Two white middle-aged women meet at Sandton for lunch.

The conversation is not what you’d think.


“I might be a bit late,” texts the one. “I’m just doing a drug deal on the roof.”

“Okay, what are you on?”

“Cannabis oil, you?”

“Magic Mushrooms.”

I was privy to the whole tete-a-tete. Obviously, I did not ask their names, because, well, ‘dignity’ and ‘decorum’ are my middle names, as you know. So let’s just call them ‘Blondie’ and ‘Bluey.’


Blondie and Bluey are both of the generation I would call, ‘The Perennials’. Good-looking and suitably groomed for a fancy Northern Suburbs establishment. Both entirely fuckable. I would. So should you if you ever meet them.


Blondie and Bluey are not good friends. In fact, the word ‘friend’ is also too strong. They are something better. I don’t know if there is a word for what they are, but they are in the zone of comfort of not seeing each other often at all and will share anything without fear of judgment or the other person caring too much. Thus tell each other stuff they wouldn’t their families or real friends. Things like that they are both take drugs on a regular basis.

“What does your mert (drug merchant) look like?” asks Bluey. “I thought I was going to meet a big Nigerian, judging by the weird grammar and spelling on the Whatsapp, but it turned out to be an old white woman with no front teeth.”

“Mine has teeth.” Says Blondie.

“Why are you taking cannabis?”

“I have trouble sleeping and many of my friends recommend it. It really works. Now every time I get I get for a whole lot of us and then I sell it on!” Blondie says excitedly.

“Nice! A little network marketing scheme for the good!” says Bluey.

“What’s it like to take Mushrooms? Why are you taking it?” asks Blondie.

“I’m tired of being suicidally depressed the whole time without having the courage to do it so I am looking for something to klap me sideways a bit. Shrooms taken in microdoses allegedly helps with focus, lifts mood and suppresses addictions and cravings. I don’t think it is working. I am taking 4 times the recommended dosage and I still woke up this morning, had 3 glasses of wine and a large piece of chocolate cake for breakfast. Maybe the toothless old crone is selling me rooibos tealeaves that’s just been soaked in Jik for a bit.”

Blondie stares at Bluey for the exact right amount of time to express ‘horror without judgment’. “Let’s take a look at the menu. It’s fabulous. Let’s order some food.” She suggests.

“And wine.”

Bluey is correct about the craze of microdosing. The theory is that psychedelics, like LSD and Psilocybin mushrooms, when taken in doses 10 times smaller, result in life-changing benefits. Results are supposed to be subtle, but noticeable. It is difficult to say whether the stuff actually works or if it is just a placebo for people who are prepared to engage in mindful experimentation, but many people report good results. Bluey must be one of the unlucky ones. As for Blondie, the use of cannabis, medically or recreationally is so well documented as being beneficial, it should be a crime to outlaw it, not use it.

Blondie was spot on about the food. The fried halloumi and kataifi balls with lemon mayo and swartberg mountain olives with the charred sourdough and brandade butter was delicious. Around Blondie and Bluey , the place is filling up with very rich people, women mostly, enjoying very expensive wine in a setting that can be described as rustic and New Yorky.  Bluey stares around her in amazement.

“Jesus! These people might have problems, but money obviously isn’t one of them.” She says.

“Oh, I am sorry for dragging you here. It’s not really your type of place, is it?” Blondie says, checking Bluey has shoes on.

“No, no, this is lovely. I know I am from the East Rand, not the North like you, but sometimes we can comb our hair and look like we’re civilized.”


Talk drifts to lost lovers and friends who have been physically abused by partners. Beautiful, accomplished women you don’t think would ever be in that situation or be attracted to that type of person. Yet both Blondie and Bluey have found themselves attracted to, or involved with psycopaths or narcissists, or should we say, cunts.

“What is it about us that we keep on being attracted to them?” asks Blondie.

“No, no, no! It’s not us. We’re not taking the rap for them being cunts.”Bluey objects. “What did your cuntilocks do to you. Did he beat you?”

“No, not physically, but you become aware that you are being manipulated and being constantly diminished. He really enjoyed hurting people.”


“No, emotionally. I think we are attracted to them because they are so ‘male.’ They are charming, very sexy, fuck well…”


“….I mean the sex hooks us. But they are also intelligent and talented. And they really truly are all those things.”

“All that – and cunts!”

The platinum blonde with the 10inch nails’ head jerks around. A plate filled with delicious pear clafoutis arrives.


“Tell me about your cuntilocks.” Blondie asks, scooping a piece of pear tarts and vanilla bean mascarpone into her perfectly quaffed and made up face.

“He was violent. They used to go in gangs and beat people up. He even tried to kill one of his own buddies with a spade once they were so high.”

Blondie almost gags on the mascarpone.

“Did he ever beat you?”

“No, but I was heavy into martial arts at the time, so he wouldn’t dare. You know how they are though. They pursue you and then they always want something else. He dumped me for an 18 year old prostitute.”


“It was a small consolation when he dumped her for a younger woman too – her 14 year old sister.”

Blondie starts to eat the poor pear to pieces and stares at Bluey speechless.

“What? I’m from the East Rand. There we whack the okes. I’ve klapped a lover or two. I think I’ve cracked a guy’s ribs once.”

“And how do they react? Don’t they say or do anything?”

“Not really. I explained to the one that I was impressed that he could inspire so much passion in me and he seemed pleased with that answer.”


“That is terrible!” says Blondie. “That is fantastic.” Because Blondie knew after this scrumptious lunch, she could just walk away. Not being friends comes with the advantage of not caring too much.

“You look nervous all of a sudden. Maybe you should up your dose of zol. It will relax you.,” says Bluey, motioning for the bill. “I’ll get this one. You can get the next one.”


“No, I’ll get this one. What if you commit suicide before then and I don’t get to repay the gesture?”

“Then you’ve scored a delightful meal and a ridiculous conversation for free!”

After laughing at the thought of a city full of Tannies roaming around in different degrees of highness and some haggling, Blondie ends up paying.


“Promise me one thing,” Bluey says as they say good bye.


“Promise me that we will never become friends. It will fuck up everything.”


(Names and places have been changed to protect the people, whom I don’t know, involved – especially the poor drug dealers.)


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s