Lion of Soweto

Chapter 33

"Soweto Lion Splashes Five Million Rands on Birthday Celebration."

Monday morning, the Sowettan Independent newspaper splashes a sensational headline on the cover page. Other tabloids tow the same line. News of Bandele's birthday bash spreads across the land like Amazon wildfire. Television stations air clips of the event repeatedly. People debate if Soweto – a place commonly described as the bastion of the lower-class citizens – has such wealthy people living there.

Polemann residents march to the newspaper stand singing praises of Bandele and his late father, but many of them won't pick a tabloid – they can't afford one. They're only here to scoop public opinions – their usual pastime after earth-shattering events. And, of course, to check if their pictures appear in the newspapers, something they'll brag about for years or decades.

Many believe the five-million newspaper reports anyway. They accuse the newspaper owners of underreporting their estimates. Items stolen from the party transformed their rooms. And the large chunks of beef in their fridges can last three weeks or more. No one ever threw a bash after which guests traded in party souvenirs. Residents' tongues go on overdrive. Yet it's not even 7 am.

Pa Loco, a post-middle-age erudite goes through the report with agony on his face. "How can someone be so wasteful?" His hands spread out in the air. "How can a sensible person waste so much money on just a party? I knew it was a mess. Luckily I wasn't around."

Being one of the learned ones who reads and interprets newspapers, others listen to him with rapt attention and guided suspicion. Pa Loco's dislike for Bandele is well-documented.

He takes the spotlight for the moment, explaining that the tabloid condemns Bandele for his extravagance. That he entertained guests with twenty cows and fifty bags of rice. Thirty thousand packets of beers ensured that people bathed in liquor. Hennessey flowed knee-high on the street – a senseless sign of Bandele's wealth.

The party was a celebration of immorality. The celebrant took no precaution to prevent kids from being exposed to adults' overindulgences. Unclad ladies moved about unrestrained. The underaged had access to alcohol like never before. People smoked nyaope, woonga, zol and heroine. Thieves and hoodlums had a field day. Shoddy security arrangement made it easy for urchins to indulge in violence while some celebrated. Now the hospitals are filled with injured party guests.

Worse still, the police did little or nothing to prevent public disturbance – despite countless phone calls from residents of adjoining streets who complained about sick and aged persons, the newborns. Instead, men in uniform partook in the show of shame, turning blind eyes to the excesses of the celebrant and his guests.

The newspapers advise that money wasted on such frivolous gatherings could be used on beneficial community projects. Bandele can build schools and hospitals. He can set up neighbourhood businesses and employ teeming jobless youths.

Pa Loco convinces a good number of his listeners about Bandele's extravagance. "Yes, he should have built a hospital to mark his birthday!" His voice shoots up. "Other sensible rich men do that in other communities."

"That's true," many choruses. "Bandele is unreasonable."

"If I'm to recall vividly, his father won't do such nonsense. Despite Sbu-de-Sergeant's obvious weaknesses, he didn't shame people with his wealth."

"Oh, yes. That's true. Bandele is too over-vagant!" Someone says.

Die-hard Bandele fans begin to grumble, some leave the gathering, unable to stand the bashing, just as more arrive to listen to all Pa Loco is saying.

Pa Loco replies. "Holding a party is where all your rents go – drinking beer and parading nude women around."

"Never before have we been so oppressed." A man in blue tie and bowler hat says. He just arrived. "A landlord who has no regard for us tenants, who doesn't respect our women, who doesn't benefit the community in any way, now slap our faces with his wealth." His raised hat and flailing hands allude to his spleen.