Category: Blog

I gots the 419 … (2)

Bertrand responds!

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From: Bertrand
Mailed-By: myway.com
Reply-To: bertrand_green@myway.com
To: saaleha@gmail.com
Date: Jul 28, 2006 9:25 PM
Subject: Responce Ms Saaleha Bamjee

Dear Miss Bamjee,

I am in receipt of your mail and all contents noted.You have to take heart for all that has befallen you, for God almighty knows best. God watches over us and knows the right time to intervene on our behalf. You should count yourself very lucky, a whole new thing is about happening to you. You guessed right. I am french and have also attached my international passport for your own perusals. Thanks for sending me yours also. But at this time, we cannot mix business with pleasure. What is most important now is how to claim your inheritance fund.

Your sister’s husband mailed me also and I have already instructed him on what to do to claim this fund. It is important, I let you know about this. Is he also acting on your behalf???

It will be important, that you all join hands to claim this inheritance fund. I await your urgent responce.

Bertrand Green

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From: Saaleha Bamjee saaleha@gmail.com
Mailed-By: gmail.com
To: bertrand_green@myway.com
Date: Jul 31, 2006 9:50 AM
Subject: Re: Responce Ms Saaleha Bamjee

Dearest darling Bertrand baby-smoochies pumpkinpie mopaniworm,

Please accept my deepest, sincerest apologies for not replying to you with the promptness you deserve, my angelcake tripepudding. I have been unable to access the internet as Mams caught me pilfering her brassieres. The discovery was made after Mams couldn’t find the orange and black satin lace hoochie-mama set Papi bought her when they were still rutting like rabbits in the early days (before he ran off with tranny-ho-bitch-slut).

Expecting a gentleman caller, Mams was furious when she couldnt find her ling-er-ray, for we have reached the direst of circumstances and she has decided to make the ultimate sacrifice and sell her body for our survival. She is a strong woman, and I admire her resolve, May the Good Lord Bless her. Admittedly she’s lost some of her youthful lustre, but none of her vigour and like Mams says, all women look the same in the dark, so her hare-lip and whiskers will not in any way detract from her sensous appeal. After seeing her wobble around our shack in nothing but the bounteous folds of skin the Good Lord knitted her in, I had to confess to my dishonesty and misbehaviour. I’ve spent the weekend repenting and self-flagellating in the outdoor lavatory, ruminating over my ill-actions May the Good Lord have mercy on my wicked pathetic scrap of a soul. Oh Bertrand, I am not worthy of your love!!

Anyhoo, Costa is no longer being kind to me. He demanded I bring him more brassieres, and I refuse to dabble further in a life of crime for him. It was only after I presented him with my own delicates, that he reluctantly allowed me the time to type out this email to you my beloved.

I’ve tried to open the picture you’ve attached but it seems its not working. It does not matter. My love for you transcends superficiality such as looks. I will have you for however you appear, for my love is pure and untainted by the bombastic materialism of the earthly plain. You’re a lawyer right? You must be very financially fortunate then.

Yes, I have shared your propostion with my sister’s husband, and he is quite keen on following through with this. What must we do in order to claim this inheritance, and more importantly, when do i get to meet with you?

I must, my love, see you. My body burns with unholy desire of all things carnal.

May the Good Lord bless you with Cows of milk-gravid udders,

My Love and Intimates,

mwah. mwah. spank.

i gots the 419

A little 419 scammer made his way into my inbox. I had a little monotony to murder and could not resist The Voices.

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From: bertrand green
Signed-By: yahoo.fr
Reply-To: bertrand_green@myway.com
To: saaleha@gmail.com
Date: Jul 27, 2006 2:55 PM
Subject: Inheritance Claim Partnership. Ms Saaleha Bamjee
From:Bertrand Green
Address: 64 avenue du 24 Janvier B.P 06
Lome Togo Rep.
Private Email: bertrand_green@myway.com

Dear Ms Saaleha Bamjee,

Please accept my apology in using this medium in contacting you with such important information as these.I am Barrister Bertrand Green,legal representative to Mr.Oliver G.Bamjee, a national of your country.My late client was a business man who dealt in ammunitions.Here in after shall be referred to as my client. On the 24th of June 2003, my client, his wife and their only daughter were assassinated at their home in the northern part of my country by people thought to be government officials,but later found out was people he had business dealings with.Since then I have been making several enquiries here to locate any of my clients extended relatives, this has also proved unsuccessful.

After these several unsuccessful attempts,I decided to track his last name through the Togolaise foreign exchange commission, to locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.I have contacted you to assist in repartriating the fund valued at US$9Million left behind by my late client before it gets confisicated or declared unserviceable by the Security Finance Firm where this huge amount was deposited. The said Security Finance Company has issued me an order of mandamus to provide the next of kin or have his account confiscated within the next twenty one official working days.

Since I have been unsuccesfull in locating the relatives for over 2years now, I seek the consent to present you as the next of kin to the deceased since you have the same last names, so that the proceeds of this account can be paid to you.Therefore, on receipt of your positive response, we shall then discuss the sharing ratio and modalities for transfer.I have all necessary information and legal documents needed to back you up for claim. All I require from you is your honest cooperation and willingness to enable us see this transaction through. I guarantee that this will be executed under legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law. Please get in touch with me through my private mail box below.

Best regards. Bertrand Green
Email: bertrand_green@myway.com
Private Phone: 00228 922 8562.

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From: Saaleha Bamjee
Mailed-By: gmail.com
To: bertrand_green@myway.com
Date: Jul 28, 2006 8:47 AM
Subject: Re: Inheritance Claim Partnership. Ms Saaleha Bamjee

Dear Bertrand Green,

This is grand news and could not have come at a better time.
Fate has not been kind to me. Now don’t get me wrong, I am a Believer and am in no way ungrateful for the small fortunes The Almighty has bestowed upon me, but in honesty, He does often test His true Believers and sometimes the human condition is such that we tend to ignore His Blessings when misfortune is abound. For that weakness, I must repent and only self-flaggellation and fervent prayer will redeem my wicked, pathetic soul.
Anyhooo, as I was saying Life hasn’t been a happy meal since Papi left us for Tranny-ho-bitch-slut from the local pharmacy (Tranny-ho-bitch-slut isn’t really her name, its Susan). Mams has taken to the bottle again, I’ve told her its evil and The Lord will punish her with HellFire and sweaty armpits. She ignores me though, I don’t blame her, if my husband ran off with a she-male and left me to raise three snivelling brats and take care of an ailing, miserable, nagging geriatric, I think I’d risk sweaty armpits too. Mams lost her job after she tried to set the factory on fire. The voices were quite adamant, she couldn’t ignore them and I was sure that they were a sign from The Lord, He was testing Mams conviction, too bad we had to sell the house, car and all our worldly posessions to pay for the damages. But we’re happy here in the shantytown, everyone’s so friendly and we don’t mind the neighbours who keep walking in to borrow our stuff. Max, the guy in the shack three cardboards down called me a “Flaming Hot Bitch” the other day. He said he’d come over for a visit some time. I think he likes me.
I haven’t ever had a real boyfriend. The closest was Prince Jimmy from Nigeria, but he didn’t last. He kept asking me for bank account details and when I told him that financial institiutions were a working of the Dark One, he stopped emailing me.
I get lonely sometimes, and I miss my computer. The only access I ever get is when Costa at the corner shop lets me use his laptop every friday in exchange for Mams’ brassieres. I feel terrible about stealing these for Costa, but i pray and self-flagellate everyday, and I’m sure The Lord will forgive me.
Bertrand, thats a beautiful name. French is it? I love France. Vive la plaster of Paris. I like all things French like escargots and frog legs.
You sound so distinguished and clever. And you sound french, so you must be dashing and attractive.
I had no idea that we had family in Togo. Mams prefers not to talk about the ‘dark’ side of the family. Uncle Popeye, who was betrothed to Betsy May; a good God-Fearing woman, eloped with the Senegalese maid who smoked evil-smelling tobacco. Perhaps, the relatives you speak of are their bastard products and subsequent unions.
I’ve attached my picture to this email and would love if you sent me one in return.
Perhaps once my inheritance comes through, we can court and get married.

Looking forward to your response,

May The Good Lord Bless You with bounteous chickens,

My Love and Intimates,

mwah. mwah. mwah.

Lessons from the Lift Club … (part one…in progress)

an attempt at memoir/nostalgic indulgence. crit most definitely welcome.

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We were second-hand lions; Hash, Batman and me.That’s what Batman would say, after a long day capped with a handrolled cigarette – cherry tobacco swaddled in a liqourice flavoured Rizzla.
We’d lean against the car, watch the sun slip into Florida lake, spin semantics and swop objectives. Hash would tell how he ran up the stairs at Wartenweiler to give a note to the Library Girl, the one who glided. Batman would laugh then, and I’d think what i’d always think whenever he smiled – gosh he really does look alot like Robert Downey Jr.

We’d ask Hash, “So when’s the wedding?”, because we knew she was The One, like all the others. He’d shrug and squint into the promise of twilight, lost to himself, while Batman and I counted the number of times Hash had handed out his heart at lunchtime.

The war stories we’d tell; threads of loves and losses, each of us carrying enough to tip us over the standard luggage allowance.

And what was I, the third to this pair of odds? Sans car, sans license, the only route to my post-grad validation via these veterans of the Campus Lift Club.

Wearing their fathers’ vintage shirts, way before Hawaiian hibiscus print came back and left in a hurry, they’d sit sometimes on the concrete outside the cafe in Newclare, promising to quit smoking after buying loose Stuyvies and buddy Cokes. I’d nod in earnest interest, trying to learn how to speak Cars. Batman and Hash would laud the merits of angel-eye headlights and colour-coded side mirrors, while I carefully weighed up what this meant in the greater scheme of things.

Such was Lift Club.

shot left, after robot

I miss taking the taxis down Jan Smuts Avenue to the gym.
It doesn’t get anymore real than the dented soccer-stickered metal, the only barrier to you and kissing tar held together by kite string, your legs warmed by pure engine heat and its fumes, oh how i miss the fumes; so strong they slice your tongue into ribbons.
And the passengers, silent squashed faces of static between stops, except for the one man who said the black people he knew never found the time to gym because they were too busy working.

rush hour

the world comes together at twilight;
day seaming shut, sun bleeding into a pool
and at the edges, the gentle assertiveness of stars.
but the traffic makes us forget.
overcome by lightshows from the other amnesiacs, the mind spills over with the detritus of the day and the recurring comfort of Home.

Red robot, our evening star.
brake light, clutch, brake, stop, de-gear.

and for a moment, look out the window and the soul breathes.

and coughs.
your spirit-kin gripping dirty cardboard, calling out for God to bless you.
your wet-soap eyes slip through, you can’t afford the awkward connection, and your pupils find a point just beyond the lazy bum who cracks your heart a little before you steel it once again.
and there, is the little girl.
with the whole wide world speeding around her, their minds spilling over with the detritus of the day and the recurring comfort of Home.
And she looks to the moon, her cardboard held high, a waving fan, brushing against the stars she is, jumping up, flapping wings, chasing at the fireflies above.
something almost pulls, come out and play.
almost.

Green robot.
clutch, accelerator.
Go.