by Wayne Naidoo
Part 1.
The year was 1985 and I had just graduated to an all-boys high school at the age of 12. Out of the 300 boys, I was the youngest, darkest, shiniest, shortest and hairiest of the lot. And I was one of a handful of skinny Indians that stood out like a sore thumb amongst the ruling tribe. I was in alien territory and I was Prime Target No 1.
Being bullied came in a variety of daily formats but the one that cut the deepest was when they attacked my lunch. You see, my mom was the actual, original, unofficial founder of the Gourmet sandwich. In our house there was no such thing as a plain ham or jelly sarmie or just having Marmite on toast. This, like most of the things to which us Indians were accustomed, had to be extra. And extra everything. Pickled chilli bacon, grated beetroot and diced angel hearts, smoked shredded shoulder ham with shavings of organic-fed chicken breasts and leftover pickled fish onions with sprinkles of pitless raisins on a Cinnamon bun, was just one of her delightful treats. Mom could convert a standard loaf of Government-issued bread into a crunchy Ciabatta or sourdough or even a Roti if you wanted. She was a sandwich magician and this sort of gastronomic, kaleidoscope treat was the envy of every kid in town. Unfortunately though, this privilege bestowed upon us had set some unintended consequences in motion – our very survival. Gulp.
From Monday to Friday we had two breaks – snack time at 10h00 and then a longer lunch break at 12h30. By 10am most kids had mowed through their daily stash and by 12h30 their adolescent furnace was in dire need of more fuel. It was every man for himself and the fight to stay alive was both real and terrifying. The Law of the Jungle dictated that I was the low hanging fruit and, no matter how much I tried to protect my grub I was robbed by the older and more slender challenged kids.
There were two punks in particular, Gershwin “Big Lippe*” Adams and Faiek “The Hoover” Salie, who stole and ate my lunch like ravished dogs daily. It was time to get even. A plan needed to be hatched, and I needed to do it quickly if I wanted to ensure the survival of my clan.
Term 1 Day 37 was the agreed calendar date to strike. My “war room” was littered with photos of the school premises, class schedules and student report cards along with times of student drop off and pick up times. ID’s of students were also placed in categorical order of body weight, height and smugness of kid. Bit by bit, the guilty parties’ profiles came together and by 12h30 the next day, their reckoning was about to go down.
12h30 arrived faster than I could have asked for. I stayed in class during this time and hid camouflaged at the back of the room under the furthest desk, with a view of the entire area. I could feel my heart beating in my gums and felt the blood drain out of my eyes as Lippe and Hoover walked over to my desk and opened it with gleeful delight.
They were like hyenas frothing at the mouth before a feast but this time their enthusiasm waned somewhat. This time the sandwich was different. This time it was pretty plain. No pickles, no envelope-folded, rye-infused bread – nothing fancy but just a thick layer of what looked like mashed, minced meat spread over 8 slices of soft white bread. Before anyone could say “Who let the dogs out?”, they had already wolfed down their lunch haul, licking their paws as they left the room.
The sense of sweet revenge overwhelmed me like little Simba in The Lion King. They were eventually exposed, ridiculed publicly and as a result never returned to my Class 6A again. I had slain the rabid gluttons and this little Indian fellow, was now the new head bitch in town. Woof!
Because, this time I fed them what dogs enjoy best. HUSKY*.
Life Lesson #2 – Everything comes to you in the right moment. Be patient.
Part 2.
It’s incredible just how many dogs there are, out there. I once again encountered a rather ferocious canine at a Hospitality company at which I was employed. I was twenty years old and still pretty new to the business world and had zero clue about hierarchy or boardroom dynamics. The staffing compliment was made up of all ROYGBIV colours to reflect our rainbow nation and worked well with the foreigners that visited our data centre. It was a dynamic environment and one that sold all kinds of experiences to these excited travellers: Robben Island prison tours, Table Mountain zig-zag hikes, Cape Point with penguin excursions, hedonistic wine tasting in Franschhoek and surrounds, 30 degree sunshine and pure white Clifton sands. We even sold them a lolly to make them jolly.
Grechen was our much older colleague, pieced together by a tapestry of the worst of South African, Ottoman and Romanian, in her late-forties and had this phony accent that sounded like what Santa Claus would sound like, if he were a Serbian serial killer. She was decorated like an artificial Christmas tree and needed to be heard and seen at all times. She was, however, the best salesperson by a long shot, and was therefore teacher’s pet. Grechen was treated like royalty by Management and condescendingly walked over everyone – especially us junior pups – that dared to cross her path.
Nicole, Achmat, Jill, Bongani and I just couldn’t get our heads around how she was able to reach these crazy targets, until one day, I overheard her bragging to her pal on the phone about the “special arrangement”, that she had with some of her suppliers. Jeez Louise, really? This was like manna from Heaven and over the coming weeks, I methodically gathered even more intel than the CCTV cameras on Adderley street, and, like Eva Langoria in Desperate Housewives, I was ready to take this mean old, self-serving bitch down.
It was our monthly staff meeting, where the “Best of the Best” Awards were handed out. Grechen sat right in front of the room and beamed a smile to all of us, which was so fake that Bongani started throwing up uncontrollably into his hoodie. We were 45 minutes into the ‘Grechen Awards” ceremony where she picked up just about every accolade that they could invent – “Most stylish phone listener”, to, “Most culturally diverse female information explainer in an adult role”.
Before any further nausea could settle in, I slowly looked around the room and timidly raised my PG 18+ hand, and, in doing so, I innocently, interrupted the extravaganza. All eyes, especially Grechen’s, were now focussed very attentively on me. I coyly took to the mic and with wide, watery Bambi eyes, I looked at Mr Pretorius and to the rest of the Executive team and asked very sincerely: “Would Cindy, Bongani, Achmat, Jill and I stand a chance to win an award next month, if we also proactively made special deals with suppliers, like Grechen does?” Silence. Followed by more silence. Grechen now looked like she had been round-house slapped with a pink vienna Gatsby* with extra guava atchar.
This time, I fed this pavement-special* to the wolves.
The following day, I was promoted from “Junior Marketing Assistant” to “Marketing Assistant”, and Grechen was said to have taken an immediate sabbatical then. I believe she’s still on it, and was last seen at “Adopt a Dog” at the SPCA in Brackenfell.
Life Lesson #2.1 – Never tolerate bullies in any form. They are toxic, and a hinderance to society. I’ve come across more bullies in the working world, than I ever did on the school playground. Win with patience and perseverance and strike when the time is right.
End.
*Lippe – this is the derogatory Afrikaans translation for someone who possesses a fuller version of lips.
*Husky – a popular household brand of canned dog food.
*Gatsby – It’s a large foot-long sandwich, filled with cheap polony and hot chips, overflowing with spicy sauce and anything else that can be spelt in cursive.
*Pavement-Special – It’s a tongue-in-cheek expression which is used as a description for a mixed-breed dog.
Snakes and Ladders 