Charlene Smith wrote an honest, truthful and soul-baring piece on the lot of the 21st-century writer. But more than anything else, it was really intelligent, well thought out, credible and well researched with references to literary icons such as Margaret Atwood. I had never heard of her until yesterday. God bless Wikipedia.

It was a sickening display of reality. I had to take a moment to let the waves of nausea pass over my body before I was moved enough to pen a response to her. This is significant because I hadn’t written anything in a week. This is how it went;

Dear Charlene,

I have just finished your excellent, self-effacing, albeit misguided piece on the fallacy of fame and the writer. I do not believe that it should go unchallenged. As a recent entrant to the world of writing, I’m a bit alarmed at some of the unintended consequences of your well-meaning article.

Soon after reading your piece, a depressed, tearful Sumo called me from eThekwini to ask me if any of it was true. There was a certain panic in his voice as he told me he’d been so shaken by the morbid picture you’d painted of the lot of the writer that he had abandoned a steak he was having to give me a ring. This is pretty serious — The Sumo just doesn’t abandon food willy-nilly. OK, allow me to explain this Sumo angle.

I have known that mountain of humanity for a while. Yes, The Sumo — please try to keep up, Charlene. When I started writing Some of My Best Friends Are White, I used to send him some of the pieces to ask what he thought. The reason I trust his opinion is because I love his writing and we share a similar sense of humour. (I may or may not even have plagiarised some of his lines in my book, but that would be a matter for our courts to decide in the future should the sodding bastard ever take me on.)

But I digress. The Sumo didn’t really believe that there was a publishing house with low enough standards to publish my profane hallucinations. The rest is history. Such a publishing house did exist (sorry, Tim). A few weeks after the release of the book I was invited to contribute to Thought Leader. Spurned on, in part, by the Idiot Factor (“If that idiot can get published …”), The Sumo tentatively expressed an interest in writing for Thought Leader. Because I believed in his talent so much, I moved swiftly to get him onboard, using cryptic emails to Vinny Maher.

It wasn’t that straightforward. I had to do some convincing before The Sumo went ahead with the whole thing. I told him to picture the life we’d have when we became famous, acclaimed authors. I painted a vivid picture of life in the fast lane with awards, accolades, being interviewed by the delicious Azania Ndoro on the Metro FM book show and smoke-filled cigar lounges in the company of Tito Mboweni. But what finally convinced him was the promise of sex on tap. “Women LUUUV clever guys and who’s smarter than writers, huh?!” I shrieked in a high-pitched, girly voice.

That’s what finally did it. You see, there is no greater motivator for males than moola and poontang. And you know I’m right too. Nothing motivates men more than sex. Or the promise of sex. I reckon it’s an evolutionary instinct embedded in our genetic code to ensure the survival of the species. This is why the planet is bursting at the seams and there are six billion of us farting and sending the carbon-dioxide/global-warming index through the roof.

I bet you that every male contributor on Thought Leader shares the same Solitary Species Repopulator (SSR) fantasy that I have. You know; being the sole male survivor after WWIII and having to … er, keep the species going, so to say. I bet you that’s what drives Trapido to write at such a frenetic pace — he’s positioning himself for that SSR role should George W accidentally sit on the “Nuke Iran” red button on his Oval Office desk, inadvertently starting WWIII. If you think it wouldn’t happen, you obviously have not been acquainted with the power of Stupid. I must confess that this whole SSR situation has an irresistible appeal to it. Imagine Germany populated by short, podgy little coloured kids with potbellies and matchstick legs. Imagine saying these words to Heidi Klum: “Jeez, wait for your turn like everybody else, goddamnit. Now where was I? Oh, yes; come in, Beyoncé.”

And Charlene, everything was going according to plan until your downer piece. It was only a matter of time before someone offered the tub of lard a writing deal. Dudette, you need to stop it. Seriously. Writing is not all that bad. Allow me to break it down to you.

  • Writing instantly adds about 40 points to one’s IQ score. Really. I know people who used to assess my intelligence as mediocre at best and possibly even slightly stunted. Since I started writing they have suddenly seen the error of their ways and they think I’m related to Albert Einstein. Why don’t you tell the people that bit, huh?
  • Writing a book has turned me into an insightful social commentator overnight. All of a sudden what I think has become important. I must confess that I feel a little bit like Forrest Gump. I don’t know if you remember the sequence where he’s running for months for no reason and the whole world is tracking him and when he stops he says: “I’m tired,” and everybody thinks it’s the most profound statement they ever heard? I feel like that a lot these days. Why, the other day someone called me from Yfm news a few minutes before midday to ask me what I thought was going on inside the minds of the high-calibre ANC NEC individuals congregated at Esselen Park. I hypothesised that a few of them might be wondering if they would have beef or chicken during lunch. The thought made me hungry and I drove out to grab something to eat. Next thing I know I’m hearing my own voice on the radio talking about the ANC NEC. Now, just how cool is that?
  • I’ve gone from one of those geeky, nerdy, albeit a little quirky types who say irritating stuff to a profound dude. It doesn’t really matter what I say any more and people think it’s profound. The other day I had a conversation that went something like:
    Me: Oh dear, I think it’s about to rain.
    Over-attentive individual: Really? How do you know?
    Me: I’ve just had a few drops land on me.
    OAI: Man, that’s deep. I want you to father all my future offspring.
  • That leads me to my next point; how my seed has become a valuable, sought-after commodity. I feel like the fifth Rolling Stone these days. The other day I was minding my own business when a woman threw her undergarment at me, like I was Mick Jagger or something. Oh, wait, that was my wife — and it was my own boxers that she wanted me to put inside the laundry basket. But you know what I mean. I’ve become quite adept at this vagina-declining thing. I’m saving myself for after WWIII.
  • Due to a combination of poor breeding and putting in a lot of hard work, I have grown into quite a shameless braggart. You have no idea what it felt like to be standing around the University of Limpopo during the ANC conference and having a casual conversation with Mark Gevisser, King Lear … er, that would be President Mbeki’s biographer … like it was the most normal thing in the world. Or John Perlman. Or Mondli Makhanya. Or the fact that when I get my daily name-dropping urges, I can say cool things like: “You know, David Bullard said something funny at lunch the other day.” Now, just how cool is that?
  • But more than anything else, I can see how this writing thing can only lead to the fulfilment of my ultimate realistic goal in life. Forget the Pulitzer or the Nobel Prize. Should this whole writing thing work out the way it’s supposed to, I’m not going down like Dingaan Thobela whose ultimate dream of a double-door fridge full of burgers led to his ruin. No, I want something much nobler — and I’m going to get it. Before I’m done, I want a dozen, pretty, nubile, hot young things in flesh-revealing cheerleading uniforms with pom-poms to precede me everywhere I go, chanting: “Go Ndum! Go Ndum!” and composing ditties in my honour. It’s the next best thing that whole SSR sweet gig.

    • That, Charlene, is the flip side of the coin that young writers such as The Sumo and Khadija Sharife need to hear as well. We need as many young writers as we can. Describing ourselves as duck paté is just not on. I hope I’ve made myself clear.

    You’re most welcome.

    Yours in ink
    The future SSR

    Author

    • Once upon a time, Ndumiso Ngcobo used to be an intelligent, relevant man with a respectable (read: boring-as-crap) job which funded his extensive beer habit. One day he woke up and discovered that he had lost his mind, quit his well-paying job, penned a collection of hallucinations. A bunch of racist white guys published the collection just to make him look more ridiculous and called it 'Some of my best friends are white'. (Two Dogs, ISBN 978-1-92013-718-2). Nowadays he spends his days wandering the earth like Kwai Chang Caine, munching locusts, mumbling to himself like John the Baptist and searching for the meaning of life at the bottom of beer mugs. The racist publishers have reared their ugly heads again and dangled money in his face to pen yet another collection of hallucinations entitled 'Is It Coz 'm Black'. He will take cash, major credit cards and will perform a strip tease for contributions to his beer fund.

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    Ndumiso Ngcobo

    Once upon a time, Ndumiso Ngcobo used to be an intelligent, relevant man with a respectable (read: boring-as-crap) job which funded his extensive beer habit. One day he woke up and discovered that he...

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