Big news. This writer has spotted a great future South African statesman. The person in question is still very young and currently lives in the same part of Alberton as I do. This kid has negotiation skills Cyril Ramaphosa can only dream of, plus sideways evasive genius to rival that of Jacob Zuma’s legal team. He is five years old, lives with two brothers – respectably four and three – in a rented apartment, cared for by a working mother and a retired grandmother. The mother leaves early every morning to work, the…
Big news. This writer has spotted a great future South African statesman. The person in question is still very young and currently lives in the same part of Alberton as I do.
This kid has negotiation skills Cyril Ramaphosa can only dream of, plus sideways evasive genius to rival that of Jacob Zuma’s legal team.
He is five years old, lives with two brothers – respectably four and three – in a rented apartment, cared for by a working mother and a retired grandmother. The mother leaves early every morning to work, leaving the grandmother in charge.
Last Saturday, when I was trying to come up with some sort of column for this page, I heard beyond commotion. It turned out to be my dogs, barking madly as someone banged on the outside gate.
When I opened the gate, I found three small children in the driveway. The eldest—obviously the spokesperson—signed me out. Then he folded his arms on his chest, introduced himself as Jody, and told his story.
“We have a football that my father gave us the last time he visited,” he said.
ALSO READ: Cyril Ramaphosa hunts top agent
“My mom won’t let us play with it in the front yard because she says if we kick him in the street, we’ll go get him, and she’s afraid we’ll get run over.
“Today we did play up front because Gogo is sleeping and not wearing her hearing aid. But I made a mistake – I kicked the ball hard and it went over the wall into your yard.
“Then your dogs came and chewed it. Then your pig came and ate it. Now it’s very f**ked,” he announced solemnly.
At that moment I couldn’t contain myself anymore and started laughing. Jody looked shocked. It was clear that his parents had warned him about fat old white men who found the trials of little black children amusing.
“It’s not funny – my mom will give me shelter when she gets home, and Gogo will be mad because I went into her room to see if she was wearing her hearing aid,” he admonished me.
Appropriately penalized, I went to fetch the ball. On closer inspection, it seemed stuffed.
‘You can buy us a new one. My mom says you have to be rich because you drive different new cars all the time,” he explained.
I started explaining to him the concept of test cars, where automakers lend poor motoring journalists like me expensive cars in exchange for published driving evaluations.
“I don’t own the cars,” I said.
You may also like: Non-intrusive online monitoring app protects children and guides parents
“But you drive it for free. When my aunt Elizabeth got married, her father got a BMW to take her to church, and he said it cost him a lot of money,” Jody argued.
He had me there – this little man, with his hands on his hips, brandishing the inequality spear. Besides, my dogs and pets ate his football. So there we were – Jody and I in my old bakkie, on a mission to buy a football in Alberton.
Not just any soccer ball, mind you – it had to be a certain size, plus white with black blocks on it. Now, when the World Cup is underway, you can’t step into a shop without falling over baskets of footballs. The problem is that the World Cup is now cancelled.
We went to Checkers, Spar, Game and every little store in Alberton City. No one had the right size white football with black blocks on it. Finally, in desperation, on our way home, we stopped at Shoprite and found a match.
“We have to hurry. I have to get the ball so dirty that my mom can’t tell the difference,” Jody said.
Apparently that was what he did. And when I drove past their gate the next morning, he stood there and gave me a thumbs up and a wink.
That boy will be president someday.