A kid with negotiating skills to rival Ramaphosa’s

Big news. This writer has talent-spotted a great future South African statesman. The person under discussion is still very tender of age and currently resides in the same part of Alberton that I do.

This kid has negotiating skills Cyril Ramaphosa can only dream of, plus sideways ducking brilliance to rival those of Jacob Zuma’s legal team.

He is five years old, living with two brothers – respectably four and three – in a rented apartment, under the care of a working mother and a grandmother, who is on pension. The mother leaves early every morning to work, leaving the grandmother in charge.

Last Saturday, while trying to dream up some sort of column for this page, I heard a commotion outside. Turned out to be my dogs, barking madly while somebody bashed at the outside gate.

On opening the gate, I found three little kids in the driveway. The eldest – clearly the spokesperson – gestured me outside. Then, he folded his arms on his chest, introduced himself as Jody, and told his story.

“We have a soccer ball, that my dad gave us the last time he visited,” he said.

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“My mother does not allow us to play with it in the front yard, because she says if we kick it into the street we will go there to fetch it, and she is scared we will get run over.

“Today we did play in the front, because gogo is asleep and is not wearing her hearing aid. But I made a mistake – I kicked the ball strong and it went over the wall into your yard.

“Then your dogs came and chewed it. Then your pig came and ate it. Now it is very f**ked,” he solemnly announced.

At this point, I could no longer contain myself and started to laugh. Jody looked horrified. Clearly his parents had warned him about fat old white men who found the tribulations of little black kids amusing.

“It is not funny – my mom is going to give me a hiding when she comes home, and gogo is going to be cross because I went into her room to see if she was wearing her hearing aid,” he admonished me.

Suitably chastised, I went to fetch the ball. On close inspection, it did seem stuffed.

“You can buy us a new one. My mom says you must be rich, because you drive different new cars all the time,” he declared.

I started to explain the concept of test cars to him, where vehicle manufacturers lend poor motoring reporters like myself expensive cars in return for published driving evaluations.

“I do not own the cars,” I said. 

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“But you drive them for free. When my aunty Elizabeth got married, her father got a BMW to take her to church, and he said it cost him lots of money,” Jody argued.

He had me there – this little guy, with his hands on his hips, wielding the inequality spear. Besides, my dogs and pet pig did eat his soccer ball. So, there we were – Jody and myself in my old bakkie, on a mission to buy a soccer ball in Alberton.

Not just any soccer ball mind you – it had to be of a certain size, plus white with black blocks on it. Now, when the World Cup is on, you cannot step into any shop without falling over baskets of soccer balls. Problem is that the World Cup isn’t on right now.

We went to Checkers, Spar, Game and every little store in Alberton City. Nobody had a white soccer ball of the right size with black blocks on it. Eventually, in desperation, on the way home, we stopped at Shoprite, and found a match.

“We must hurry. I have to make the ball dirty so my mom can’t see the difference,” Jody said.

That was apparently what he did. And, when I drove past their gate the next morning, he was standing there, giving me a thumbs up and a wink.

That kid will be president one day.