Praise Routine Number 4
Michael Rands
Human & Rousseau
It was the end of another long evening and I was on my final cigarette. The smell of ass sweat that hangs about the change room was making me feel ill, so I took a stroll outside along the wooden boardwalk that surrounds the sandy area in the centre of the restaurant. The last fires had been extinguished and there was a smell of wet ash and disinfectant.
I happened to pass the entrance to Vusi’s office, just as Charlie was saying ‘For the second time.’ I stood dead still, afraid even of exhaling the smoke in my lungs.
‘In as many weeks,’ I heard Vusi say.
‘Ai, Byron,’ said Charlie. ‘I like him. But eish, sometimes.’
Of course I knew what they were referring to. I’d forgotten praise routine number four.
I waited for Charlie in the staff parking lot. Like the change room it’s rundown and stinks of garbage. I sat waiting for so long that the motion detector light had gone off when Charlie finally emerged. He was visibly shocked to see me sitting there on the sand still dressed in my skins.
‘What was that about?’ I asked him.
‘You have to stop smoking that shit,’ he said to me. ‘When you don’t smoke, you clever. But when you smoke it, wena Byron. You become stupid!’
‘I need it to get into character. I’ve told you before.’
‘We give you the skins, Byron. Wena. Come on now! Pull yourself together. Vusi will fire you.’
I wanted to make a good impression. And so the following week I smoked my last joint four hours before work started. I went through early to impress the management, but got there before anyone else arrived. I spent the first half-hour walking up and down the parking lot, kicking around a flat Coke can and smoking cigarettes. Then I remembered that in my cubbyhole I had half a bankie of weed and a box of Rizzla. I tried not to smoke it. But I was starting to sober up and the boredom was intense. So an hour later me and the head chef’s fourteen year old son, Faizel, were stoned and playing a game of soccer in the dusty parking lot, using the flat can as a ball and our shoes as goalposts. Young Faizel made no mention of the fact that my shoes were different sizes, and so I relaxed and enjoyed the game. But when Vusi arrived he asked me why my eyes were red.
‘It’s from the dust,’ I said. ‘Very dusty.’
He shook his head and started laughing. Not knowing how to respond, I too burst into laughter. He raised his large hand and stuck his index finger into my chest. He was wearing a black suit and a pink shirt, I could smell his aftershave.
‘It’s not funny,’ he said, and walked away.
And so, there I was, sitting on the bench in the staff change room half an hour before the first guests arrived. There was a constant drip noise coming from the shower and the room smelt like fish. I’d tied the skins around my ankles and finished tightening the leather skirt around my waist. I stood up and clicked my back, then stuck my hand into my underwear and shifted my balls to the spot that Charlie and I have jokingly named the praise poet’s position, or the triple P. We have to wear tight briefs and pull the entire package right to the front to ensure that our balls don’t get squashed during the more athletic manoeuvres. I stood up and started stretching my legs and arms, then washed my hands to remove the musty smell of balls.
‘You ready, my friend?’ Charlie came into the change room. He’s always better dressed than I am. His entire outfit is genuine, made by a brother of his who lives in the Eastern Cape. Mine on the other hand was bought from Xhosa World, a wholly-owned subsidiary of Bhakhuba, the restaurant at which I work. Apparently it was set up for tax purposes, and supplies the restaurant with everything it has, from the artwork in the chief’s hut, to the skins worn by the guests.
‘Nearly ready. Just stretching,’ I said to him.
He has a perfectly cut body, an eight-pack, perhaps a ten-pack; wiry, but well-defined arms. He’s the real thing. He comes from a long line of praise poets. When I first took the job he explained to me that praise poets have a similar licence to that held by jesters in times gone by. They can say what others cannot. But Charlie overstepped the mark and offended a corrupt local leader in the rural Eastern Cape. It was during the early nineties, and fearing for his life, he fled to Cape Town and changed his name.
I’ve learnt a lot from Charlie but the privileged position held by praise poets was not handed down to me. I only have good things to say about our guests.
‘Come now my friend!’ He was getting agitated. ‘The people they will be here now.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘The German people. One full bus. Maybe two busses. From the Waterfront. They want to wear the skin.’
‘Lots of them?’
‘Sure. We won’t use routine four tonight.’
‘Charlie. You sure?’
‘Sure, Byron.’
‘Thanks man. Thanks a lot.’
‘Just one two three five.’
‘OK.’
We waited for the guests to hand in their day-to-day clothes at the exchange counter and get changed into the skins. Unfortunately, the female clientele get to wear leather straps around their breasts. The dresses of both sexes come down to the knees, and for the most part the guests look more like pale Polynesian islanders than Xhosas.
I stood close behind Charlie; I could feel my heart beating in my neck. I still get terrible nerves. And although they’ll never accept it, the weed helps me transform.
‘OK, they ready. Come!’
Charlie had been keeping watch, and the first guests had come out of the change room. I stepped outside, keeping myself close to Charlie. The air was warm and the fires freshly lit. As always we moved slowly at first, past the rural Xhosa scenes painted along the walls, keeping our heads down and our footsteps light. I imagined myself to be in a far-off land, my name is Byronkhulu and my people respect me. So long as I keep this image in my head, and my right foot slightly back when standing still, I will be safe. No one will know my real name.
Charlie held two fingers in the air, raised his knees and started sprinting along the boardwalk. I stayed just behind him. Although it’s not in his job description, I suspect he enjoys frightening the shit out of Europeans. He’d chosen his man: the shorter of the two, a balding fellow with thin-rimmed glasses perched on his Germanic nose, tufts of hair sprouting out of his deep navel. The man was waiting for his wife, silently admiring a mural of a topless black woman when Charlie started screaming.
‘Amandla akho agqithisile! Akekho umntu onokugqitha! Bazakubuya gxengxeze kuwe!’
The German stepped sideways, then backwards, tried to gain his composure but was clearly rattled. This was my cue. I took a deep breath and jumped out from behind Charlie, my right leg raised high in the air. In the triple P I place my faith.
‘Your strength is legendary!’ I shouted as I came crashing to the floor, the skins slapping against my legs. ‘No man should ever wish to cross your path!’ I raised my hands in the air. ‘For they will surely come to know of your might!’
Charlie held up one finger, and moved in on the other man: a tall fellow with a fat nose and an aura of ignorance.
‘Uyindoda esisityebi ehlabathini lonke wonke umntu uyakwazi ubutyebi bakho bobanaphakade.’
‘And you!’ I screamed. ‘You are the richest man around. All the people know you, for your wealth is legendary!’
The men gave us silly bows as they backed off and made their way across the soft sand in the inkundla. They took their seats on the raised platform, at tables that are really glorified bar benches covered by decorative cloths. Besides the outside seating, there’s a large indoor area, and several private rooms fashioned on African huts. At capacity the place holds three hundred. It wasn’t going