Because It’s My Culture

Being a Zulu seems to have some perks that being male and pale I don’t benefit from. If I were a Zulu, I could marry every woman I saw, and make them sit on the floor, possibly even have a routine beating session, I could even have sex with an HIV infected 14 year old next-door-neighbour, because it would be in my culture to do so. If we are willing to let the Zulu’s do their own thing, because of cultural and traditional reasons, then what can the rest of us do, that would normally be frowned upon, but would be excusable because of cultural beliefs?

The Indians and the Chinese should be allowed to light up the skies, and often themselves, with fireworks that border on explosives just about every second day, as their culture uses pyrotechnics as a form as celebration. Much like the slaughtering of a cow in the Zulu tradition. Just recently the slaughtering of our bovine friends was brought into the media spotlight, as the SPCA and bunny-huggers alike felt that the way in which the steak-on-legs was slaughtered was inhumane. The middle part of that word is “human”. Does this mean that however the cow dies; you wish it to be given the same dignified death as us humans? Should it be allowed to live to a ripe old age before having to cart a drip around an old age home for cattle, and then be buried in a T-bone steak shaped coffin? I think not, that would mean there would be a lot less fillet for the braai if that were the case. But that is an argument for another day. What we are talking about here is the tradition in the Zulu culture that needs Buddy the Bull to be tied down and have his throat cut, with a sharp knife. The court interdict sought to prevent this was over turned, much to the joy of the Zulu’s who were afraid they might lose an essential part of the culture. So Mr Wang, and Mr Naidoo, please come set my garden alight with your beautiful explosives, because I like that part of your culture.
Actually Mr Naidoo, I would like to buy your daughter, I know she is only nine, but I think she will one day turn into a beautiful wife. And if she doesn’t, I’ll just make her dress head to tail in a black pillow case. I can hear all you other pale skinned fellows saying SIES… You need to hold your tongues, because anyone of European decent has the same right. Back in medieval times, you bought into a family’s title, by selling off your daughters to noble families, or made your sons marry Little Miss Piggy, because her father was the Duke of Arsehole, or wherever. And age was no problem either. In which case; you youngsters who think your best friends sister is quite nice, get your fathers talking, she could be yours before the end of the week. And while you’re at it, how about marrying three or four of them? You can show off just how wealthy your family is. The Zulu’s can, so take a Zulu name, something strong like Themba or Goodwill, and get your orgy going.
Court cases and stupid squabbles about whose wife is whose, or who saw my daughter first, would be a thing of the past. My culture allows me to fight my foes to the death, whether it be like the Zulu’s who do it with a knob-kerrie, or with a sword like Masseur Le Petit Bit Frenchman used to do it, or maybe even with a musket like the English used to… Ten paces and then I am going to turn around and shoot you in the face with a bazooka, because that is my culture, and traditionally disputes were settled in this way.
If you don’t feel like doing the garden, off to the slave market we shall go. We can buy a slave for the garden, one for the kitchen, and one to look after the children. This was common practice throughout the world for centuries, and still goes on in some places. I’m fairly sure Sheik Al Mohammad in Dubai has an entire army of slaves. For us Africans it’s just that much easier, as our biggest export back in the day before minerals were discovered, was anyone weaker than you, as you could then drag him to the market to be sold as a slave. So go knock on number 23’s door, claim his daughter as your wife and the rest of his family to come slave in your home, because your culture has definitely done it to someone else at some stage in human existence and so it should be your right to do so too. Unless it is your culture that has been chosen to be made into slaves, in which case you should sell your belongings and report next door for duty, and save yourself the hassle.
These are just some of the nicer traditions, how about some of the more macabre ones? Like hunting Aboriginals, the Aussies did it, and sounds a lot easier to shoot an “abbo” than a leopard who can hide quite well, and may hunt you if he sees you first. Or how about eating people, invite your mother-in-law round for lunch, and then serve her as the main course, with a couple of the noisy neighbourhood dogs as the entre. And if you were late, then I would have you killed, as Shaka Zulu himself used to do, in essence African-Time didn’t mean when you felt like, but rather be there five minutes early, to make sure you didn’t have to swallow the end of an assegai. These are all part of someone’s culture, so therefore they have merit.
We cannot forget the more modern cultures. Let all the Cape coloureds out of jail, because it has become part of their culture to rape, murder, steal and be general all around baddies. So let them go, because it is now part of their culture. And if you are of old South African Afrikanerdom, then pick up the closest non-white by the ear, toss him in the back of your bakkie, and make him your house boy, as this was part of your culture until a few years ago.
You can now see where I am going with this. Cultural beliefs are generally the bit of the slaughtered bull that you put on your roses, to make them grow nicely. And the few that still exist are hard fought for, because they are not part of the singular modern culture that everyone follows. I feel it is either all or nothing. And if we were to go with all, then everyone should be allowed to do it.
So, this Christmas, while my house-boy helps the slave in the kitchen, and I sit in my perfectly manicured garden that another slaved has toiled over, I the Duke of Poephol, will have a Zulu with a strong traditional name like Ngengozi, tie one of my many teenaged wives’ mother to a tree and have her humanely slaughtered for the Potjie, then I will set my house alight with fireworks, as yet another slave rounds up the neighbourhood dogs for a bit of a braai. And then I wish to hear Mr Goodwill Zulu take his Bhibiza. Considering they invented it, I expect the sound of his big lips smacking the back of a hand will ring loudly in my ears. Anyone fancy some Grandmother for lunch?