Minister Mbalula is stirring our pot of opium

Sorry... eh, sorry... Comrades! Can I say something please?

Thank you.

How about we take this “Bafana Bafana are useless” squabble, and all the tin scraps of opinions surrounding it - including this one - and throw them all in the scrap heap?

We have the public health system, public education, basic services, utterly inequitable workplaces, hoarded land and natural resources to deal with.

Soccer is our opium. Being the world beaters won't feed us, comrades. It won't educate us. It will not give us a caring public health system. It will not deliver us from this drab existence we are giving each other on daily basis. In fact, soccer is the spectacle to put our mind off this existence; to salve our social scars.

We are often diving into rapacious consumption, which in most cases we taste through borrowed money, in order to look and feel 'nice' as we root for our pathetic national team. We take swig after swig, off our brewed bottles, knocking ourselves dizzy, while hoping to beat the sober rivals.

The spectacle to glorify the banks, breweries and telecoms who take turns to stir up the brainwash project – our pot of opium – comes through soccer. Could it be that we love ABSA because we are familiar with its brand, not because it is making us wealthy? How possible is it that we love Vodacom and others not because the smart phones, calls and data bundles we consume are making us wealthy, but because we are happy to live on this borrowed (air) time - this drab existence? It is only the commercial houses, soccer executives and Sepp Blatter gang who line their pockets.

Does it not embarrass us enough that of the two major soccer tournaments we've participated in - 2010 world cup and 2013 afcon - we qualified on the grounds of being the hosts? Blatter is richer; Hayatou is richer; SAFA is sleepier; Minister of Sports is popular; and we are… just angrier.

This rant, the Minister Mbalula's spectacle, and our rant over the spectacle, are not about soccer. It is about our pathetic self-concept! We know that we are not doing things the right way. Yet we believe that we are special. Our snobbishness is killing us all!

Frothing in the mouth about Bafana Bafana's woeful showing is similar to how we create a spectacle of the matric results, or that fashion show we call the Opening of Parliament (where the people gleefully dress to the nines today; the very next day they are sleeping on the job; and all we can do is laugh about it.)

If we are not glorifying the finish line, we are stressing over it. But very few ever concern themselves with how good we are at the starting line. Kids are shuffled through the 12 years of low-expectation schooling, and get hailed for coming out on another end through pathetic performance. It is okay. We will just hire many motivational speakers to keep them going.

I will stop here, comrades. Thank you for reading.

Accepting that we are the Nigeria’s whipping boys

I hear that some people are heart-broken by Bafana Bafana's loss to Nigeria. Clearly the people are not creative out there. I have found a way to protect my heart. Yes. Whenever BB faces Nigeria, I gently remove my heart and I put it inside the safe, and then I lock the thing for 90 minutes or so.

This is the reason why I started watching the match in the 23rd minute. Dislodging one’s heart is a very delicate process, especially if it is not being done in a literal sense (as you all know that I am not a heart surgeon.) It requires a process which falls between amateurish self-hypnosis and the “I don’t care” attitude. You should have seen me this evening. I was expressionless throughout the match. It works.

Speaking of this unnecessarily heart-breaking result, we have to do two things. One: face the fact that we are Nigeria’s whipping boys. Two: accept that the odds are against us whenever Nigeria bursts into the scene wherever we are trying to win something on the football pitch. A bit of history first…

When we won the AFCON in 1996, Nigeria was not participating. Subsequently, we traversed the length and breadth of the Continent (Burkina Faso, Mali) trying to reclaim the trophy but we failed. When we thought we had pulled the trick and the tournament was on our home soil - thanks to Libya, or must I thank the U.S for we know what transpired – Nigeria came. And they snatched it.

Okay, now here’s the thing: Whether BB are playing here in SA or in Nigeria, the truth is that Nigeria will always enjoy home-ground advantage. Let me explain. There were more Nigerians in the Cape Town stadium than there were SAns. Now, take the Nigeria/BB match to Lagos anytime and then tell me if you will see if our eleven SA supporters (SAFA officials, to be specific, because there'll be no space for ordinary travelling SAn fans inside that stadium) can root for Mashego and Parker to convert their chances over there.

Another thing: That player, Uzoenyi (7), gave us a warning from the start. But clearly we can't read. His surname might mean something else in Igbo or Hausa (I suspect Igbo because he was born in Aba or Abia state), but if you are Nguni-speaking, which is what our entire four defenders (Mashamaite, Nthethe, Mere and Langerman) are not, you will miss the opportunity to read that the guy's surname, if read with reckless Nguni accent, means Uzonya (excuse my French-ing Zulu.) Had we been ardent readers, we'd have taken the hint.

And one more thing: It has never happened that whenever BB, Mali and Nigeria are in the tournament, then BB will survive. In the last AFCON 2013, right here in SA, Mali kicked us out so that Nigeria could win the tournament. It worked. So this time, Nigeria was returning the favour. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when Mali grabs the trophy in February.

Traumatic episodes follow the first day at school

Many of those who cried on the first day are still crying. Many of those who tried to escape are still eyeing the exit door. Even those who were too overwhelmed to cry or flee are still coming to terms with this strange experience. Even Morena, my former classmate (see “The tearful comedy of first day at school”) was still acclimatizing by this time.

I remember how the sub-sequent weeks, months and years became hell for some of us. We got introduced to caning -- sometimes for speaking without permission. You also got lashes for giving the wrong answer, or for arriving late after break time. And the drama that went with it was both amusing and traumatizing.

I do not know whether to be grateful or to lambast the fact that corporal punishment (CP) has been abolished at schools. This mental conflict was re-ignited in December when I met my former high school teacher inside KFC. (Don’t judge me; the smell of that greasy chicken is irresistible.) We exchanged pleasantries. And I pummeled her with questions –- where is teacher so and so? Oh, principal Mofokeng is retiring? 

A mother stood between us in the queue. As we were shuffling towards the KFC personnel, who often look like they are close to collapsing under fatigue (mostly we say their customer service sucks), and the nice-to-see-you flame between my teacher and I was ebbing, Mother felt the need to extend the conversation:

‘Ngwanaka, tell me, when did you finish school?
‘1997, Mme,’ I replied.
‘Aha, so teachers used to lash you during those days?’ she asked, looking pleased.
‘Ho jwalo, Mme.’
‘I see by the way you seem to get along with your teacher.’
(Where is this going, I wandered before she concluded)
‘Kajeno bana ke di “gammors” hoba ha ba sa shapuwa (today kids are rubbish because teachers can’t lash them.) Look what a good man you have become; even your teacher is proud to chat to you.’

I just smiled and remained quiet, fearing that arguing against (CP) will make Mmistrese (Mma)Putsoane to order me to go find “thupa” outside, bring it to her, and have her lash me inside a packed fried chicken shop (mind you, I was carrying Boitshwaro at that time; what type of father would I appear to be to him?)

If it wasn’t for the fear of looming CP inside KFC, I’d have retorted: Mme, the caning we used to get has left me with scars. I am afraid to use my brains to this day. Yes, we abided by the rules; we conformed; and we accepted the wrath of canes breaking our palms, and tearing through our buttocks. Yes Mme, we forgave Titjhere Mabaso who threw anything (chalk, duster, a chair) at learners whenever his lessons were not getting through to us. And whose problem was that, Mme? Was it ours or of a teacher who was often ill-prepared, who drank a lot and had self-esteem issues?

I am getting agitated just thinking about Mabaso and a whole bunch of emotionally reckless teachers I have come across in my 12 years of imbibing Bantu education. So I suggest we drop this subject of violence right here. But before we do, there were also very good teachers. I appreciate their lashes because if they did not talk sense into you before whipping you, they did it after their cane had eaten into your skin. Their words of wisdom were like salve on your sore bum.

Boitshwaro’s first week at crèche is not without hair-raising incidents, as you are about to find out. On the day before the official opening of the schools, we left him at crèche. We returned after a while. He did not cry. So we thought: awesome!

The first day was okay, even though we’re told that he was demanding to see his Mother. The following morning, he cried the moment his teacher opened the door to receive him. He came close to digging in the teacher’s face as he tried to break free. When we left him, we were heart-broken.

This morning, as we pulled in, he cried. As soon as the same teacher who received him yesterday came out, mayhem began. Suddenly, poor teacher was holding the renegade in her right hand while using her left hand to rescue her hair from being pulled off her scalp.

We tried to help by offering to kiss him or to give him his favourite “shap-shap” greeting. To our relief, and, oh for the sake of teacher’s jumbled up hair, another teacher came wearing a big smile. She offered to hold him. Boitshwaro welcomed the offer. Peace was restored. Poor teacher could restore her hair back to order.

Today is day 3 yet kids are already choosing this teacher over the other. We may never know how things unfold during the course of the day at school, but the minds of kids are already engaged and patterns are emerging.

While the fanfare of the first day at school is fading, and Friday is bringing us to the first weekend of the schooling season, we may have to consider that the kids will adjust to what seems like a traumatic moment for some at their own pace. And that their coping mechanisms will go a long way to define the relationships they will have with their teachers, their surroundings and with us (parents.) Helping them to adjust will be a long and complex task. We must be alert to pick up the signals and respond, perhaps in ways we are not accustomed to. It is time to do parenting.

A tearful comedy of first day at school

It was in 1986. My parents were not there. My father had disappeared in his Toyota Hilux to some place called… Ellisras, maybe, where he worked? My mother had taken the 6 o’clock am bus and had disappeared into the daily dawn to Harrismith where she worked.

I had the luck of looking at my sister, Morongwenyana, for some comfort. She had been going to school for two years already. Plus, my mother had left me in the care of her friend, who was a teacher at our school, to keep an eye on me.

The idea of a new school uniform excited me, but it also frightened me. My mother had done a great job bribing me into liking the damned outfit. While I was trying it on some days earlier, she kept applauding me, kissing me and tossing me around. So I looked forward to the actual day of school.

But why was I wearing the clothes which everybody else was wearing? That dampened my spirit a bit. And what were we going to do at school? I anticipated a lot of playing and eating. We were a bunch of rowdy fellas who ran in all directions, not to mention how the teachers scolded, waved, clapped, sometimes even chased and threatened to slap our behind.

I remember two incidents.

Every child had a rectangular box hung around their chest. There was a string of wool holding it around the neck. My mother had spent a good part of the previous evening designing this thing. On it was something which turned out to be FUSI MOTAUNG. A teacher would look around your chest and, voila. Yes, name tag.

The second incident: We were in the classroom. Mmistrese Mofokeng was initiating us into a world where keeping quiet was more rewarded than speaking up, unless you had been asked to do so. We were also being taught to raise our hands and wait to be picked before we could bark an answer.

Hey, classroom etiquette was that you must raise your hand, wait for Mmistrese to acknowledge you, and then you could say: I need to go piss, or something. This custom did not start off smoothly because some of us ended up with wet pants and dungarees on the first few days. Perhaps this was due to apprehension. And we were clumsy trying to get the hang of these new rules. Anyway…

There was Morena; my neighbour and playmate. Out of the blue, Mmistrese stopped what she was saying, ran her eyes across somebody’s chest and screamed, ‘Morena, o llela eng jwale?’ What Morena said in response is something which plunged me into a real wake-up call. ‘Ke llela ho lo bapala (I am crying because I wanna go play outside,)’ he said. He followed up by letting rip his full wail which he’d been constraining before Mmistrese noticed (acknowledged) him. Tears, mucus, just plain chaos on his face. Morena was bringing it home to us that the pleasures of playing unrestricted in the village were now a thing of the past.

There were those of us who ran away. Many were trying to squeeze themselves through the school’s barbed wire fence – and complete their escape. Among them was Mmamosa who, after being guided back into the classroom, continued to cry. I was reminded of her this morning when I was nearly brought to tears by a small girl who, while crying non-stop, clung to my wife’s dress when we took Boitshwaro to crèche.

There was also a boy at the crèche who cried ceaselessly. A teacher who held him told us that the boy had been crying for every male person who steps inside the classroom. Although my attention was on making sure that Boitshwaro dived into the scene without trouble, I felt like I was letting the other boy down for not whisking him away to the comfort of his familiar surroundings. Mind you I did not even know who his parents were.

Am I not the same difference?

In this country there are people who go to church to eat grass.

#clearingthroat#...

And there are those who've never been made to eat grass, but for years they have been made to drink bottled water of pastor so-and-so, to use the holy oil of so-and-so, or to enrich that one with their life savings.

It is the same difference. Yet those eating lies are judging those eating grass. What gullible hypocrisy! I say we are all sheep. Grass or water; it is the same difference.

There are also people who wear red berets, because they've been kicked out and, in the process, black berets flew off the heads and they've lost them. It is the same difference.

Then there are also those who copy the red berets and, suddenly, they are not wearing black berets anymore but these red berets to "confuse the enemy." What self-delusion! I say we are all sheep. Red beret or black beret; it is the same difference.

And then there is an interesting group of people. They do not like the EFF so much that they are willing to call themselves the People Against EFF! It is the same difference.

They remind me of those who led a big "Stop Zuma" campaign (yet Zuma marched to Union Building without any interruption.) What self-delusion! I say we are all sheep. Against or For; it is the same difference.

Before we judge, condemn, confuse the enemy, or even before we become against, or stop the others, let us calm the hell (in ourselves) down and ask, Am I not the same difference?

Besides, sheep feeds on grass; it drinks water and it never fights back when taken to the slaughter house.

When the Minister sleeps on the job, civilians suffer insomnia

I had thought that this tormenting incident of national importance would blow away with the 2013 wind, but it did not.

Admit it, folks. All of us are scarred by something which happened in the past… something which, conveniently or bizarrely, has left us horrified, more so because the circumstances around it could not be explained. That thing is not necessarily personal. It is something bordering on ethics, or trust and it involves some trusted person or institution.

For example, I still cannot understand how a person can outmaneuver competency clearance, bypass security protocol and carry out the national duty on a world’s stage. As we speak, the concerned officials are still investigating, and the person at the centre of the storm is bizarrely biding his time in the psychiatric ward somewhere.

I know. It sounds like old boring news already. But wait until I bore you to death with much older news. To me this is a quagmire.

South Africa, every time I think about Minister Siyabonga Cwele, and his wife’s sophisticated misdeeds, which happened behind his (minister of intelligence) back, I suffer a serious insomnia! I kid you not. I have not been sleeping soundly ever since.

Every now and then I wake up screaming, sweating, and trembling like a leaf. Just the other night I saw Mrs Cwele kiss her husband in the forehead and saying, ‘My shift has begun; sleep tight.’ She wore leather jacket, jeans and snobbish boots. That was fine. The nightmare struck me when hubby, with that suspicious smile of his and roving eyes, replied, ‘Don’t get caught.’ I swear that dream is the source of my insomnia.

If president Zuma could ask for my HR input on how to deal with this performance deficit on the part of his “trusted” minister, for the sake of my much needed sleep, I’d suggest to president that he inserts an item in the minister’s performance contract. It would read something like this: You shall not sleep on the job. From now on, your wife is your job.