In the many public protests over service delivery, many people have been killed after being nabbed, or being shot at, by the police.
The police dragged a Mozambican national behind the
police van. He was found dead later in the police facility.
Several weeks ago, an EFF leader stood inside parliament
to accuse the ANC of killing the people of Marikana and refusing
responsibility. He was chased out with his comrades.
Last week, a 22 year old woman in Alexandra died from
assault injuries in the hands of the police. Her crime, it seems, was that she
is a lover to a criminal who is at large.
Today, the former Police Minister is putting out fires in the Marikana Commission. He is emphasizing that the strike in Marikana had become criminal. Before this, a certain Mr. X gave a chilling account of the striking miners who killed and used limbs of the deceased for muti, to avert bullets from the police.
Today, the former Police Minister is putting out fires in the Marikana Commission. He is emphasizing that the strike in Marikana had become criminal. Before this, a certain Mr. X gave a chilling account of the striking miners who killed and used limbs of the deceased for muti, to avert bullets from the police.
Across the country, public protests over service delivery
have evolved from singing and chanting, to barricading the roads. There is
burning of tyres, damage to property and ransacking the shops to make off with
convenient necessities.
Things have become more dramatic. If we are not torching the property, and
rendering the Councillors homeless, we are delivering feaces from one place to
dump it at the other.
It does not end there. While the place we have just trashed is going up in stinking smoke, we pull down undergarments and show those holding their noses our backsides. If you won’t smell it, see where the stink came from.
Depending on whether you are involved, affected or
unaffected by this bloody row, sometimes you are alarmed, sometimes you are
angry and sometimes you are simply in stitches. Indeed life, in its endless
moments of seriousness, is shocking, annoying and hilarious.
This time round you are giggling. Somebody is scaling a fence with amazing deftness. Warrant Officer Mangmang ran with all his might to nab him, only to fail dismally. If only Comrade Cele was still around to effect a “stomach out” turnaround strategy, Mangmang would not be lying inside the Inyala, fighting for his breath, and fantasizing about the two cold ones at the end of this grueling shift.
Just two towns away, someone else is driving outside her area. The attempt is risky. The road is adorned with rocks and burning tyres. The black refuse bags, since being relieved of their fill, have taken cover by the pavement. Left-over food, tins, pampers and what have you, have connived to pledge solidarity with the faeces drama unfolding in places like Zilleland. Finally she realizes that it was only a matter of time before the smell of her angry country caught up with her.
This time round you are giggling. Somebody is scaling a fence with amazing deftness. Warrant Officer Mangmang ran with all his might to nab him, only to fail dismally. If only Comrade Cele was still around to effect a “stomach out” turnaround strategy, Mangmang would not be lying inside the Inyala, fighting for his breath, and fantasizing about the two cold ones at the end of this grueling shift.
Just two towns away, someone else is driving outside her area. The attempt is risky. The road is adorned with rocks and burning tyres. The black refuse bags, since being relieved of their fill, have taken cover by the pavement. Left-over food, tins, pampers and what have you, have connived to pledge solidarity with the faeces drama unfolding in places like Zilleland. Finally she realizes that it was only a matter of time before the smell of her angry country caught up with her.
Hell is awaiting as you approach the workplace. Your
colleagues, with whom you carry the burden of earning peanuts while petrol,
food and other necessities are fast becoming unaffordable, are baying for your
blood. They feel betrayed by your decision to do your shift. The prospect of
them facing the shame of hospitalizing you seems like a non-issue to them. They
want their 12% wage increase and they are willing to chop limbs to get more
people on their side.
Things come to a head when, in the peak of the morning rush to work, you see the cars ahead of you slowing down. You cast your eyes further to see what is in the distance.
You are drifting deeper into a crowd. It is a mob of school-going kids. The teachers are, by that time, cupping their waist on the side walk. They are clearly trying to catch their breath after one or two chants up and down the road.
You cannot do a u-turn. You roll the car window down. ‘What is happening?’ you ask a nearby kid. He looks thoroughly entertained by the unfolding mayhem. ‘Boko Haram! Bring back our girls!’ he exclaims with a clenched fist. As the question ‘kid, do own any girls’ rolls past your mind, John Robbie, or Sakina Kamwendo, depending on your morning radio taste, is screaming from the radio set. Boko Haram have abducted more girls.
Suddenly the car or taxi you are travelling in is tilting sideways. The kids are making their demands, and they are slapping the cars with their bare hands to make a point. ‘Kids,’ you are thinking out loud, ‘did you know that Goodluck Jonathan has been chasing down Boko Haram suspects, and jailing some of them for months already?’
Things come to a head when, in the peak of the morning rush to work, you see the cars ahead of you slowing down. You cast your eyes further to see what is in the distance.
You are drifting deeper into a crowd. It is a mob of school-going kids. The teachers are, by that time, cupping their waist on the side walk. They are clearly trying to catch their breath after one or two chants up and down the road.
You cannot do a u-turn. You roll the car window down. ‘What is happening?’ you ask a nearby kid. He looks thoroughly entertained by the unfolding mayhem. ‘Boko Haram! Bring back our girls!’ he exclaims with a clenched fist. As the question ‘kid, do own any girls’ rolls past your mind, John Robbie, or Sakina Kamwendo, depending on your morning radio taste, is screaming from the radio set. Boko Haram have abducted more girls.
Suddenly the car or taxi you are travelling in is tilting sideways. The kids are making their demands, and they are slapping the cars with their bare hands to make a point. ‘Kids,’ you are thinking out loud, ‘did you know that Goodluck Jonathan has been chasing down Boko Haram suspects, and jailing some of them for months already?’
But now that Big Brother from West has threatened to send
his sleek army in the mould of Wesley Snipes and Jason Statham to Nigeria, and has whisked Her president to Europe to parade him like a boy
who needs reinforcements to take on his bullies, the school kids in South
Africa are suddenly demanding their “girls” who went missing in the intricate
Nigerian wilderness to be brought back. And they are assaulting cars and
punishing motorists just outside of Joburg city for it.
What have we been teaching the children lately?
You start a short prayer. You are hoping that Miway have deducted their monthly debit. After all, your jalopee may be heading straight to the scrap heap at the end of this, and you to the hospital, if not to the police holding cell, to nurse broken jaws and ribs, if not a fatal wound, which only your loved ones may live to see.
What have we been teaching the children lately?
You start a short prayer. You are hoping that Miway have deducted their monthly debit. After all, your jalopee may be heading straight to the scrap heap at the end of this, and you to the hospital, if not to the police holding cell, to nurse broken jaws and ribs, if not a fatal wound, which only your loved ones may live to see.
