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Ranting, Raving, Neverending Story

Officialese speak:
The round circular shape must been enlargened by you.
After Subbing and grammar training:
Make the circle bigger.

After almost three months of the most intense journalism training I have ever undergone, the end has come. It's over. The book has been shut. Neo Maditla, also known as "the CAG" (cosmo-african girl), sits to my left and laughs endlessly at my lame 18:45 jokes and impersonations. The CAG says she'll miss me. She's being rather complimentary, like the nuts in the Savanna ad: http://neocadet.blogspot.com/. Admittedly, I've never met someone like the CAG before and the feeling is mutual.In the spirit of my favourite film, The Neverending Story, I should believe that it's not over, that there is no end and that I'll be back.If I'm not, I was just meant to have different experiences.

Klein Vrede- Antjie Krog

This poem is still as beautiful and relevant as the day I read it...

Vanmiddag wag sy vir hom in 'n klein hoëmuurhuisie
half toe-oog ingekruip agter 'n straatstoepie

5.12 hang hy sy hoed aan die haak
trek sy baadjie uit en sy gooi kookwater deur die koffiesak

vee haar hande aan die geblomde voorskoot en wag darem
dat hy haar eers teen hom vasdruk, so skuinserig met die een arm

voor sy hom die dag se nusies vertel
die gat in die heining, die hond, Anna-jannie het gebel

Na ete haal sy die Bybel uit die boonste laai
en hy lees vir hulle van Israel se afgode teen die berg Sinaï

haar hande vou 'n stopskulp in syne as sy bid:
Onse Vader wat hoog bo die aarde in die hemel sit ...

Die maan rys soos 'n koringmeelbrood bokant die dak
sy was skottelgoed met lifebuoy en 'n omgesoomde meelsak

hy luister nuus op die treetjie by die agterdeur
oor dinge wat met ander mense in die wêreld gebeur

Later as die luggie begint trek
die windpomp klap-klap in die dam in lek

sit hy die sproeier af, maak die hoenderhokke toe
sit die kat uit en kom langsaam kamer toe.

In die na-nag as die wind uit die noorde begin
skuif die maan oor hul bed dieper die kamer in

tot op die woorde geraam in krulle:
My vrede gee Ek julle.

From: Mannin

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Rant and Rave

OK, so I've been updating this blog mostly with some of my creative pieces but I think it's time to take a break from fiction and fun and look at some real issues.

15 year old ET murder suspect
Some intense journalism this week revealed that the boy now has shoes, clothes, a bed, food and schooling etc, things that he never had before. In some ways that makes me feel good. An under-privileged farm worker has things he'd probably never have if his life didn't take a different path. But look at the alleged means to the end. If he is guilty of the murder charges, what grave sins did he commit to improve his life. What a catch 22. Is this what people have to do to move up? And what precedent does this set? Grossly unfair. How different will this chap's life be now compared to if hadn't been arrested.

Intros
Cape Argus (14/04/2010, Late Final): THE 15-YEAR-old accused of murdering AWB leader Eugene Terre’-Blanche has abandoned his bail application for now and has been declared fit to stand trial. National Prosecuting Authority (NPA) spokesman Mthunzi Mhaga said outside the Ventersdorp Magistrate’s Court this morning that the minor had decided not to go ahead with his bail application.

The Star (14/04/2010, Fourth Edition): HE WAS born and brought up in abject poverty and, until last week, had never slept in a bed or worn a pair of shoes. Now life for this 15-year-old has changed dramatically: he has shoes, a bed, gets three meals a day– and has lost his freedom. Now life for this 15-year-old has changed dramatically: he has shoes, a bed, gets three meals a day– and has lost his freedom. And he is “bearing up” under the strain of being accused of murdering AWB leader Eugene Terre'Blanche.

No guesses for which intro paragraph makes for better, more grabbing reading. This is not the first time the Star has streaked ahead with this savvy, punchy style of writing. It's short, sweet and should have appeared across the group like this. I wonder why not. How different are Argus and Star readers? Not much I think. Both papers splashed with this story that day, and both had the same byline: Sapa and Staff Reporters. Who ever is cobbling these fourth edition splashes at the Star, they are doing a great job. If papers want to remain relevant and appealing, then smart, inticing writing like this is a must.

Price of papers
The Times: R2.
The Daily Voice: R2.70 (Cape-based tabloid)
The Daily Sun: R2.50
Cape Argus: R5
Cape Times: R6.20
Daily News: R4.50
The Mercury: R5.50
The Star: R5.30

Hmm, a very strange set of affairs. Best way to look at: Would a person pay R6,20 for a regional morning title, or even R2.50 for a national tabloid when you pay R2 for a national title? Sure, there is the arguement that people are loyal to their regional brands or tabloid newspapers but this is a still a big deal. It is obvious that this price drop is definetly going to affect many people's choices. What does this say about The Times and which market they are competing in? Is the content going to change and will we see more sensational tabloid content emerging from this title? Or will still be seen as the daily sister of the R14 Sunday Times? How does this affect their budget? At R2, it is clear that they are opening themselves to a wider range of LSMs. And as you know, publications tend to charge advertisers more for having readers in the exclusive higher LSMs.

Radio
The SABC have announced that their radio stations will be playing 80% local and 20% continental music from May 1st to the end of July. Gulp. Sure some stations might cope with this (SAfm, Radio 2000, Metro, RSG, Ukhozi, Umhlobo Wenene, Lesedi etc) but 5, Good Hope and Lotus? I don't think so. 5 and Good Hope have the Parlatones, Tasha Baxter and HHP etc but as commercial hit music stations, it's certain their listnerships will take a knock. Lotus, oh boy. As their playlist is dominated by content from the Indian sub-continent, once that is out the way, be prepared for 24 hours of the Flash Entertainers Nagara special and others. I'm not saying that there is no place for this on radio, and yes, I do listen to local Indian music occasionally, but I, like many other listeners, are going to have a hard time digesting this. Will Lotus even be able to source Indian-language content from the continent? Not likely. There isn't much of an alternative either. Unless of course you have a good internet connection and can listen to the likes of BBC Asian Network and Radio NRI. Perhaps it's time to create an alternative. Yes, there is Hindvani, but the south Indian community needed a local radio station like yesterday. I'm looking forward to listening to what the corporation's various niche stations pull out of a hat come May 1, especially Lotus. I'm sure you are too. If ever there was a time for the local Indian music scene to up their game and record top-class linguistic music, it's now. If ever there was a time for communities to catch a wake-up and drive an alternative into existance, it's now. "Feel it, It's here".

Scribbles
Non-DStv Premium viewers the country over, are reaping the benefits of a three times a week dose of Gossip Girl. Aah, I love nothing better than to watch Blair "The Witch" Waldorf tear her claws into the yuppies of Manhattan's upper east-side. Everyone's inner mean girl is probably bursting out their chests as damsel Serena van der Woodsen wilts under Waldorf's crunch.
While watching the show recently, my fellow cadet, Molly "The Sub" Manzi reflected on a phenomenon from her hamlet of Steelburg in Limpopo. Scribbles. Everyday, students at her former school write a little story about their friends, and enemies, often dishing the dirt on the student body's biggest secrets. At the end of the week, a thick A4 booklet of re-handwritten "Scribbles" is produced by a group of compilers and a supervising teacher and sold for R2.5o. The scribbles are interspersed with lists of top 10 hottest guys, girls and couples for the week. Fully endorsed by the school and the Headmaster with the only rule being no foul language. The Sub tells me that it was socially acceptable to write, buy and read Scribbles. And light reading it was not. Imagine the dirt one would find there about pregnancies, parties, drugs, who's doing who, who hates who, cat fights etc. Aah, what a playground... or minefield. I made her promise to get me a copy. And to think, this kind of brilliance from small town SA? My former high school would have waved away such activity with the large cane of endless detentions and hearings, let alone publish and endorse something like this. We might not have mystery bloggers lurking in leafy urban suburbs, but the all-knowing eye of Scribbles has it's eye on the rural north. Clearly pen and paper... and the photostat machine still rules. Will Scribbles could become a new craze, it's seems more likely than GG type blog. Sure news travels on Mxit and even Facebook, but Multi-Mixes are so passe. They all certainly don't have the anonymity or variety of Scribbles. Perhaps a local dramedy series on Scribbles is in order?

As a final note, does anyone know where I can find Sunsilk Dazzling Shiny Black Shampoo, Conditioner and Leave-in? Great for Indian hair I hear but rather hard to find in SA.

Liverpudlian hospital maid dies! (inspired by Eleanor Rigby sung by the Beatles)

The silence of a frozen English evening is broken as St. Peter’s bells begin twelve tolls. The last grain of rice falls to the murky puddle on the cobbled paving outside the church as its scrawny, sickly picker drew her last breath of icy air. The street lamp shines on what was once Eleanor Rigby, a 44 year old former scullery maid at Liverpool City Hospital.
A few hours earlier, the stone church against which Rigby’s body lay was abuzz with festivity. At three o’ clock, Father McKenzie placed the hands of a bride into a groom’s, while the congregation cheered and applauded the latest couple to the quiet suburb of Woolton. Rigby was allowed to attend the ceremony by the grace of the bride Mary, who had noticed the beaming, fair-skinned woman at the church, lining up hymn-books and straightening banners that morning.
After the service, Rigby carefully cleaned the church, moving about like a church mouse, picking up every grain of rice. It was her last meal.
She had been fired yesterday from her job at the hospital. She had been accused of eating a piece of beef from the superintendant’s lunch.
The grain hits the puddle at one toll past midnight and Rigby is no more.
“What difference does it make?” thought Father McKenzie as he nudged the lifeless body lying below a stained-glass window. “She has no mouths to feed. Another burden on our parish I suppose and one less tithe. I’ll have to bury her along with all the other bodies piling up in the mortuary next week. I’ll have to write another sermon no one will hear.”
McKenzie had known her all her life and yet didn’t. He knew she was parishioner number 122 and that she was the simply-dressed, brown-haired woman who sat under the stained glass depicting the holy family. Next week, after much idle research among dusty records, McKenzie might deliver a sermon describing her life as an orphan at the Woolton Children’s Home, a diligent primary school pupil who had to leave to work as a maid at a young age, a hard worker at the Hospital kitchens and a faithful member of his flock. Although he was often a cast member of the scenes of her life, he probably won’t mention the bruising he her gave her at Sunday School for not remembering the fifth commandment, nor the form he signed as her guardian when he was a young priest, discharging her from school and giving her adult status at age 11. The old man, however, might remember her baptism.
The ripples in the puddle fade as bell makes its twelfth toll and the body is alone again, minus the women’s only valuable possession now dangling from the pocket of the tall dark figure that had passed by moments earlier. He is in quite a hurry to get home and doesn’t see his attacker. As his life flashes before his eyes, he remembers that Rigby’s clothes were torn and that her thighs were blood-soaked. The gleaming knife darts into McKenzie as the killer makes off with the gold holy family charm and necklace. “Ah,” he mutters as he passes his victims, “look at all the lonely people.”
This short story was inspired by the Beatles' ode to loneliness Eleanor Rigby. It is pure fiction and any bearing to real people or places is unintentional.