The unfulfilled promise of democracy

I have vivid memories of what life was like when I was nine years old. The one that sticks out the most is of the township where I grew up – Seshego in Limpopo. There lived a man down my street who (without fail), went drinking every Friday night then stood in front of my house in the early hours of Saturday morning (on his way home), singing his favourite church hymn. I also remember that, while the man down the street sang his favourite hymn, that same year; every South African must have had a song of hope in their hearts, as they set off to cast their vote in the first ever democratic election.

Tomorrow, South Africans will once again converge at the voting stations to cast votes which will determine who ‘governs’ where we each live. Or at least we should. The last few months has seen campaigning at its best and worst. The leading political parties have gone out of their way to execute effective campaign strategies. Everything – the “kitchen sink” and even the toilet – has gone into strategies to garner votes. Anyone claiming to be oblivious to the events scheduled for tomorrow must have been living in another realm.

Campaigning of the last few weeks has resulted in many a “couch potato” analyst moments between friends and foe alike. In which positions were set and ideals defended. Struggle credentials were questioned and defectors were unceremoniously deleted from Facebook friend lists. The foundations of many a relationship, I am told, may need to be revisited after the ballot is cast, particularly for those ensconced by the leafy enclaves of the “Suburban Bliss” that is Cape Town.

A particular “couch potato” moment that has me deleted from some Facebook lists and reduced my already small list of followers on Twitter is the one regarding people refusing to vote. I am all for everyone exercising their right, whatever that right may be - as enshrined in the constitution of the land. I am also of the view that while it is one’s right to choose not to vote, it is also my right to request that upon omitting to do that, the said person is to refrain from opining about the state of affairs in the country, in my presence.

While each political party campaigns to serve ends to their own means, the one message they all unequivocally agree on is that everyone must exercise their right to vote. A right fought for by many who didn’t live long enough to enjoy it, a right which now that we have it, some refuse to exercise it!

I understand that political activism is not for everyone. However, the beauty of a democracy such as ours is that you don’t need to be an activist to make your voice heard. All you need to do is mark an ‘X’ on a ballot paper every few years. A simple act, yet the most valuable contribution we each can make to our country. To quote a political party leader speaking at a recent rally, “where you decide to cast your vote on May 18th will determine whether services will be delivered where you live. It will determine whether the lives of people living in poverty will improve or not. It will determine whether our country will move forwards or backwards”.

As for whom I’m voting for tomorrow? I find myself torn between the fear of wasting a vote and suffocating under the stench characterising this “toilet election”. The actions of the ruling party’s leaders (this year alone) have left a bad taste in my mouth. They have done every questionable act I can think of; be it callous spending, corruption, abuse of resources and power. We have even witnessed a loss of life during service delivery protests as a result of some of these abuses. The leading opposition party isn’t exactly without its sour taste either. While I live in the South Africa that I live in (the leafy suburbs of the Western Cape), my vote is a difficult one. This difficulty is compounded by my awareness that within the most “well run” municipality in the country, we are living in a divide of extremely unequal proportions.

I am faced with a moral dilemma of voting for the betterment of the masses who are neglected by all parties concerned or voting to protect my already protected living space. Needless to say, much more hair will be pulled and lost between tonight and end of day tomorrow, after my vote is cast. Whatever the decision, I must cast a vote. Not only so I can sing my own song in the middle of the night but also that I can sit on the couch and lambast or applaud my vote a year or two from now. So that I can opine about this, knowing I made my contribution on the 18th of May.

For those you've lost, those who've fought and especially those who are losing the battle

In April 2007 HIV walked into our house. It parked in the garage, walked through the TV room, past the lounge and called me out from my room. Curious what it looked like and unaware what awaited me I absentmindedly yelled- “coming”- abandoned what I was doing and stepped out to meet it. There, at the opposite end of our long passage, there it stood. Eyes easily bulging out of their sockets, knees well near buckling under the “heavy weight” of the nothing that the body was reduced to and a faint smile that lasted a second but took what could equal a whole hour of effort at a high intensity training session; there it stood. At the other end of the passage there I was; barely able to speak, numb and my curiosity instantly replaced by a fury that shook me to my core. Something, I am yet to fully understand or easily explain to this day.

In the time it took to drop what I was doing, yell out “coming” and take the five odd steps out of my room into the passage connecting the front of the house to the back end of the house, minutes where reduced to seconds and seconds were reduced to a painfully deliberate crawl until time stood deadly still. HIV smiled, looked at me, attempted to raise its arms motioning for an embrace and said “Hello.”

Time did not budge an inch, not when I eventually managed to fight the numb that had enveloped me and started walking forward or when [especially when] I stood face to face with HIV and took it in my arms. My now seemingly elongated limbs managed to embrace HIV and wrap all the way around to my own back. I stood arm in arm with HIV, my heart pounding abnormally hard I could feel the rhythm of its beat though my arms now touching the back of HIV.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity on that passage, the knees buckled, and we led HIV to a room to rest. Nothing was said between the twelve people now seated in the lounge but in our silence and stolen glances we all understood (at least we thought we did) that whatever was to unfold in the coming hours, days or if we were lucky; months that followed, HIV stormed into our lives and - ready or not - was here to stay.

The first few days were like a recurring dream and not the nice kind everyone wishes wouldn’t end. No, in this dream we are woken by deafening screams of agonising pain at least five times during the night. The moments between the screams are occupied by spells of hallucinations in which the locks on the head would take the form and feel of lizards, bouts of hurling that could last anywhere between ten to thirty minutes or even an hour on other nights and changing sweat soaked linen every few hours.

The days were no better. Just when it seemed that calm was restored the sun would rear its now ‘ugly’ head. Drunk with sleep we’d take turns making food in preparation for administering the pills, all sixteen of them. Getting the food down and before tackling the drugs, made the nightly activities seem like a picnic in the park. Once all that was out of the way, still fighting the sleep while clearing the plates another battle ensued with more hurling. But this was unlike anything we’d ever seen or experienced. This type came with a distinct sound, a cross between a goat stuck in mud and shivering in fear after many hours of struggle and a faint bark of a small dog. All this, for what eventually came out looking like water pouring into the bucket.

HIV had stormed into our house and picked a fight. Three months later, we, sleep deprived, mentally, physically and emotionally deplete; we made a final stand against HIV. Helped pack its bags and sent it on its way, a “shadow” of its former self. With eyes perfectly fitted into the sockets, a smile ever so effortless and knees which by now could not only hold up the upper body but also carry bags of groceries from the store or even stand at the stove to prepare a meal.

HIV picked a fight and unprepared as we were, we stood firm and sent it packing. All the way down the N1 South.

A few days before Easter Friday of 2008, a phone rang. A ten hour round trip later, the garage doors slid up, and after the engine was turned off footsteps were heard coming through the TV room past the lounge towards the passage. And there, standing in front of me now was AIDS. Unlike before there was no numb, or shock, not even curiosity. I leapt forward, took AIDS in my arms just as the knees began to shake, looked into its eyes and said: “we were told you are on your way, have been waiting and your room is ready.”

A short while later, after I had returned to school, I heard that AIDS; realising that it picked the wrong fight, packed up and left. I haven’t stood face to face with AIDS since that day, but not a day passes that I leave home without my gloves ready for a fight. Nor does one pass without my thinking of those who lost their fight. This is for those you've lost, those who've fought and especially those who are losing the battle; and it is also for you who is still to meet HIV.

The curse of the black middle class and model-c brat

I like to think of myself as among the poster children for modern day South Africa. I can already see those who know me rolling their eyes saying; “there she goes again with her over the top self loving” but hear me out. This isn’t just me shouting at the top of my lungs how incredibly great I am (which isn’t a bad thing to do once or twice in a while) but today this is includes you too. See, I can also spend a minute away from the mirror.

But seriously, I could be one of the poster children of modern SA. Not only was I born at the tail end of a tumultuous period in our country but it was also at a time when those who hadn’t believed British Prime Minister Harold MacMillan’s “winds of change” speech, could now (whether they admitted it or not) feel those winds of change gusting through the country.

I therefore was young enough that I cannot claim with the authority of our struggle veterans that I was THERE, yet I was old enough to know what difference meant, what being white was associated with just as I understood what the implications for being black were.

Recent debates on the admissions criteria at tertiary institutions have been great. I have for years been waiting for this particular shoe to drop, because I have also been a ‘guinea pig’ of the quota system, and to this day I can feel the ring in my ear of that slap across my face (which it was and continues to be for anyone who takes pride in their abilities and works hard so as to be recognised on merit).

I am a product of a mix of formally Bantu school districts and model-c school education and have also had the opportunity to see the world as well as study at Africa’s best institution. So for these reasons, I think I qualify to be on the poster I refer to here. Don’t get me wrong, for every moment of my life; from my days in the ‘struggle’ to those of sitting down for chat over dinner about the beautiful future awaiting myself and my fairer skinned mates, I am very grateful. But it hasn’t been and still isn’t easy. This is a point that admissions debates have overlooked for years and even now, isn’t as prominent as it should be when discussed.

Popular rhetoric on the issue has reduced people to numbers and facts. But the goal, for which such criterion is meant to be working towards, cannot be reached if people continue to be reduced to mathematical facts. Life/human life cannot be summed up in an equation, we are social beings.

Our emotions, thoughts and psyche can explain and be of much more use in moulding us into the well rounded citizens in a way that numbers or generic explanations could never do. Because of the omission of this important and complex aspect, the admissions debate cannot generate full support from all, nor benefit the very people it seeks to benefit and in the way it is meant to; to produce the kind of student this country so desperately needs.

For many of us ‘model-c brats’, the transition is an ominous time, filled with so much trepidation, it is a great miracle how any of us make it to the next step without too much self mutilation or other self destructive behaviour.

The model-c brat is caught between a fight of two very different and unaccommodating worlds, with none attempting to genuinely get to know the other – because the truth of the matter is, both are petrified of the other but neither will come out and say it. Forget the elephant in the room; this is more like the elephant in your life and constantly in your face.

The model-c brat is thrown into this new world without as much as a stick to help clear their path in those difficult to reach areas (safe for the extended studies programs). Instead, every morning it seems, you wake up in one world. A world that has been all you have known up until the day you found a Listers bag on your bed with checked tunics, a few pairs of white socks and black shoes to match.

Up until that morning, you were pretty happy in a black dungaree, but this morning you wake up to part with your dungaree and replace it with a tunic; and a few hours later you find yourself immersed in a completely new world forced to adapt quickly or die. To then a few hours later, suddenly resurface in the world you woke up in, and find it not looking the way you left it that morning. Or is it they who aren’t looking at you the same way they did before you disappeared for a few hours to a new world?

A few hours are all it takes. To the friends you left in the old world who are now (upon your return) looking at you funny; this does not make any sense and the only logical explanation is that you have sold out, you are now a coconut; you cannot possibly ever understand their struggles any longer. A few hours and you have changed, you can see it in their eyes looking at you and yours looking at them.

You need not have said nor done anything since your return to warrant this label, a few hours is all it takes after all. From the moment you put on the checked tunic instead of the dungaree that fateful morning, unknown to you, imaginary battle lines were drawn and you are now on a side which you neither chose be on or even know how to be on.

Things are no better in the new world either, because no matter how quickly you adapt; no matter how well you master life on this side of the tracks, you can never be one of them. And so is the case for the cursed middle class black and model-c brat. You soon find out that you are neither black nor white enough.

After a while, having listened, observed and experienced many of these criticisms what you really start to hear, what you begin to see and experience is them saying in truth we really envy and wish we were you, so as opposed to be bigger people about it, congratulate and encourage you to keep going it is easier not to, because we can then hide behind the cover of cultural preservation and injustices that prevented all of us being exposed to such opportunities. In essence it is much easier to hate than congratulate you, so don’t judge us. This is what I heard.

On the one hand, we the model-c brats feed off of our communities’ insecurities and not in a good way. We condemn them as ignorant, uneducated and jealous. Hating us because of their own lack of ambition. By the time one reaches this point, though it doesn’t take long for some of us to do so, we are so high up our intellectual forward looking ‘high-horse’ that the altitude up there distorts our views so much that we are no different from the very ‘advancement haters’ we’ve began to shun.

What is omitted from the debates is the human factor. Contrary to popular belief, the transition to the model-c living isn’t as clear cut as it’s made out to be. Not for the community from which the student comes from, not for the community the student is taken into and especially not for the very previously disadvantaged student whom all this fuss is about.

So the cycle continues, shunned by our communities we snub them even worse, we move away from the nurture of communities built upon the spirit of communal upbringing, communities we were taken out of in hopes of improving our chances so we can some back and create opportunities for others and a better life for all. Instead we replace these with the cold fences and walls of gated communities. Where one can live for years without uttering a word to one’s neighbour let alone know what they look like.

I urge you to spare a thought for the model-c brat; it isn’t completely their fault that they may have gotten lost somewhere between the corner of advancement, embracing the present and the ambitious road to success and all things great. And while you’re still in that thought reserve some for the ‘advancement haters’ who themselves got chucked off the bus halfway to making friends forever and growing up together, without warning, or even being helped get to terms with their best friends’ 6 hour disappearing acts to another world every morning only to come back looking and sounding different.

Finally, also spare a thought for the disillusioned middle, previously comfortable in their surroundings who woke suddenly (or so it seems) to find a lot more colour everywhere they looked and the going a lot more tougher than it used to be. Even for the hard working kind who’ve always thought there should be more colour anyway.

Until we discuss and debate this issue in a way that includes the human factor, or even through examples from the lived experience of people, we risk another affirmative action, BEE or even OBE situation on our hands. Waiting for too long and too late to fix something with the potential to ease some of the burdens our country faces today.

Living like dogs in chaotic times

“May you live in interesting times”, this is a referral to a supposedly Chinese curse said in 1966 by Robert F Kennedy right here in Cape Town. The validity on the origin of the quote has been questioned since then. It has also been argued that this particular saying was taken from an actual Chinese proverb which says that “it is better to be a dog in peaceful times than to be a man in a chaotic period”.

I recently saw a news report showing people in the North West Province fetching water from the same place pigs and other cattle drink from. This is our democracy, one ‘for the people by the people’, or so they keep saying. There are differing positions held on the current state of our country, over issues such as these and others making headlines.

From the xenophobic attacks after ‘Philip’ left, to the proposed media appeals tribunal and the protection of information; the tenderpreneurial son of the president as well as the public sector strike. I may as well add my three cents worth of opinion to the pot, it is after all my democratic right, it says so in the constitution.

The only difference between me and the couch politician, activist or philosopher may perhaps be that I make my point at the beginning (like I will do shortly) and then go on to ramble. This way if I lose you before you reach the end of the page, then at least I’ll be sure you got my point. This is a tactic that works very well I’ve learnt, for politicians especially our government.

During election campaigns they make all sorts of promises to get our attention and essentially our vote. Heck, if they thought promising unicorns and rivers that glisten of 24carat platinum will get those votes, then that’s what they’ll promise. Never mind that unicorns don’t exist or that in the kind of world we live in, one would be lucky to find a river that isn’t a polluted health hazard. Never mind also that when making these promises most planning doesn’t go further than a white paper that has been drafted to fix those issues raised.

No, our leaders know how to grab our attention and what to do once they’ve got it and that is to announce their solutions and statements of intent and then ramble for the rest of their term in office.

So here is my point, the most amazing thing about our country, the thing that makes us stand out amongst other countries is the way in which our history has given us room to adapt as we go. We have room therefore to make the boldest and most radical decisions to improve the livelihoods of all our people, to implement policy never tried before, formulated to the specific needs of our people. But alas no such thing is going on. Instead we adopt foreign based policies, some of which failed in their country of origin, and sometimes even misinterpret these, to try and fix our problems. Problems very different in most cases to those faced by the country from which the policy comes.

Our history also shows that we are a patient people, that we can practice passive resistance and even the non violent form (by some); but, up to a point. And once the patience runs out, there is no telling, the measures people will take to get what they have so patiently been waiting for government to give as promised when elected.

And thus begins my ramble. The democratically elected leaders came in ‘guns-blazing’ promising an equal cut of the sought-after cake for all, particularly for the previously marginalised. They embarked on wholesale changes in all areas of governance hoping that these will easily translate and be transferred to the people on the ground. But as much progress as has been made, the oversight in many issues and the speed (understandably so considering the need to reverse the past) with which some of these changes were brought about is to me the simplest most reasonable explanation of our current state of affairs.

I wonder whether before the start of each year, whether our leaders actually sit down to reflect on the past year and forge a way forward. When xenophobia stirred its ugly head again after the end of the World Cup, one of the first reactions from those in power was to try talk things down by blaming opportunistic hooligans who preyed on people’s fears at the time, to do their dirty work. But, (in the only instant so far in which government seems to have learnt from the past), some leaders quickly spoke out against these attacks making the call to finding a swift solution to the problem.

Security was beefed up and volatile areas received better attention than they had the last time this happened. Civil society and other organisations also loaned their voices to the fight against xenophobia. Within weeks there seemed to be a clear direction as to how the situation and transgressors would be handled. Unified by the call from leaders, religious and civic organisations, the masses stood together and spoke in a voice not heard previously against the issue.

Not long after this, we read reports on the ‘callous’ spending of tax payers’ money by ministers. From stays at pricey hotels to hefty bar tabs. Ministers live the high life while the masses live like dogs and chaos brews.

Then the media appeals tribunal started the rounds, largely called for (I believe) as a result of issues mentioned above. Reasons by government for the need of the tribunal include slander and reputation damage caused by false reports which make the headlines and then to have the retraction (once the story is proven to be fallacious) printed in the smallest print available and placed in the most obscure part of the paper.

My favourite explanation of all is that this is a measure to protect those who cannot afford to defend themselves, or something to that tune uttered by one *Mr M. Let’s see, current president Zuma, Bulelani Ncuka, the convicted former commissioner Jackie Selebi, Glen Agglioti and various other MEC’s and ministers are a few of the people this tribunal is meant to protect. I don’t know about you but I was under the impression that these were amongst some of the wealthier and resourceful members of our nation. I therefore cannot make the connection between how they are vulnerable to misrepresentation in the media or better still, how they cannot afford to protect themselves should they be falsely accused.

As many mistakes and false reports as there are written, many more true stories and corrupt practices have been exposed. And to want to stop or affect the medium within which our democratically elected leaders are kept in check, is to spit in the face of the electorate who put the very leaders in power.

I have not heard or seen the hungry, the poor or the underpaid being interviewed before or during elections, asking government for better check systems on media or for a bill on the protection of information. Instead what we often hear are people asking for houses, employment, better pay and better schooling for their children, for food, medicine and security.
For years this, their pleas for service delivery, has been like a song playing on loop but never heard. Instead our leaders announce one day, that there should be a media appeals tribunal and a protection of information bill passed to protect the people of South Africa. I guess we’ll sing again in the next election, maybe they’ll hear us this time around.

Now the public sector strike is in its second week heading towards a third and like the rest of the country, I too am appalled by reports of patients being turned away and prevented from getting to hospitals by strikers and learners missing out on valuable lessons needed to prepare for exams. However, spare a thought for the teacher, nurse and other civil servants with children of their own to feed, houses to build and homes to make, dreams to fulfil and hopes of a better life; tied down by limited opportunities, overworked, underpaid and demoralised by the lack of recognition for the invaluable work they do.

Before the World Cup there was a taxi and later rail strike, and during the World Cup there were threats of planned strike action. Ministers, leaders from various organisations as well as ‘ordinary’ members of society spoke out against such threats. Highlighting how unpatriotic and selfish it was of those making such threats to do so when the entire world was watching us.
But can we blame them, should we have blamed them? The world cup provided an opportunity to finally be heard. And it was, government moved quickly to avert the strike and maintain peace throughout the tournament, everyone played nice.

I have also never heard of any South African minister complaining over being underpaid yet doing the most amount of work. Instead ministers make millions per annum, enjoying benefits that include cars that also cost millions as well as housing allowances substantially higher than those of the unruly civil servant who doesn’t appreciate the fact that they at least have a job to go to.

These are ministers who splurged on World Cup tickets, ‘networking’ they said. ‘Wining and dining business people’ said one minister ‘is among the ways in which business agreements are started and foreign investors are encouraged to pour money into the economy’. Now, among the reasons for the call to workers to return to work are constant reports of investor confidence being affected by the strike. What? After the millions spent building relations in VIP suits at Soccer City those bastards are ready to flee because of this little thing? So much for networking!

Ministers were also among the first to ‘lash’ out at the workers for their strike action, calling for them to accept the offer by government as it would cripple the country if the state was made to pay more. So what they are saying is, money was and can always be made available for ‘networking’ splurges such as there were during the World Cup but now workers must east dust because well there’s just not enough money to go around, what with all the BMW’s bought and FIFA tickets they absolutely had to have.

But like I said earlier, what makes ours such a great country is that our history that has allowed room for learning and adapting as we go. What should be learnt is that standards used by other nations to ‘network’ as they say should never have been applied to or adopted by us. There is no use splurging on caviar and the freshest Norwegian salmon to entertain guests for dinner whilst you are left to struggle to put the next day’s meal on the table and have your lights cut off because the salmon cost too much.

Unfortunately, the most our leaders do is to criticise the spending (after the fact) while they continue to loot from pockets of citizens on even more splurges. When questioned about this, some (a certain *Mr M to be specific) have lashed out saying that people find it an issue when a black leader enjoys the perks that come with his status and success, flashy life and all.

What is missing from their reasoning is reflection and learning from the past. If they did (reflect and learn) they would know that what made it possible for leaders in the old regime to live as they did was that their responsibility was towards a minority of the population, leaving them with ‘enough’ left over to do with as they please. The situation is reversed, our leaders have many more mouths to feed and this goal can never be fulfilled if they do not alter their perceived entitlements that come with the job.

They are a government ‘for the people, by the people’, so they say and so it should follow that they be part of the people and live as the people do. This is what the old regime did; they lived as their people did. However unbalanced that was in relation to the country’s demographics.

Until our leaders reflect on their promises, on the past and on what needs to be done; we will be reduced to men living like dogs in a chaotic period. It is exactly this kind of environment that breeds tension, malice and makes a country with so much potential for prosperity, yet another volatile African state rapidly heading towards anarchy.

We are a patient people, passive even, but only to a point. Our current leaders need only reflect back to be reminded of the cost of fair distribution and visible efforts to make things better versus self enrichment practices at the expense of an increasingly discontented masses.

Africans in 'arms' always!!!

Take a bow South Africa, take a bow!

We felt it, it was here and now it has left. Months and months of planning came down to just one. One month in which the rest of the world and those of us still sceptical in South Africa, were invited to pull out our deck chairs, stock up on our beverage and foods of choice, choose the best place to sit and watch the greatest sporting event in the world happen right in our backyards; and boy, what a show it was.

I watched the opening concert with a friend the night before the opening game at soccer city, SA vs Mexico. Truth be told that concert had as many bloopers as much as it did great moments, for one thing – who the heck were some those other guys? What, Oliver Mtukuzi was just too busy to come to the party? But I digress.

After the ‘randoms’ had finally left the stage and order restored with the ever amazing Angelic Kidjo, John Legend, Alicia keys etc; we continued to sit in silence and I believe for the first time the both of us finally realising, better yet, FEELING that indeed it Is Here and we were mere hours away from being part history.

After what seemed like ages, in which we both were lost in the greatness of it all, I snap out of it and ask ; “buddy, what happens now, what do we do after this”. Wide eyed and excited as I was, he turned and asked the same question. For us both, this felt like what I could only imagine should feel like once one has accomplished what they were destined to do in life.

The night continued with more performances from all the other acts while outside the sounds of the national horn, the Vuvuzela trumpeted long into the night. It felt as though the country was about to be engulfed in an inferno of spectacular proportions, of insurmountable bliss, one that would be equalled by none for a very long time to come.

At the dawn of the actual day, before even a ball had been kicked many of the daily prophets of doom had long been converted and the small faction left still predicting failure of apocalyptic measures speaking in a hushed voice only audible to the people residing in their heads.

Soccer lover or not, the whole of SA complete in dungarees of a township school, to the tunics of suburbia, the blue overalls of the minimum wage employee to the neatly pressed designer suit of corporate hotshots; none was exempt from the heat wave that was the 2010 FIFA World Cup South Africa.

During Bafana’s do-or-die match against France, a British commentator (quite probably a former naysayer) noted a verse in the SA national anthem – “sounds the call to come together and united we shall stand”. He went on to say that with all that he had witnessed so far in the tournament, even the outcome of that particular match seemed insignificant when compared to the true winners of the tournament – the people of SA.

The worst kinds of outcomes were predicted for this world cup even before it began, but by the time the first match kicked off, all the critics were silenced. And by the end of the match one could easily conclude that this, the South African world cup would be the most memorable.

Sadly, before even the final whistle was blown and with the taste of FIFA still lingering in our mouths, rumours of xenophobic attacks began to do the rounds. Not more than 48 hours since South Africans stood side by side with their African brothers and sisters cheering on the Ghanaian black stars, were the very same people (it is alleged) pronouncing plans of destruction.
Like a one night stand that had shown promise but turned out a disappointment, the disgruntled patrons warned of pillaging and burning at the stake for anyone who overstayed their welcome. And there, just as I was about to shout at the roof tops for South Africa to take a bow for our achievement, I hung my head in shame. Ashamed of the unceremonious way in which our people chased off other Africans out onto the cold winter nights mere hours after standing as one with them, effectively undoing work that had taken years to accomplish for our people and the people of Africa. Ashamed also of the initial reactions from our leaders, who easily dismissed any such threats and acts which followed as petty crimes unrelated to black on black violence. Saddened also, that what should have been a week of triumphant reflection on a month of bliss for all, was being undone by the acts of few with no respect or care for the effects of their action on others.

We sounded the call to come together and make the World Cup a success, the people of South Africa answered and our goal was achieved. When things went ‘south’ for Bafana, again a call was sounded for us all to rally behind the African teams still competing and without hesitation, gold and green mixed with red and gold sometimes even exchanged entirely for the colours of the black stars. It is time to sound the call again, to stop the violence, the blame game and embrace other Africans the way we did not more than 30 days ago.
Until then, the work we have done, the fruits we should be reaping now will lie in rot; undone by our inability to look at the bigger picture, to look beyond our own needs towards those of our society and the people of Africa.

‘With great power comes great responsibility’, our government may not have shown great examples of taking responsibility. It is therefore up to us the people of South Africa to show our leaders the responsibility we have for other Africans in need.

Then, and only then may South Africa take a bow, for it would have done us proud.

It Is Here!!!!!!

In one of the many chats I’ve have over the years with the many wonderful people I’ve come across, someone once explained with such vivid imagery, their first kiss. How they survived the encounter without swearing off any such acts of love, is beyond me, because even as I write this I can’t help but want to wash the spit off my face as if it was me on the receiving end of that tongue shower. The chat eventually went on to include all the firsts we’d all had. The first bike crash, to the first boy crush; the first win playing marbles (yes, it meant that much to someone) to the very first time eating at a restaurant. And offcourse the firsts, especially among girls, wouldn’t be complete without the first heart break. The gut wrenching, punch to the stomach moment when your heart, in one fell swoop, shatters into a million little pieces.

First times are such important mile stones that no one ever forgets (barring a few that leave you cringing with embarrassment). But overall, first times are great memories which we look back on in fondness and reverence, again, safe from a few exceptions. I myself have incredible memories of my many firsts.

I remember among other things, my first ‘meet’ with Mandela. I say ‘meet’ in inverted commas because I’ve never actually met the man, at least not in person. But, 20 years ago, when Mandela came out of prison, I, along with many other young South Africans my age ‘met’ the man for the first time. At 5 years old although I didn’t completely appreciate the events unfolding, I knew, I somehow understood that life would never be the same for any of us in South Africa after this day.

Four years later, Mr Mandela went on to become the first black president of a democratic South Africa and thirteen years later I voted in my first national elections. Since then I and the rest of South Africa have shared in the first South African to receive an Oscar, the first South African and effectively Africa man in space, we have also hosted both the rugby and cricket world cups, the African cup of nations which we won in 1996, the common wealth games and even produced Olympic gold medal and world record holding swimmers. And today I, once again with the rest of you, will add another first.

In 2004, it was announced that for the first time, in the history of continent of Africa, the prestigious FIFA Soccer World Cup would be hosted by South Africa. Today, six years and many naysayers and prophets of doom later, today the first Soccer World Cup game between Bafana Bafana and Mexico will kick off in Johannesburg to be viewed by millions around the world and bear testimony to the marvel that is Afrika Borwa-South Africa!

Today, for the rest of the world, this is merely another FIFA competition made spectacular perhaps because it happens only every four years or because it will crown the best. But for South Africa and for Africa, the events which culminated in today mean more than any world record report or Discovery Channel special could ever begin to explain.

Today we South African’s remind the world and ourselves we are indeed the embodiment of Hope. That we survived a harrowing and brutal past but that there are reasons to smile every day. That the struggles of our past continue to inspire our everyday struggles in trying to still make sense of it all and live as one nation, one people. That when called upon to unite, the people of our nation have shown that we can rally together behind one course, uninhibited by colour, race or class.

Let this be a memory that will go down in our ‘vaults’ of our many firsts. Let us remember this bliss, this joy, this hope. And let us twenty years from today, retell of our first Soccer World cup with pride imagery so vivid that our grandkids, nieces and nephews will hear the deafening sound of the vuvuzela while they listen intently about the day South Africa soared like the great eagle in the skies of the world!

It is here!

The Days of my week

Humour me a little. Remember when everyday of the week had its own purpose, a purpose that could not change? When Monday meant dread, Wednesday meant anticipation and Friday for fun? Wait; was it just me who was lame enough to actually describe the days?

But seriously, I’m talking about when Monday used to mean school, where each week without fail you were sure to get punished for one thing or another, usually incomplete homework by (if you were lucky) a teacher who genuinely had your best interest at heart or (most often than not) one who was mad with power? And when Wednesday was a really lovely day because by then you have figured out what the week had in store for you and whatever that was – at least (because it was Wednesday) you could take heart in that the week would soon be over? Wednesday was always full of promise. Even today Wednesday means that one is that much closer to the weekend and pretty far away from Monday- now isn’t that just an amazing day?

Then there was Friday, oh what a day. On Friday no matter what mountain lay before you or which side of the bed you woke up on, Friday just seemed to make it all bearable. The day was never long enough for the right or wrong reasons. When you were not having a particularly good day, Friday (because it’s Friday), seemed to have the innate ability to shorten the day just enough for you to find respite, just as when you were having an exceptional day Friday just never seemed to be as long as you’d have liked it to be – but it was still long enough.

As if that wasn’t enough Friday brought with it the promise of a Saturday (excited gasp), ah Saturday with her ability to suit everyone’s needs almost the way Friday does but not quite. Saturday’s beauty and power lay in her ability to (regardless of the situation), make one almost forget about all the other days of the week – quite incredible if you ask me.

And then there was Sunday, which was the most schizophrenic day there ever was or will be, not even a public holiday on a Tuesday was as confusing to describe. Sunday was a day of two tales. On the one side the day had an uncomfortable characteristic about it that you weren’t meant to say out loud because of the religious connotations attached to the day. On its other side was the more socially acceptable description; ‘a day of rest’. But answer me this – how does one rest with the impending arrival of Monday and all her gloom and drag?

On Sunday we’d also go to church or at least are meant to – this is the ‘day of rest’ part of it. We’d all dress up or down (times have changed since 3 piece suits and large veiled hats came into fashion), hold on tightly to our most important book in its varied shapes and sizes and flock towards varied but similar venues across the world where we bear our souls and ask forgiveness for things we’ve done wrong, which we’d all repeat at some time or another.

Ah yes, those were the days and still are – it’s quite incredible how things are pretty much the same in my grown up days. The only difference is that now, Monday is still for dread but since we’re all grown we’ll use grown up vocabulary and say it like it is, Monday blows! Period. Wednesday has retained some of its anticipatory features but let’s face it, not only does aging shorten your time on earth with each passing year, but it also takes with it part of your youthful optimism of “all things bright and beautiful”. So we don’t so much anticipate the bright future which Wednesday used to foretell so much as we arduously will ourselves forward through a seemingly unending week fuelled on only by fading memories from our much positive, glass half full youthful selves.

The saving grace is that Friday has stood the test of time and tastes even sweeter than I could have ever imagined, particularly for those of us cowardly enough to have chosen the much safer option of securing employment ahead of the more braver and exciting, going with the flow, couch philosopher type of employment option.

My point here is that, the order of things in life is preordained. We and everything else in our lives are part of an already set hierarchical order which is sometimes difficult if not impossible to change. Even simple days of the week have had their destiny sealed before they could make a case for themselves – surely Monday would have preferred to be anything but.