A superstar, by the sink, in Welkom

Chris was on the Silverado Brake Pads team. They sponsored him. And they paid for his travel on the circuit. He was 33, and him and his wife had just separated.

So he quit the investment firm and went on the tour full-time. Well, actually there were only seven stops on the track racing tour that time anyway. So he just added East London, PE and Welkom.

The Silverado sponsor meant he also got to appear in their magazine ads. It was him in his racing leathers, next to his bike, and holding a Silverado brake pad under his arm. The big, shiny one. He actually had three. The one under his arm and there were two on the ground in front of him.

So the tour gets to Welkom. It’s the Friday night before the race, and they’re at the track testing till late. He was third row in qualifying, so they had a few things to sort out.

They only get back to the hotel at 11. The whole place is closed, so they head to the Longhorn. But it’s so late. As Chris and them get into the Longhorn, the okes are packing up. You just check all the chairs are on the tables. There’s a hot blonde barmaid behind the counter, so Chris figures he might as well try. They all full of oil from the track, but the ous are famished, hey. He has to ask.

Tunes, “Hi, I’m really sorry, but I have to ask. I know you guys are closing, but we’re really hungry. Maybe you can just make us some take-aways. We’ll just have six burgers to take away… If it’s possible.”

And the girl says. “Normally I’d have to say no, but for a famous motorbike racer… I’ll make an exception.”

Turns out she’s actually the manager. And she’s seen these brake-pad ads with Chris in his leathers. She keeps the kitchen open, lets them sit there and finish their chow, and then Chris still shags her in the kitchen afterwards. By the sink. He just tunes the guys to go back to the hotel without him. She says no fine, she’ll give him a lift.

After they were finished she did give him a lift to the hotel. She was very cool about it, just giggling to herself a bit.

The next day Chris came third.

He came second in the championship that year. The next year he did his CFA and went back to being a financial adviser. These days he just does mountain biking. For fun.

And the next year, him and his wife got back together. They been married 18 years now. They just took that one year off.

But that night in Welkom, Chris got a little taste of what it feels like to be famous. Maybe that’s all he needed. Maybe it was just something he was wondering about.

That night, in the kitchen at the Longhorn, there by the sink, Chris felt like a superstar.

Why Sbu’s salon was out of business for a month

Sbu disappeared. He just stopped answering his phone.

            The result was that half the black ladies in Sandton couldn’t get their hair done. The northern suburbs of Joburg have more than a hundred salons that’ll charge you R5 000 a pop to put extensions in. All the celebs will tell you they go there. All the ladies who lunch in their Gucci sunglasses at Tasha’s and the Design District and Madiba Square

But Sbu is where they really go. If you bring your own hair, you can be in and out for three hundred. Five hundred maybe.

So when Sbu stopped answering his phone, a lot of ladies didn’t get their hair did. A lot of weaves started growing out. A lot of flying dog didn’t get dealt with. A lot of undergrowth started becoming visible.

And when Sbu eventually picked up, he had a lot of explaining to do.

Turns out he’s been arrested for smoking weed. In this day and age!

Ja, arrested for smoking weed outside the Randburg Mall. He tells the cop, just give me a fine, or tell me what I need to pay you. That’s the wrong thing to do, and the cop decides to teach him a lesson. Arrests Sbu, and charges him with possession. Can you believe, but he gets a month in jail!

And he had his phone with him the whole time.

In the van on the way to prison, one of the experienced prisoners says his phone’ll get taken away from him when he gets booked in. Says they usually put their phones up their bum when they come in. He kindly offers to put Sbu’s phone up his own bum.

Sbu politely declines and takes the responsibility upon himself. Gets his Nokia right up there.

The smuggling goes all according to plan and Sbu’s Nokia makes it inside undetected. But the problem comes with the retrieval. The foetus has shifted, in a manner of speaking, and delivery is impossible.

After five days of agony, Sbu goes to the prison doctor and tells him his predicament. His phone is engaged. He can’t get reception. His number won’t go through. He’s been trying to log a call.

The doctor sends him for x-rays and removes Sbu’s Nokia without too much hassle.

Then, with Sbu lying in the delivery room, the nurse takes his phone into the next ward. Fatal error! He never sees it again!

When he’s recovered, Sbu demands to know what happened to his phone. The doctor tells him, no, the screen was damaged. Five days of gastric acids and stuff. They weren’t able to save it. He’s sorry.

Within a few weeks, Sbu’s salon was open and he was back in the game. The ladies of Sandton were able to get their respective hair situations sorted, and Sbu got a new phone.

He needed to move on, and the new phone serves him perfectly well, but he still wonders, in his quiet moments, outside the Randburg Mall, what happened to that old Nokia.

It could still be alive. Somewhere. New screen. Someone else’s sim card. But Sbu likes to think if he ever sees it again, he’d still recognize it. He would know.

Why Sbu’s salon was out of business for a month

Sbu disappeared. He just stopped answering his phone.

            The result was that half the black ladies in Sandton couldn’t get their hair done. The northern suburbs of Joburg have more than a hundred salons that’ll charge you R5 000 a pop to put extensions in. All the celebs will tell you they go there. All the ladies who lunch in their Gucci sunglasses at Tasha’s and the Design District and Madiba Square

But Sbu is where they really go. If you bring your own hair, you can be in and out for three hundred. Five hundred maybe.

So when Sbu stopped answering his phone, a lot of ladies didn’t get their hair did. A lot of weaves started growing out. A lot of flying dog didn’t get dealt with. A lot of undergrowth started becoming visible.

And when Sbu eventually picked up, he had a lot of explaining to do.

Turns out he’s been arrested for smoking weed. In this day and age!

Ja, arrested for smoking weed outside the Randburg Mall. He tells the cop, just give me a fine, or tell me what I need to pay you. That’s the wrong thing to do, and the cop decides to teach him a lesson. Arrests Sbu, and charges him with possession. Can you believe, but he gets a month in jail!

And he had his phone with him the whole time.

In the van on the way to prison, one of the experienced prisoners says his phone’ll get taken away from him when he gets booked in. Says they usually put their phones up their bum when they come in. He kindly offers to put Sbu’s phone up his own bum.

Sbu politely declines and takes the responsibility upon himself. Gets his Nokia right up there.

The smuggling goes all according to plan and Sbu’s Nokia makes it inside undetected. But the problem comes with the retrieval. The foetus has shifted, in a manner of speaking, and delivery is impossible.

After five days of agony, Sbu goes to the prison doctor and tells him his predicament. His phone is engaged. He can’t get reception. His number won’t go through. He’s been trying to log a call.

The doctor sends him for x-rays and removes Sbu’s Nokia without too much hassle.

Then, with Sbu lying in the delivery room, the nurse takes his phone into the next ward. Fatal error! He never sees it again!

When he’s recovered, Sbu demands to know what happened to his phone. The doctor tells him, no, the screen was damaged. Five days of gastric acids and stuff. They weren’t able to save it. He’s sorry.

Within a few weeks, Sbu’s salon was open and he was back in the game. The ladies of Sandton were able to get their respective hair situations sorted, and Sbu got a new phone.

He needed to move on, and the new phone serves him perfectly well, but he still wonders, in his quiet moments, outside the Randburg Mall, what happened to that old Nokia.

It could still be alive. Somewhere. New screen. Someone else’s sim card. But Sbu likes to think if he ever sees it again, he’d still recognize it. He would know.