When I was nine years old, in Grade 3, I was in a queue to get back into class after recess. A clumsy-looking fellow tried to cut in front of me. So I naturally protested loudly. This led to a physical confrontation, during which I got my ass handed to me on a platter, with rosemary garnish.
In most parts of the world, this story ends in tears and maybe even lifelong enmity. In my world, the Kingdom of the Zulu, this is not how it goes down. Sifiso would end up not only my fiercest academic competitor but also my best mate through primary school, high school, right up to matric. During our first year of university we shared a room at the University of Natal's iconic Alan Taylor Residence. Thirty-seven years after we first met, he's still one of my best friends in the world.
There's a widely held Zulu belief that, to be truly good friends with someone, you need to fight them first. Apparently, to cement a relationship, two Zulu men need to fight to establish a pecking order. This way, if two friends argue about whether to order an extra-hot Nando's full chicken meal with extra peri-peri sauce or the disgusting lemon-and-herb flavour during a road trip, it's not the weakest stomach that wins the argument. He whose butt was kicked needs to back down and rely on condiment sachets for some heat on their chicken.
This is, I believe, the general principle employed to maintain "world peace" at the UN. After all, the 193 members of the General Assembly can bleat all they want but ultimately, the five permanent members of the Security Council that includes Trumpland, Putinland and Maoland hold pretty significant veto powers. I believe the technical term for this arrangement is: "We've got nuke warheads, so shut up, suckers!"
If any of this sounds familiar there's a good chance that you read my debut collection of essays titled Some of my best friends are white. Most Zulu men who grew up in KZN were raised in the tradition of ukuqhathwa. This involved older boys who would pick two boys, scoop a handful of sand, hold it between a soon-to-be Mayweather and Pacquaio, followed by the dare: "If you're not scared of him, smack the sand onto his face." And it would be on like Donkey Kong.
In rural villages, especially north of the Thukela River, fists were substituted with sticks. This usually ended with one or both of the combatants getting deep gashes in their skulls.
In the aftermath the victor would be heard bragging about the size of the gash he'd inflicted. It'd be called umgodi ongeqiwa ntwala (a hole so deep head lice cannot cross). But at the end of the sparring session, the victor was duty-bound to take the loser to the nearest waterhole, wash the wound and apply a mudpack to it to plug it up.
This is at the core of what led to two dudevorces I went through a few years ago. I'd been friends with both ex-friends for a combined 39 years when we signed the dudevorce papers. My theory is that we'd never established clear-cut pecking orders via good ole-fashioned nosebleeds. Therefore, disagreements between myself and my ex-friends used to spiral out of control.
About 20 years ago I used to frequent a pub called Exceptions on Durban's Russell Street (or whatever comrade it's named after these days). After a few liaisons, I got cosy with a woman with a superbly athletic figure. We ended up in her apartment in Albert Park. It's only when I saw the graduation pictures on the wall that it occurred to me that she was a sergeant in the SAPS. Okay. No problem. Right? Right? Wrong.
The first thing she did was to take off her bra, her shoes and a holster with her private firearm. The alarm bells in my head were louder than a fire truck's. Then she turned towards me and, with a wry smile: "You know that I cannot date a man who can't beat me in a fight, right? I just wouldn't be able to respect him."
She assumed a karate pose and beckoned to me with four fingers, ala Neo from The Matrix. All the beer in my system escaped and scattered in the general direction of Victoria Embankment. I experienced what AA members refer to as "a moment of clarity". I remembered the photograph on her wall with her being bestowed a brown belt in the Shotokan karate discipline.
Look, I'm not a sangoma by any stretch of the imagination but I caught a glimpse of my immediate future. My future involved me lying prostrate on her carpet with my front teeth, dignity and toxic masculinity scattered all around me. This is why I declined the challenge with whatever remaining dignity I could muster and went back to Exceptions to shoot some pool...