changed, that he still was her son and she was still his mother, he ‘quickly knelt down and held her. “Mama!” That was all he said as he folded her in his arms. They had come to this place, where words were inadequate.’

‘Thembisile Martin “Chris” Hani was home’, asserts the writer. Of the lessons we could learn from this gallant leader of the people, Nomboniso Gasa counsels thus: ‘Chris Hani had many features, and in remembering him we need to try to recapture not only the heroic soldier that he was but also the complex human who cared about a range of people not only for political reasons but from a deep emotional connection.’

In this enlightening but short piece the writer has reminded us of the innate qualities of mankind: selflessness, care, love, respect and humility. These are qualities that constituted the person that was Chris Hani. It is a pity that Nomboniso Gasa could not offer us this magnanimous cadre of the once reputable ‘broad church’ in a lengthy piece of writing: a detailed book that would serve as a window that allows us to peek into the life of Thembisile Martin “Chris” Hani.

In April 10, 1993 Chris Hani would unfortunately succumb to a brutal death at his home in Boksburg, Johannesburg. His shooting resulting in his sad departure has since been a weapon for politicians who are competing for positions. They would do well to heed his words when he said: ‘The perks of government are not really appealing to me. Everybody would like to have a good job, a good salary…but for me that is not the all of struggle. What is important is the continuation of the struggle…the real problems of the country are not whether one is in Cabinet…but what we do for social upliftment of the working masses of our country.’

This year Chris Hani would have been celebrating his 75th birthday anniversary. Regrettably he was stolen from us 24 years ago. While that may sadly be the case, may his soul rest in eternal peace and glory, and may his fire continue to burn bright, guiding us in our journey towards building the nation and society he envisioned. Kgotsong!

Braai at The Lodge

Occasionally a sound could be heard of something small hitting the ground. Here and there ripe peaches would submit to the force of gravity and fall on the ground. Not far from the peach tree a group of youth sat relaxingly in a small, private circle as if hammering away at matters that concerned the community of a village earlier in the 20th century. But this was the 21st century and the young men were not discussing matters remotely concerned with the wellbeing of villagers. Enjoying the shadow of trees that surrounded the house, the six young men were accompanied by the ‘holy water’ as the youth often called their favourite alcoholic beverages. It was between 10 and 11 in the morning of an undeniably exquisite Saturday; the summer weather in Mother City was in a mood to show off. Continuing from what was a very rough night, the boys woke up and immediately immersed themselves in large waters of beer. Heads were pounding so to nurse their massive hangover the boys could hardly wait for 9 o’clock for the stores to open so they could buy drinks and food, the former being a priority.

From a distance twirls of smoke could be seen going up into the atmosphere merging with the air of the serene capital of Western Cape. The self-appointed chef among the young men shouted: ‘Hee banna, this pap is not enough. We need more mealie meal.’ Pule, an Electrical Engineering student from the Cape Peninsula University of Technology or CPUT, was the one sharing this gastronomic nugget with his buddies. All his friends seated outside were studying Electrical Engineering, except Mohau whose major was Civil Engineering. These were Engineering students, the youth entrusted with the future of South Africa and the brilliant minds who will one day be tapped to provide the nation with innovative ideas and sophisticated technical skills. For now, they were not concerned with the future. At this moment, critical to their immediate needs was finding enough pap, braaing meat and drinking until the wheels fall off.  

The subject of the conversation was Tshepo or Mtshepana as friends and acquaintances called him. The girls affectionately called him Tee. His friends demanded to know what had transpired between him and the girl he was flirting with last night at Zevolis, a popular student hangout in Rondebosch. In the group Tshepo was accepted as the Mack Daddy – the pretty boy. His handsome looks, tall frame and booming baritone always had women gasping for air whenever they laid eyes on his caramel face. A few years ago when they were in their second year of university, Tshepo broke up with one his many girlfriends. Asked by his friends why he broke up with her – they liked the girlfriend – and he said that she was always nagging him. ‘She wanted more than I could deliver so I let her go’, he replied with a hope to discourage the topic. The young lady did not take kindly to the break-up. She wrote him a two-page letter, amongst other things thanking him for the time they spent together. ‘I love you and will always do. I realise that this is selfish of me to put this on your shoulders but I cannot pretend that I do not miss having you in my life. I know you made it clear that you no longer cared for me but I cannot stop thinking about you. Tshepo my eternal love, I cannot stand the idea that you and I are no longer together. Anyhow, before I permanently exit this world, I wanted to say farewell to you and wish you all the best my dear love. Your eternal love, Mpho.’ Tshepo found the letter under his door but he did not bother to read it. The following day he received a call. Mpho was found unconscious by her flat mate the previous night. She had overdosed on sleeping pills. Fortunately for Mpho, her flat mate found her in time and the good doctors at Groote Schuur managed to avoid an unnecessary casualty. After the incident with Mpho, Tshepo eschewed female company for a long time, pouring his energy into his studies, consuming large amounts of beer in addition to being a resident DJ at Reload, a wretched student spot in Observatory.

‘Chief, what happened to that woman? Did you moer?’ The question came from Yonda, uncouth as ever. Short – in fact the shortest member of the group – but smart as a whip. Notwithstanding their notorious penchant for drinking and partying, Yonda, Tshepo, Mohau and Tumelo were now master’s students at CPUT. In less than eighteen months they would be finished. ‘Yes chief, did you win? You are a snake, we know you left with her’, added Tumelo with his soprano voice while the rest of the boys burst out with laughter. ‘Banna, lo rata tshele’, Tshepo retorted. He refused to shed light on his female companion from last night, and indulged them in laughter.

The trusted chef Pule disappeared into his room leaving the pots to cook. Holding a cold can of Castle Lager in his left hand, occasionally tilting it up to wet his throat, Olwethu held in his right hand a fork to turn the meat on the braai stand. The other four slouching on camp chairs, looking lazy continued to rave about the events of the night before. ‘Last night was really epic’, mused Tshepo in a smile that suggested mischief. ‘Hee wena, stop saying last night was epic and tell us about that beautiful chick you were with last night.’ Again, everyone burst out laughing. Tshepo’s secrecy was irking Yonda. ‘This guy! He is busy telling us about how last night was epic like we were not there. Chief, we want to hear about that chick.’ He could not stop gushing. ‘Moer! She is beautiful tlheng banna. Bafana, where did you find her?’ For strangers Yonda was the most well-behaved of the boys, until they sat with him in a setting he found comfortable and discovered his naughty humour. His funny, naughty way endeared him to his friends, and because of his character and diminutive structure, the boys were always protective of him.

Just as Yonda was ready to grill Tshepo about his relationship with the ‘beautiful chick from last night’, another sound permeated the air and lightly interrupted the quiet serenity of Mowbray – although the intermittent noise of taxis and trains hooting could be heard from the main road and the station – and jolted the boys outside into a loud celebration. The melodic voice of Busi was accompanied by the African laced beats produced by Black Coffee. But this was a new remix from the revered international house music producer Raw Artistic Soul. The music producer put his personal touch on the song that accentuated his reputation as a world class producer and cemented Black Coffee as a musical genius. The captivating voice of Busi fused unforcefully with the beats, teasing the ear of an attentive listener and haunted the memory of a music connoisseur. She sang smoothly over the pacey yet mellow beats, seducing anyone who cared to listen: ‘Your turn me on.’

Mohau, showcasing his dancing skills, lost his mind. ‘Pule, I don’t care for who remixed this song, I want it.’ The remix was new. ‘You can download it from Traxsource.’ Smiling, Pule who appeared through the window of his room was in a way telling Mohau to get lost. ‘Whatever. Okusalayo I will get it’, Mohau returned the favour and continued to dance. ‘I heard this song yesterday.’ Mohau looked at Yonda with accusing eyes. ‘Wena? Unamanga. You were so drunk izolo how could you have heard this song?’ Yonda was not one to easily to give in, especially when he knows he was right. ‘Hee wena, that was before. This clown played it.’ He pointed to Tshepo who looked not ready to say anything, rather enjoying the banter between Yonda and Mohau. It was well known that the two always ended up in this sort of sparring of words. ‘Bafana, you mean that is how Tshepo ended up winning that beautiful chick?’ Olwethu asked with a naughty smile to poke the fire. ‘I am beginning to suspect so. Bua monna.’ He was again looking at Tshepo. The laughter erupted. Pule, the chef was back from his room. He opened the fridge to get a drink and walked outside. ‘Shaq is right. Mtshepana played it last before stepping down. It was his departure song…And oh my did the crowd go crazy.’ He patted Tshepo on his shoulder as if to congratulate him. Tshepo remained seated while the rest of his crew lost their minds, instead bobbing his head to appreciate the music. ‘The original song by Black Coffee is really nice but this Raw Artistic Soul remix is something else. The response from the crowd is a testament that this going to be a club banger.’ He continued to bury his mates in a white smile that added to a list of attributes girls could not stop gushing about. ‘Are you playing tonight bafana? I want to stand next you so pretty women can see me as well.’ Yonda, refusing to let go of the matter, he was mocking Tshepo. ‘No Shaq, I am not playing. Tonight, I am drinking like an unemployed person with no shame. By the way, is this beer enough? We should maybe add some more.’ His comrades agreed that they should add more stock. Tumelo and Olwethu agreed to walk with him to the liquor store which was not far from the house – The Lodge.