'Lee, in 1997 while the cold winds cut swaths through the cavernous, south facing, shadow- sprawled, brutalist Braamfontein, I queued for hours outside the Computicket office. That day I missed Maths 1, Applied Maths 1, missed the sold-out giant, raisen-packed chelsea bun from the cafeteria in Senate House, and missed out at ogling the hot stock from med school on the Library Lawns. It was a demanding effort, wrought with immense anxiety, excitement, and fear, if tickets were sold out. After all that effort, I could sigh with relief. I got 'em .I got those tickets, those haloed, golden tickets. Tickets to see the greatest showman on earth, the biggest selling artist on the planet, Michael Jackson. With tickets in hand, the endorphin payload gushed through our cerebellums, we were riveted to the adventure playing out in our minds, a night we'd, surely, never forget'.
20 years later, I stirred my coffee granules to dissipate into a dark muddy broth, while a gentle AC breeze billowed through the last strands of hair I owned. I got online, checked my emails, click clicked, and DuckDuckGo'ed 'Drakensberg Boys Choir'. Scrolled for a date, clicked for 4 tickets, and 'submitted' the request. Pay by card. Bing. You got mail.
Without delay, I rapidly made the call using my minutes. ' Lee, Lee I got us, I got us tickets to see the Drakensberg Boys Choir. Finally, Lee, we have arrived'.
The big night arrived. We packed our snacks, tighted our bottles of bubbles, and hit the M1 south.
Bursting through the timber swing-doors of the Johannesburg Theatre, screaming internally with bunsen-burning fire in our bellies, we cooly, calmed down, nestling into our red velvet chairs. The opening act. The.Opening.Act. A primary school choir singing lekker liedjies. I could accept this, we all need opportunities to shine bright like a diamond.
But then came another laerskool, and another hoerskool, and a primary school, and an old school, and a new school. We were being schooled, and our patience was wearing thinner than Ghandi's flip flop. My biltong sticks were done, my mouth was salt-pan dry and right for a land speed record, my bubbles were burst, my kids were sapped.
1,5 hours later, deflated as a pool lilo in mid March, my family and I, we're all hanging onto our chairs like limp lappies. 'When is it going to end?' was scrawled across our mugs.Even the guy next to us, was seen death scrolling for guns on his new Iphone 16 max while his son watched Paw Patrol, his earpods turned high to deaden the drama.
The DBC finally checked in, when we wanted to check out. But we decided to hang in there for one last soiree. We steeled ourselves for the 'shortened programme'.
Their enthusiasm, their talent, their voices, their upbeat demeanour managed to resus us. but the drag of the hors d'oeuvres just desiccated us. Friday morning sat around the coffee shop we frequent. Contemplating shattering the silence, I blurted out to the guys, 'jees, okes,we went to see the Drakensberg Boys Choir'
With stares as blank as a white board, eyes glazed over like cherries, coffee dribbling down the chins of them all, their life blood eventually returning, they quipped, 'why?', and went on discussing the pool temperature.
