– Ndu Donsa, my colleague and friend, nailing it on the head as he always does. I’ve loved working alongside this guy, even though he keeps his earphones on all day and never talks to me. Check him out on Twitter and Slikour On Life where he gives his (epic and valid) opinion on Urban music and culture (hence the earphones).
Her posh British accent made it that much better. Although it’s probably rather a sad statement, I chuckled at the abruptness that seems to come with age – no one to impress, nothing to prove, just telling it like it is.
She looked about 9 years old – blonde hair and blue eyes, staring up at the high ceilings and ancient paintings of the old church. She spoke French, so I hadn’t actually understood what she said, but when translated, was shocked to discover her young and, in my opinion, tragic scepticism.
I can’t say who said it, or who it was said of, but it was one of those moments where you know exactly what they mean, even if it is a bit mean.
Normally I would object. But standing in the middle of Montmartre, one of Paris’s many tourist hubs, watching couples as they bought paintings, ate croissants, drank coffees and tasted chocolates…somehow it seemed true.
Frik was a large, rugged Afrikaaner with a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth. He sat down on our cooler box, evidently unconcerned by the streaks of tomato sauce and boerewors juice spewed across the surface. He tore a corner from the lid of his cigarette box and, using it as a plectrum, began to play. The guitar looked more like a ukelele against his belly.
When he finished, I offered him a skottel-braaied crumpet for his efforts. His response, and in fact the entire scene, could not have been scripted better.
He coughed. Then in the same gruff voice with which he sang, replied, “Only if it’s got gunja…”.
I didn’t know where he was talking about…but instantly knew I needed to go there.