Find us on Google+ my wits' ~ licentia vatum: even Trolls love rock & roll

Tuesday, 7 December 2010

even Trolls love rock & roll

Mielie was a buddha-statuette clone that haunted Fordsburg in the early seventies. A sociopath convicted for an execution-style murder, finally

Death-mask grin, botox-like-induced baby-face, heading the bloated menace, resemblling a mannequin  sprung to life.

Mielie-Poep,  the complete and vulgarly comically misleading moniker, dangerous to boot.

Trans-human, muscle to Junior's plotting machinations.

Junior, a point in rank as mountebank above Mielie in the underworld of the Indian community in Joburg, was equal to the tortuous demands of a self-inflicted simpleton, nonetheless dangerous for it -- Steve McQueen to the movie Bullit, sans the charm, sans savoir-faire

Lank in stature, fair of complexion,  permanently affixed to a Jaguar sprung from the subterranean depths of years of extortion, of drug-dealing and running speakeasies, of a myriad rackets under the warped auspices of Sheriff, the Fordsburg self-made caricature of... Al Capone?

Sheriff, the not-so-pale imitation of a pathan crossed with a '30's Chicago gangster, down to the Stetson Hat and two-tone shoes, lavishing off the notoriety of a gotten-away-with murder committed  years earlier.

My run in with Mielie-Poep was no less harrowing for its minorishness in the greater scheme of things.

"Hippie-pippie", he lowed, at me whilst leering at the girls from my early high-school class as we walked home from school, passing his nest outside Kentucky Milk Bar at the end of the Front-line, Fordsburg.

Mesmerized with fear and paralyzed by his ambidextrous gaze -- 6/5 (cross eyed and squint) -- he reeled me in. Then slowly, dramatically removed my spectacles.

"John Lemon (sic) glasses eh", he mumbled, and proceeded to adorn his visage with them, as if the act might transmute him.

"Oxford bags", he mumbled some more. His lizard like multi-focal vision fell on my faddish, grey-for-school flares.

I suppressed a groan, aware that a group of my school colleagues had paused to gawk at the gathering storm and my mounting fear and embarrassment.

Charles Manson -- Merga(meaning fowl in gujerati), infamous for having stabbed mid-match  in the neck the Dynamos striker, Haroun Patel, for crossing the soccer floor from Tigers FC-- intervened. He'd been standing quietly next to Mielie all the while, intense, a cross between Charlie Manson and George Harrison -- between a barrister, a soldier-of-fortune and a saint.

His legend as a knife-man adumbrated all

"Leave the lightie alone. He's a hippie, he's from Becker St", the Knife-Man said, quietly, authoritatively. It was enough

I was set free, had my oval-shaped glasses returned to me, and Oxford Bagged my way off, to the relief and nervous chuckles of my school-mates, my street credibility elevated a few notches.

This was not the fortune of the Qawali tabla player who Mielie and Junior had taken a shine to a few years earlier.

They abducted him at gun-point  on a Saturday evening, and made him play privately for them all night long, drinking and carousing at the Tabla exponent's misery and expense

He was set free at day-break, his hands swollen to bursting point

Swami-rock, to paraphrase Tony Joe White

Mielies' Gang, courtesy Sports Legends Online, section Gangs-'60s: