Pounced on by Pepsi

Black and Yellow. If it goes fast and I can kill myself on it – then it has to be black and yellow. My first pair of roller skates: Black cloth with yellow laces. First Roller Blades: Black plastic and yellow wheels. My Honda Fireblade, first speed boat spin and when I was asked what jumper I want for my skydive? Of course – the black and yellow guy.

I remember the day the decision was made. I went to school with my two sisters every day for 4 years. Three of us and only two bicycles. My sisters had these awesome Italian racer type ones with the skinny wheels and the looped back handlebars. 12 Speed and all. Under instruction of my father Kelly would saddle me over the handlebars and give me a lift to school each day (should have seen the size of Kelly’s calf muscles) all the way uphill to school and uphill back home. One day, heading to school Kelly gets fed up and tells me to take my pillow and walk. And so I did. I was 10. I cried and cried and cried. I cried to the teacher, teacher cried to my parents and my Pops brought me a bike. Black and Yellow with 21 speed shimano gears. Suck on that Sussie.

I had that bike for years. One day, while heading home after a long school day in Grade 7 with Peter and Adrian we were approached by these two skinny Indian fellows. Friendly guys that are from out of town and are a bit lost. “How do we get to the Mall from here?” the taller one asked me. I happily dismounted off my bike and began to explain to him the infinite simplicity of Witbank’s roads when he chirps up: “Wait, no…not from here. Follow me to that street down there and explain it to me from there?” So with youthful ignorance and a heart full of cotton wool I walked him down the road and explained the same thing.

“Wait, so sorry man. I actually need to know from that other road again. Can we go back up?” I followed him. Adrian and I followed them back up again, making small talk about their travels, when Peter looks to me and says he has to be home soon for lunch. “Okay Peter, Cheers buddy. Drive safe”. Peter headed off down the road and SMACK! Something struck me from the side. I fell over onto the road and looked up, still grasping my handle bars in bemusement: “Are you okay?” I asked the guy, still confused as to what’s happening and SMACK! That rake skinny, chilli eating little rat punched me in the face. I looked over to Adrian and he was yelling at the other guy as they both hopped on our bikes and set off. “Holy kak” as I realised “We are being high jacked”

I got up and made chase but those 21 Shimano gears made love with his electric chicken legs and it was just too fast. They headed towards Peter when I shouted for him to get out the way. Peter peddled like mad and made history... to be the only African ever to be beaten at an athletic sport by an Indian. They flew past him in top gear. That was it. My Black and Yellow was gone. I walked up the hill, patched up my nose bleed and waited for my parents to get home.

The next day was a Saturday. I woke up to my mother saying that the Police had found my bike and we should go to the station and press charges. I remember driving into the station and I spotted her torn up front wheel dangling out of the boot of this battered Corolla in the parking lot. We walked up the stairs, past last night’s hookers and daddy-doesn’t-love-me druggies, in through the main door and into the reception area. 

I walked in and there he was… the guy who robbed me. Sitting hunched over on the STD infested wooden bench with his Mother sitting guard. But something looks different? He doesn’t look so chirpy? He must have noticed me walking in and he looked up to display the most gratifying picture. The little bit of fear inside of me blossomed into laughter as i saw his face had been rearranged. Just a lump of bruising and abrasions.

Turns out, this poor guy, stole my bike and cycled back down past my school. Pepsi, our gardener there, recognised my bike and had heard Adrian’s shouting a few minutes earlier. Pepsi was a lanky tall Snoop Dogg looking mofo that grew pot in amongst the meilie plants outside the music room. He used to chill out at our sporting days with a gansta-lean on smoking away just eyeing out the children. We always thought he had a mean streak. That poor Indian chap chose the worst escape route. 

Pepsi, bombed on ganja, skips over the 10 foot wall and Husain Bolts after him. Apparently he kung-foo kicked that poor guy off the bike at full speed and then pummeled seven shades of poo out of him. Our resident kindergarten teacher witnessed all of this and broke up the fight.

Pepsi was my hero. Well, up until the time he chased after me with a panga because we broke into the school…but still. Adrian and I ended up in front of the whole school explaining how it happened and lessons learnt. Witbank news even wrote an article with my face on it. A few days later I stood in the dock and put that juvenile where he belonged. I remember his mother crying and pleading for forgiveness. My soft-as-milk Mother had turned into a razor sharp Lioness and gave him his packing orders.

Suck a dick Chicken Legs - you punctured my front tyre.