Listening to Mr Magic, Linda Sibiya, this morning – he was making an appeal to people not to transport pots and packages and blankets inside the taxis, and that they should use trailers instead. He then began to describe what sort of things bring into taxis – the big pots, the blankets, squeezing in beside you in the heat of uZibandlela (December, the path-crowder month). This led to him putting on the voices of taxi-users, as they complained and as they attempted to get in.

When he began to do this for a woman trying to get a goat on board a taxi, I couldn’t help laughing aloud in the car –

{sound of a youngish female goat, protesting at being loaded onto a taxi and held in the increasingly smelly lap of the very person who would most likely be plunging a knife into your neck in less than a day, scared by the thumping kwaito and the smells and aromas in the cabin of the taxi as you see the world flash by faster than your umuzi-coddled brain has ever been stretched to imagine}

“Ngizoyikhokhela. Ngizoyikhokhela.” [I’ll pay for it. I’ll pay for it.”

{her reedy voice barely heard above the backing track, but still reminiscent of a line of red beads, perhaps a few in the hair, a certain set of colours and a glint in the eye that speaks of frequent communing with the abaphansi – you don’t want to mess with someone who could quite easily phonsela inyoni}

– and I felt very happy to be a speaker of ulimi lukaPhunga noMageba.

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