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In the course of his research into banking and the stock market, Plug came back to Joburg for a few days to meet and talk with some people who knew a thing or two. He stayed at 29 Bantry Road and slept on a mattress on the floor in Frikkie’s room. His visit coincided with Floyd’s experimental dinner party.
“I’m not a great meat eater,” said Jasmine, “But these foetuses are delicious. You say you did them in a casserole?’
“Yes,” said Floyd. “I chose three nice plump ones. Around seven months in the womb, Doc?”
“Around about there, “ said Doctor Pillay. That’s when they start filling out nicely.”
“Well,” Floyd continued, “I first defrosted them, cut off the heads, hands and feet, opened them down the front and scooped out the lungs, heart and other organs as well as the stomach and entrails, and washed everything well. Then I browned them lightly in a pot with some canola oil before laying them in the big casserole. I hope you like my choice of vegetables, which I layered on top of the meat.”
First was half a dozen thickly sliced onions, he said. Then came the cubed brinjals, followed by a packet of frozen green beans and topped with chopped carrots.
“Is there chilli in here?” asked Tulip, Patrick’s girlfriend. “I love a touch of hot spice. It stimulates the gastric juices.”
“Yes,” said Floyd. “Two bright red cayenne chillies, fresh. Also salt and pepper, and a jug of sweet Late Harvest wine poured over before closing the lid and slow cooking for two and a half hours.”
“I think you’ve got a winner here, Floyd,” said George. “Not only is it an exotic dish, it tastes bloody marvellous too. I am sure there are many very wealthy people who would pay a lot of money for a delicacy like this.”
“If this is what you can do with a foetus you can’t fail to make a killing with a suckling,” said Plug. “Have you thought of doing a spit braai?”
“No, but that’s a brilliant idea,” said Floyd. “I can just imagine a bunch of billionaires standing around sipping cocktails and watching a skewered little kid slowly turning above the coals. Crazy, man!”
“There’s a 5 month-old coming in tomorrow,” said Doctor Pillay. “Shall I freeze it, or would you like it fresh?”
“Fantastic!” said Floyd. “I’ll definitely take it fresh and do it on Sunday.”
Plug postponed his departure until Monday so that he wouldn’t miss the Sunday bash. Floyd threw on half a bag of charcoal and the heat was intense. The beer and wine flowed and so did the conversation. Michelle and her client joined them on the patio and she squealed in delight when she caught sight of the slowly rotating rotisserie.
“Oh, how cute!” she said. “It’s just like a chubby black doll.”
“I’ve already got some Russians interested in importing sucklings,” said Floyd as he basted with a long-handled brush. “All the millionaires and billionaires and zillionaires in Moscow are crying out for something outlandish when they eat out.”
“You know, it’s a pity you can’t get hold of white kids as well,” said Patrick. “It would be cool to watch a white baby slowly browning, like it was getting a tan.”
“That’s actually a sharp idea,” said Plug, ever on the lookout for business opportunities for Frikkie. “There is in fact a potential supply of white meat out there waiting to be exploited. Not only black people live in poverty in Mzansi. There are now about 400 000 poor whites, most of them Afrikaners.”
“As many as that?” said Doctor Pillay.
“Yes,” said Plug. “In the days of apartheid the dumbest whites were provided with sheltered employment on the Railways, the Roads Department, the Police Force, the Army and the Navy, and other state institutions. But that all went down the toilet very quickly when Affirmative Action kicked in. And now all the moronic, unskilled white losers are unemployable, and they’re in the same boat as the moronic, unskilled black masses, living in squalor and not knowing where their next meal is coming from.”
“But they keep breeding?” said Frikkie.
“Too stupid to get themselves sterilized for free at the clinic or hospital,” said Plug.” There are at least 80 white squatter camps in the Pretoria area alone. All of them must be full of Afrikaners who would jump at the chance of getting rid of an unwanted foetus or screaming brat for a good price.”
Plug then proposed that Doctor Pillay appoint Frikkie as his agent in the poor white market. Being an Afrikaner himself, Frikkie spoke the lingo fluently and was well qualified to sell the concept to this underclass, and could set up appointments for when the doctor came round in his mobile clinic.
A deal was struck, there and then, more booze was consumed, and they all gathered round and tucked in to the sizzling Sunday roast.
When Frikkie’s lease had about three months to run Patrick came to him and announced that he and Tulip were getting married. Tulip was Soweto born and bred, but her family thought it would be nice for her to have a traditional Xhosa wedding. Would it be possible to use 29 Bantry Road as the venue for the occasion?
Frikkie thought about it
“It’s going to cost me something to smarten the place up, so I will have to charge a fee,” he said.
Edna’s husband picked up all the rubbish lying about the place and dumped it in the far corner of the garden behind the trees and shrubs. He also borrowed the neighbour’s lawnmower and cut the grass. After a day of weeding and trimming he reported to Frikkie, who made a round of inspection and expressed his approval.
“This will have to do,” he said. “After all, it’s not the President who is getting married here.”
The big day arrived and the wedding proved to be a lively affair. Certainly there were aspects that could be called traditional Xhosa, but it was largely a multicultural occasion. Frikkie set up a bar on the patio and did a roaring trade selling Black Label, brandy and whisky to the thirsty guests, who numbered close on a hundred. The food was both plentiful and varied, ranging from pap and wors to KFC takeaways. Floyd said that where he came from in Nigeria it was good luck to slaughter a bullock at a wedding, and he generously arranged for one to be on hand. The young men were supposed to wrestle it to the ground and then cut its throat but the animal failed to cooperate and was chased around the garden until it fell into the empty pool and broke a leg. By good fortune several men had their pistols on them, and a fusillade of shots put the animal out of its misery. And a kindly VIP reversed his Discovery V8 into position, a rope was attached and the carcass was dragged out for Edna, her daughter and her husband to commence the butchery under Floyd’s supervision. Festivities went on till late, no one was stabbed or shot, and it was agreed by all that Patrick and Tulip had celebrated their wedding in fine style.
“Don’t pay rent for the last two months,” Plug advised Frikkie over the phone. “The deposit will cover one month, and there’s no way they will go to the trouble and expense of taking legal action for just one month’s rent. But make sure your tenants keep paying. If anyone tries to be clever, get brutal, or the others might also get ideas.”
A week before 29 Bantry Road was due to be vacated and handed over to the property developer, Frikkie apologised to his tenants and began selling off the furniture and fittings. In a fit of generosity he sold the garden shed to Edna for just R300, and on the final day he got rid of the gate to a scrap metal merchant and, for R2000, granted access to an entrepreneur who specialised in the rapid dismantling and removal of unprotected property.
Driving out of Joburg in his fully laden bakkie Frikkie reflected on his year as a landlord and concluded that it had been both interesting and profitable.
