CHATTING UP TECHNIQUES

Zenga Longmore on the

ways of gaining or losing friends in Africa

AS A young black woman, travelling around southern Africa with my white stepbrother, I was chatted up from Zim- babwe to Botswana, straight through to Lesotho, and on to Jo'burg. I have here compiled a study of the chatting up techni- ques of the Shona (western Zimbabwe), Ndebele (eastern Zimbabwe), Tswana (Botswana), Masotho (Lesotho), and the Boer (no explanation necessary).

Study I: the Shona Setting: Harare Gardens Shona: (In posh suit) Em — er — em, excuse me, madame.

Me: Yes?

Shona: I'm so sorry to disturb you madame, but I thought you looked a little confused. Me: No, I'm fine.

Shona: That is good, madame, but you see, it is not often you see a white lady on her own in Harare.

Me: White?

Shona: Oh yes madame, of course you are white.

Me: No I'm not. If I was, would you be coming up to talk to me?

Shona: Well, actually, no, I would not, madame, but you are almost white, I can assure you. Where are you from?

Me: England.

Shona: England: what a lovely place, madame. The English are very good peo- ple. What is your name?

Me: Ethel.

Shona: My name if Jeff (or John). I am an accountant. Are you — em — are you married?

Me: Yes. (Or no, depending on how good looking he is.) Shona: Could I please have your address, madame, so that I may correspond with you in London. It is such an honour to meet you.

(At this point 1 make an excuse and leave — or not, as the case may be) N.B. The fortunate ones who acquire my address, write to tell me that meeting me was like meeting Princess Anne. I decided, after hours of tortuous debate, to be flattered.

Study II the Ndebele Setting: dingy bar in Bulawayo Me: (Chatting to barman) Ndebele: (To barman) Hey, what are you doing chatting to a vulnerable young woman who's all on her own in a strange country. She's not going to think there are any gentlemen left in Zimbabwe — you are all on your own, aren't you?

Me: Yep.

Ndebele: (Hurriedly sitting next to me) Thought so. Look at you! so prim and proper, and fenced in. Relax! You're in Africa now! Be like me, laid back and cool. Me: Nope.

Ndebele: Still, you can always be tutored I suppose. Come to the Ambassadors Night Spot with me, now. Hurry up, I don't have time to waste.

Me: Nope.

Ndebele: Don't give me that: I know your sort, too posh for me, eh?

Me: (Leaving in a marked manner) Yep. (I didn't like Bulawayo much) Study III the Tswana Setting: some bar or other Tswana: (Wearing bright tee shirt and jeans) Heh! Dumela me.

Me: Khotso ntate.

Tswana: So how is Ramotswa these days, sis?

Me: I'm not from Ramotswa, I'm from England.

Tswana: You are lying! You are from Ramotswa! Think I can't spot a Ramotswa woman when 1 see one!

Me: B-h-but . . . .

Tswana: Ah yes, the English accent. Very clever — but you don't fool me. I too can put on an English accent. (Puts on high falsetto voice in exactly the same accent.) `How do you DO' See! Anyway, I don't mind. I often tell lies myself.

Me: But it's the truth.

Tswana: Well, whatever you are, I like your style, ossi. Now, don't you dare tell me you're married.

Me: No.

Tswana: Eh! EEEEH! And I know you like jazz because I saw you at the jazz festival last night. So I'll see you there tonight. Eeee!

(Calls friends over, and everyone drinks and jokes, someone'll bung on a radio, and everyone will dance in the hot sun. BLISS. I wasn't with my brother much in Bots- wana, so there was much time for such escapades.) Study IV the Masotho Setting: an outside cafe Enter staggeringly handsome Masotho, wearing blanket and Basotho hat. S.H. Mosotho: U tsohile joang? Me: Ja what?

S.H. Masotho: (In faltering English) From where you are? Me: England. S.H. Masotho: I thought you were Indian. Your name, ma? Me: Zenga — and you?

Masotho: My name is Staggeringly Handsome Masotho (or whatever). How long you stay in Lesotho? Me: Only five days unfortunately. S.H. Masotho: Five days, ah, not long enough (giving wickedly handsome smile). But if you like, ma, I could take you to the — (Enter brother) S.H. Masotho: Your husband?

Me: No! My brother!

S.H. Masotho: Ah no, I think he is your husband (looking nervous).

Me: (Becoming desperate as he leaves) No! I SWEAR he's my brother! You see our mother is half-Russian, and half- Danish, his father is English, my father is — hey! Come back. Where are you going? You said you were going to take me to the (But he's gone, looking at my brother and backing away. I shall have to go alone next year.) Study V the Boer Me: (Going into a toilet).

Boer: Heh! Can't you read?

(Points at notice saying: 'WHITES ONLY! NICHT FOR BLECKS'. I think you'll agree that the Boer lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.