Comrade Baby ...and other South African Adventures

By Hagen Engler

Hagen Engler gains perspective on blackness, whiteness, drunkness, punkness, the Eastern Cape, Robot Guys and the resilience of his cushion-sized liver, as South Africa evolves from a gnomes' lair to a proper country with equal rights and opportunities for all-time cock-ups, poetry, depravity and hedonistic benders like you've never seen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hagen Engler
• Release date: Dec 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9780620554763

Hagen Engler

Hagen Engler is an independent operator. Let’s rephrase that, I am an independent operator. I’ve been self-publishing anthologies, novels and magazines on my Pocket Assegaai Publications imprint for years. There have also been albums of music with Jedi Rollers, a short film, spoken-word poetry, and an eclectic blog of chaos and creativity at hagenshouse.com. In between, we bestrode the mainstream media firmament as editor of FHM magazine, freelance writer for numerous titles and web platforms and as wordsmith for hire. Hagen Engler is the greatest export of Port Elizabeth, South Africa, after Melissa from Idols, Athol Fugard, John Kani, Graeme Pollock, Peter Pollock, Shaun Pollock, Jeremy Maggs, Danie Gerber if you count Despatch, Schalk Burger, Siya Kolisi, Evolver One, Garth Wright if you count Uitenhage, Sashi Naidoo and The Finkelstiens. For more information or to purchase books, email [e-mail], or visit www.hagenshouse.com.

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Foreword: Since you’re Interested…

It was about time I did one of these things. The written work piles up and you keep looking forward. But after a while it’s worth consolidating and going, Right, what have we been up to? It’s fun, too.

The typings in this collection represent about a decade’s worth of activity, during which I wrote, performed solo and with Jedi Rollers, lived around South Africa, by turns in Port Elizabeth, Cape Town and Johannesburg, and worked as a writer, editor, and copy editor in magazines. Not least of these was the illustrious FHM, where we were in charge of choosing which bikini model to put in which bikini.

The columns appeared in Weekend Post, Sunday Times, Afropolitan, the web mags Mahala and That’s How It Is, and on my blog of chaos and creativity, hagenshouse.com. 10 Reasons Cape Town Can Fuck Off, The Colour Of One, and perhaps others have appeared in earlier collections but, like warts on one’s elbow, they have stood the test of time.

The ones with rhythm that look like they could be poems if you screw your eyes up and make a leap of imagination, well those have been delivered as part of my spoken-word set, or accompanied by some of the dodgiest guitar this side of an old Persian man with one arm.

These collections – of which this is my fourth – function as a diary of personal evolution, anecdotes starring myself and others, reminiscences, philosophical musings and tales of derring-do. In the period under review I’ve recorded albums, edited a magazine, run the Comrades, climbed Kilimanjaro, stopped dopping, started again, and fallen in with this stunning black woman I met at the PE Cool Runnings.

She is Nomfundo, the Comrade Baby of the title, my resident Africanist militant, human reality check, lovely wife and the mother of Liso Engler. This book is for both of them.

The path one has walked to this point parallels some South African social developments, at other times it is my fault alone.

I’ve put it in a roughly chronological order, so you can read it in a straight stripe, and discern themes and evolutions, or dip in at will like it was literary packet of mini-Chomps.

It’s a book. You know how it works.

Peace.

Hagen Engler

Johannesburg

October, 2012

Other Books by Hagen Engler

Life’s A Beach

Water Features

Greener Grass

Magnum Chic

Buttons For Gaia

Planetary Vehicles

Marrying Black Girls for Guys who aren’t Black

Are you a guy? And you’re not black? And you dig black girls?

Not just to look at their asses from a distance, but actually to talk to them and ultimately try pomp them?

And then actually pomp them and start going out in public together and stand in the queue at movies with them and all that? Go to braais and say, This is my girlfriend Letsego? or Lonwabo, or Sibu, or Kate because she grew up with a white family. Or whatever.

If this sounds like you, and you follow things through to their natural conclusion, you may even end up marrying your babe, differently coloured as you might be.

It happened to me, so I have prepared a list of tips.

Marrying Black Girls for Guys Who Aren’t Black:

Prepare to not follow the conversation

You’re not black, so don’t even try to be. Maybe you know some Xhosa, maybe you’ve had black friends all your life, maybe you’ve been building RDP houses in Katlehong for the past ten years. But you’re not black. When you hang with her mates, you will spend a lot of time staring blankly into the middle distance, smiling vaguely, while people bellow at each other in vernac, laugh their arses off and generally have more fun than you. If you stick with it, you’ll get to meet her family, where the same scenario will play itself out times a hundred.

Prepare for the speeches

African culture is big on making speeches. Cultural ceremonies are basically extended talk shops where the okes – the men, mostly – get to showcase their thousand-year-old debating skills. African culture is basically a massive, continent-wide Toastmasters club.

While everyone’s making speeches you don’t understand, nod politely and only ask what was said afterwards. Sooner or later they’ll ask you to say something. Keep it concise, because you’re about to make a total cock of yourself.

Lobola: a minefield

It’s supposed to be a patriarchy, but in reality most black kids are raised by women. Lobola negotiations are supposed to be handled between the uncles of your two clans. A quick check will confirm that you have only three uncles, two of whom now live in Australia, and Oom Johan, currently on probation for assaulting his farm workers.

On her side, there will be roughly 27 uncles, brothers, half-brothers, half-uncles, cousin-uncles and cousin-brothers. They will all insist they are the right person to conduct lobola negotiations with.

You are a racist: face it

You can marry six black babes in a row and you’ll still be a racist. We all are. Being a racist is part of being South African. Luckily, she’s one too. You okes are made for each other. Just admit it at every opportunity then wallow in your inbred racial prejudice and bigotry.

Park in front of TV talking in ethnic accents, ripping off every race group in turn. Every now and then you’ll wade into a political debate with an unthought-through clanger of such ignorant racism you’ll shock yourself. Don’t stress about it. You can still marry her.

Embrace the B

Choice of music remains one of the most powerful cultural signifiers. So unless you’re dating earth’s only black female fan of Facing The Gallows, you’re going to be listening to a lot of R&B. There will be Beyoncé, yes, but also old-school stuff you didn’t know existed.

Try Silk, Tamie, Johnny Gill, Shai and Tevin Campbell. And you will never get to like it. It will be a living hell every time you hear it. On one occasion you’ll drive the whole way from Sandton to Kempton listening to Forever My Lady by Jodeci. Oh, and your Bon Iver will not be tolerated. Trivium? Forget about it.

Black babe = gold digger

Ja, I know. Not necessarily. But to your folks that’s all she is. So they’ll insist on a pre-nup to stop her stealing your family’s dynastic fortune. Even if her dad’s a company director, and your old man’s a caretaker at the Boknes caravan park.

Life will suck at this point. And you’ll have a moment in the lawyer’s office where you’ll want to rip your face off. But on some deep, twisted level, there’s a certain pride in being a target of gold-digging. Misguided as that pride may be.

You get a new wife every month

Because black women do hair like nobody else does hair. Your babe will pop off to get her hair done at ten in the morning, and return, like, eleven hours later! When she left she’ll have looked like Keri Hilson, and she’ll come back looking like Diana Ross the time she dropped her toaster in the bath.

It’s disturbing having your lady look completely different and you’ll be shocked when she first walks in the door. But don’t give the game away. Try not to gasp – she’s invested eleven hours in this, after all. Practise saying, Wow! You look amazing.

You’re going to have to defend your territory

When you go out with a white babe, guys seem to at least grant you the basic respect of waiting till you’re not around before they try to woo her away from you. Not so much with black ladies.

You can be standing right next to her at the gym, and some dude will grab her by the arm and ask her where she’s from. Policemen will wolf-whistle her while you’re walking right next to each other. Beggars at the robots will tell her she’s phakile. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to take someone by the throat and threaten to rip his fuckin’ eyes out. Think of it as a romantic gesture, defending your lady’s honour. You old smoothie, you.

Cultures clash

Have you ever bought something on lay-bye? How do you rate the taste of umleqwa compared to normal chicken? Do you want some of this delicious tripe? Aren’t you dying for some magwinya? Aren’t you broken that Oprah’s off air? Not? Well maybe you’re a white oke going out with a black babe.

Or, to be honest, maybe you’re me. Let’s stop pretending these things are universal – these are just some examples of what I’ve experienced in my relationship. And to generalise is to engage in racist stereotyping, and we agreed we’re trying to cut down on racism. As if that’s possible.

I’m pretty happy indulging my personal case of jungle fever, and if you’re into something similar, I wish you the very best of polychromatic good luck. Maybe I’ll see you guys out some night. At a Kenny Lattimore concert or some shit like that…

The Colour of One

I’m a white man, but I’m an African. Got a house, I got bills, but I got skills, like they show on videos on Channel O. Drop a groove, bust a move, I can improve. But not like they need to in Ibiza, say. My groove’s indigenous, close to home, on-going like a Boeing, you know. And this is South Africa. African American, European African, African African... D’you still get such a thing? Such a thang? It’s not a nation, it’s a cross-cultural pollination, ongoing like a Boeing.

Ja, this is South Africa, home of the Khoi-San. Remember them? Nah, me neither, but I’ll tell you this, they got a legacy. It’s in the hips and the clicks of the Xhosa chicks, that you digs, but you can’t get, ’cos you can’t dance. Yeah, this is South Africa, and we’re getting browner, reinventing ourselves, a genetic wonder. Give us a generation or three, then you’ll see.

Even our roots rockers are browner than, say, a dude from Nigeria. There the colour of unity’s blacker, but still just as lekker. And the bigger picture? Unity’s black’s far less pitcher. You got reds, yellows, every hue. You got planets with beings that are see-through. And that’ll be the colour of each of us, when we get back to one.

You’re gonna be pickin’ up some kind of funky, friendly togetherness.

A united consciousness.

A spiritual Mauritius…

With one sunny shining, one love that’s sweet.

One sunny side of one big, round street.

One big conception of one common goal.

A myriad parts of one loving whole.

Kaleidoscope aspects of one creole soul.

But until then, brown will be the colour of one.

Brown will be the colour of one.

Early Lessons in the Ways of Earth

In 1975, my parents won a pig in a raffle at the German Club.

At that stage we were living in Fern Glen, one block back from Cape Road, and I must have been three or four. Those days I was attending Newton Park Pre-Primary.

This was also the time when I came to myself, when my consciousness was awakened and I became aware that I was a soul housed in a magnificent planetary vehicle.

I could walk and talk, but I had a lot to learn about the ways of Earth.

Then, as I say, my folks won a pig in the German Club raffle.

I came back from playschool one day to find he had settled into a corner of the garage. He was a brilliant little pig, bright pink, with an enthusiastic, wiggly piglet tail and an endearing, squealy oink to him.

He was like a shaved puppy with a button nose, and he was all ours. Me and my sister would rush back from kindergarten every day so we could frolic in the back garden with our new best friend.

We christened him Archie, probably because of my predilection for Archie comics. Archie was my first pet. My porn-star name – derived, as you know, from one’s mother’s maiden name and the name of your first pet – is thus Archie Handley.

What’s yours?

Anyway, I couldn’t have wished for a more handsome fellow to introduce me to the boundless joy of being boy and pet. Pigs are actually quite clean, and when they’re young they still possess a gambolling energy that makes them great value.

Older pigs are lame. They basically lie in an enormous fleshy heap and wait to die. No bru, piglets are where it’s at.

We played with Archie, we bathed him, we fed him, we carried him around, we dressed him up like a little squealing Barbie doll. It was bliss.

Then, one day, we went on what was billed as an adventure. We loaded up the entire family and headed up Kragga Kamma Road to a smallholding, where Archie was dropped off for a piggie holiday.

All I can say about that is, if you’re ever invited to go on a piggie holiday, do not go.

Archie did return from hollies, about six weeks later. He had been fattened up, slaughtered, and was now the main course at a Saturday-arvie spit braai!

At what was our first-ever spit-braai, we were shown the crisp, dripping carcass spinning on the spit and told, You know who that is? That’s Archie!

The punchline of our parents’ elaborate, months-long joke was even captured on film. There’s a very famous Engler-family picture nestling in one of our photo albums. It features my sister and I screaming in dismay, shrieking our heads off, tears streaming down our cheeks. Utterly grief stricken.

In the background a group of grown-ups merrily work the spit and debate whether it’s time to start cutting the meat.

Lesson One learnt: The ways of earth are indeed strange.

The Great Gonzo Scooter Assault

Just like every time, we swung by the bottle store after surfing the East Pier. And just like every time, we bought a two-litre scrotum of OB’s, from the Solly Kramer’s in Main Street.

There were four of us, so we managed to klap the whole thing by the time we got to Grahamstown. Plus a loaf of white bread, a big packet of Nik-Naks and a third of a bankie. Just like every time.

Only as we rolled down Bathurst Street did we remember that it was our residence’s annual house party. Luckily the Graham Hotel off-sales was on the way. We got vodka and creme soda, which would go well with the punch.

By 6pm we were slamdancing to Come On Eileen in the common room. The first of the Oriel Hall girls had barely poked their cautious noses in the room and we’d already knocked over the drinks table and torn the curtains off the walls. Then Grant asked me to come with him to PE. He wasn’t too sure of the directions to the airport and he needed a local to direct him.

I schemed why not and hopped in his Golf GTS with some aylies for the road. Just like every time.

By the time we got to PE I was no use to Grant. It was dark, all the roads looked the same and I couldn’t remember if the airport was in third, fourth or fifth avenue Walmer.

We found it by fluke. Grant sommer parked his car in the loading zone and sprinted into Departures. He ran right past my mate Chappie, who had just landed, or was dropping someone off or something. By this stage I was so blitzed, Chappie must’ve thought I was on crystal meth or someone. It was about 8pm.

Chappie dropped me off at my folks’ place. No one was home, but I still had a key, so I was able to let myself in and then get my sister’s scooter out of the garage and head out into the wild unknown towards Bananas, capital of the PE nightlife.

When I got to the Summies hotel, I stashed the white helmet next to a white wall to, like, camouflage it. Soon I was king of the dancefloor at Bananas. B-52’s, The Cure, TSOL, Men At Work, eVoid, Oingo Boingo… just like every time.

Kurt Buchner was there and all these ous from Wild Side Surf Club. Me and Patrick Parkins went for a walk on the beach with these two girls when Died In Your Arms came on.

When I came out the club to leave, someone had kyfed the helmet. So began a fraught and nerve-wracking trip back to Central, posted, on a scooter without a helmet.

The cops caught me doing about 40 kays an hour on the pavement outside the Hotel Elizabeth.

I explained to them how I was on my sister’s scooter and I didn’t have the key for the helmet lock, so I’d hidden it by a white wall because it was the same colour as the helmet. But a thief had obviously managed to spot the helmet, leaving me no choice but to drive home without it…

Not missing a beat, the cop asks, Het jy gedrink vanaand?

I reply, No, of course not.

Just like every time.

The Wednesday Pants

Chip couldn’t find his tracksuit pants, and that was the start of all the trouble.

I’m very... I need everything to be just right, you know? So when I go to gym on a Wednesday, I’ve gotta have my Wednesday pants. But I couldn’t find them.

He stands up from the table as he tells it, and when the conversation wanders somewhere else, he steers it back to his story about his tracksuit pants.

So I decide to go have a look in Karen’s closet. I reckon the maid might’ve packed them away or something.

So, I look in her drawers, on her shelves, and then I go look in her cupboard…

And there’s this big, litre-and-a-half bottle of water. Why would she have a big bottle of water in her cupboard, behind her shoes?

So I have a sip, and it’s vodka!

And you must know, Chip is a recovering addict. He’s been tidy since 2006. He’s about to have his big four-year share at NA. He’s been with Karen for two years, and now he finds out she’s hiding vodka in her cupboard.

I just flip out, bru. I flip out. I start going through everything. Going through her panty drawers, everything and I start finding all kinds of other stuff…

He starts finding other bottles of booze… these weird little plastic wrappers… And the whole time I just know, here it comes. Here it comes. Any minute now I’m gonna find drugs…

Because it’s not like Karen was pretending she didn’t drink. She did. But she’d just have a glass of wine or two. And then somehow she’d end up more tipsy than anyone else. But that was just her. People are weird.

I find these empty plastic bags that might’ve had weed in them, and then eventually I find this little packet with some white powder in it. Bru, I take all the stuff, all that kak. I just pile it all up on her dressing table and leave for gym.

A week later, Karen and her kids have moved out of Chip’s house. By the time of his four-year share, he’s single again, at the age of 45.

"It’s