Aikona! Where’s My Country?

One from the archives....

A Pigment of your Imagination: An abridged history of the New South Africa

Adapt or dye

In 1990 FW De Klerk stepped out of the laager, faced the Groot Krokodil, and crossed the mighty Rubicon. (The “mighty” Rubicon was actually a small stream according to omniscient Google). FW emulates Ceasar’s great leap of faith, changing the face of the country and continent forever. And so the blue African sky crashed down on our heads leaving us all with blackened eyes.

Change is as good as a holiday

Nelson Mandela takes over in 1994 and South Africa has hope; a new Rainbow Nation with a pot of gold. (Platinum would have been better considering the NUM strike and poor rand-dollar exchange rate) Like the fairy tale, Madiba inherits the kingdom, and gets the girls. Sadly for him: the Spice Girls. Suddenly everybody wants a piece of South Africa.

The multinational corporations return to great fanfare, take the old signs out of storage, and continue to exploit us, but now with the world’s blessing. A privileged nation, we can drive boxy Volvos, smoke Marlboro and freely download porn from the internet on the SANDF IBM. Soon we all benefit from luxuries like houses, running water and Trevor Manuel. There goes my holiday.

Hey, where is my president?

The Madiba Road Show retires in 1999, moving from Tuynhuys into the suburbs to live like the New South Africans: in a nice pad in Houghton. Retiring like a true octogenarian, Madiba uses all those presidential Voyager Miles and travels the world attending more rock concerts than Status Quo. (The British rock band. Not the ANC old guard.)

My new president has also gone “tjaila”. Like Indiana Jones, but in an Armani suit, Africa’s new saviour criss-crosses the planet in search of the Holy Grail: peace for all Africans. No need to mention Zimbabwe; diplomacy works best in silence. Or is that without white noise?

Back in five years

While away, Thabo has no worries. Democracy has a way of getting on with itself. Or is that anarchy? As with apartheid, ignoring AIDS and crime long enough will make them go away. While you wait, presidential advice says to have a nutritious meal and please lock your doors.

Don’t panic; Deputy President Phumzile is in charge and well-rested after her Dubai family-holiday and new R15 000 bed. Like Queen Victoria Beckham she can always request that the country close for business temporarily. No disturbances from the little people.

Court Out

Super-stud Jacob “00 Zulu” Zuma fights on in the arms struggle, thwarts evil conspirators and instantly recognises damsels in states of arousal. (Gauteng and KwaZulu-Natal, to name two) Next time he should put the condom over his head. It prevents wetness behind the ears in the shower.

An epitaph to JZ: More time spent in the dock than the Titanic. Reached the bottom faster.

Tony Yengeni, not to be outdone by our well-learned Cabinet, is toyi-toying all the way to top-up his qualifications: at Pollsmoor University. With terrorism like so last regime, the new majors are corruption, fraud and perjury.

Transparency: We see through it

Uncovering political indiscretion and the daily scam (a future morning paper), we always hear three things: “He is racist”, “It was apartheid” or “I saw nothing.” It must be that colour blindness.

“Apartheid is dead.” However, like Lazarus, it can be wilfully resurrected. If your local councillor, MP or Cabinet Minister (or all three) face allegations of inappropriate, dubious or dishonest behaviour (or all three), it is blamed on apartheid.

“Management is racist.” How so? Management was awarded a golden handshake in 1996, bankrupting the nation of much needed rands and not so common sense. Management now lives behind an electric fence in Wilderness guarded by two right-wing Rottweilers and a night-watchman from Soweto-on-Sea.

Identity crisis

So, how can you afford that BMW and townhouse in Rivonia on the meagre salary of a cashier at Home Affairs? Married into money of course: Nigerian mostly. Anyone seen my ID book? You wouldn’t recognise me.

Safety and Security Minister Charles Nquakula says if we whinge about being victims of crime we should leave the country. How? The new Zimbabwean New South Africans have used up all the passports at Home Affairs and no First World country will have us now!

Help, we need a doctor

South Africa has enough healthcare professionals to serve all. My doctor, dentist, pharmacist and vet are all nearby. Proudly South African: all working in Kensington, London. Inconveniently there is no access to a state-sponsored ambulance for a nominal fee to take me to do my monthly grocery shopping.

AIDS has not escaped the name game. Dr Mbeki decrees it is no longer a disease, but a nutritional deficiency. Ja, you should have eaten your samp and beans like Gogo told you.

Pieter-Dirk once said “Give them Kyk!” (Or was that Pieter Willem?) Manto says to give them lemons, garlic and beetroot. The beetroot is for colour. The more colour, the better for you and the country apparently.

The newly empowered sangoma has taken over the lease from your local pharmacist. Four hundred years of ancestral visions cannot be wrong; or was that the side effect of all the Durban Poison?

By the way, the pharmacist has left for Perth because there is still an Afrikaans school there.

Where the hell am I?

A former Old South African living abroad since the New South Africa’s existence is faced with unique problems. Drinking Castle at Zulu’s in Fulham, Plaas Japie is asked his town of origin.

“Pietersburg. And you?” he retorts. “Polokwane” is the reply. Japie looks confused: “Nooit, never been there.”

English-speaking, and in Randburg, I don’t really know my Beyers Naudes from my DF Malans. Consequently I ended up somewhere that used to look like Verwoerdburg. Apparently we do all look the same.

Kaiser Chiefs are on top again, thanks to the inspiration of Lucas Radebe. Now based in Leeds, they have seen their first album go to number one in the UK charts.

I predict a riot.

Published on reporter.co.za and news24.com