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like a homeland, but not really. Hammanskraal, as its Afrikaans name suggests, was the kraal
of Hamman, what used to be a white man’s farm. The proper homelands, Venda and
Gazankulu and Transkei, were places where black people actually lived, and the government
drew a border around them and said, “Stay there.” Hammanskraal and settlements like it
were empty places on the map where deported black people had been relocated. That’s what
the government did. They would find some patch of arid, dusty, useless land, and dig row
after row of holes in the ground—a thousand latrines to serve four thousand families. Then
they’d forcibly remove people from illegally occupying some white area and drop them off in
the middle of nowhere with some pallets of plywood and corrugated iron. “Here. This is your
new home. Build some houses. Good luck.” We’d watch it on the news. It was like some
heartless, survival-based reality TV show, only nobody won any money.
One afternoon in Hammanskraal, Tom told me we were going to see a talent show. At
the time, I had a pair of Timberland boots I’d bought. They were the only decent piece of
clothing I owned. Back then, almost no one in South Africa had Timberlands. They were
impossible to get, but everyone wanted them because American rappers wore them. I’d
scrimped and saved my tuck-shop money and my CD money to buy them. As we were leaving,
Tom told me, “Be sure to wear your Timberlands.”
The talent show was in this little community hall attached to nothing in the middle of
nowhere. When we got there, Tom was going around, shaking hands, chatting with
everybody. There was singing, dancing, some poetry. Then the host got up onstage and said,
“Re na le modiragatsi yo o kgethegileng. Ka kopo amogelang…Spliff Star!” “We’ve got a
special performer, a rapper all the way from America. Please welcome…Spliff Star!”
Spliff Star was Busta Rhymes’s hype man at the time. I sat there, confused. What? Spliff
Star? In Hammanskraal? Then everyone in the room turned and looked at me. Tom walked
over and whispered in my ear.
“Dude, come up onstage.”
“What?”
“Come onstage.”
“Dude, what are you talking about?”
“Dude, please, you’re gonna get me in so much shit. They’ve already paid me the money.”
“Money? What money?”
Of course, what Tom had failed to tell me was that he’d told these people he was bringing
a famous rapper from America to come and rap in their talent show. He had demanded to be
paid up front for doing so, and I, in my Timberlands, was that famous American rapper.
“Screw you,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Please, dude, I’m begging you. Please do me this favor. Please. There’s this girl here, and
I wanna get with her, and I told her I know all these rappers…Please. I’m begging you.”
“Dude, I’m not Spliff Star. What am I gonna do?!”
“Just rap Busta Rhymes songs.”
“But I don’t know any of the lyrics.”
“It doesn’t matter. These people don’t speak English.”
“Aw, fuck.”