Modjadji Street

Modjaji Street

Modjaji street is accustom with humming engines driving up and down louder than the drones of many bagpipes. It’s a main street leading to the depth corners of Pimville section in Soweto township. A street that caters for dwellers all troubled minds seeking the least bored company of their own, because their inevitable desires will be catered, either punctually with congenial service or be left alone overflowing on the subject reflection of reality and fiction. Nobody is allowed to intimidate the other with hollows of interests to put him or her meditations to flight. That may probably backfire under a very length of quarrel circumstances for offensively disturbing the dexterity of the business. That is the foremost law to have an asylum to live and trade on Modjaji street, “never set your foot in where your mouth can’t bite.”
The street got named after Maurice Modjaji, a well known hit-man working for Impala Taxi Industry. When taxi owners began to suspect a rotten piece of meat in the refrigerator(amongst their associates or business intruders), Modjaji was the man sent to carry the execution. He’d thumbscrew the target flat like a cockroach and make it disappear before the cock comes home to roost. And if someone comes for him, he better kill him, because he’d come back with a knife, an axe, a gun and shovel to put that scum far from his ancestors, and if you ask about him randomly on the streets, make sure you be gone by time when the sun turns rusty, if not, your family will be looking for your body for the rest of their lives. It was named after him because, he was gunned down by random mugger on the street, before it was called Short street because every person who live there never age. He was and is esteemed among the greatest gangster.
The catastrophe of living at Modjaji is the drain clogging, thickly populated and people fording on the rivers of bubbling sewage. The sight is a nauseous, perfectly to turn the stomach. Every corner there’s a beggar watching their opportunity, with crawling lice on their clothes but still, no one should be fooled of their parched face and ragged style. Passer bys observe this rarity in bigness disgust.
Modjaji is not all daisy and divine, but everybody that lives in it is a superman at his or her calibre. It is a city sign of township discord, crooked with enterprises of brutal scavengers selling everything from a pencil to human organs.
Not to beautify the pleasure of the twin on the mirror but, the street is not for those seeking rivers of regrets, Modjaji street is for those who knew the meaning of the purpose that lays on their destinies no matter the battle, suffering, themes of saga and betrayals. It’s a death road that always dares a soul with every risk that lives, a sweat-factory, from peppering chicken feet to gizzards, spicing hot potatoes, kicking a neighbours dog with a sharp nose shoe on the face, up to the dome of prostitute merchandise.
Yet Banele lived, every afternoon he’d close his general dealer shop, pause outside watching the perverts of Johannesburg driving German cars on Modjaji, drooling like brain-dead foolhardy. “Some of these idiots don’t even want to wear a condom”, he’d thought. He’ll sit there like an innocent sinless creature, but his past knows his abhorrences, and people acknowledge him to be extremely oblige to the height of Modjaji.
Modjaji is a street where girls sting like bees, from dawn to dawn pilfering the streets, young ambitious men everywhere and these girls can smell them from a distance.
These girls flaunts multiple glimmer of flash and thighs, honking on to sell an exclusive pouch of undefinable warm sponge to die for for these lunatics, or else if kind enough, they’ll usher them on a dark alley where a picannin boy robs and leave them with other hyaenas to bite and leave the shameful men jaw dropped in disbelief as if they were stung by enormous beasts of red ants.
Knowing the language of Modjaji street came in handy, that’s what Banele always advices his customers, otherwise you better of wear a placard written words they understand, and make sure you walk like a robot as if you’re blind until you’re out of that street. Banele is an old timer, a fellah that robbed his own friends after a successful cash heist on his hey-days, but he became a lullaby when the scorpions drilled him to the marrow and sang himself out of jail. His friends were captured and poisoned in the slammer.
Blue (girl from Zimbabwe) and Pink were former prostitutes, now pimps, own an adult shop, a dating site and an escort agency operating on corner Modjaji and Chris street next to a gas station owned by a pot belly Nigerian man whose never there, but always at Blue and Pink’s brothel. The intersection on Modjaji and Chris is booming with all sizes boobs from A plus to double D.
Modjaji street is five kilometre long, with beaming lights at night representing the attitude and culture of the street and it’s dwellers. The atmosphere to strangers seemed to be in great geographic error without balance, it’s as if people there live wholly excluded from any commerce with the rest of the world.
Just a week ago, a tavern got shut down, police busted two gangs with counterfeit software worth twenty two million US Dollars, at the same time it was discovered that; the vodka which is selling fast more than bunny chow on every liquor, is poorly manufactured in the basement and refilled in recycled bottles of original vodka, the Russian style.
Retail stores were on top of the other competing in desperation to climb the economic ladder. “Modjaji is our the stock exchange” Banele would tell his customers. Howlers were everywhere at any given hour day and night like ants.
The string of shops sold distinct jewellery, reptiles and other exotic animals imported from Meadowlands, and more rare wild species of animals came from Orange Farm, a long deserted farm field three hour drive outside of Gauteng. The motto is “get them while they’re hot.” This is because of the eating habit of Chinese tourists who loves to en rout the illustrious Modjaji and lavish at the brothel later when they are right and merry.
Nothing is genuine on Modjaji, it’s a street of various counterfeits, even money is fake, about three million rands of coins was busted from a Bangladesh emigrant’s spaza shop. Taxis and buses seldom passed there because passengers picked from Modjaji mostly pays with fake notes and coins. That frustrated the metro bus transport because that’s where they cash in most.
The street of unbelievable attitude to foreigners, a street of jolly for junkies of all kinds and a world of stunning women, beauty bought from Yung the doctor, the jerk of all trades.
Barely a week after new years day, a Chinese guy was handcuffed as he walked out from a surgery. He is the surgeon actually. Evidently he butchered a hobo and ripped off the kidneys sold to the recipient who is a local ward headman’s daughter, for two hundred thousands rands in cash.
‘I had to tell the pigs. Yung owe me,’ agitated Babyface chattering with the bar-lady.
‘And why would he owe you? You never worked in your life, you a blood-sucker all I know,’ she said.
‘I pulled some strings to get them bloody kidneys.’
‘FUCK!’ she exclaimed, and a bunch of faces gaze at them.
‘Yip! And now I need my ten percent.’
‘You have no shame, Facey, the child died.’
‘Fuck the child, I want my cut,’ he said talking on his teeth. ‘The thought of this cash is bleeding me dry. Just the thought of it.’
The child suffered a stage renal disease, Yung did the transplant( Dr Yung came to Modjaji with a spatula and other surgery tools. He got stripped his practising licence eight years ago for answered a cell phone while in process of heart transplant. It is said that: “the handset fell inside the human intestines while wide open. Yet before that, he did a heart-lung transplant procedure from an eighteen years boy who died instantly on a motorcycle incident, the recipient was a fifty five years old woman. The woman sued Yung, why? The woman claimed that she had been flippantly thirsty for a beer since the transit took place. Bizarre as it was, she developed a sudden weird cravings like: Astros sweets, Biltong sticks, KFC and yellow pepper, worse she began to be attracted to tall girls).”
The child lived for three days. Unfortunately she fell from her sick bed while playing with a phone, bought from Banele’s shop of counterfeits. The battery handset blew on the girl’s hands, particles splatted on the face she suffered seizure and died.
But the had doctor killed the buck. Yes, Yung had killed the buck for the past three years since his arrival in Modjaji. It wasn’t examined how it happened, the headsman got fiercely furious and open a contract to a hit-man to pay Dr Yung a visit. His last words tallied; “find and whack the stubby bastard”, with failure.
In the midst of it all, Dr Yung had other plans besides heart or kidney transplant, he had a sound range of breast implantation gel that he injects in women, it lured many of them, pilfering to his surgeon to inject the gel.
He did it all, from teeth whitening, skin bleach which was more of hot product for women coming from north side of the country. White folks from Sandton came in numbers to inject the jell, from weight loss products to hair grow sprays for old rich old daddies who also liked the attitude of Modjaji and wanting to look young as feisty like their high school days.
“If you want to see the future, come here again ma’am we’ll sure meet your demands”, Yung’s assurance to his customers. He’d same the same even to Mrs Van Ross who came there for a plastic surgeon for the third time after the first one went completely faulty.
Banele’s general dealer sold whatever he could lay his eyes and hands on. He once tried to fix Mbobo’s oven stove, sadly the oven door trapped the hand of Mbobo’s toddler while on the maximum temperature, alas, not to mention a toy aeroplane that exploded on his boy’s face, either way, Banele killed the buck and shut down the shop after he got the news. Opened an impromptu final clearance all goods sold at reasonable percentage, again killed the buck, cleared all and disappeared for a while.He had replicas of decent branded labels.
Mbobo pulled a scheme of local mamparas, Zamalek drinkers per se, to burn down the shop, but it was too late the shop was empty. Banele took refuge across Modjaji opposite his shop next door to Dr Yung’s surgery to become a guard at Kay Tavern. Once there, he knew nobody could reach to him, under Mjumba’s protection, not even authorities can question his integrity.
The infamous tavern owned by a silly-billy dimwit Baba Mjumba who wore a shredded cap to his eyes. He claims the cap has been loyal to him since the days he came from the mountain for circumcision when he was ten years old. He called the cap a great omen to his life. He liked calling women ‘mini coopers’.
‘Boys Modjaji is a ‘factory of Soweto, the attraction is all over, this is our mini Paradise, officials work with us, customs under our thumbs. All these shops down from the Square up to Bonjour gas station trade tax free. We have waited for too long bazala(cousins). You can’t be ten years old and expect to be spoon fed bafana(boys), you picannin watch too much television and your brains think like chickens. Those girls works here in my tavern, pay a little fee to me for room usage, good satisfaction for their clients. That skinny tall one, see her bafana? She came to Modjaji a year ago now she owns the street, she sells everything even you, this life is an exercise in schizophrenia,’ he laughed rigorously.
He scared a male customer with a sheep jaw bone pointing on his face, the guy jumped and spilled the beer, dimwit laughed rigorously and walked outside the tavern to buy skop(sheep-head) next door from Sbu, a gay guy selling what is known to be traditional food.
Mjumba took off his cap, a huge pitch black hair, red eyes and wobbly tummy hanging about the bottom of his muddy golf shirt and wooden leg limped in deformed fashion like a crab mumbling nonsensical fret about the last visit from Spider. His liquor licence expired, Spider, a dirty cop, came on rescue to get him continue trade but under conditional measures. But the dirty laundry got exposed by one of his employees, a bar-girl of fifteen years old. She’d throw her apron underneath the bar counter, jumps over to indulge on a jar of local brew and shots of cane spirit with customers after her shift.
‘Mjumba’s pigs came to bite him last Saturday, ’ she said conversing with a Babyface on the table.
‘Shit! And ?’ exclaimed Babyface.
Babyface is the biggest snitch known on the streets as “big five”, a code for all fink.
‘They took him to the girls shop, fixed him unconscious. They were demanding answers of a job gone wrong.’
Music was loud so she had to draw her face to his ear.
‘You mean the one to remove Yung?’
‘Yip. How the fuck did you know?’ she cringed.
‘Rumour has it; two weeks had passed and no payment done to Spider for his tavern protection,’ he continued. ‘But Yung is still a heat. Twenty grand for his head. And I still want my share.’
‘Ah! So that’s why his face is discomposed, huh?’
She fiddle her pockets, pulled a carton of cigarettes, tapped it on her palm, one cigarette popped out, lit and hanged it on her pink rubbery thick lips. Joggling her knees as if she is high on something.
‘Shit is hectic. They threatened to shut down the tavern if no payment made by tonight. It was bad man, I mean the guy is coining it from the girls and the tavern, that didn’t flatter Rajesh either,’ she cringed again.
She puffed a cloud of smoke, sipped from the bottle, cleared her throat glanced around as if she is on a run from someone. She in always on cheap plastic sandals and a shirt that leaves her belly bare out to attracted most of the guys at the tavern and sex them in exchange for money.
‘That con Indian!?’he got aghast.
He knew Rajesh, their last deal to ship ten kilos of weed did not go well. The recipient paid half, and Babyface did not inform Rajesh, hoping he’ll coin his cut from Yung sooner than expect but, now he is deep in the mud.
‘You little bitch ain’t you supposed to be behind the counter!?’ Mjumba.
‘Shift is over baba,’ she replied looking round insolently.
‘I am not paying you to drink your ass off. Say that again I’ll fucking boot you out in a minute,’ Mjumba looked sticky sweaty.
He dragged the girl by the shirt to the back. They passed a stampede of patrons on the passage to a room where another girl walked out looking high, he pushed her in, closed the door.
‘Phansi(down), do your thing!’ he said.
He unzip his pants, demands fellatio from the vulnerable girl. Little girl was crying wet but she had no choice. Dimwit roared like a prick until, he grabbed her by her hair and pushed her on a wobbling table, strangled and pressed her head on the table like a piece of goulash to be chop, and pierced her with his dong. His thrust did not make her scream, she just gasped, just waiting for dimwit to roar once so I can be over in flash.
“MXM, one minute pig”, she gusted and tried to put on her panties but they were torn, this was her own business to deal with since she ran away from White City.
‘You came here with no shit, know your position and disrespect me again, you’ll know who’s your real father,’ he threw a fifty rand note on her face and walked out with a huge grin as if nothing had happened.
The aftermath got her to gulp harder on the jar of beer at once, teary and snorting like a junky craving for a line of snow.
‘What the fuck just happened?’
‘This filthy dick just stuck a knife in me, twisted with a thought of crime like a drill on my skull and left me dead. Dead Facey, dead to my soul,’ she began to sob.
‘Oh, Nonky,’ Babyface trying to empathise her.
Not far from Babyface and Nonky’s table sat three guy, swanky with gold watches and silk suites, chattering about life in Modjaji street.
“See gents, the place has vivacious energy, with get-ahead ethos to run life happily without interference from authorities.”
“Thanks to Mjumba, ladies crew, pigs and truly yours doctor know it all Yung,” they all laughed and gulp their beers.
They paused for an instant, a little to recover from an ice cold beer that just advanced to wash the vexation day in hustle on the streets of Johannesburg.
One guy pulled his face to show that he’s genuine, he waved to one of the girls, grinned and grills twinkle behind his lips. Part of such show off in tavern indicates; he’s filthy with cash, and hungry to spend it on anything, and he can afford any girl in the house for a night beyond words.
No one can explain how the dunction of Modjaji people works, and how exactly they live an extraordinary life in abundance, that can only be determine by philosophers or else lay unperceived among some rubbish because to become a servant at Modjaji, you must engage upon the deck.