Raising a generation of substance abusers

Last week Friday, my company held its year-end function. You can imagine how important such an occasion is. Free booze and food and, of course, the whole dress-up-to-a-theme thing and the bad decisions regularly made by aesthetically pleasing females meant that I missed the slaughtering of a bovine creature feature on Friday at my cousin’s house in Kwa-Mashu in order to attend this auspicious company occasion, but I would be present for the partaking of the said beast the following day.

The beast met its end in sacrifice for my beloved cousin who was murdered in cold blood in front of his wife just inside his home as he was closing up his home business, a shebeen, spaza shop and butchery, after a fruitful day’s trade earlier this year. It happened on a Sunday, and the perpetrators left his lifeless body riddled with more than a dozen bullets and disappeared into the informal settlement that borders his vast property on the outskirts of the township.

After the initial thunder of semi-automatic weapons fire had ripped through the cool night air, all that could be heard was his wife’s chilling screams for help and pleas to him not to succumb to his ruthless assassins’ actions and their faceless, cowardly employers’ wishes to terminate his stay on this Earth.

When I received the news, I was away on a company-organised trip in the Drakensberg. It was the last day of the trip and I decided to wait for the returning vehicles to bring me back home so I could go see his family. The rest of the day was filled with reflection on all the things he used to share with me. He always knew he was in danger, but he never thought his enemies would ever actually do anything about their jealousy of his success; he knew they feared him too much; he knew he had enough back-up, they would never dare — but they did, and it was too late for him to do anything.

So it was that on Saturday morning I woke up at 6am to take a bath and head off to the hood. I hadn’t been there for a while, so I did not know what to expect. I dressed in my old Jack Purcells, which used to be white and are now a muddy cream colour, a pair of shorts and a check shirt. Atop my head was my white beanie, which I always wear on my rare trips to the hood. I did not wear a watch and, as I normally do, I left my cellphone and wallet at my flat and only carried cash.

You will never see me dressed like that in public unless I’m going to the hood. I don’t even know exactly why I do it, but it probably has something to do with minimising my risk when walking in the streets of the hood. My reasoning is that if I don’t have any valuables on me, then the thugs and muggers have no reason to pay any attention to me, therefore it increases my chances of survival.

I got off the bus at the Kwa-Mashu Centre and proceeded briskly across the train-station bridge, passing by groups of loitering youths as they smoked cigarettes and hollered at other passing youths. I made it down the stairs on to the taxi-rank part of the station. I needed to make my way to D-section, which meant that I had to take a taxi for the short distance up the hill. My ride — an old and suitably very beat-up Nissan E20 that had seen its fair share of misfortune — was waiting for me.

I found myself a seat up front on the driver’s row because there are only three people up there and I need all the space I can get, being the Sumo and all. Sitting four in a row just isn’t an option when the Sumo is part of the mix. I sat there under the sign stuck inside the window, which dictated that there should be no males seated in the front row as they are generally unpleasant characters and might piss off the driver, among other, more rude reasons.

The taxi, though practically falling apart, was very clean and I remember thinking that some taxi operators worry about all the wrong things because instead of this particular owner fixing up his taxi, he chose to fit it with a Sony 10-CD changer and radio system and an array of massive speakers and twitters (to get the acoustics absolutely perfect).

We slowly rattled up the hill towards my cousin’s house at about 20km/h and I was lost in my thoughts as I reminisced about good and bad times and got the old feeling of being back in the hood: a constant fear and being on edge. I arrived at home, was greeted and got to work preparing for the guests who would come for lunch later on. Tables and chairs needed to be put out, the meat needed to be cooked and the alcoholic beverages had to go in the rented fridge.

The guests arrived at about noon and what struck me is how many of them were teenagers, both male and female, all looking to have some food and drink. They sat around waiting, smoking freely in front of the adults. Sometimes they even shared the cigarette with the adults. It was startling.

The food was served, a buffet, which I must say was quite lovely. Everyone got a plate and stampeded towards it. The food was enjoyed by all, though I got the feeling that the food and the slaughtered beast, even the reason for the function — my cousin — were all just a sideshow. I soon realised that what these people had come for was undoubtedly the alcohol.

Now, as soon as the alcohol came out, you could have sworn that the Son of Man had finally returned and all the holy were falling over themselves, pushing and shoving to get to the front of the queue so that they could be among the first to behold Him with their earthly eyes, touch his flowing white robe and appreciate his majestic golden beard. It was crazy, as if for those few minutes there were nothing else on Earth but the black, reinforced plastic crates that carry 12 at a time and the brown and transparent bottles that deliver 750ml of hard escape from reality.

This was everything to these people; the highlight of the week for sure. You could see it in their eyes that they wanted to get away from reality, even for a fleeting moment, and they would do almost anything for the trip. It is tragic, really. I drink, and, well, a fair amount. The golden nectar is part of my being and just as important as oxygen, but I’m sure that alcohol means a totally different thing to me than to the settlers of that informal settlement. And what amazed and shocked me were the demographics of the crowd that was involved in the hustle and bustle of the beer and cheap-spirits war.

There were young men, of course — I say “of course” as if it is now acceptable for teenagers to drink until they cannot recognise themselves in the mirror and no one seems to mind. And there were also many young girls; this was new to me in that setting. There were adults around and in my time we drank as teenagers — not as much as these teenagers, and we did it away from reprimanding adult eyes — but these kids didn’t mind, nor did the adults. It was acceptable.

The drinking youths were as young as 12, from what I could see. I was not comfortable with it but felt powerless to do anything about it. I mean, what do you do? Take the booze away from them and get stabbed by an angry mob of youths on your way to the taxi rank? I don’t think so.

When I spoke to my nephew about this on the same day, he pointed out to me that it is commonplace and has become quite acceptable. With alcohol being more and more readily available, and it being used by unscrupulous adults to lure and hook young women, it is becoming more of a norm. The parents feel powerless to fight it or maybe they are too drunk to notice what is happening in their own homes; maybe they notice, but they are in the same boat and know what their daughter is doing — trying to go on exactly the same trip to escape the same reality.

But it gets worse; my nephew told me that he and a friend were hanging with a couple of nice young ladies in their late teens and early 20s. The ladies asked the guys to get them a few cases of their favourite ciders and spirit coolers, but to their surprise and utter dismay, one young lady asked for some E, a recreational drug that is apparently quite common these days, which is fancied by party goers and revellers all over. She didn’t want to drink; she just wanted the drugs, and my jaw dropped almost to the ground at hearing this — just as theirs had the week before.

We are raising a generation of substance abusers! And we all know what the common thread within substance abusers is; they will do anything to get their chosen mode of escape from reality. Whether it is, alcohol or drugs, they will do whatever it takes to get their hands on it. And this is not a problem that only exists in the townships. No, as a nation we have to make this issue a priority and fix it before it gets out of hand — if it hasn’t already. This is a serious issue, ladies and gentlemen.

Abusers will go to all ends to get their high. They will easily hijack, rob and burgle for money to get their fix; they will rob little old ladies of their pension money and little children on their way to buy much-needed bread for a starving family. They will rob sweet fat guys wearing worn-out Jack Purcells waddling seemingly aimlessly in the hood without the physical resource to elude their perpetrators. They will do it and feel no remorse while they do it, or afterwards as they enjoy their chosen mode of escape from their reality.

They will accept contract work to end a life of a father and a provider, a local businessman who employs a staff of more than 20. They will stake him out, lying quietly in the bushes by his gate, and when he starts to lock up, they will shower him with a spray of semi-automatic gun fire and disappear into the cool night air to partake of their chosen escape from reality. Why, there will now be more to escape from, since they have just added to their list of sorrows with their latest crime.

I rest
The Sumo