Khensani And One Star-Born White Boy

Kapture 1

The White Mark

Krugersdorp

Monday

I hate black people. I hate the colour of their skin. I hate the way they always blame us for their failures and their incompetence to be successful in life. We live in a country where, if I publicly mention that I hate black people, it would cause a stir; everyone would be surprised, like they expected a white man to like black people. The funny part is that, deep down, I know that they hate us as well. By now, you probably have a picture of me in your mind, right? Gigantic boertjie with a huge tummy, Timberland boots with brown socks, kaki shots and a cricket umpire’s hat? Unfortunately, that’s not how I look. Yes, I am a traditional boertjie, but I am not a farmer.

I grew up looking up to my father. He has always been a role model to me up until he lost his job as a soldier after shooting a black person. The argument was that my father used his gun while he was off duty. According to my father, it was an act of self-defence, because that coward wanted to rob him. We work hard as white people in this country. We literally work our arses off while black people are having it easy now. Amusingly so, even though they are having it easy, and have had the ‘freedom’ for the past twenty years now, most of them are still poor and they still blame it on us. Welcome to South Africa.

I grew up in Krugersdorp in a family of four, consisting of my father, mother, little sister Karen, and me. That was ages ago; seventeen years ago to be specific. My parents filed for divorce immediately after my father lost his job. I was eight years old, but the event is still fresh in my mind like it was just yesterday. Word on the street was that my mother was with my father only because of his money; that cannot be true, because my father was never a millionaire, let alone had half of it in his bank account. The truth of the matter is that my father was abusive; he physically abused my mother for years. I guess it was easier for her to leave him after he lost his job. My father did fight for her, but, by then, she had already made up her mind.

So we ended up selling the house. I moved with my father to a new place, while my mom rented a place and stayed with my younger sister, Karen, who was five years old at the time. Time passed and then my mom started dating the landlord, Mr Kirsten, and, a year later, they got married. My mom’s life got better and better while my father was drowning day by day. My mom and Mr Kirsten have a son together; his name is Kevin Kirsten, he is seventeen years old now and is a Grade Twelve learner at Kruger High School.

My father developed a love for booze. He gave in to alcohol and gave up on life to the point where he became an alcoholic. Since then, his life hasn’t improved and, seventeen years later, there is still no hope or cure to whatever is bothering him. We ended up moving to Koro Nation Park, a place for the poorest of the poorest, because, even though he is now self-employed doing plumbing work, fixing generators, installing geysers and being a self-made auto electrician, he is spending all his hard-earned money on alcohol. I made a promise to myself that I will never give up on him. I still have memories of him wearing the army uniform and going to work. I believe that one day he will get back to his old self. My mom and sister have been asking me to move in with them for years now, but the thought of leaving my father and staying under another man’s roof doesn’t sit right with me. Mr Kirsten is a good man, take nothing away from that, but I am a Kruger and that’s that.

To this day, I still blame that black man who tried to rob my father! If it wasn’t for him, my father wouldn’t have acted in self-defence and he wouldn’t have lost his job. Another reason he is constantly drinking is because he is having nightmares about that incident, or let me rather say that he used to have nightmares. Chances are that he has seen worse and he is constantly having premonitions of the olden bloody days! I guess booze has the ability to halt such horrible recurring nightmares. I quit school and decided to focus all my energy on being a rugby player. My dream is to one day don the famous green and gold of the Springboks and represent South Africa. I must say, things are going well now and I don’t think that I am that far from realising my dream. I caught the eye of the local recruiters back when I was still at Kruger High School. I was still in Grade Ten then and, a year later, I made the decision to quit school and focus all my energy on rugby.

My mom was against the idea from the beginning, but I did break it down to her in the worst way ever. I told her that she doesn’t have any say over me and she should focus more on Kevin. I don’t get along with Kevin for obvious reasons. I mean, he is living the life that I can only dream of. Karen and I are cool; she is my father’s daughter, so she will always be my little sister, plus she is still a Kruger and not a Kirsten.

Son, please give me another cold one before I go to sleep, my already drunk father said.

My name is Kenny Kruger and I’m twenty-five years old. This is my story. Welcome to Koro Nation Park.

Kapture 2

Black Male

Kagiso

Monday

I hate white people. I hate their smell, their grumpy faces and the way their women have shapeless bodies! I just want to puke whenever I see a white person. Why do I hate them? I hate them because they hate us. I don’t know why we pretend to be fond of each other, knowing very well that we are like cat and mouse. What I hate the most about them is that fake smile they wear on their faces whenever they greet us.

Growing up in the township of Kagiso has its perks. I know that whenever someone mentions a township in Johannesburg people assume and think about Soweto, but no, this is not Sarafina. Something interesting about townships in South Africa is that they are located very far from the city centres. For example, Kagiso is far from Johannesburg central, Alexandra is far from Johannesburg central, Soshanguve is far from Pretoria central and Mamelodi is far from Pretoria as well. A white person might argue that they are not that far and that they are mere driving distance, but take into consideration that many black people have to catch a taxi or two to get to town, or even a train, and I’m not referring to a Gautrain. White people didn’t want blacks to have it easy, so the segregation took place during the apartheid regime. I mean, there were ‘whites only’ signs in all the major restaurants in the CBD and suburban areas inter alia.

I am a born free. I don’t have a personal experience as far as apartheid is concerned, but I know a thing or two about my history; South African history, that is. Obviously, books and word of mouth wouldn’t tell it like it was, but, from the little that I know, I can jump to a conclusion by saying that I do not like the Afrikaners. My aunts and uncles still have the scars as reminders of that era. My Uncle Khehla in particular was a victim of one Afrikaner soldier who shot and paralysed him from the waist down. The report states that it was an act of self-defence, but how can one open fire on someone who isn’t carrying any weapon and claim that it was self-defence? White lie or blackmail? We will never know, but one thing is for sure: a black male is always a suspect!

My mom is a domestic worker. She has been one for more than twenty years now. I don’t know if it is because she was scared of taking risks, losing her job in pursuit of a better one or if it is was an act of both laziness and complacency! Don’t get me wrong; I am grateful for everything she is doing for me, but it breaks my heart whenever I hear a white person shouting ‘Katrina’ to her and she has to reply by saying ‘yes madam’ or ‘yes baas’. What is worse is when someone younger than me addresses my mother by her first name! I get pissed off to the point where I can feel my blood boiling and rage dancing in me. I believe that Katherine or even Kathy sounds much better than Katrina, but these Afrikaners are ruining such a wonderful name!

My father owns his own gardening company. He has been a constant gardener but he eventually decided that it was time to be his own boss. You know that communist song that goes ‘my father was a garden boy and my mother was a kitchen girl’? That song best describes my parents. We’ve come far as a family. I have seen my father’s tears and my mom being ill-treated. I still have a mental album full of saddening pictures of my folks being crucified for having the ‘wrong’ skin colour. I once did some introspection and I promised myself that there is no way I’m following in their footsteps. Their courage and character are out of this world; hence, my father is my role model and my mother is my exemplar, but their shoes are just too dirty and raggedy to be passed on to me.

My younger brother, Khaya, grew up in a white neighbourhood, staying in the old backroom with my mother. He is very intelligent, his English accent is out of this world and he can speak Afrikaans like it is his home language. People envy him and praise him whenever he is home at Kagiso. I don’t like it, though; I don’t like it at all. I believe that he is not in touch with his roots! He is so groomed in the Afrikaans culture that he once publicly said that he will be voting for an ‘all-white party’ during the elections. He is four years younger than I am and plays cricket. I hear that he is really good at it. I don’t understand the sport at all, so I just have to believe whatever they tell me. I’m more of a soccer fan like any other young black South African youth out there. My father and I are very close and I credit that to soccer. He wanted Khaya to play soccer growing up, but, unfortunately, he was initiated into the ‘white culture’ from a very young age.

I am studying marketing at UNISA and I work as a receptionist at a gym in Krugersdorp. The good thing about being a UNISA student is the fact that I don’t have to attend any classes. Well, it can be good or bad depending on whether you are independent or not. I’m more of a loner and I like my own space like I’m claustrophobic and an introvert, so the only time I attend classes is when I really have to. I like working at the gym as well, because I get to see some fine-looking guys. Unfortunately, the gym is situated at a place dominated by white people. Like any other student, I’m working there simply because I need to make some pocket money. It is not nice to depend on your parents’ income, especially when they are both trying by all means to make ends meet. My young brother, Khaya, usually comes to the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays with his white friends. I’m concerned about him, though, because he is focussed more on cricket than his academics.

I like writing; in fact, I love it. I am the type of girl who writes down everything. I keep a diary and record all the events that take place everywhere I go. If I meet a good-looking guy during the course of the day, then be assured that I will write about him as soon as I arrive home. Some white people hit on me whenever I’m at work, while some act like they don’t even recognise me. I’m beautiful; not that gorgeous, but I am beautiful. I have a boyfriend by the name of Khosi Kadi. He is a varsity student just like me. The question that everyone is asking me is: why am I with him? These days, people treat relationships like they are some sort of life policies; it is all about ‘what am I getting out of this relationship’. Well, Khosi is trying to find his way in life, just like me. He might not be financially stable at the moment, but I’m not going to just let that blind me from the fact that I love him. It is nice to be spoilt now and then, but sometimes life should be about ‘pay now, play later’ and not ‘play now, pay later’.

Someone was knocking at the door. It must be my dad. I got up from my old, but comfortable couch, put on my slippers and went to check on whoever was knocking at the kitchen door.

Hello Khensani, the guy said.

Hi?

I’m looking for your father; is he around? he asked.

No, he is not. Anything I can help you with?

There’s a lot you can help me with, sweetheart, but I’d rather deal with your father, the guy said as he caressed my chin.

Who are you? I asked as I leant away from him. Please don’t touch me, okay!

Just tell your father that Klever was here for the collection. See you soon, princess, he said as he winked, then left.

My name is Khensani Kekana and I’m twenty-two years old. This is my story. Welcome to Kagiso.

Kapture 3

Daddy Issues

Krugersdorp

Monday

Dad, I think you’ve had one too many, hey. You need to take it easy; it is only Monday today, I said.

Who the hell are you to tell me that I’ve had ‘one too many’? Are you going to disrespect me in my own house? he asked.

No, Dad, I do not mean to disrespect you. All I’m saying is that–

Young man, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m your father and I’m giving you an instruction. Get me a cold beer; is it that difficult for you to understand? he asked.

Dad, please try to understand. You really need to stop living like this. It’s not nice having an alcoholic as a father! I said.

That statement was followed by one hot slap to my face. I was shocked more than anything else that he actually had enough energy to raise his hand and swing it so swiftly while sloshed! I looked at him in dismay. He looked at me like nothing happened. I instantaneously departed the building like a bomb was planted in one of the rooms. I headed straight to the neighbourhood sports field. I don’t know why we bother calling it a sports field, because we hardly play any sport here. There’s really nothing positive about the Koro Nation Park except the fact that the rent is so cheap; as a matter of fact, it is free. The government uses the term ‘POP’ to describe us, as we are the ‘poorest of the poorest’. Koro Nation Park is, indeed, home to the homeless, hopeless and jokeless; we don’t have any paid comedians around here, but the place is full of funny businesses.

I normally go to the gym on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. We usually have matches on Saturdays or Sundays, depending on the regional fixture. I spend more time at Krugersdorp playing rugby than anywhere else, which I believe is both good and bad. Rugby makes me forget about all my problems; well,