Lerato Mulvaney

WEB TEXT Born and raised in Lesotho, a small country completely surrounded by the Republic of South Africa, as a teenager, Lerato enjoyed poetry and short-story writing as a pass time. Now residing in the Republic of Ireland, she has finally decided to follow this passion and write fulltime. This is Leratos second book and she hopes to write many more. A peak into the lads lives . . . Henk opened his window and poked his head out, Morning, children. Hey, Hanky-panky, come and meet your grandson, Jordan shouted. My what? Your grandson, boy! Henk went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. Hey, horse-shit, come and tidy up this mess, he yelled at Clinton. Walking past the lounge he noticed something, You slept in the lounge again? What the hell is wrong with your room, man? Henk lifted the blanket off the couch. Jesus Christ! What happened here? He jumped back, spilling the hot coffee on his thighs. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! He placed the half-empty cup on the table. Jordan, where did this blood come from? Jordan was on his back, puffing away. He casually lifted up his leg to show Henk the wound. Henk strode over to him and yanked his joint out of his hand. He threw it on the ground and stamped on it. Get up! What? Get up, shit-head. Now! He gave him a good kick in the ribs. Jordan got up and limped backwards. Get in there and get cleaned up! What the fuck for? Im not going anywhere. Oh, yes, you are going somewhere; to the doctor. And you pee-head, he waved his finger at Clinton. You are going with him. If, when I come back from my lesson, you are still here Im calling the police. Im sure they will find valuables in your room. I cant go with the idiot. Whos going to look after Missile? Whos Missile? Your grandson, bru. He pointed at Missile, who was now lying under a big tomato plant, for shade. Henk looked at the dog, shook his head and went back into the house. *** At the hospital, the wound on Jordans leg was cleaned stitched and dressed. A couple of deep scratches on his hands also had to be stitched. It was when the doctor told him he would have to be kept overnight, that he realised the seriousness of the whole thing. Tests would have to be done to check if the dog had rabies. Problem, Jordan said between clenched teeth. What? Sshh. Problem, man. Problem! What problem? Jammies, mate. Jammies. What the hell are you talking about? You know . . . Thats it; youve lost your mind. I am calling the nurse, the dog has rabies. He raised his hand and beckoned to a nurse. Jordan stamped on his foot. Ouch! What the fook did you do that for? Pyjamas, toadstool! I do not have pyjamas. Why the hell did you not say that in the first place? I forget you are slow. Forgive me. I could kill for a joint. Jordan spat on the floor and rubbed it with his shoe. Clinton slapped him on the head. You cant do that, you bloody pig! So, what are we going to do about my problem? Whats this we business? You are the one with a problem, not me! Anyway, what happened to your pyjamas? Ive never had pyjamas. I sleep commando that is if Im not too hammered to take my clothes off. Come on, mate. Do the brother a solid. Cant you . . . Forget it, man. Im not doing you any solid. You are not having mine! You can sleep commando. No one is going to give a fook! Stop saying fook, you retard! You are drawing attention. Speak properly. They shouldnt be listening to our conversation. Besides . . . They have no choice. You are howling, dog. Jordan scratched his head and cleared his throat, so, what do you say, man? I mean, I dont have a problem sleeping commando. But you know what a disruption that would cause. What? Jordan gestured to his crotch with his eyes, you know what I mean? he said, with a hint of pride. Clinton put his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders, so what? You have a big member . . . S