Day 3 - The Rally, day 1

There was, actually no touring nor biking on day 3. This was the first day of the Swazi Rally. After a good breakfast and even better company, I was chauffeured to the rally site. We got our badges and pins (the reason we ride all the way, to these things), once we had wrist bands attached, we were ready for the rally. Always feels like organized chaos, to me at least. The merriment in the air was unmistakable. 

It was an atypical Swazi day, overcast and not warm. It was a typical rally day, hardly 10am and beers were merrily a-chugging. There are two kinds of people at a bike rally. Those that absolutely love and enjoy everything about a rally; and those that went on a long ride and ended up at a rally. For the latter, the ride is everything. The destination is but a rest stop before riding again. Then there are the campers. Tents of all sizes and colours, sort of arranged on the lawn in front of the castle – those who ask, well… There were more campers behind or above the castle, depending on your point of view. I don’t camp, especially at a rally. It is raucous at best, unbearable loud at worst – apparently the campers are not bothered, not one bit.

A bike rally also boasts a motley crew of characters – all kinds, all ages and all whatever else. Life on two wheels is what binds everyone. The fact that Swaziland was uncharacteristically cold, did not bother those that like to camp at the rally. I don’t camp. 

I was introduced to Stix, one of four 70 something-young okes, who I later learned were on a 40-day bike tour. The Swazi rally was apparently one of their many stops, Namibia was another – just to give some perspective. This foursome was great company over the course of the rally. Many stories under their respective belts and stories for days. Having started the 40-day epic on August 8^th, they had plenty riding days ahead and more memories to make.

The first day of the rally is generally uneventful. It is all about setting up, meeting up, reconnecting – eating and drinking. As the day grows long in the tooth, activities start. Games, competitions, misogyny and the like. I have said, the rally is a convenient stop at the end of a long ride. For some, the rally is the whole thing. The rally is also a whole ecosystem. There are all kinds of stalls, full of bikers’ paraphernalia and badges of all kinds, some not so kind. The lone biker that I am, I just had to have one that said “Independent, No Club”. Right there, a woman and her daughter had set up a sewing station, where you can get the badges sewn onto you biker jacket or waistcoat; for 40 rand/elangeni.

Then there is the Christian Bikers Association…yes, they too ride motorbikes and attend rallies. They serve coffee and save souls.

In the background to the raucous conversations, hearty laughs and back slapping; are the sounds from resident djs, pumping and pounding sounds; to which, most just tapped feet and bobbed heads. Understandably, some of us still had some bum fatigue to nurse. The later it gets, at the rally, the more unchristian everything gets. Haram, haramer and haramest. I generally ever experience the Haram-ish stage of the progression. I tend to tap out earlier than most. This time, I left a little later than usual to much compliments from my erstwhile pillion. “You know, this is the longest you have spent at the rally site”. To be fair to the kind chauffer, I sucked it up a little longer, and even enjoyed some of the PG rated goings on. Yes, it is a rally and things happen. Have you ever seen a Jameson bottle so big, it came with a stand to facilitate pouring? Yeah, that’s the rally for you.

The revving bikes outside competed with the thumping music inside. Amidst the dancing and whatever else, I took my leave.

I was told at breakfast the next morning, just how kak the strippers where. I wonder whether the members of the Christian bikers association stayed for the show, or like me, they bowed out for their evening prayers.

 

Bike Tour: Day 2

Clarens, I will be back, you were awesome! Now riding in company and a support car, we exited Clarens and pointed the bikes in the direction of another bustling metropolis, Warden. 

I am once again in a beautiful scenery of this rural country. Ok, I really missed bike touring. It’s good to be back! Just me and the open road, literally. There was a hundred or so kilometres ahead  of the 3 bikes and the support car, to our first pit stop, breakfast, etc.  By the time we reached our final destination come out we had covered close on 600 km. Some 170 km of those, turned out to be the most challenging riding I've had to do, in all the years of riding. More about that later, of course.

The ride to Warden was easy and uneventful, great start, I thought.  We were treated to small town hospitality of Warden Lodge. The farm style brekkie was great, rounded off with butter and jam on toast. The coffee, didn’t coffee though. 

We left Warden for Wakkerstroom. The trusted GPS guided us out of Warden to that second stop of the day. Out of nowhere, the road turned to gravel. I was ok to tackle the gravel, I have the bike for it. My fellow travellers were not up to that challenge. The matter was settled when a rider, who had passed us earlier, made a u-turn, further down the gravel road. It turned out that one of my fellow riders knew this fella. A local came up the gravel road and after exchanging pleasantries, asked us not to go down that road.

We heeded the advice and navigated our way, away from the gravel road. The worst was still to come. We set off in the direction of Standerton, intending to stop at Volksrust.It was not the warmest of days but at least the sun was out, cheering things up. Every time we hit shadows, the temperature would drop dramatically. Then the sun decided to take early lunch, somewhere beyond the grey clouds. When the sun next reappeared, it was sluggish, probably because of the lunch. It could as well disappear. And it did.

By the time we got to Volkrust, we were cold and the rain clouds were gathering. My bike told me that I had exactly 0km of fuel left in the tank. Well, the thing told me that some 12km before this garage. I was so relieved to be finally at a petrol station. My heart leapt into my throat when the man told us that they had run out of fuel. My heart slid back down to its place when he said the petrol station around the corner did have fuel.

We all fuelled up and had a smoke while contemplating the turning weather and what we thought was 174km to go. Not long after we hit the road, the rain finally came down. The ride was still pleasant. We then hit mist! Visibility dropped to two bike lengths. It was painfully slow going. The mist got thicker, right through the pass, with visibility now down to one bike length.

I decided to leave the now party of four fellow riders behind as the mist cleared. The next town was Piet Retief. That is all there is to say about it. I rode through and out of Piet Retief and I was finally on the last stretch to Mahamba border post. I was doing decent speed and even beginning to relax. At some point in this joyful riding, the road ended! Right ahead was the Road Closed/Detour sign. The detour was a muddy slippery road. Fortunately it was not long; I checked it out and decided it’s ok ride without dropping the 300 grams or so of the steed between my legs. Detour ended and the rain started as I rode the last stretch to the border. Cold and relieved, I guided the tiger into the Mahamba port of exit. I got my exit stamp and headed to the eSwatini arrivals side of the port. Once I was done with the passport stamping and road toll paying, it was time to wait for my party to arrive. Fortunately, the border post was closing at 22:00.

We were reunited with relief and near tears, cleared the border and stopped right after, for recounting the horror of the mist and rain and darkness and cold. The rain was persistent, so was the smoking. At this point we had triumphed, we were in eSwatini after a challenging ride – we thought. We could have not been more wrong. About a lot of things. The most challenging part of the epic ride was not behind, it was lying ahead. Worse for me, I was volunteered to lead. 

It was already dark by the time we got back on the road, no street lighting and the cats eyes were there in patches. I generally don’t mind not seeing where I’m going, not seeing where the road is going! Is another matter altogether! The anxiety was killing as I was overthinking the safety of the riding party and the support car behind me. As if these terrible riding conditions were not enough, and as we got to the mountain pass, the mist returned, with vengeance. I was not sure whether the riders behind me could see me, so I turned on the hazards. At best, I was going at 30 or so km/h. Did I mention that the distance from the border to our final destination was 80km? Well, what to you do (in Tony Soprano voice)? Stopping was not an option, one may just be taken out by a car or something. In Zohra’s words and voice, ons fok Voort. And Voort we foked. We cleared the mountain pass in the rain and mist, riding with the visor open and without the spectacles that kept fogging up, wet and riddled with anxiety. Underneath all that, was an excited boyishly enthusiastic voice saying you are doing this. There was another voice, Richard Quest’s – this is what I call living!

Another thing, the pass was also sprinkled with unmarked or poorly marked speed humps. I mean, really?! Whisky Tango Foxtrot?! Still, we rode. We eventually all made it safely to the final destination. At least my co-riders and the support car did. The fact that my accommodation booking was for the next day (long story) does not bear mentioning because this day ended with a beautiful shower and sheets white as snow. I also had a little keyboard and wifi.

Tomorrow, breakfast and then off to the Swazi Rally!

 

Velaphi

 Uyaphi Velaphi? That’s what I imagined, the lady in the red Mercedes soft top convertible was thinking; or even saying to her passenger. I was some 19 kilometres into a 320 km bike ride. This was on the N3 southbound. 

The N3 must be cursed. How can it be that this road always have so much traffic? Like all the time! Poor red mercedes, crawling along while Velaphi merrily cruises by, lane splitting. This was the beginning of the longest ride I have done in over many years. The last time I was on a long ride, life and all else were different. It felt fantastic to be on the bike and the open road.

It was windy. I was not aware just how windy it was until I left the built-up areas behind. The wind was howling. It had been a long time since I had ridden in the howling wind. I reminded myself of the rules: keep enough real estate on either side of the bike, and you’ll be fine. Lean into the wind and let cycle do its thing. It feels like you are riding straight, but you are riding in a figure of “S”. There is another rule of riding in the wind: move as far left as it is safe, when there is an oncoming truck. I stuck to the first rule. The first oncoming truck unsettled the bike as it roared past and almost sucked me in behind it. That shook me up a little and also reminded me of the second rule. From that point onwards, it was easy peasy.

 I got off the N3 and onto the world’s skinniest roads. It got trickier to observe both rules of riding in the howling wind. I also realised that I broke one of my riding rules: stop often and take the surroundings in. My backside reminded me of that rule and I had to take a bum break. Whatever happened to those stop and eat or whatever places along the road? There were none, nowhere. I eventually found what looked like as safe spot to stop. Even then, every time a truck came past, the bike looked like it will fall over.

I eventually made it to that bustling metropolis of Bethlehem. Before that though, I rode through beautiful countryside. I remember thinking – South Africa is really a rural country. A beautiful rural country. It was a welcomed stop and bum break in Bethlehem. Plus, I only had 30 odd kilometres to my destination – Clarens.

The last time I was in Clarens, my heart was ripped out through my arse and fed back to me. It was only when I was 10 or so kilometres outside Clarens that I remembered the last time. It was a pleasant surprise that I felt no hint of sadness or anything like that. I was excited. Excited that I had ridden 320 kilometres and that it was as good as it used to feel, riding.

Riding into Clarens and eventually Rosewood Corner, everything felt great. I was smiling ear to ear inside the helmet. I was back in Clarens and it felt like a new experience.

It was at that moment that I realised that I was new, it was a new me, riding into this cute little town.

Tomorrow is another riding day, all 450 kilometres of it and across a border.

Words matter

Aren’t words nothing but the bricks that our beliefs are built on? Perhaps, words are the stuff that betrays our beliefs. Maybe, just maybe, the two statements resolve themselves into the same proposition. This may also be gratuitous self-pleasuring (my words, not yours – so there, I said it first).

A friend/brother, during some vulnerable conversation, intimated that I am being somewhat philosophical (whatever that means). My retort was, Prof, being dumped when you are in your 50s, will either kill you or make you philosophical. Of course, I got to share a drink with my friend, the Prof so, being dumped did not unalive me, hence the philosophical inclination. The good Prof made a telling observation. Not that I have become philosophical, but that I have come to question everything. Trying to find the meaning of meaning. That of course is an entirely different blog and story. No, this blog is not about me being dumped either.

Most of what we get to know (loosely speaking) and sometimes also believe, come to us in words, written and spoken. “Men are trash” are words that most have come to know and that some have come to believe. Nothing to do with me being dumped. For peace of mind and mental health, that is all that I will type on those three words. Philosophical I can live with. Sour grapes and defensive? No, that is a bridge to far – burnt or intact.

My forebears have a saying: “lefoko, ga le boe, go boa, monwana”. Which reminds me: I was told that I use punctuation like confetti, throwing it everywhere. Well, that was said to me by a NQF level 9 English major who is also an award-winning poet and an editor of other people’s writing. He gets to say that to me and I get to swallow hard and move on. About my forebears: what they meant or conveyed is that once the word(s) is out your mouth, you can’t take it back. However, pointing your finger at someone, you can unpoint your finger. I don’t altogether get it but I get enough. Words, like black lives, matter. Apparently, Jacobs coffee matters too, but that is hardly the point. Besides, what kind of a guy would…never mind.

I have come to accept, thanks to “social media”, that people can and do write anything, anyhow. Just by the way, I am habouring a belief that it should be called “anti-social media”, to be fair. Nevertheless, people say and type all manner of things about people, events and things, with absolutely no care. Yes, I get it – limited characters, etc. Is the time to reflect before posting also limited? I have witnessed words cause grievous harm on others. I have also witnessed the after the fact, back-tracking and explanations which, did not undo the harm, sometimes making matters even worse.

Then there are words like, WE, US, THEY, THEM. Pronouns yes, but that is not where I am going with this. At the heart of all conflicts, wars, mass killings and general hatred, are these words. It is the belief in these words that make it ok for people to be downright dicky. 

I am fascinated by words. I am enthralled by well put together words. I spend time thinking about words, trying to understand them; yes, I love using them too. There is so much good words can do, too. I am reminded of the time I heard“not every Singh is a Sikh but every Sikh, is a Singh.” I don’t even know if it is true, I just loved the words, put together that way. Oh, there was also that time in my life when I was said, unfairly, to be afflicted by eastern fixation. Now that, is another pair of pants I’d rather not unzip.

So, why is it that people (sentient, as we are said to be) say things that are not true, as if they are, or things that we know will cause harm. “She is not South African, she should not represent US”. Is this true? It sure is harmful. We know how it all ended for her. Not even the minister of Home Affairs knows this to be true; at least as far as I have followed the news, so far. It may well be shown to be true (or not). As I am typing this blog, it is yet to be shown to be true. The last I am aware of is the minister stating that “there appears to be fraud…” and, his officials asking for more time to investigate. I hope that at some point, the minister will take the nation into his confidence, to borrow a well-worn Mzansi phrase.

The stone in my shoe is that, without any factual basis, other than the nationality of her parents (if that too is factual, who knows), the anti-social media declared her to be not South African and therefor…So what will any investigation help? To be fair to anti-social media, words have been doing harm long before twitter and facebook. I am old enough to recall Maki Skosana. A woman who was killed by the infamous “necklace”. Look it up. Someone said that she was an impimpi, others believed it and proceeded to act out their belief. Those who were there, will tell you that she was not an impimpi. Cold comfort for her and her loved ones. Words, just words. 

So it will continue. Stories will trend, true and false. People’s lives will be upended. That is just how the anti-social media works. There may be lawsuits too, for those that have the means, time and gumption. 

More should be expected from those who spread words in some or other official capacity. I expect a lot more from the minister of Home Affairs, from members of Parliament, from news media, and so on and so forth. It does not help anyone to repeat the “it appears; there’s prima facie; it is said that, and so on. This just solidifies unverified versions of a harmful story. Our institutions, including the ailing fourth estate, must do better. Of course, each individual also has to do better. The words you put out into the public sphere, do matter. They have an impact, intended or otherwise, on people’s lives. 

I am looking forward to the outcome of the investigation by the Home Affairs department, whichever way it finds on this child’s matter. And no, the outcome will not and does not make the harmful statements okay, after the fact. The proverbial horse may have bolted, hopefully the next horse will keep its mouth shut and the barn door will be kept shut too.

Our institutions must do better. Everyone must do better. Words are not just words.

In honour of Maya, in honour of Woman

Maya Angelou writes

as she speaks

She writes and speaks of you

She writes of you

and multitude

of brave caged birds

who against the odds

against the gods

rise with the sound

of their song

rise and not let

their song

be silenced

 

Maya Angelou writes 

beautifully, too beautifully 

of the ugly visited on Black Women

the ugly that harm their wings

and dares them to fly

and some

with a child under each wing

still fly across wastelands 

against headwinds 

to freedom from memory 

to find joy in the present 

hope in their children’s eyes 

and power in their selves

 

she writes of the caged birds

that break the bars

of some cages

and strengthen others

caged birds that know freedom

from the lessons of bondage

Maya Angelou

through her pen

mothers and nurses

broken wings to full strength

they rise still because they know

of another time

another life endured

unbelievable

in retrospect

 

Maya Angelou writes

of tears shed

wishes for things

heard of in stories told

of other lives in a different world

far from home

from cold winters

and unbearable summers

from this place too

caged birds sing

songs of triumph

and caged birds

find freedom

unfathomable

in retrospect…

Just a view

I am said to be and to always have been contrarian. I disagree. However, considering whence this appellation comes, I shall revel in it. It could not have been said to me by a more contrarian individual. I am mirthly reminded of George Carlin’s take on human beings. He says they are great, one on one; once they get into a group, they become a tribe and, well it’s all downhill from there. In the Carlin sense, perhaps contrarian is not such a bad thing. I also read somewhere that, “if everyone thinks the same, and then no one thinks“ or somesuch like. 

Take our opinion makers, on and off twitter. How much of our views, on anything and anyone, are in fact, our views? How much are these views formed and packaged for us? Ok, let’s take the views on our members of parliament.

The prevalent view is that Dr John Mandlakayise Hlophe, should not be a member of the Judicial Service Commission. I use “prevalent” with trepidation. What with this view being expressed by the likes of the Daily Maverick and by Mr Barney Mthombothi, no less. 

Afriforum, generally referred to as a civil rights organization, does not only hold this view, it has made an application to the Constitutional Court, to enforce it. The Democratic Alliance agrees. There it is, prevalent.

I am here, reminded of the Monty Python skit. The one where there are several rooms, in one of the rooms, you could pay to have an argument. Well, it is a long time ago and a long story, but I do remember – “an argument is a series of statements, meant to establish a proposition” or some such like.

Mr Mthombothi sommer starts with a proposition. The appointment of Dr Hlophe to the Judicial Service Commission, is a bad and scandalous idea. He implores the apex court to save us from all of this. He also lauds Afriforum for the civic duty, and so on and so forth and stuff like that.

I am a little at a loss on this issue of Dr John Mandlakayise Hlophe. Here are a few things that boggle the tortured mind:

1.     The good Dr is a member of the national assembly.

2.     The Judicial Service Commission is made up of 23 members.

3.     6 of the members are appointed from the National Assembly, 3 of whom must be from the opposition party(ies).

You will remember that the honourable Julius Malema was/is a member of the Judicial Service Commission, at least from the previous administration. You will, no doubt, also remember how he made his voice heard during some of the proceedings. Anecdotally, Mpofu SC was also a member of that august, never to be tainted institution. Mpofu SC, a member and leader of the EFF, a senior member of the bar, a lawyer of the EFF, Public Protector, and so on and so forth. 

The good Dr is also an impeached Judge. The prevalent view is that the good Dr should not be a member of the JSC. The Daily Maverick article says something to the effect that the good Doctor will be part of the very body that found him guilty of impeachable misconduct. This is however not the whole story. The part of the Judicial Service Commission that deals with the conduct of the judges, is made up, only of judges. In the good Dr’s current status, he can’t be in that room. He will however, barring the apex court rescuing us, be in that room that Julius set aflame.

This part of the commission, interviews, sometimes even disparages and ultimately recommends candidates to the president for appointment as judges. This is where the good Dr is one of 23, all brought to heel by the indomitable Maya CJ. 

So far, these here ramblings, have been about why the good Dr should not be in these spaces. The opinion under law may suggest that he can and should. Here is the thing, anyone eligible to vote, is eligible for election to the National Assembly. Once in the National Assembly, the good Dr then hitches a ride to the JSC, thanks to the voting members of the very National Assembly.

So, why is it so objectionable that the good Dr be a member of the Judicial Service Commission? Objected to by, such held in high regard commentators? Is it, perhaps, time to change the law, to suit the facts? Just a view.

Day 3/21 and other thoughts...

Rustum, an English major and a friend, says to me, “Motsweng, you have a voice man – write in the first person”. He then tells me about the “Dagga stories”. I read the stories and I sort of get what he meant about having a voice. Unrelated to all that, he goes on and on about how I should stop justifying the margins when I write. Said something about it being difficult to read en wat ook al. Ease of reading must be a big deal for him, after all that is how he pays for his roll-it-yourself smokes. I pay for my LPs and stuff by practicing law. Unjustified margins in our writing is not the thing to do. I have often (that’s a long time ago) immediately on receipt of a draft from a colleague, justified the margins before reading the draft or anything. I mean, who sends out a draft like that? I would hiss under my breath. All the while, I continued to split the infinitives for dramatico-legal effect.

This is how conversation with Rustum always go. The one moment we are talking about the kindness and generosity he showed my family by making that amazing curry. He was not particularly happy with that pot. He promised there would be another one, the next time he is in town. The next moment we have a crazy lag about soft Cape Town rain and a certain whisky, or is that whiskey? Now, we have to factor in the lockdown and inter-provincial travel bans. Back then, we were going to make it a point we see each other whenever we happen to be in each other’s city. Alas, we are in lockdown.

It is only day 3 of 21. So far, if Twitter and the news channels are to be believed, there are people who still want to carry on with their lives. I try to not look at the statistics anymore. All I think of is how horrible it is going to get, a month or so from now. A beloved tells me over the telephone yesterday, “out there in the rurals of the North-West, people are going on about their business as if there is no lock-down, corona or any of those city people things.” It is going to be bad; she says. We both express a hope that by some miracle, the ignorant and the arrogant are spared. I am fortunate, really fortunate. I generally spend a lot of time at home. By choice mainly. Being at home has become easier over the years. Fifteen or so years ago, I would be struggling. I am at home. More than that I am at home with my parents. They are well even as they are both dealing with illness that need attention. I am lucky to have them.

I am spending a lot of time wondering about other places and other people. I wonder about my home in Ikageng; about my relatives and relations elsewhere. My boss, partner, lover, friend and wife has been nothing but stellar. That is when she is not annoyed to tears by me and my complicated issues. We get frustrated and a little drunk together, often not only during lock-down. We both “see” the shit that is going to hit us. Privately, we hope this pass soon and without much drama (as she would put it). We have plans, you know? Time bound plans. She’s excited that I sat down to write this morning. I am terrified. She is my worst critic and greatest fan. Confidence is in short supply these days. Thank the universe that truth and vulnerability supply has increased. I am scared and excited and it’s ok with me that I have no cooking clue.

This pandemic is a great opportunity for humanity. Unfortunately, the systems that we believe in will not let us take the opportunity and run with it. I grew up in an era where money was important but not essential. My life with both parents working did not change that much when my father was retrenched. Life carried on and needs were met. My children are growing up (to be fair, two are pretty much all grown) in an era where if you do not have money you are pretty much screwed. It pains me to accept that it is a life I chose for them. Now we are here. Growing up, our biggest fear was the system, the police and the comrades. Now, our biggest fear is not having an income. This drives everything. We worship our jobs, our source of income even as they suck joy out of our lives. We deride and spit on those that do not have, and we even offer explanation why they are in those circumstances.

So, on this day 3 of 21, I am thinking, writing and trying to access my voice; and not justifying the margins. Rustum has a point, the police will harass the living shit out of you and kick you in the stomach, because you are poor and do not have the means to kick them back. You may have seen scenes of police ordering people to get inside their homes. These are people who are in their yards, behind closed gates. Then there are the runners, dog walkers and those spotted on some estate playing golf. She (partner, boss, friend, etc.) just walked in and showed me a clip of some guy in what looks like “an informal settlement” asking the police what lockdown means for them in that squalor. “We all go to that same toilet…” he says to the policeman pointing out the mobile toilet.

Are we not better off locking down the epicentres of this pandemic and prohibiting Yusuf and reporters from roaming the streets of the poor and vulnerable? Oh, there is that worry of what the police and the army would do if not watched and recorded on smartphones. It is day 3 of 21 and city people chose to go home. The lockdown and containment of the spread of the virus is crucial. It helps that people stay home. There are a great number of people who cannot stay home. I am not here talking about the essential service providers. People who do not have a home to stay at, people whose only relief is to be outside, on the streets. People who live with people who beat and violate them. How can we make the lockdown to work for those South Africans too?

Let’s see how all of this pans out. The universe is shaking us by the scruff of our necks to change, we are putting measures in place to keep things the same. Those countries that chose to nationalise all private medical facilities, may you have the fortitude and common sense never to revert to private health care.

I can’t help but wonder where I would be by day 21. Where the world will be then. Will everything continue to be done or conceived from the point of view of those with the means and the access?

In the name of God I hate you!

This is what I imagine I would hear if I were to attend the Faithfulword Baptist Church service.  This church on the south-east corner of Southern Avenue and 48th Street, Tempe Arizona is led by one pastor Steven Anderson.  The church is described as old-fashioned and one is cautioned not to expect anything modern or liberal – should you consider visiting, I suppose.

Until the good pastor was refused entry into this here mzansi, I had not heard of him and in fairness, my life was the better in that ignorance.

The beef, I gather from Twitter and electronic version of some newspapers, is the pastors hatred for homosexuals or as he prefers to call them, sodomites.  He is known to have called them vile and worse.  He is unrepentantly steadfast in his view of the sodomites so-called as evil.  In his sermon (I only managed 2 minutes of a YouTube version) he makes no apology for offending the evil that is LGBT.  Pastor Anderson takes his cue from the good book and no one is going to stop him from winning souls.  His bigotry, hatred and othering is God sanctioned.  The bible is, according to the good pastor ,very clear on sodomy.  The man does know his King James Bible; it is the only version of the good book that the Faithful Word Baptist Church goes by.  Not the watered down versions of the good book – this church only goes by the real deal and the real deal good book is on some “woe unto you ye sodomites”;  and pastor and congregation say amen.

As we know, the good pastor was prevented from entering this here mzansi.  As much as this made me happy, it seems to have offended others.  Like one Mike Collins who made his views articulately known in the letters section of the Citizen.  Yes that newspaper whose dodgy history is eclipsed goes unmentioned lately, what with BBBEE and that other newspaper that is a cousin of that TV news channel.  Mr Collins laments the fact that our freedom of speech is poorer thanks to the department of home affairs refusing the good pastor entry into the country.  In his defense of the good pastor Mr Collins refers to good ol’ Voltaire and his “I don’t agree with you but will defend your right to say it to the death” or words to that meaning.  He, Mr Collins not Voltaire, would rather we let the good pastor into our sodom so that he can come win some souls.  Like Voltaire we should defend the good pastor’s right to spew his bigoted bile-like views to the death more so that we disagree with those views.  So far so reasonable, right?  Wrong.  Mr Collins also says that the sodomites would in any event not be attending the good pastor’s sermons, except to be confrontational.  So what’s the fuss, right?  Wrong.  Then Mr Collins craftily uses the Dalai Lama’s experience to underpin the thrust of his letter – that the whole pastor’s affair is another black-eye for freedom of expression.

Bigotry can sound so reasonable sometimes.  Like how kids are placed in classes according to their race – because kids prefer to be with their own or those that are culturally the same, right?  Wrong.  Women do not progress in the work place because just when they get ready for a senior position they decide to get married and raise children, right?  Wrong.  Mr Collins chooses not to deal with the other aspects of our constitutional democracy such as the laws that proscribe hate speech, period.  The proscription of hate speech is not premised on its tendency to incite violence against the other.  Inciting violence is a crime all on its own.  So, when the good pastor makes his intention clear and public that he is mzansi-bound with the intention to win souls and to castigate sodomites in all of their evilness and vile ways;  he foretells his intention to commit a crime.  A crime for which good pastor unrepentantly and unapologetically stands by – in the name of God and the guidance of the bible, of course.  

Our social compact as citizens is that we shall not commit crime and where we do, we may be deprived of some or all of our rights – like freedom of movement, freedom of expression, etc.  Of course this may be a thin edge of a repressive wedge (a point Mr Collins does not make).  Enough has been written and said on the application of our constitutional principles as a balancing act.  Without this balancing Mr Collins and the good pastor will wantonly incite and hate and other and generally bigot their merry way around mzansi.  Of course without the balancing on the other end dictators and fascist will deny all forms of expression.  A concern Mr Collins does not express because fundamentally, he does not think the good pastor a bigot and a fascist – he thinks the good pastor a Dalai Lama of sorts..

Both Mr Collins and the good pastor are entitled to their views just as the department of home affairs has a duty to honour and protect the constitution in its decisions and rulings.  In this particular instance I am with the honourable  minister bae.  Contrary to the assertion of Mr Collins that the decision amounts to an assault on the freedom of expression; the ruling refuses the use of the right to freedom of expression as cover for bigotry, hate speech and othering.  For that, this freedom is strengthened and protected – as it should be.  Especially from the good pastor and his flock.

This is Our Stuff

This is what I hear every time talk of change, transformation or even a mention of Black, comes up. Yes, I hear this from white people, I hear this from whiteness that invariable is also in and by itself, rightness.  Of course this statement comes in a variety of forms and guises. From the ostensibly innocent “nooo, you can’t be serious, that can't be true” to the toe-curlingly infuriating “not everything is about race”.  On occasion as I smile and battle to keep my cool while seething inside – “I’m not an idiot and I am not talking about everything! I am talking about this particular thing! As you correctly point out the painfully obvious – “some things are about race”; your own *expletive* words.

I can never quite get my head around a life where one never has to account for or explain anything. A life where anything one says or does is taken to be valid, right and for a good cause or some good reason. That refrain through Chris Rock’s stand-up show: “it’s all right because it’s all white” or words to that effect – is more profound than I initially appreciated in between fits of laughter.  What gets me even more, all of the *expletive* time is how whiteness never gets this, refuses to get it, not even engage it for just one *expletive* second.  Like a fool I try again: “Sam, just look at how your life is set up” he interrupts, “it’s no different to yours, we both work hard and want only the best for our families” my turn to interrupt “hear me out please, I am trying to make a point of how our lives are set up – how I went to nanogang primary and you to Rondebosch prep; how from our respective first days at school our lives would follow paths set by that first day of school.”

Yes, today was not born on the death of yesterday. To borrow from Alice Walker’s phrasing – Today is not a place Yesterday comes to die, it is the link in the continuum that is yesterday that will become tomorrow.

Some of the brightest people I know are white, only some. It is this lot that get me to lose my generally good sense completely.  How the *expletive* can they not get it? In between responding to some mommy group WhatsApp and sterilizing the baby bottles and stuff says “babe what makes you think they don’t get it, maybe they won’t just get it?” In fact, she continues, I don’t interrupt, “they refuse to get it”.  The horror that is whiteness is of such a scale not even white people want to look at it, let alone engage with it. They would rather take a logic defying position than just see and hear things for what they are, not what they would prefer them to be. Yes, the word is prefer – innocuous as it may seem, it is the basis on which society as we know it is constructed. Laws were passed and enforced precisely on white preferences.  Of course preference is called all manner of other things like “manners, process, requirements, law, order, fairness, what is right; the list is as endless as white preference knows boundaries, not.  “It is rude to speak a language other people in the room do not understand” – seemingly sensible and polite, right?

Real talk: the power of whiteness is largely enabled by the submission of blackness. This was made plain and simple by children who said – my hair, my language, my voice.  This during a week of chaos and turmoil wherever else one looked around the country.  While faction battles raged on; while those elected to serve our communities concerned themselves with dress codes and decorum in *expletive* council chambers – our children were saying “I come as I am in all my otherness, whether you like it, approve of it or not.”  These children’s tomorrow will be better than our yesterday;  only if our today as their parents do not betray it, by our obsessive investment in the very whiteness we claim to resent.

It is because whiteness believes (and lives that belief) that all that is good about everything, is white and right,  that we owe it gratitude for letting us into that splendour.  The splendour Of good schools and clean, leafy suburbs.  How dare we make any demands when such generosity is shown to us, to our children.  All we need do is be grateful and in that gratitude just fit the *expletive* in.  It’s all about decorum and deportment, it is not difficult, besides you can always be you again when you get home – come on, be a team player, be reasonable, these things take time and sacrifice.

Whiteness will continue on the path it knows, understands and love; a path that assures and secures it's place at the top largely because we believe this to be right.  It is only when we, each in our respective spaces politely and emphatically say “fuck you Sam, this is not your shit, it is our shit and you don’t get to keep it to yourself for another 400 fucking years – it ends here, today.”  This is not your stuff.

Homeless and Destitute, Not a Spectacle

CEOs and other business leaders reportedly raised R31million to help the homeless. This they did by sleeping out, on the cordoned off Nelson Mandela bridge, exposed to the elements – not. When this fundraising effort first caught my attention, I without much thought declared it an insult to the homeless and a farce. I saw some justification for the effort by way of a quote attributed to one of the organisers; something along the lines of this being an opportunity for the top of the pile to experience life of the bottom of the pile. The sleep-out hardly achieves this but that is hardly the point or is it?

Those who support the sleep-out argue that the homeless need all the help they can get. A caller on Radio2000 impatiently asked, shouting actually, “if these guys did not do this, who was going to do it?” I presume the caller was referring to the fundraising and not the sleep-out but I can’t be sure. Here is the thing, the fortunate and well to do should give and should help, where possible, the less fortunate, no question. Any effort to help make this here country better for more than the CEOs should be applauded. Generosity however, does not buy anyone the privilege to denigrate those that stand to benefit – or not – from such generosity.

Marvin rings my bell from time to time and with as much dignity as he can muster, he asks for R10 so that he can be allowed into the shelter for the night. He is homeless. On nights that he can’t raise the entrance fee to the shelter or maybe choose to buy food with the money or a drink; he sleeps on the street, literally. He does so without a windbreaker, beanie, wifi, fire or security. This is Marvin’s reality, being homeless. The CEOs and those that organised Wi-Fi, fire and catering are not homeless. Reasons for being homeless are varied mainly, the homeless are destitute. These are the people who do not know where their next meal will come from. The sleep-out was fully catered.

I write this from the comfort of my living room. What right then do I have to speak on behalf of the homeless? None at all. I do however have the privilege to speak my mind when the privileged buy their way out of common decency. This is not an attempt to spend the night and time with the homeless, to understand their circumstances or plight. It is almost like that dwarf-throwing thing in the US and Canada. Those who supported it argued that the dwarfs got paid good money for it. Those against it argued “these are human beings”. Would people react differently to this sleep-out effort, I wonder if CEOs did it merely for the experience and raised no money for any cause? Without the R31million, would this be just a “let’s see how the other side live?” No it wouldn’t because what happened on the Nelson Mandela bridge resembles more an open air concert than an experience on the streets, with nothing to your name. I’m told not to forget the R31million. Yes, the R31million is there and much more and it should be given abundantly to help the less fortunate.

The CEOs are some of the smartest people I know. Surely 5 minutes of thought about this would have dissuaded participation? No, instead the sleep-out happened for the second time and seems set to continue and probably get bigger. No surprise there, the Americans voted for George W twice. Money can and does buy pretty much anything. The Sunday newspapers will have the pictures of the well-meaning CEOs out in the cold, for a good cause. They would not have been cold, hungry or unsafe – the stuff the homeless face every day and night. The same CEO’s could have agreed to raise the money over a conference call, on a golf course, through a gala dinner or even at Polo. They chose to make their giving more meaningful I guess. “Not only will I raise lots of money for you, I will share your daily experience, for one night. Wait, ok not really your experience but imagine what R31million can get you – whole new shelter or may be extend two others.” Privilege is truly a nice thing. Like the goose down K-Way jacket, it insulates you from the ravages of poverty. Like that liqueur it numbs you and allows you not to see or hear the call: “I am human too”. Privilege should not however protect you from the obligation to be considerate.  There is no worse form of violence a human being can be subjected to than poverty; I would rather you did not make a spectacle of it.  Put differently, just because another is caught in the pouring rain, it doesn’t make it right for you to piss on him on some “he’s wet anyway and besides, I am giving him a set of fresh clothes anyways”. You are privileged, you have 2 and a half houses and good shoes. Just drive in your lane.