A warm welcome back to the Silwane Files

The avalanche of correspondence from disgruntled Silwane Files regulars wanting a word or eighteen hundred from the quintessential beer chucker and spear chugger has been a bit overwhelming. It was the type of experience that self-important, delusional megalomaniacs are made of.

And it didn’t really matter what type of e-mail, telefax or letter I received, my response was the same. I got all emotional and a sorrow-filled tear rolled down from the corner of my left eye. It’s never the right eye. The right eye is too anal-retentive. And by the way; I really did receive a letter, complete with salutation, address and written on a proper typewriter too. In an envelope marked for my attention, addressed to the publishers of my first book. It’s enough to give a man a lump in his throat.
Since I haven’t updated these pages in a while I thought I could afford to get properly self indulgent and talk a little bit about what I’ve been up to for the benefit of those who care. If you’re reading this and the details of my whereabouts in the last three months or so is unimportant to you, please use the kitchen exit out of here and don’t block anyone’s view. In the immortal words of Pookie from the movie New Jack City, you can perform lewd acts on my manhood. But before I get there, I would like to dispel some nasty rumours that have been doing the rounds about my ‘disappearing act’:

1. No, I was not incarcerated for operating a combustible engine-propelled vehicle with a blood alcohol level of 0.45 g/ml (nine times the legal limit). That would be downright stupid. Getting caught, that is.
2. And let’s quickly get this one out of the way; I wasn’t in rehab either. I don’t have a problem with alcohol. If I did my body would repel the 20 litres (4% v/v) or so that makes the Great Trek down my oesophagus each week. If my belly wasn’t so darn efficient at catching the beer, I guess my house would be a downright mess, wouldn’t it? Pity about all that stretching on my gut muscles though.
3. The presidency has not finally woken up to the marvellous wonder of ingenuity that is my beer-soaked brain and made me the chief negotiator in the Zim talks. The situation is not that desperate yet.
4. No, I haven’t spent the last few weeks scouring the length and breath of the Durban harbour for the purpose of diddling filthy, cross-eyed hookers in the interests of science.

I will tell you what I have been occupying myself with, though. Mostly nothing. No, really. I have spent most of the past three months doing nothing. The more observational among you will point out that it has not been three months that I haven’t been updating this blog. Yeah, but they haven’t exactly been flowing either, have they? But seriously, what I’ve doing for the past three months is just what I’ve said.

Nada. Diddly squat.

Doing nothing is an underestimated activity, especially in the exhaustion that it generates. You have no idea what it’s like waking up at 10am and realising that you still have about eight hours of sunlight left to do mostly nothing. There’s a certain shame associated with doing nothing when there is natural light that is just … difficult to describe.

So I always came up with fancy ways of describing how I’d spent the day to the chief judgmental member of my family. Yeah, the wife. One can always count on the unconditional love and selfishness of kids to remain as constant as the Northern Star by which non-Titanic sailor men steer their boats. Stick a strawberry-flavoured lollipop up a three year-old’s buccal cavity and all his Justice Pius Langa tendencies crumble like Angelina Jolie’s willpower inside a Cambodian orphanage.

As far as the wife was concerned, I was always busy. Writing. Meetings. Sometimes I went to extremes and actually set up meetings in movie theatres — with myself. I have one thing to say about that. Kung Fu Panda kicks ass. I drove to obscure places such as Witbank and Vereeniging. Believe me; there is nothing you can do to prepare yourself for the sight of downtown Witbank at 12 noon on a Tuesday. It’s the kind of experience that makes you want to propose a Bill to scrap all taxes for residents of places like Witbank, Phalaborwa and Pofadder. These people need to have an incentive tax break. Lord knows somebody has to live there otherwise how would anyone get a table at the local grill, booking or not?

Yeah, I’ve written a few articles during my hiatus. I’ve made some personal appearances to speak to people. I’ve signed a few hundred books. I might even have imbibed a pint or three or seventeen with friends. I’ve spent hours chatting to friends on the Internet. But I made a conscious decision to take a break and smell the hops (I hate the smell of the flowers). But now I’m back. And I’m more broke than usual. Near bankruptcy has a way of modifying behaviour that no amount of pep talks from one’s financial adviser can. That’s my way of saying:

Welcome back to the Silwane Files. This is my gateway drug to bigger things. Things such as my life. Please enjoy the ride with me.

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