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letra de zoo city, 14 (part 1) - lauren beukes

i used to stomp here. got bust smoking dope in my readily identifiable school uniform on the koppie and was suspended for two weeks. did my first line of c0ke in the bathrooms of buzz 9. had sn-tched s-x on a driveway on 8th before the homeowner called armed response. this should not be so intimidating. but when i see gio fiddling intently with his phone on the kerb outside the biko bar, it’s a relief

“hey, you.”

he looks up guiltily and stashes his phone in is jacket pocket. “hey, babe, you made it! c’mon, the guys are already inside.”he ushers me towards the velvet ropes that have seen better days, and a short, wiry bouncer who is wearing a t-shirt that reads “try it motherf-cker.”

“she’s with me,” gio says and, although the bouncer is not happy to see sloth, he gives us the tiniest of head tilts to indicate, yeah, sure, whatever

the biko bar is to steve biko as cr-ppy t-shirt design is to che guevara. his portrait stares down from various cheeky interpretations. a hand-painted barber-shop sign with a line-up of bikos in profile modelling different hairstyles and headgear; a chiskop, a mullet, a makarapa mining helmet. steve stares out with that trademark mix of determination and wistful heroism from the centre of a pac-style africa made of bold rays of sunlight. steve, with a lion’s mane, is the focal point of a crest of struggle symbols, power fists, soccer b-lls, and a cursive “the most potent weapon of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.” my academic dad would have hated it. reduced by irony and iconography to a brand

“i see they sell t-shirts,” i say. “do the kids’ sizes come pre-soaked with acid?”

- lauren beukes

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