My first encounter with Mokotso Moeletsi ended with us pulling knives on each other. But by the time he died on Monday, we’d been close friends for more than 30 years. Let’s claw back to 1986, where it all started. I was sitting with friends at the posh Exchange Bar, Royal Hotel, when someone came to our table and grabbed one of our chairs.
When we said we were expecting someone to join us, someone across the room shouted that we had no business drinking in town anyway, as we were izinyemfu from Hammarsdale. Izinyemfu was an insult reserved for those who lived in houses that had toilets inside, as opposed to those whose toilets were outside, as was the case in some townships.
One of us shouted back: “Tsek! You sh*t outside like monkeys.” The guys at the other table stood up. “Let’s go outside,” they said. Outside, everyone pulled out their knives. This on a late Saturday afternoon, in the middle of town.
Back then Smith Street, where the hotel is located, was one of the prime tourist attractions. Anyway, a man who was passing by stopped abruptly and planted himself in the middle of the opposing sides. He said: “You boys from KwaMashu, go up West Street and straight to the station. You boys from Hammarsdale, go up Smith Street and straight to the train station.”
We could see he meant business. There was a suspicious bulge under his leather jacket. A gun. That he knew, without being told, where the two groups came from told us that he was a seasoned, streetwise fighter himself – a “clever”.
Muttering darkly, we went our separate ways. To be honest, I was relieved. Though we all carried knives, few of us had ever been in a knife fight before. A week later, at the same bar, I bumped into the loudmouth who’d triggered things. He sidled up to me and said: “You’re from Hammarsdale. I’m Mokotso from KwaMashu. What are you drinking?”
Just like that. No apologies. Our drinks came. He started telling stories as if we were long-lost buddies. I was thinking to myself: there’s a screw missing in this guy’s head. In due course, we were joined by three of his friends. When he told them I was part of the gang from Hammarsdale that had pulled knives on them, his friends paused to look at me.
Mokotso said: “But what can he do? It’s four against one!” He laughed out loud. As the drinks flowed, we realised that politically we were “on the same side of the war”. By this time the war between supporters of Inkatha and the UDF/ANC had already claimed thousands of lives. Mokotso and his friends were UDF/ANC. I was part of the Black Consciousness Movement. Our movement fought alongside the UDF/ANC against Inkatha, which was backed by the apartheid government.
Fast forward to 1995. I’d long left Durban and was now based in Johannesburg. I was at La Copa, a popular spot in Yeoville, when Mokotso suddenly appeared, with a big smile and a loud greeting peppered with expletives. In no time we’d rekindled the flame of friendship.
In due course he would introduce me to his wife and kids; I would reciprocate. Because of his gift of the gab, many guys hired Mokotso as a negotiator during ilobolo negotiations. For that contest of wits, you need a storyteller. Mokotso was such a raconteur that I immortalised him in one of my books, Talk of the Town. I cried hard when I heard of his death on Monday.
He’d tested positive for Covid-19 two weeks earlier. His death came days after that of two other friends, the actor Paul Rapetsoa and marketer Mphathisi Filtane. Against this background, I get furious when some people say Covid is a scam. What more evidence do they need? Mokotso Moeletsi, bro, go well. I know you’re going to make those angels laugh endlessly.
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