A no less illustrious personality than Ferial Haffajee, the editor of the Mail & Guardian newspaper, vaguely hinted the other day that it is nonsense that white men does not have a future in this country. According to her, the pale male syndrome sufferers are merely dinosaurs of a bygone era who long for a return to the wicked bad old days of apartheid. White men are now swimming in the same pool like every other unfortunate jobless individual in this country, regardless of colour. Me. Haffajee is also of the opinion that instances of isolated white men being shown the door, are typical of the current situation, and they are not endangered kings of the jungle (her words) any more.

The only kings out there in the jungle are the corporate world who actively employ the rules of affirmative action, keeping white skills out, simply because it is not their turn anymore. A growing number of white beggars, like the car guards in Dundee, probably did not fit the new profiles either. Gert Rudolph and Sakkie Koekemoer, both unemployed, and car guards in Dundee, will also not agree with Ferial. Gert, 53 years old and a retrenched miner from Blackwattle Colliery, freely acknowledges that he smokes dagga, drinks and makes about R70 a day, just looking after cars. He said he had to fight another white guard for his spot in front of the Tourism Offices in Victoria Gardens.

According to Sakkie, who told me he is a petrol and diesel mechanic, he stopped looking for work, as he does not fit in current employment profiles, so he stays in the street. He is 52 years old, stays with Gert at the caravan park in Excelsior Street, and made R12.50 for the day so far. Sakkie did not want to talk about his daughter in Vryheid. “Dis ma’ een van daai dinge, meneer.” Gert laughs. He is the cook, and will make them food tonight. “Sakkie kannie eers agter homself kyk nie, meneer. Wat sal hy kosmaak?”

Die fris geur van dít wat Gert nou net gedrink het, onderstreep die finaliteit van sy woorde. Hy kap met sy kierie op die teer. Ek vra hom of hy te sleg is om te werk, want die mense sê dan so. “Gee my ‘n job, dan wys ek jou,” kap hy terug. Sy oë vertel my dat hy nie die job wil hê nie. Nie meer nie. Die spore wat die lewe op sy verweerde gesig uitgetrap het, word half verberg deur die wilde snor. Hy lag weer en vertel my ek moet sy stories wat hy skryf, kom lees. Sakkie raak gatvol, en loop. “My spot is leeg,” beduie hy. Ek kyk hom agterna. Die manne swem in dieselfde poel, ja, maar ek wonder of hulle dalk net die water bietjie té gewoond geraak het. Daai poel van Ferial wat jy in swem, se kante is ver van mekaar, Gert. Intussen slaap my pêlle lig in Bagdad, en ek hoor vannag weer die honde aanhoudend voor die kombuisdeur vroetel. Dwarsdeur die nag. Sou die honde vir Gert en Sakkie ook hinder?