ABOUT a month ago, the controversial philanthropist Kenny Kunene took to social media to express an opinion that white people resemble monkeys and, in so doing, generated a suitably outraged response from all the usual suspects.

At the time I thought little of it. It wasn’t serious. White people obviously do not resemble monkeys. No tails, wear clothing, don’t live in trees, and so on. Besides, it’s well known that Kunene has, to put it delicately, a bit of a condition. 

He apparently suffers from agnosia, a rare neurological disorder that results in him “seeing” objects a little differently than we do. For example, he mistakes attractive, near-nude women for those dinky little wooden boats that are stuffed with California rolls at sushi buffet bars and, consequently, takes his raw fish off girls in the raw.

It’s not an edifying business, mistaking someone’s daughter for a salver, but at least it’s nowhere near as embarrassing as mistaking an actual boat for a naked supermodel. Think of the horrors that would transpire following an invitation, let’s say, to board a yacht. Or rather not.

Which brings me to the point: these really are exciting times for white South Africans, and provided we are broadminded about it, we should be quite flattered that there is now a campaign aimed at encouraging young people to have sex with us.

Like most progressive initiatives, this one started with the students, this time at the University of Witwatersrand, and here at the Mahogany Ridge we have learnt that there isn’t a single building on campus that hasn’t been spray-painted with the urgent injunction to mate with the mhlungus. Some earnest youngsters, we note, have even scrawled the message on their T-shirts in a bid to spread the word further into off-campus communities.

Such enthusiasm in the youth is commendable, and a dedication to such ends – hopefully with the earth moving and other desired results – will go some distance in allaying fears that these days the universities turn out nothing but selfish brats.

True, there are those for whom the imperative, “F*** white people”, is a little too blunt, especially at this particular time, a Valentine's weekend. It’s not exactly the stuff of Shakespeare’s love sonnets, they argue. Or, at least, nowhere near as coy as a plumber’s T-shirt with the slogan, “I’m Here To Lay Pipe.” 

However, according to social justice activist Tokelo Nhlapo, the term “F*** white people” is an “appropriate expression” of pain where he comes from. (Not a nice place, apparently.) More customary but nevertheless equally appropriate expressions of pain that he perhaps should consider include “Eina!”, “Sh*t!” and even merely “Ow!”. But that is neither here nor there.

I am a little concerned that Nhlapo may be putting the cart before the horse. Usually the heartache and pain comes at the end of an affair, and not at the beginning. That at least was how it happened when I was young. When relationships ended, it was war. Paramedics were on standby. 

But it may be different in this modern age. I’m told that very little blood is now shed as one breaks up via WhatsApp with a text message. You don’t have to even be in the same time zone as your previously intended.

We’re getting ahead of ourselves. The sad reality – and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, especially at a time when there are so many greatly agitated shouty types out there – is that, like most other folk, many white people may not be all that fun to sleep with.

God forbid, but this could very well be yet another area in which we greatly disappoint our countrymen. Much like our fondness for old statues and an odd notion that freedom of expression is perhaps not such a bad thing.

President Jacob Zuma, I should add, did not address any of these concerns in his State of the Nation Address. But at least it wasn’t the only stuff he ignored in all that rehashed nonsense about fiscal prudency and austerity measures. 

There was no mention, for example, of Nhlanhla Nene. We now suspect the former finance minister will be airbrushed from history in much the same way Soviet officials regularly vanished from group portraits of Stalin’s administration. 

On the other hand – and I’m just putting this out there for the sake of – his surname could live on as a “safe word” in all those role-playing, BDSM “tie-me-up, tie-me-down” games enjoyed by those white folk who went to the better private schools.

As for the rest of us? A cup of cocoa and Casablanca is as good as it gets.

This article first appeared in the Weekend Argus.