Fear in the Life of the elusive Black

Thursday 08:30 AM at what was apparently Cape Town's 'Real' Black University.

I had been mad drunk for several days in a strangely lucid delirium. Supplementing the coming hangovers with cigarettes and hash, just before taking a plunge into another fit of drinking. Hadn't slept in two or three days. Feeling tense, fidgety and incredibly shaky--in a dying high. I put it down to forced psyche expansion, keep it loose and easy, almost welcoming the madness. And I thought, here comes the Fear and Self-Loathing Dr Gonzo!

And I wondered, "What could I learn from this drinking binge?"

Was there anything to learn from it in any case. All I felt was a deep sense of psychological drain but I thought well, "I've come far, let's see where the dragon takes us?" Did I say that out loud? Did he hear it?

I shouted, "Hey neighbour!"

There was silence. The bastard didn't answer. I knew he was there. Listening...

I took out my rolling papers but they were all wrinkled-- very dry and rigid, almost brittle. The vodka must've got into them. They didn't bend too smoothly over the crushed hash as you rolled. When you tried to lick it shut...Pop! The herb flung right out.

"Fuck!" I roared, "Oi there, Indian fella!"

"Uh...eh, yah!"

I walked through my semi-private toilet door and knocked on his door, on the other side of toilet.

He opened up. "What's up?"

"Could I use your pipe," I asked.

"Sure."

He opened his wardrobe and rustled through clothes and took out 2 socks bundled together. He pulled a wooden pipe out of the socks. Then with this stupid-looking smile, all hunched over, he passed me the pipe and said, "Wake and bake, huh?”

"Yeah. Thanks."

I went back to my room. Poured myself a drink. Opened up my window and sat down, looking out. I began packing my hash into the bowl of the pipe. Lit up and pulled deep. Exhaled, melting into the chair...

A deep sense of calm washed over as I wondered, "What am I doing with my life?"

Maths both angered and confused me. Physics left me nihilistic. And the English they offer here leaves me wanting.

Life here at the Cape's 'Real' Black University leaves me with the worst kind of rage any human eager for life is left with. An empty one.

I bought the ticket, took the ride and rode it heavier than I thought I ever could but it leaves me empty.

I started drinking...

And I told myself, "I'm going to turn this world on its head."

I wrote my uncle. A painter.

I write this letter out of necessity. Not for beauty or some deluded sense of reconnecting with some long last form (of the letter) I was never really a part of. I just need to get the rushed thoughts out, put it somewhere visible and know where it is my mind wonders off to before I forget, as I often forget when smoking or drinking or both. I need to put these shark-toothed thoughts of a mad high down to know they were here. I need to put this feeling that is, almost real—almost music—almost magic, into form. Let's hope that this letter is a little like the music I feel—just a little bit of magic taking form.

Even if it is just a Direct Message on your Facebook inbox. Whatever…

To My Uncle the Artist:

The world has your old nephew by the balls, but I remember your words. "Nyamezela," you said. And so, I endure but I wonder which is worse, that mountain of Black monks initiated into Xhosa mysteries of old—or living here in the Mother City of the Colonial South, studying and all the while losing my spirit. Yes, I know what you're going to say. Why would I want to sit half naked, sweating and leaking out in a tent full of wounded men who are not yet Men as if I am Kunta Kente in Roots? I tell you that I have learnt more; hungry, high and alone at night, watching the walls of dimly lit rooms than I have in lectures and tutorials and the like.

I have learnt to cut. To tear. To sever. To separate this world from my own. Just driving the pencil through the wall of the real. Drilling the words through. Waiting for them to work, somehow. Waiting for what was on the other side of it to show itself. Maybe, the gods were through that wall and I may have found them—maybe just... Look, a man alone can learn to see with eyes uncluttered through that crack in the wall and no longer needs to cut. A man alone can learn to see God but I'm no longer a man alone. I am man among men, indoda emadodeni, who sees with many eyes—with a western world living in this man's belly. Hungry for white words, white women and whiskey. This man, Welizibuko Thunzi, can no longer see, Malume. It has been a while since I could see on and on, but I cannot see all that now. The mountain in me dies each day chipped away by the Colony in the West. I only eat, work, sleep—how long must I wait, how long must I suffer the Arrogance:

1. Of Others

2. Of My Own Ego

So, where do I even begin to cut at the world, uncle. To let loose soul immortal. Yes, of course I tell you man cannot live on bread alone. Yes...

I hunger. I hunger. I hunger.

I hunger for soul, but a drink will do for now. The white man's whiskey is okay...it’s okay for now. Even vodka for the nonce. You see, I am so tired of waiting, so tired of waiting in silence...but this drink is good music for the meanwhile.

Salut.

Note from the Uncle:

You have to learn this yourself one day, but I think it's good that I tell you now anyway. People act. People act...and it’s all bull! The way people act—It’s all hype. Not feeling. Not life. Don't get sucked into their little worlds young Thunzi. Make your own. You are a man now— Welizibuko— A man is a man alone.