Whispers to my unborn

By Siphiwe Mpye

1.   1. After your first visit to a strip club, you will think you have found true love. You will be wrong.  

2.    Never, ever allow yourself to be mistaken for a Manchester United fan.

3.    Because of women, you will make numerous stupid decisions from which you will never learn. Just make sure the said ladies are beautiful every time, it makes the blows less painful and the lessons infinitely more memorable.

4.     Contrary to popular belief, ‘conscious’ girls are more high maintenance than the weave and cocktails brigade.

5.    As painful as your first experience of unrequited love will be, it will be miles better than supporting The Elephants.

6.    If you really have to splash out on a car, think vintage, never BMW X5. You will be judged.  

7.     Listen to talk radio in doses if you will, but please do listen. A man who lives by Tbo Touch alone is forever lost.

8.    You are a champion. Remember this especially when you lose.

9.    If she thinks Will Smith is an ass, do as she says at all times. 

1010. Be wary of posing for photographs whilst sitting in, on or standing next to, a car.

1111. When you reach 30, you might feel younger than you ever have, but to 21 year-old girls, you are a dirty old man.

1212. Never say: “In my opinion...it’s just my opinion…I am entitled to my opinion” and the like. A man never apologises for his opinion.

1313. Never underestimate peer pressure; it can compel men who have seen the best of their 40s to get Chinese symbol tattoos and wear shiny Ed Hardy T-shirts.

1414. When you first get drunk, you will feel an overwhelming urge to call your mother. Do not do it.

1515. Never trust a woman who ‘forgets’ her earrings on your bedside table.

1616. Marry the woman who references the book and curses the day they cast Stephen Dorff for the movie.

1717. You will think you have considered all the possibilities and nothing can go wrong, but trust me, taking the car without permission always ends badly.

1818. Commit to memory the words ‘thank you’ and ‘please’. To be used everywhere from the boardroom to the massive roadblock around the corner from your house at 4am on a Saturday morning.

1919. Never befriend a man who refers to himself in the third person.

2020. Never allow anyone to speak ill of your old man, he’s a great guy.

 

Part of a collective with other writers, Originally published in the Sunday Times, 2009

What's in a name?

 

By Siphiwe Mpye

For what seemed like an eon after Federal Judge Sonia Sotomayor was nominated to the US Supreme Court – the first Hispanic woman to ever rise to that summit - right wing politicians and conservative media in that country lashed at her, calling her racist, among other terms of endearment. The barrage of vitriol stemmed from a comment attributed to the judge in 2001: “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences, would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life…whether born from experience or inherent physiological or cultural differences, our gender and national origins may and will make a difference in our judging.” Fair enough, I’d think, and the Guardian’s Chris McGreal affirms this: “To some Americans, Sotomayor’s comments appear self-evident. They point to the personal experience Thurgood Marshall brought as a black man elevated to the Supreme Court during the civil rights era.” A certain empathy and a sense racial and gender sensitivity to the bench is what every nation needs, but – surprise, surprise - George W. Bush’s cronies Newt Gingrich and Karl Rove called her statement racist, proof that she would be biased against whites and men, they claimed. 

Sotomayor’s appointment was also met with cries - from similar quarters – of it being an Affirmative Action decision rather than one that is best for the USA. Yet Sotomayor’s record shows that she is a talented, intelligent, qualified, experienced legal mind as Ivy League-educated as any of the male candidates the GOP would sooner see in the post. Dr Xolela Mangcu made the point recently in The Weekender: “Indeed, America has hundreds of black and white male judges who could have fitted the bill. But (Barack) Obama made a different choice (by nominating Sotomayor), and that is what leadership is about – making choices.”

But the most bizarre attack yet on poor Sotomayor however, has been the suggestion that she should “anglicise” her name, like how actress Eva (pronounced phonetically) Mendez somehow along the way became “Eeevah”.

That horrific idea first articulated in the National Review. Writing in that conservative magazine, while broadcasters indignantly savaged Sotomayor’s name - others calling her something akin to “Sat-on-my-whore” - Mark Krikorian put it to the reader that English speakers should not be put through the rigours of pronouncing ‘foreign names’ properly. A chorus echoing Krikorian’s call rung through verkrampte America.

As I watched these developments unfold, I realised just how fortunate I was to live in South Africa where we respect each other’s 11 official languages. I trust I am not being naïve in suggesting that we no longer live in a time when Hlengiwe, the new black kid in class, introduced herself she would be asked one of three questions: “Do you have an English name?” “What’s that for short, can I call you Ngeewee?” or my favourite, “I am not even going to attempt that!” I truly hope we that time is behind us.

By the same token I would like to believe we are equally tolerant of each other’s shortcomings in the genuine pursuit of that said respect. How else can you explain how Dr Irvin Khoza got first language English speakers to mispronounce his name and call him “Ivan”, no matter what that doyen of improbable accents, Bra Dumile Mateza said. Xolani Gwala must now be accustomed to telling his listeners that he is not ‘Zolani’ and I recall Darren Scott at Supersport calling Xola Ntshinga ‘Zola’ only once. I believe that even the rate of hate mail for black presenters from the ‘pronunciation police’ listening to former lily-white radio stations has dropped drastically.     

With tolerance abound, I should perhaps be embarrassed of my agitation at a most curious phenomenon that took root over the past few years. I do not know how it happened, but I woke up one day and every third person was calling me Simphiwe. Quite where the ‘M’ came from, I haven’t the foggiest. Perhaps it was a colleague who misspelt my name in an article and took his or her readers down the slippery slope of the extra ‘M’. I have nothing against the name Simphiwe, I have a close friend with that name – although his version doesn’t have the ‘H’ – and that’s part of the point, it is his name, not mine, but do you think that matters to some?

This ‘M’ business runs deep, with some even insisting that I have my own name wrong: “Are you sure you are spelling it correctly sir, I know who you are and I am sure your name has an M,” said a call centre agent the other day.

I am thankful that my life is not as tortured as Judge Sotomayor, but she will be fine. In fact, by the time you read this, her nomination should have been confirmed and her surname will remain the same, pronounced like her Puerto Rican parents intended. And to whom it may concern, I too am not budging, I appreciate the gift of the ‘M’, but I respectfully decline. 

Originally published in True Love Magazine, 2009  

 

The death of romance

By Siphiwe Mpye

 It had been a long time since I had had any contact with her. We had been colleagues before she moved to Cape Town and after several years, the cursed Facebook had reunited us and we were chatting away, distilling several years into short paragraphs. So much had changed in her life, not least of which was the terminal monogamist’s perplexing newly single state. Things had not worked out and she was trying her hand at dating again. It was not pretty.

I didn’t get it, she was intelligent, attractive and a self-starter, what was there not to like? As it turned out, it had nothing to do with her.

“It’s so odd being single after so many years. You find that the rules have changed, it’s downright unsettling,” she lamented. It was clear that a decade out of the dating game was the equivalent of three lifetimes and she was totally out of touch.

“An article in a UK magazine lists the new dating rules, things like: ‘people don’t have long telephone conversations these days, they SMS.’ Before, you’d wait by the phone and feel flushed and fuzzy after the long conversation and your ear would be burning, literally. I mean should you really ask someone out on a date over email or SMS? Isn’t asking someone out about seeing their expression when they say yes? That itself makes you feel great, seeing them blush and pleased sends you skipping off with your heart thumping. You want to hear their tone of voice, the quiver in their voice. Maybe I’m just an old romantic. Alternatively I’ve been thinking about this for way longer than I should be.” Perhaps, but my dear friend does have a point. Technology has killed romance.

The advancement of technology has made our lives so much easier, the noughties are a veritable playground of interactive this, 3G that and miracle cables under the sea bringing lightening fast internet. Yet, the faster our technology evolves, the less contact we have as humans. As trend analyst Dion Chang says, there are not enough people practicing the idea of ‘slow thought’ in a breathtakingly fast world. Whether at the dinner table, bank quee, or a PTA meeting, we retreat into the sweet, destructive solitude of Nokia or iPhone. Alaska Governor Sarah Palin - the ‘Hockey Mom’ in ‘f**k me’ heels we are all relieved is not going anywhere near the White House – herself spoke about ‘switching between breast pump and Blackberrys’ -and while that sight is not altogether comforting, it makes the point: technology has detached us from numerous things that make us human. Romance, I am afraid, was one of its first casualties. No one holds hands anymore, they are too busy scrolling through their iPods with one hand and smsing crimeline with the other. 

As a younger man, I thought myself quite a romantic and while I was known to buy the occasional rose and box of chocolates, it was on the more thoughtful side of romance in which I excelled. Before we go on, I must hasten to add that I am comfortable with this bit of shameless self-praise because I have been told this on a number of occasions.

So it wasn’t buying the red and pink A3 size Valentine’s Day cards with some syrupy poem by a failed novelist or the tired rose petals, candles and Barry White routine, but more the rubbing of the feet after a long day, cooking when she least expected it and foregoing Bad Boys to watch with her – and really, genuinely enjoy – Sleepless in Seattle variety. Sadly, I must concede, I have become lazy in my old age.

Cooking is all but non-existent; on most evenings I have Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, so the sore feet ache through the night, while I muster just enough power to press the remote control and extended telephone conversations have been replaced by the convenience of predictive text. It is all too pitiful.

Last I checked, my friend had not found her knight with an aversion to the QWERTY keyboard, but she searches on valiantly. I on the other hand, declare that from today, the lag in my romantic deeds is officially over, being single in February sucks. 

Originally published in True Love Magazine, 2009

See you in ‘Vegas’

By Siphiwe Mpye

A few months ago, I came back into town from a business trip with the news that I had received several calls from New York City. This was a tad odd as I didn’t often get calls from the Big Apple and the messages were from a company I had never heard of –not, as I would have preferred, from The New Yorker with a brief. I googled the company name only to be let down by 3G coverage and abandoned the mission for a well-earned jetlag-busting 12 hours in the sack. From the following day, as I am prone to do, I forgot all about the calls.

A few days later I picked up a wailing phone to: “Is that Say-pay-way?” I didn’t catch my caller’s name, but he was from the same company that had hounded my business partners the previous week. From line one he sang my praises, speaking knowledgeably about my ‘great work’ that had filtered through to the US and was calling to vet my potential inclusion in a directory of the ‘most influential people in the world’. I had been short-listed from millions around the world to be part of this ‘prestigious’ directory distributed exclusively to the world’s most influential people, slotting one into a club where access to the world’s best was but a phone call away, he said. From that point, my lungs were not short of air for blowing my own horn.

I was on the phone with him for close on half an hour, eloquently – and might I add shamelessly - selling my company’s credentials and my own “‘considerable weight as a ‘mediarist’”. It went to the lowest depths of self-praise, it was pathetic.

“We would be honoured to have you as part of our book,” he said after my cringe-worthy spiel, “Thank you very much,” I responded “What did you say your name was again?” I enquired. “Steven Vegas…as in, Las Vegas,” he said with a dry chuckle. Alas, I wasn’t laughing, it had hit me right in between the eyes as I imagined leggy blondes and feathers; poker tables and dead bodies in the desert, I had been had, I was falling for a scam.

Now that I had been selected, did I have to pay anything? Check (bronze, silver, gold or platinum membership, your choice). Did I have absolutely no way to secure my payment? Check. I couldn’t call Steven back and get through to him directly? Check. They couldn’t send me any valid proof that their company existed? Check. They couldn’t even send me a previous directory to prove that it actually exists? Check. But still, I had to make absolutely sure, this was my ego we were talking about. I hit the search engines and this time my connection was quick and precise, leading straight to the page with paragraphs and paragraphs of rants from people around the world who had been duped by what was now confirmed as a gigantic scam. These victims were respectable people: professors, businessmen, artists, sportsmen, doctors, lawyers, writers and editors, basically all the professions with the biggest egos. All found randomly, undoubtedly from websites which carry CVs, called up and told what wonderful and clever people they were and what an exclusive club they belonged to, following which they are fleeced of a few thousand dollars, leaving them sans directory, sans refund sans ever hearing from Steven Vegas again!

I had nearly been caught out in what must be the world’s most effective type of scam, that of the ego.  You see, scams work because they exploit one or other human emotion or personality flaw. You have the most common and most effective, the scam based on greed. For great examples of this scam, see Ponzi, Madoff and Tennenbaum. Then you have the sympathy-based scam. At a recent residents meeting I learned of a man who was operating in the area and knocking my neighbours off hundreds of rands each by pretending to be a ‘neighbour from a few houses away’ who has a wife in premature labour and needs cash for a cab to the hospital.

We come across vanity-based scams in late night television when you are just a call away from Devise X, which ‘is guaranteed to shave off 5 kilograms a week without exercise or dieting.

Generally, people with healthy egos are somewhat immune from falling for scams in these other categories. They might well be greedy but are generally sober enough to see a too-good-to-be-true deal for what it is; they pay surgeons hundreds of thousands of rands to make sure those kilos stay off and they are far too engrossed in their own affairs to part with cash for the sake of a stranger. And therein lies the beauty of the ego scam, it is totally centred on the narcissist. It reinforces the idea – which you totally believe – that you are wonderful and all conquering, that of millions of people in the world, you are the real deal. But I was lucky. I was able to see through it all before I put my credit card through excruciating, unnecessary pain. Maybe my ego just isn’t big enough after all.       

 Originally published in True Love Magazine, 2009

All I want for my birthday..

By Siphiwe Mpye

Birthdays resonate variously. For some it is a time to celebrate the simple pleasure of having survived another year in a world where in a mili-second you could be no more. Others use the opportunity to lament their fading youth, staring at the bottom of the umpteenth neat single malt, wondering aloud where the years have gone. Others simply couldn’t be bothered, as long as they get as many presents as possible. I fall mostly in the first category, am not old enough for the second and will never be the last.

For reasons which still escape me, from the time I left High School, birthday, Christmas and other presents ceased to bear any real significance in my life and nowadays, a call or sms on or round about the appropriate day will suffice.

I celebrated my birthday in March and while I received many congratulatory messages, for my sins, there were one or two condolences for edging one year closer to 40. I wasn’t really expecting any presents given our precarious economic state of the nation, but the presents I did get, from a sensible bunch close to me, went down extremely well: two magazine subscriptions, some books, a long lost CD and a gown. “A gown?!”, I hear you sneering, raising a solitary eyebrow. Well, it is beautiful, warm, practical, comforting and I use it everyday, which is a lot more than some men can say about their spouses, let alone any presents. 

Over the years, there have been those presents that have not been as appreciated as my precious gown, arming me with an unequivocal knowledge of exactly what I do not want. We will begin with things for the home.  

Do not buy me anything for my house. This exercise is far too perilous to even attempt, given how fussy I am about décor. Unlike middle-aged fathers the world over, I do not mind getting underwear, as long as they are Calvins and the right size (you guessed right, extra large, wink wink). I do not want socks unless there are Paul Smith and no ties unless they are slim and vintage. Beyond those three basic items, do not do clothing as presents, you will get it wrong and the next time you see that multi-coloured Dashiki, it will be at the charity second hand shop down the road. As far as gadgets go, I already have a Mac, an iPod and Blackberry and I think video games are a waste of good trash TV time so I don’t do Wiis, Playstations or Xboxes. The enduring image of the 21^st century guy stuck all day in front of his television pretending to be Ronaldinho or a murderous carjacker is as tired as those “all white” theme parties. Yawn.  

There are however certain presents straight from the very bottom of the impossible barrel that I would kill to unwrap.

What I wouldn’t give for a security alarm that when triggered, sends me an sms informing me exactly what or who has entered my house. So if I got an sms saying: “Four hooded men with pangas” I would know that it was possibly a good idea to drive home with a Police escort. Or if it said something like: “Moth flew in window and fluttering about in your living room” I would know not to bother with the cavalry. With my smart alarm in place I would never have to drive all the way from Pretoria to Jo’burg, leaving a ‘life and death’ presentation halfway only to find that the alarm went off because the neighbour’s cat engaged with the electric fencing and now looks like he had a head on collision with a tub of hair gel.

Or how about a GPS system that not only speaks in foreign tongues or celebrity voices celebrity voices. For me it gets really practical when they say they choose least hazardous routes for you depending on the time of day. I want one with random stats like “On the next corner, you are likely to get smashed and grabbed, be careful” or “take a right in twenty meters, otherwise you will have to deal with at least three ‘blind’ people, two Homeless Talk salesmen and a guy who needs money to bail out his dog from doggie prison at the intersection.

I need an intuitive handyman that can infiltrate and circumvent the underground network at my house conspiring to render me poorer than the average journalist – I wondering, that’s dirt poor! If it isn’t the garage door requiring an overhaul or the oregon floors needing a fresh coat of varnish, the geyser needs a new filter, the oven door requires a part sourced from some obscure factory in Sweden.

I desperately need a PA – who is so good she could find a fresh loaf of low GI seed loaf in Harare - to remind me to call back the people I always forget to and remind me to fill in my son’s school forms.

My birthday might be far away now, but Father’s Day is upon us. Do the right thing.

 

Originally published in True Love Magazine, RSA, 2009

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Free Advise

By Siphiwe Mpye

 

“Hey Dr Phil, how are you doing?” read the mail from a lady friend. I was stunned. Dr Phil?! Yes, I am almost bald – my choice, not nature’s cruel ways; I have been known to speak in front of many people and am even a good listener, but when I look in the mirror, I certainly do not see a big white man in a bad suit who judges people for a living. “Well, with your column, you have replaced Dr Phil as monthly therapy for me and my friends – and the jilted masses out there I might add,” she explained. This was totally bizarre and as I stared at my computer screen, I tried desperately to pen a piece that had nothing to do with gender matters or relationships, but there was only so much I could say about the impending elections without getting bored by it all. I tried some philosophical musings about life and got stuck after my attempt at analyzing the root cause of the phenomenon called ‘Guys scratching their testicles’ came up with a two-word answer: an itch. 

So I took the unwelcome Dr Phil monkey on my back and turned it on its head, resulting in a painstaking survey among my male peers – on behalf of women - entitled ‘How to exponentially up your attractiveness’. What I hoped to achieve were the beginnings of a ‘how to’ manual, equipping my ‘patients’ with valuable insight into the male psyche. The results are not all pretty, but in the interests of your well-being and the ‘jilted masses’, here goes nothing.

 

 

Be nice: Whether it is at work, on the bus from the plane to the terminal building or at the water station at the gym, always strive to emulate Google’s mantra: “Don’t be evil”!! This means greeting back, saying 'please' and 'thank you' and not treating every man like they are about to hit on you when they are just trying to be friendly. To this we can add, retain your sanity. This is dedicated to all those nice, normal girls who turn into psychos at the slightest hint of a speed bump in a relationship. The result? Shredded clothing, broken CD collections, defamatory graffiti, and slashed tyres. Need I go on?  

Be honest: You can relate to this one huh? There is nothing more cunning than a lying woman because, as a ‘respondent’ so aptly put it, “They (women) take it to a frightening level”. For the life of me, I can never figure out how, with a straight face, some women, being the usually transparent and emotional beings, can tell the most heinous lies with the straightest of faces, while the usually pragmatic, rational, cool-headed males are such woeful liars.

Love yourself/Be confident: This means from what you wear (more about this below) and what you say to how you say it and your levels of confidence, you have to exude self-love. This quality permeates, demeanor, stride, tone of voice and posture. We can see it a mile away if you are insecure and an insecure woman is about as attractive a proposition as author Stephen Fry’s fabled drugless root canals. “If she is insecure, it means she is going to call every five minutes checking where I am or even worse, follow me around everywhere like a lost Chihuahua,” said one respondent. Ouch! 

Never assume: “Just because we slept together once, doesn’t mean I am have to call you he next day, let alone see you again,” read the tamest explanation from one of my peers. This one might be had to swallow – and you can wipe those sordid thoughts from your head right now, we are dealing with serious issues here! – but I am afraid this sentiment was highly popular, albeit articulated much harsher by most.

Be independent: I have a friend who will not go out with you if you do not have a car, your own place and a job. This is not a silent nod to materialism, but a function of practicality. He doesn’t care if your car is a Merc or a Beetle circa 1962, you must be able to make your way to wherever your presence might be required, especially after a dodgy booty call from said respondent at 2am. 

Do not be a slave to fashion: The simple explanation here is that men generally like women without their clothes on, but if you must be dressed, please stay away from the fashion worshiping ways of the world. With the gluttony of magazines and television shows - and channels to boot – dedicated to fashion, it is tempting to live by the chameleon-like style rules prescribed by the slaves overseas. It is easy to fall for the traps of the “Green/Purple/Orange is the new black” brigade, but don’t believe the hype, classic and understated is always the way to go.  

Patience is a virtue: everything comes in stages, so do not assume you are in a steady relationship until you are well into the relationship. So a month means absolutely nothing and six months means you are on to something. As a rule, men do not like being reminded that they have ‘lost’ their freedom, so it is advisable to take it easy with the anniversary talk.

Men are human: which means we will make mistakes, we will let you down, we gossip almost as much as women and we will judge you by what you do and not what you say. So if you say you don’t cheat on man, we don’t want to see you sneaking out of a strange townhouse complex at 7am in last night’s cocktail dress, looking around frantically.  

Never nag: ‘Nuff said. 

So there it is ladies, some free advice from ‘Dr Phil’ to you, with earnest look, pointed index finger and all. Use it, don’t use it…

Originally published in True Love Magazine, RSA, 2009 

Not what its Cracked up to be

By Siphiwe Mpye 

For a daily ritual that has become an absolute chore, - and one which I am seriously considering giving up - Social Networking sites have been highly effective in delivering the things I had always hoped they would. I have found old friends, made great contacts and my business is all the better for it. But they have also meant other, much more complex, uncomfortable and bizarre things. I have been bitten by Vampires and Zombies; received suggestive ‘gifts’ from the most surprising sources; been poked to death; unwittingly forwarded an embarrassing chain message to all my friends and someone has even thrown Britney Spears at me!  Cruelly, it does get worse than this, but I will spare you, besides, its far more fun to talk about other people.

Social Networking sites – I do Facebook and MySpace. There were feeble attempts at Linkedin and Plaxo, but have so far resisted Flickr or Twitter - like money, expose who you really are. Beneath that professional, efficient veneer, lurks a cross-dressing ‘Crackbook’ slut just itching to post a note about Gabriel Union’s scandalous ways.  

Below that socially conscious, practically Rasta cloak lurks the beer-swilling administrator of the ‘Preservation of Swedish Underwear Models Fan Club’. Past that trouser suit, excel spreadsheet and designer glasses dwells a narcissist with 387 albums of just herself ‘randomly, here there and everywhere’ with the obligatory “don’t mess with me, I’m fabulous” pout.    

Collect enough friends and inevitably, someone will disappoint you (see: political brain farts from people who have no business venturing in that direction). Another will confuse you (the newly-Jewish black guy you used to see around campus back in the day). There is always one that is going to shock you (your macho friend’s mystifying and utterly uncharacteristic sudden obsession with Barbara Streisand). There is one that will just crack you up (an old boss’s profile picture of him jumping naked off a sand dune).  Social Networking sites are also the last refuge of the lonely guy who lives vicariously through his ‘more popular’ cyber existence.

I trust I am not an anomaly, but I have never thought my near two thousand odd friends were a reflection of my popularity, pressing ‘add friend’ is not really that taxing. As a recent Details magazine article stated ever so succinctly, cyber-popularity is not real and is actually pretty lame. There is something very sad about a grown man who gets a kick out stating on his status: “Have max no. of FB friends, who’s the man?!” Social ineptitude has never seen a more fitting ambassador.

It has been fun and I have met characters that will make my memoirs a hoot, but lest I get bored to death by another “Sarah* is brushing her teeth before going to bed…tired” status update; yet another juvenile COPE vs ANC slinging match; a pointless likeness quiz and another invitation to join the Clay Aitken fan club, sooner or later, to borrow from a notorious muckraker, I will be serving divorce papers on existing and any future Social Networking sites.

*Not her real name, naturally.

 

Originally published in True Love Magazine