Too Much, Magic Bus

Cheslin is my new hero. Cheslin Kolbe. I am going to sidestep, swerve and jinx past all the troubles that abound in this land, and then score in the corner of good hope. After that, at 72 years, smash down the door to a place where expressive excessiveness abounds. No worries, what the hell. I couldn“t give a hot syrupy wa’e. No more wa’ing. Wa--wa--wa-.

I’m gonna get a real bark, embrace all eccentrics and all slightly crazy South Africans. Forget this sanity, normality, and the sameness of the grey all day. I mean, look at our cauldron, our big, black, bubbling pot of 57 million people, 35 spoken languages (11 o‘cial), five racial groups, plus other ethnic visitors from all over Africa. What a wonderful African pot. I’ll add a couple of missionaries and sangomas to the pot’s bubble-bubble, just for extra flavour, for blissful existence and happiness under cumulus clouds and the rainbow of diversity.

I am going to abandon all this photojournalism, the wa--wa--wa’ing, and drive away from all this magazine stu-. In fact, I am going to buy a bus, yeah, I tell you, a big bus. Buy it with earnings I have collected from magazines over the years, hidden secretly under my bed next to the bricks that fend o- the Tokoloshe, the Malema