amakhosi

Nolan Fuzzy and Mark on the line drawings
Beatstreet on the flavour
dank, SCAR CREAM, funafuji, nick knuckles, chapampa and gananda on bass
jabu on the jive

I hate blackmail

I was thinking about things and I realized that im so angry at myself for always thinking about what would happen if I had double the money in my pocket. I was a buying a tasty piece of chicken and was wondering whether if I had double my money if I could buy another. Now chicken is priced based on weight using those cool silver scales at pick n pay and if we think about the average portion of chicken we would quikly realize that no two pieces of chicken could weigh exactly the same. so if i had double my money could I buy double the chicken?

us at motherfuckinromance take pride in having a painting team consisting of three members(Baka,Mr slippers and Ozwald D) and this my friends is how to paint a wall peanut butter! a wise man once told me that one should always keep the hand u use the most strong and one can do this by lifting dumbells.masterbating or just.heres a quick drunken free style by me and baka!

SHINE THE BROKEN RADIO FACE

yesterday Jabu's Dance Team got our radio juice all over the the PASS- the pan african space station - www.panafricanspacestation.org an amazing little secret, broadcasting out of the Pan African Market.
Jabu's Dance Team is an audiophysical rendering of Motherfucking Romance, ideas made momentarily tangible, like a bubble.


So much fun
Disco, Fuzzy, Mike and Me talking shit, running shit and killing shit Jabu's Jamboree/Jabu's Jesus/Jabu's Jive Hour/Jabu's Juice - a sonic adventure through the finest indie, kwaito, electro glitch hop break beat jams from the warm heart of Jabu. we're working on getting the recording, which we'll post up asap. look out for the special Jabu's Dance Team songs...

plus check out Miss H, Funafuji and Honey B tonight - same slot 7-9.

woop!
check yourself before you wreck yourself.

Ostracise Stigmatize Destroy

The title of this post is plagiarised from the prescient words of our sweet but controversial friend Andile.

I’ve noticed that while competition encourages fantastic feats of human achievement, it tends to polarise people and bring out the worst in human behaviour. It is the dark side of competition, ruthlessness and such, which stimulate my inquiry lobes. My favourite motivator, especially in sporting competitions, is fear. Fear of ridicule specifically. That’s why I like Emily so much. With a simple, yet damning insult, she turned a friendly game of soccer into serious competition.

But first let me explain the event:

In the spirit of Col. Ojukwu and Lt. Col. Gowon - the respective leaders of the opposing sides in the Biafran civil war in Nigeria – who called a 48 hour cease-fire in 1967 in order to watch Pele play an exhibition match in Lagos, in that spirit of undying love of the beautiful game (joga bonita™). We dragged our tired, babalaas, bodies out of bed and onto the street for a Sunday afternoon soccer match. Not exactly soccer, we played drie pal, one of the million variations of diski – that greatest of South African soccer traditions. The game consists of individuals attempting to manipulate the ball around the defensive manoeuvres of their opponents and score by hitting a single upturned brick with the ball. Once you’ve done that you’re knocked out, a sort of winner takes nothing game.

An important part of diski is the ball - a small round, deflated mini soccer ball. It is part of a tradition which has its roots in coca cola’s strange practice of flooding South African townships with billions of the little deflated coke branded things in the 80’s and 90’s.

Anyway the point of our game was not to win anything, but to use the ball which had been sitting in disco’s house for the greater part of the year. This was all well and good until Emily, in that uniquely British way of politely dropping a bomb said “whoever looses is a shithead” or something like that. Now that doesn’t seem like such a damning prospect but its implications completely changed the dynamic of the game, the point now was to not loose, the spectre of ridicule was let loose upon the street and everyone upped their game. I understand the implications of being called a shit head don’t seem to be that bad of a deal, except if you have friends who suck. The type of small minded people who will find a deep satisfaction in calling you shithead for the rest of your life, the type of people who find self realisation in perfecting the tswana art of the gwarra consciously laughing (howling) at every half baked joke and immature mention of your new name: shithead. Pumped up on Andile’s philospophical musings we played our hearts out, taking the game right down to penalties.

One day one day there was disco, then someone shat in his hat, then he put it on, then he was a…

A poltergeist named pigeon.

A bird flew through my window today. I really Didn't like that. So I stood in the middle of the room, with a broomstick in my hand while it fluttered around it. Then when I was able to correctly anticipate its next move I cocked the broomstick back and swung with so much vigour and force that when it connected with the birds beak, it popped it into its body and sent the bird right through my window and five stories down, to a very hard and painful connection with the floor. I was so proud of my work that I told my friend Oswald about it, we then proceeded to mark this great feat by going downstairs and outside to where the dead pigeon body laid and sent it off to its next avian life with a sticker on its chest. I believe that it has now become a ghost that haunts the skies to remind birds what happens when you to relax the brain.

the appropriate behaviour for a drunk is sleep

a whole bunch of drawings...