A guy named Duze
Duze massages his backside. He is not the autoerotic type, neither is he scratching burning buttocks trapped in tight denims under the cruel scorching African under. This is summer, a very hot Zimbabwean summer, and many look up to the heavens to open and weep as their only consolation that they will perhaps not only cool off and escape the heat, but also be able to grow their own food. With a smug look on his face, it is obvious that here is one young man with money in his pocket. Duze again massages his backside. He is happy feeling the bulge on his back pocket. His wallet is stacked with crisp hundred 100 Rand bills. Many of his peers are struggling to get five Rand yet here he is strutting about in the city centre without a care in the world feeling like a million bucks.
Duze has just arrived from South Africa where he has been working in the past year, and it feels great being back home with the kind of money he has and he can’t wait to spoil himself silly. He stops at a city pub, one of many that have sprouted in virtually every corner after the citizens of this land began using currencies of other countries. He has on his mind a few choice beers that he saw and sipped with gusto in South Africa, only to be told by lads who know the hard times back home he was wasting his hard earned cash on bourgeoisie intoxicants. No one would ask or bother him in Bulawayo where boys coming back from Jozi are expected to be loaded. He makes himself comfortable at the sports bar as he watches English soccer from a giant television screen. He takes in the ambience and notices this is the place to be: young men speak at the top of their voices with unbridled confidence as they take into their system what many here consider expensive beer. Already, Duze feels he belongs. He has one, then another, then another. Damn the ice cold frothing Heineken is just what Bacchus ordered. In a while Duze feels his head getting woozy: he is glad he is not wasting his money drinking beer that would not get him drunk. He feels he could do with some fresh air and decides to have a walkabout checking out the places he had not visited in a long time. He walks down town where he sees gigantic men speaking with funny accents and he guesses they must be Nigerian as he has seen many speaking like them in down town Jo’burg. He sees Chinese shops at every turn and women clad in flowing all-white robes flocking into the shops to make bulk purchases. The women sell these wares just around the corner at inflated prices, and unknowing cash-strapped customers jostle for the “bargains.”
“Zhing zhong!” Duze curses as he walks past the Chinese shop.
Three men are lazily standing by the side of the shop’s door. They apparently have nothing to do but watch these women go in and out of the shop and watch cars wheeze by and chat idly about what they would do with the money if a Nigerian or Chinese businessman offered them part time jobs. As what? This is the state of things where grown men leave their homes and spend time in the CBD watching other people spend money. Some scratch their heads for answers while others scratch lotto tickets, but still none of them win.
But not these men it turns out.
“What did you say?” one of the men says, and the question is directed at Duze.
“Zhing zhong,” Duze repeats as he continues walking. The man’s feelings are injured.
“Hey stop there,” he says as he fumbles for something in his back pocket, his colleagues are by his side but are yet to pick what the hell their mate is getting all excited about.
“How dare you mock our investors!” the man says as he grabs Duze by the belt.
The tipsy Duze violently shoves the man with his elbow, and the elbow lands right in the nose of the man who turns out to be a cop in plain clothes.
“Did you not hear him say ‘Zhing-zhong’,” the diligent cop says to his colleagues, “now he is resisting arrest and assaulting me,” he continues as he massages his injured nose.
“What?” Duze yells.
In solidarity with their comrade who is now massaging his stinging nose, the other two men who also turn out to be cops wrestle with Duze as they cuff him. Duze is clueless what is happening, and before he knows it a crowd is swelling around him to watch the free show. What humiliation for an injiva who wanted nothing but spend his money on himself!
“What’s going on? I didn’t know saying Zhing-zhong is a crime,” he pleads in a South African accent.
“It is and so is assaulting a police officer. You boys go to South Africa then come here and think you are above the law?” one of the men says, and the crowd appears to enjoy the fact that it is an injiva being arrested but they do not dare ask arrested for what.
Duze is sent to the police station where he is ordered to pay an admission of guilt fine and released after a stern warning that you don’t make fun of the Chinese as they are friends of the president. The assault of a cop is not mentioned, but Duze has already made up his mind that he is returning to Johannesburg that very day. He is however grateful the cops did not go through his pockets as they would have found cash worth more than a year of their salaries! So much for coming home to spend your money, the young patriot curses.