‘Well, the story goes that a giraffe came upon a monkey perched high up in a tree, watching a sleeping lioness on the ground.

“What are you up to?” asks the giraffe.“Well, if you must know, I’m waiting for that lioness to wake up so I can hump her brains out.”

Not one to miss a free porn show, the giraffe settles down in anticipation. Next up, a hippo comes around, gets the same story and also awaits the extravaganza. Soon enough, a small crowd of animals is gathered under the tree, waiting for the sexual assault on the Queen of the jungle.

Finally, the King himself saunters on to the scene and up to the crowd of eager perverts.

“So what’s this gathering then?” he roars with menace.

“Nothing much,” says the monkey. “Just talking shit to the animals.”

I’m the monkey. You, the reader, are part the crowd of pervs. We are gathered here for the purpose of listening to me talk shit to my animals.’

The above passage is an extract from the introduction to my very first published book entitled ‘Some of my best friends are white.’ The story was related to me by a friend that we shall call Sguqa. Mostly because that is his name.

I like this story. It resonates with me on so many different levels. But mostly because I think it neatly sums up what I believe writing is about. Story telling. That’s it.

Now, one could make a compelling argument to the effect that not all writing is designed to tell a story and point out that some writing exists purely for the purpose of information dissemination, intellectual discourse yadah yadah yadah…

And my retort will be that I never let facts get in the way of a good point. Oh, and stop being a sanctimonious, pedantic little prick. Hell, even the first citizen of the Blogging Nation writes weekly erotic tales with miniskirts and fleshy thighs featuring prominently in them.

I like telling stories. Stories about my observations of some of life’s more mundane phenomena and events. Stories about having hair shaven in shady taxi ranks whilst listening to stories about shebeen whores. Stories about goats with moral dilemmas. Stories about Ridgeback-molesting
Chihuahuas. And stories about President Mbeki’s cousins in the cabinet.

If these stories sound familiar, then we might have been introduced on silwanekanjila.amagama.com where I skulk around in the crack of dawn. (No, my wife’s name is not Dawn – and get your mind out of the gutter!). Well, I will be doing some skulking around here for a while.

Take a seat. Get comfortable while the lioness sleeps. Let’s all wait for her to wake from her slumber so she can be violated.

Welcome to the Silwane Files.

– Ndumiso Ngcobo is the author of the recently-released book, ‘Some of my best friends are white’. (Two Dogs, ISBN 978-1-92013-718-2)



  • Once upon a time, Ndumiso Ngcobo used to be an intelligent, relevant man with a respectable (read: boring-as-crap) job which funded his extensive beer habit. One day he woke up and discovered that he had lost his mind, quit his well-paying job, penned a collection of hallucinations. A bunch of racist white guys published the collection just to make him look more ridiculous and called it 'Some of my best friends are white'. (Two Dogs, ISBN 978-1-92013-718-2). Nowadays he spends his days wandering the earth like Kwai Chang Caine, munching locusts, mumbling to himself like John the Baptist and searching for the meaning of life at the bottom of beer mugs. The racist publishers have reared their ugly heads again and dangled money in his face to pen yet another collection of hallucinations entitled 'Is It Coz 'm Black'. He will take cash, major credit cards and will perform a strip tease for contributions to his beer fund.


Ndumiso Ngcobo

Once upon a time, Ndumiso Ngcobo used to be an intelligent, relevant man with a respectable (read: boring-as-crap) job which funded his extensive beer habit. One day he woke up and discovered that he...

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