Conservatism beckons. Middle age is clearly almost upon me. Time to slit my wrists...
THERE's that old song that has been going back and forth through my mind since the beginning of February. It's all thanks to a fellow named Pfarelo Munyai, a third-year student at the University of the Western Cape who needed R7 500 to register for classes this year.
The university authorities, callous unfeeling brutes that they are, had decided that they were going to insist that students pay up at least 40% of R52million in outstanding fees before being allowed to register.
Munyai's picture was carried in the newspapers. He seemed pleasant enough, looked reasonably intelligent. I was tempted to call up some of the wealthier inmates of the parliamentary complex in Cape Town to suggest that they dip into their pockets for a worthy cause... when I noticed the cellphone.
And the song began to play in my mind: Would Jesus wear a Rolex? Would he drive a fancy car? Would his wife wear pearls and diamonds? Would his dressing room have a star?
There he sat. Fancy watch, designer clothing, shades (surely not Ray-Bans?) and the cellphone on the grass between his feet.
And I suddenly found my brain echoing those immortal words of so many of my parents' contemporaries — "In my day, we had to get up at the crack of dawn and walk barefoot in the blazing sun for 10, 20 kilometres through the river in flood to get to school . . ."
A cellphone? On a student budget?
And I thought about the baked fish ... Princeton University, like most of its Ivy League counterparts, offers financial aid based on need. But it's not a free ride. Students are expected to work part time to subsidise their studies. For most of us foreign types, that meant working for the campus food services.
University cafeterias in that part of the world tend to produce enough food for a single meal to feed all of Ethiopia, the Sudan and parts of Somalia, too.
On days when we were lucky, we were assigned serving detail. Stand behind the counter, slice five pieces of London Broil onto a plate, pass it down to the person serving veggies.
Next in the pecking order was the dish room. Stand next to the conveyor belt, scrape the food off the plates, push the plates onto another conveyor belt into the dishwasher; sort of like working in a sauna.
And finally, there was the dreaded pot room.
The pots were huge; almost large enough to hold Hannibal Lector. The only way to clean them was to stick torso into the pot and scrub.
But worst of all were the baking trays. They were the size of coffee tables. They were used to bake fish. We had to scrub 'em.
The smell would permeate clothes, hair and skin. We would stagger out of there at 9pm with no time for a shower because there was studying to be done. And next morning, there was the tramp through the snow to put in an hour's work before classes.
I still gag at the mere thought of the smell of baked fish, but it's a useful frame of reference. It reminds me how relatively wealthy I am when I fill up my petrol tank without second thoughts.
If Munyai doesn't pay his bills, he'll never realise the value of the cellphone. Or the designer threads and shades. Nor will any of his fellow students.
And when they get down to running this country — as they must someday — they won't realise the value of their taxpayers' contributions, either.
The university authorities have done the right thing. Some R15-million has already come in as students scramble to get back into classes. Those who genuinely cannot afford to get back in should be helped where possible.
Unless they have cellphones...