Dog Eat Dog

A Novel

Niq Mhlongo

• Publisher: Ohio University Press
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780821444139
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Literatura general

Dog Eat Dog is a remarkable record of being young in a nation undergoing tremendous turmoil, and provides a glimpse into South Africa's pivotal kwaito (South African hip-hop) generation and life in Soweto. Set in 1994, just as South Africa is making its postapartheid transition, Dog Eat Dog captures the hopes—and crushing disappointments—that characterize such moments in a nation's history.

Raucous and darkly humorous, Dog Eat Dog is narrated by Dingamanzi Makhedama Njomane, a college student in South Africa who spends his days partying, skipping class, and picking up girls. But Dingz, as he is known to his friends, is living in charged times, and his discouraging college life plays out against the backdrop of South Africa's first democratic elections, the spread of AIDS, and financial difficulties that threaten to force him out of school.

sixteen

‘O-one. T-two. Th-three. Down-dow-wn go! Dow-wn dow-wn go! Down do-wn go! Down-down do-wnn gooo! Hoo-rah!’

We were in the Dropout bar on Jorissen Street in Braamfontein. A multiracial group of drunken students were shouting and clapping their hands, encouraging a black girl who was wearing a lilac sweater to drink a large jug full of Castle Draught without taking a break. A white girl was holding down her left hand.

The five of us – Themba, Dworkin, Babes, Theks and myself – were sitting in our usual spot on the two long green leather-clad benches. Dwork, Babes and myself were facing the pool tables and the table soccer opposite the toilet. The rest of my drinking crew were facing the large television screen behind us. Between us was a table covered in beer bottles.

The group we were watching consisted of about eight people: two black guys, one black girl who was busy drinking, three white girls, one Indian guy and one white guy. The Indian guy was slapping his hand on the table as the rest of that group counted from one to ten. It was as if he was the referee in a wrestling match.

The Dropout bar exploded with the sound of applause as the girl finished the whole jug of Castle Draught. The bar owner flashed his deceitful smile as the girl coughed three times with her fist against her mouth to clear her throat, then raised both of her clenched fists and thumped them down three times on the table.

‘Yes! Yes! Yes! Hhu! Whoeieeei,’ she shouted, looking around as if to see whether her achievement was being fully appreciated by the other heavy drinkers.

‘Iiiiyo! The world is a stage, and everyone is an actor, my friend,’ said Themba when I looked surprised at the girl’s performance.

‘Com’ on!’ shouted the bar owner, starting to clap his hands. ‘Let’s give her another big round of applause.’

Writhing in delight, the girl struggled to stand up and take a bow.

‘Welcome to S.A.D.U. – our very own and newly formed South African Drinkers Union,’ cried Themba.

‘People, isn’t she wonderful?’ said her phuza-faced Indian friend.

‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! I love you. You’re the best baby. I’m taking you home tonight,’ someone shouted.

Suddenly the music from the jukebox was switched off and the bald-headed white bar owner rang the bell for silence. He clambered up onto the counter.

‘I thank you all for supporting Dropout this evening. But a special thanks to Ntombi here,’ he said. ‘She has kept us entertained with her brilliant performance. She has shown us how to enjoy life to the full.’

Another round of applause followed. ‘Today is also a special day because it’s her birthday; let’s all sing for her.’

‘Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Ntombi. Happy birthday to you.’ Our voices echoed around the bar.

‘Hip hip,’ shouted the Indian guy.

‘Hoorah!’ the crowd responded.

The bar owner rang his bell again and silence followed. ‘Dropout would like to award Ntombi with an honorary degree for putting on a brilliant performance,’ he said, signalling the bartender to fill another jug of Castle Draught.

‘We are happy to announce that Ntombi is now officially a BA. For those who don’t know a BA stands for Bachelor of Alcohol here at the Dropout and each day for a week Ntombi will be given a jug of Castle Draught. So far only Mr Naidoo here has our highest honorary degree, the LLB.’ The owner pointed at the Indian guy who had acted as the referee earlier on. ‘An LLB here at the Dropout stands for Bachelor of Liquors and means that he doesn’t have to pay the cover charge for coming in here or the ten rand deposit to use the white ball for the pool table. I hope you enjoy the rest of the night and thank you.’

The bar owner climbed down from the counter and smiled at Ntombi. She smiled back broadly at him and whispered a heartfelt ‘thank you’ under her breath.

On the wall above the bar owner’s shining shaven head was a big poster with a man holding a glass of beer:

NEVER TRUST A MAN WHO DOES NOT DRINK

The inscription at the bottom read:

ONE MAN ONE TOT

One black guy from Ntombi’s table stood up and walked to the jukebox. He put some coins in the slot and Brenda’s old jam started to hum: ‘Hello weekend. Weekend special’.

‘Can anyone here tell me how the president of the S.A.D.U. lost the election during the festive season? I’ll buy you a case of beer right now if you can tell me,’ said Themba, as if such an organisation really existed.

‘Nobody knows. Tell us,’ said Babes enthusiastically, not wasting any time.

‘All right then, you all lose. Let me tell you. You know S.A.D.U. elections are held annually in a bar like this one. So, last season the elections were held in a bar near to my home. Five contestants were lined up; they were all heavy drinkers with phuza faces like that guy over there.’ He paused and pointed at the Indian guy with his finger. ‘The bar owner introduced the candidates to the crowd before the elections took place. He then lined up fifteen glasses on the table, each one filled with a different brand of alcohol. The candidates were then blindfolded and each one of them had to take a sip from each glass and identify the alcohol by its taste. Whoever got the highest score would be made president of the union.’ He paused and took a sip from his glass.

‘So what if they all identified all fifteen of those glasses?’ asked Dworkin, struggling to control his laughter.

‘Wait! That’s the interesting part I’m coming to,’ ordered Themba, raising his hand.

Silence fell around our table and Themba continued. ‘It started with Gusheshe, the current president with a real phuza face from Zola section. He took the first glass and sipped it.’ Themba acted the sipping of a glass. ‘He curled his lips pompously, clicked his tongue and shouted, “Castle; brewed in 1895 to give you the greatest taste, contains 5% alcohol!” The crowd roared with applause. He then lifted the second glass and shouted, “Hansa Pilsner; to our soil all the way from Czechoslovakia, contains 4.5% alcohol”. After the third glass he shouted, “Black Label, America’s lusty beer, 5.5% alcohol”. Fourth was a rosé wine and he was even confident enough to say semi-sweet. After the fifth glass he shouted, “Ahhhh! Umqombothi; our very own South African pride from amabela”.’

Babes’ tomboyish face was beaming with suppressed laughter. Her thick black lips were trembling uncontrollably. She stretched her thin neck forward. I could see two bulging veins in it. ‘So . . .’ she began, trying to control her laughter, ‘this guy wasn’t the president of S.A.D.U. for nothing. He knew his stuff,’ she managed to say as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with her stumpy long-nailed fingers.

‘Yeah. As I said he was a well-known drinker in the township and a history teacher in one of the high schools in Soweto.’

‘Iyooo! A teacher?’ asked Theks, disappointedly.

‘Yes, a history teacher,’ confirmed Themba.

‘And what happened next?’ I asked.

‘So after fifteen glasses the result was a draw. Ten more glasses were added. But in the last glass there was only water; just pure water from the tap. So the president sipped the first nine glasses and identified them all. But after sipping the tenth one he paused and scratched his head. Remember that the rule was that they were blindfold, so they couldn’t see the colour of the alcohol inside each glass. After straining to recollect anything from his alcohol-addled memory about the brand in the tenth and final glass, in the very last round of that decisive election he finally said, “This is a new brand of alcohol I’ve never tasted before in my life”.’

We all laughed as hard as we could.

When the laughter had subsided Dworkin asked, ‘So that’s how the stupid president lost the elections?’

‘As simple as that, my friend. Now the president is Thibos, the guy from Cancer, and he’s got a real phuza face,’ replied Themba.

The bartender came over to our table and collected some empty bottles. We ordered another four beers. As the bartender picked up the last empty bottle, Dworkin’s eyes landed on two gorgeous coloured girls who were busy playing pool. His eyes followed the one who was wearing a revealing orange miniskirt. The girl walked around the pool table to make some calculation on the angle. As she bent over to make the shot, Dworkin whistled under his breath.

‘Hhuu! Whoieeie! All things bright and beautiful, madoda,’ he said, nudging me for attention.

‘I guess you’re already hard, Dwork?’ said Babes, smiling at Dwork. ‘How long have you been staring at her?’

‘Ooooh! Me? Ha, ha,’ laughed Dworkin mockingly. ‘That’s nothing. I’ve dated beautiful women. Real women, not ones you find in a bar like this,’ he said boastfully, still staring at the two girls. ‘These ones have already expired. I’m talking about Miss Soweto, Miss Pretoria and Miss North West.’

‘Whaaa! And where are they now?’ asked Theks contemptuously.

‘Ag!’ he exclaimed curtly. ‘I’ve jilted them all.’

‘Not that they’ve jilted you?’ snapped Theks.

‘I’m imagining a chicken-hearted fool like you dating a Miss Soweto and I think in your dreams?’ added Babes with indignation in her voice.

‘Let me leave you retards alone,’ said Dworkin. He turned away from Babes and Theks and began to whisper to me. ‘You see Dingz? That’s what we call a gorgeous woman, not these two depressingly ugly girls we are drinking with.’ Theks shot a curious look at us as we talked.

‘Are you sure he is not masturbating under the table?’ she asked me.

‘Don’t worry! As soon as there’s a funny smell I’ll let you know that side,’ I replied.

‘Oh boy! I’m thinking of going over there now to try my luck,’ said Dworkin, chewing on his matchstick.

‘I would give it a try right now if I were you. She’s kick-ass, man,’ Themba encouraged him.

‘Ho! Guys, you must be careful nowadays,’ warned Babes.

‘Why should we?’

‘Because AIDS kills, my boy,’ answered Babes.

‘Nonsense,’ said Themba. ‘Don’t you know that circumcised straight men never catch the gay plague?’ He looked down and poured another glass of beer for himself. ‘Only the kwenkwes do,’ he concluded jokingly.

As Themba put down the beer I picked it up to refill my glass as well. But to my surprise it was already empty. I opened another one with my teeth.

‘Aaagg suka wena! You don’t even know what a circumcision school looks like,’ snapped Dworkin.

‘Eintlik, yes I do,’ insisted Themba. ‘They amputate your foreskin there,’ he said making a gesture with both his forefingers.

‘Voetsek! Liar. There is no such school in Soweto or any other township!’

‘What do you mean there are no circumcision schools in the townships?’ asked Themba. ‘What about the Langa circumcision school, out along the N2, near the airport in Cape Town? Didn’t you watch the TV news about a week ago when seven of the boys were taken to hospital because they fell ill? Or is Langa not a township anymore?’ he asked, flinging his arms wide and thrus...