We need our names

It was several months ago, in 2015, when Isaac Phaahla was doing an After 8 Debate. During the topic, The History of Africa, he played the recording. In it Sakina Kamwendo, a regular host of the show, was interviewing Martin Meredith. He is a historian, author and journalist.

The listeners who wrote in were questioning the selection of Martin. There are Black historians who are equally capable of tackling the subject of this Continent just as competently, if not better.

 ‘History is richer when people of the land appreciate the perspectives of the not-natives. The English people love the self-mockery in their history when it’s being told by the French, for example,’ Martin argued.

There was also a time when he said ‘When England began its “intervention” in Africa...’ That’s it! SA FM has no shame inviting historians like this one!

Mohlokalebitso, whose car was crawling on November 1, towards William Nicol turn-off, came close to switching the radio off. Why are we not listening to Llaila Afrika, Credo Mutwa, Dambisa Moyo and George B. Ayittey? Hlaudi Motsoeneng, bring us our names!

‘African political leaders who mismanage the Continent’s economy are to blame for Africa’s poverty,’ Martin said.

Martin, Black Colonialists loot the money and stash it in Europe and in North America. They accept aid from those institutions. Tell us about the bank executives and Board members who accept the ill-gotten deposits from Africa; the bureaucrats who bind us to them through aid. We need an honest narrative! Why, then, are those banks not rejecting the money and returning it to Africa? Martin, Europe’s economy is steeped in plundering Africa!

                                                                                                          

'Churchill from Mpumalanga is on the line,' said Sakina. 'Good morning, Churchill.'

Almost all the callers greet and ask how the host is doing. She keeps saying she is well. Questions have preambles. Time flies. The show is soon over. This is Africa.

Churchill wants to know why native Africans are referred to as Black.

‘Black, like White, was originally a descriptive term, even though it is not accurate because I, for instance, am not white; I am pink…’ Martin replied.

Sakina cut in, ‘But at what point did Black become a derogatory term?’

‘It must have been the day Black people named their children Churchill!’ said Mohlokalebitso without waiting to hear the response from Martin.

A template for our collective hypocricy

At the risk of sounding un-African, I want to argue that Africa Day is a tragedy for South Africans! 

A single day of hyped up celebrations and great speeches must influence congruent actions. It must not bring to the spotlight our collective and individual hypocrisy. It is not so currently. Therefore, Africa Day is a farce, until we do something consciously drastic about it.

In a Country like ours, a political leader can be as sarcastic towards those disagreeing with him as to ridicule an African Country's road, to push forward his argument.  There are also “clever Blacks”. Yet, there are no “clever Whites”; just citizens whose disparaging and disdainful open letters about the current leadership get elaborate clarification by key officials, at a coffee shop.

In a Country like ours, a protest by wretched people (seeing that poverty in SA is bears a Black face) demanding humanity can be quelled by fatal brutality, by the State.

In a Country like ours, a political leader can amass wealth while running (ruining?) state-funded hospitals which are meant to save and improve the lives of Black Africans, yet be the first one to board a plane to receive medical care in America, en route Europe.

In a Country like ours, violent attacks between Black Africans who are huddled in crowded places, trying every day to survive poverty, can be labelled “xenophobic attacks”, yet no one asks why, if it is so, that we have not chased the Italians, the British, the Czech Republicans, etc., to OR Tambo International Airport.

In a Country like ours, interventions to quell periodic attacks of Africans by Africans, becomes a pre-occupation of armed police and army personnel, "operation fielling" in crowded places exclusively inhabited by Black Africans. Europeans, Asians and Americans run all manner of illicit trades in all strategic South African cities. But that is okay. If it is not in the media, who will believe this allegation – this controlled narrative?

In a Country like ours, a White African goes to Court to deny government a chance to implement decisions, or to hold them accountable. That’s okay. A Black African, physically and institutionally placed away from Court, goes to the street, barricades things, burns stuff, pelts stones at passing motorists, and invites baton, tear gas and bullet on him or herself... before sustaining unexplained injuries of torture and rape, while detained inside a holding cell.

In a Country like ours, a Mocambique national will be dragged behind a taxi minibus, for petty crime. A certain Mr Sithole will get butchered with a knife, for merely daring to sell cigarette in the street. A Black African will be torched. His crime? He was born in the north side of Limpopo.

In a Country like ours, an employed Black African, who cannot contain the smugness of being an employer of a Lesotho or Swazi national, feels they have carried out a revolutionary national duty, for posting on social media ,’No To Xenophobia.’ We learn from their bragging about how thoughtful and loving employers they are. They have fired South Africa-born helpers because they know how to use the law to report their exploitative and oppressive ways. No to xenophobia? Do you have any idea?

In a Country like ours, an educated Black African has no shame telling everyone that they have signed up for French classes. Raise the matter of Lingala, Kiswahili, or Shona, they have no idea what you are talking about. Forget that I could mention how some of us speak only our mother tongue, and English or Afrikaans only.

In a Country like ours, it embarrasses Black Africans when they cannot speak a European language. We even mock those like us who don't speak it properly. Yet... many White Africans cannot speak even one African language. But it is okay, we are busy learning theirs. Is it not a national crisis that there is a White African who cannot converse in at least one African language?

You are called educated and intelligent once you speak a foreign language as well as the Europeans. And the world pays you well for this extraordinary accomplishment. Where did you attend high school, you get asked. Fundulwazi High should not be what comes from your mouth. 'Oh! Where is that' will be a disappointed and shocked reaction that you will get; as if you should have said Rhodes Boys High.

It gets worse. Thabo is busy calling himself Thaa-booh (at least it's not taboo) and Jabu is now Jaa-booh, when he phones Radio 702, Metro FM. You dare correct your "name-butcherer" in a meeting, only Black Africans cringe and nervously call you uptight, to ease up tension in the room. What tension? Your name must be pronounced right! It cannot be "okay".

In a Country like ours, a person will hop into his/ her forefathers’ daily outfit to celebrate Culture Day at work. Don't ask me what we wear for another 340+ days.

In a Country like ours, a funeral in a township or village will be graced by an unsolicited language interpreter. Churches. Weddings... #MouthWideOpen 

And watch us when two to three White Africans are in attendance. The affair changes into a real white wedding. Those who never got to learn this “prized” language will have to pull out their body language reading skills to follow the proceedings!

In a Country like ours, that pan-Africanist during student activism days, who wears suits, works north of Joburg and is taking his kids to Curro Something , and bears the racist abuse happening over there, gives you an uneasy look upon finding out that you listen to the music of Youssou N'dour, of Kandia Kouyate, of Mansour Seck and Papa Wemba. 'Do you even understand what those "people" are saying' he will be asking.

In a Country like ours, a Black African, who is Christian, stops short of running for dear life upon discovering that not only is Youssou N'dour's music coming through in Serer and Wolof dialects (why not in English?), but that he is of a Islam religious influence, thanks to the very Colonisation. Don’t you dare make them see the hypocrisy of their ways, they will usher the wrath of God upon you!

In a county like ours, soccer stars, their coaches and educated executives speak of 'it's tough going to play in Africa'; 'I am flying into Africa'... just like we say we are going into Soweto... into Diepsloot, without blinking.

In a Country like ours, Africa Day is an opportunity for hypocrisy to take centre stage, and for everybody to ignore, that we claim to be one with the Continent, while looking to Europe and North America for templates of dreams we must be pursuing!

Oh by the way. This piece was written in European language, to reach as many Black Africans as possible. Sesotho cannot achieve the same feat.

Do you know a skilled Extortionpreneur?

He mostly wears shirts with formal pants. Sometimes it is a t-shirt of a political party, or a trade union. He hardly parts with his yellow cap; sometimes a red one.

A bundle of keys hang around his chest by a thread around his neck. He droops as he walks, showing no signs of being in a hurry.

He spots his target from a mile away. And proceeds towards “it” with impressive stealth. Once he is within range, he flashes his charm to greet. He must have rehearsed this over a long period of time. His gaze locks you in. His broad hands move about in a coordinated fashion.

His whole being smiles at you. His verbal charm is like tentacles of a leering creature. Before you know it, he has weakened all your defences. He compliments you, telling you that a person of your calibre deserves to be president of the country. You fall for that, and you imagine yourself sauntering around Union Building with no particular care in the world.

As he speaks, his right hand pats his chest, on several occasions. Then he touches the keys. Flipping a card holder, he flashes the driver licence at you. You look closer, he pats the shoulder of a “president” while promising to pull out his ID document from his back pocket, if you so wish; just to put you at ease that he is a legit citizen in this country you should be running.

He is willing to let you hold on to them – the keys, driver licence, ID document… even a Nokia with a cracked screen – if you will lend him a R50 that he is in short of to pay for his tender document. ‘I am submitting it at the “manucipality,” he tells you. But, for a student that you are, this is a lot of money to part with. To think that you literally walked about 3 kilos to town, to maximise the purchasing power of your paltry allowance, thanks to Tito Mboweni’s cruel decisions.

You ask him to show you that tender document. It has been withheld by security officials. Why? ‘They are preventing fraud,’ he says. You don’t have the time to walk with him to the municipal office to verify this. Neither do you have the interest to hold on to those “valuables” he is exchanging to get the money he needs from you.

Sorry, I don’t have the money, you say. The future president must demonstrate ability to sympathise with the plight of ordinary people. Therefore, he will not take a “No” for an answer. Were you not listening? He said he is running a tendering business; it is very profitable. This is a big tender which he cannot afford to lose out on. He can give you shares if you are interested. Shares? For a R50 note borrowed in the street?

Not knowing how to get out of this situation, to continue on your way to grocery store, your eyes save you. They fall on his shoes. Dusty shoes. They look like they have seen better days. Despite his dark skin, the sun has surely baked him, and the sweat glands are surely 5 nil ahead against a compulsory morning bath, and deodorant.

You feel the drizzle coming down your face. Didn't the news reader forecast a no chance of rain today? What is happening in Vanderbijlpark at 10:52 in the morning? You look up to inspect what is supposed to be clear blue skies. Your eyes fail to go beyond his fat lips. A third spittle shoots out and lands just below your lip. Now you see where the rain is coming from.

‘Jerry, tlohella ngwana eo a tsamaye (let the boy go!)’ says a woman who is selling vegetables to taxi commuters by the pavement. Tsamaya o lo sebetsa! Tlohella ditjhele tsa batho,’she shouts while swatting flies which persistently threaten to spoil her wares. You walk on, briskly, relieved that Mam’ Bongi has saved you from a tenderpreneur who wins R50 worth of tenders from unsuspecting townsfolk.

Punishing the symptoms, exonerating the problems

When Yaasir of Somalia and Xiluva of Mozambique set up their shops in the middle of Soweto, it was the negotiated result of Sowetans giving them access to and use of their property; a landlord doing business with a kwere-kwere.

But Yaasir and Xiluva often have their shops looted and their bodies butchered for providing needed services and making a living in this manner. They are taking our business, we say.

When Oke of Nigeria and Michael of Congo set up clothing and phone repair shops in Small Street in Johannesburg, their tenant status was approved by a South African municipal official; a transaction with a kwere-kwere tenant.

But Oke and Michael are often forced to flee to safety for participating in the economy in this way. They are taking our business, we say. Before “foreigner” Africans and Pakistanis came, malume Zondo and ntatemoholo Makgetha had already closed down their general dealers. The shopping mall phenomenon brought big money retail tenants in the township.

But Zondo and Makgetha did not loot the malls, let alone shutting them and torching the managers. They are taking our business, we should have said. Not once have we pelted stones at the locals who shop at those malls and centres. And more of them are being built without facing any form of organised community resistance.

When Bastirai of Zimbabwe and Chiwa of Zambia accepted the farm and factory jobs at a cheaper wage rate, they are forced to deal with getting to work on time and evading disgruntled mobs plotting another attack on them.

They often face overt and covert resistance, humiliation and violence from genuine South Africans who had nothing against Tony and Cynthia the migrants who go and return from England and Germany as they please. Not once have they blockaded the gates of the factory, let alone torch the property of the business owner who took the decision to replace South Africans with Malawians.

Alfredo is from Italy and Anastacio from Greece. Their restaurants and clothing shops nestled in the sprawling top-end malls swallow and spit out black and white customers and, whether or not they replace Tshidi and Andile with Sambulo of Swaziland and Yornella of DRC as workers, all the abuses they perpetrate towards their employees and violations to existing laws remain just a low key talk around tables.

Alfredo and Anastacio will never be forced to close their shops, let alone having them looted, by disgruntled South Africans working or wanting to work there. What we will know is that Sambulo and Yornella are stealing jobs of South Africans!

There is Radovan in Bedfordview. He is filthy rich selling drugs and killing his competitors and non-paying debtors. We ignore that. We admire his first-class life. Anastacio’s employees in a restaurant fall on themselves trying to impress Radovan. He is there to plot more crimes. He eats the food and drinks wine harvested from farms owned mainly by Europeans.

Godoba and Stitch, who carry out his crimes for quick hundreds of rands, and for consistent stints in and out of jail, are a menace to the very people who are huddled in the townships to make space for sprawling farms, suburbia and industrial buildings. The townships which have butchered their self-esteem, are a stage for them to butcher those who live there, including the “foreign nationals.”

But we shrug and remark in hushed tones, ‘he (Radovan) came in driving that Maserati in the parking lot; f*** white folks are damn rich jong!’ We dig into our pizza and pasta, pleased with ourselves that finally we have escaped the village and township days of eating cabbage and papa every day.

You are staying down the road. The 2-bedroom townhouse has a defenceless security official at the gate and private garden (it’s a lawn) by the doorstep. Your family house in Tembisa, in Botshabelo, in Lusikisiki, in Malamulele, in Nkandla, has nothing on this splendid dwelling in the leafy heart of Joburg. You are secure from bandits who rule Hillbrow, Berea, Alex and Diepsloot, or so you believe.

The landlord is Alfredo’s father. They are partners in the import clothing shop. You are wearing Armani jeans with Diesel t-shirt today. You paid for them with the peanuts you haven’t earned yet, to keep up with your friend, who makes a living through not selling any product or service but renting her name to BEE deals.

You have not heard from your cousin in years. Rumour has it that she is selling her wares downtown. She has no idea that Radovan literally owns her, and the coke she is snorting to bear the onslaught of her trade. Your cousin is working her body to death, to keep up with what looks like success attained by you. Your success, elusive and punishing as it is, amounts to the peanuts which Radovan and Anastacio pay you as owners of the company you are working for. It is legit because it is on Rivonia Road. You are being paid in order for you to stay in the (town) house owned by Anastacio’s father.

But your cousin’s whereabouts don’t bother you. The fact that she could not go to university like you, because the textile factory which her father worked for in the Eastern Cape closed down as soon as China opened theirs, does not bother you. People like your cousin did not want education. They are lazy just like those criminals roaming the township streets without any liberally constructive plan for their lives! Your logic.

You literally own nothing. Yes. You. Me. I am owned just like my whoring cousin and my “foreign nationals” who are crowding my space! I belong to the industrial dream. I need the job it owns, to buy the food it is hoarding; to buy the clothes it is importing; to buy the media narrative it calls edu-tainment; to buy and drink alcohol it is doling out so that I can make my sorrowful existence bearable; to borrow the cars it is manufacturing, through which I kill while trying to get to the plantation (work, a party, a borrowed dwelling I call home) in a flash! Time is precious when you are an educated whore.

I know now that the township folk are lazy and that suburb dwellers are hard-working, thanks to my newspaper reading prowess. I denounce the fervent attacks the “lazy ones” mete out to other Africans (the symptoms of their plight); yet I quietly believe that the (exclusively African) “foreign nationals” are the problem; that they must just return home to stand up to rotten Black Colonialists (presidents) they fled from. I have no qualms, despite the “good education” I allegedly received, and reading material freely available to rescue my colonised mind, to call this act of protest by the wretched brethren, a xenophobic attack!

Arresting bodies, releasing gloom

In September last year a friend of Rompi, Shaya, was arrested. An argument at a party had led to a guy smashing his car window. In a fit of rage, he beat up the guy! 

When Rompi heard about this from Shaya, he dropped what he was doing to see him and to organise bail for him. Shaya could not afford to spend another day in custody. He had to go to work that evening.

Shaya, his accomplice who goes by the name Matrapa, and their rival, Kuru, were led out of the holding cell to the waiting room to meet Rompi. Shaya’s leg had a gash. The brick which Kuru had used to smash his car fell on it. He was inside the car when this happened. Matrapa was nursing swollen knuckles. As for Kuru, he had bruises around his eye and lips.

On the day of a court hearing, the world where the wheel of justice grinds at its own pace opened its doors. There were more bums than there were benches. Other people were standing against walls. The proceedings started an hour late. The court officials had been sorting out mounds of files, and whispering among themselves.

The first two rows were reserved for those who had been arrested; the suspects. Boys and girls of between 16 and 21 filled up those benches. Most of them were wearing faded clothes. Their heavy eyes, perhaps due to hunger, or lack of sleep or recent hours of substance abuse, stirred Rompi. Cases were postponed. Others were dismissed. 

When a boy of about 19 years heard that his case had been dismissed, he happily dashed to the exit in a flash, stabbing the air with the fist to express the thrill he was in. A woman stood up two rows in front of where Rompi was sitting. She shouted the insults at her son; the one who was dashing to the exit. That human-less daily grind of releasing arrested bodies back to their gloomy existence was punctuated.

There were also foreign Africans nationals whom were in custody. A translator took up his job with enthusiasm. From what Rompi could hear, stolen goods had been found in the possession of one tall and dark brother.

‘In the aftermath of the recent lootings of shops in the townships, and violent skirmishes which ensued, perhaps that is what a typical day at the Magistrate Courts is like these days,’ says Rompi as he reflected on the goings-on. ‘The youth who’ve been arrested in a week-long orgy of dying, and looting, are being marched in and out of court to hear their fate,’ he said. 

These are the days when women, like the one who insulted her son in 2014, will be watching helplessly as economic hopelessness puts on a “just” face. They will be separated from their children who will be either in custody or on the run from the helplessly overburdened yet vicious might of the police force.

Foreign African nationals are on the run, or in jail, or under police protection. Africans, who have lost trust in one another, are separated until the situation gets back to “normal.” It always does, except that normal is, whichever way one looks at it, abnormal.

Politicians are already jamming media platforms. The MEC for Economic Development in Gauteng came on radio to outline plans for economic renewal of townships because, according to the information he had, the skirmishes were the result of economic competition. They will be rolling out training of youth entrepreneurs whom they will be placing in government departments and in the private sector companies, he said. The logic leaves people horrified, and dismayed.

Professionals, most of whom are employed and are separated from township life by the monthly pay check they receive, by the N1 and M1 highways, will jam social media to debate. That is how far their contribution to helping the situation goes. They are all working damn hard to escape township gloom.

The loitering and dejected youth, who are the most unemployed group of the population, will lose their minds again. Deaths will stalk us, again. Mothers will cry in anguish, again. Fathers will seethe in anger, and muffle their cries. We will trample upon babies, and snuff a promising life out of their young bodies, as we make our way in and out of a place of looting.

We will be back here again, to preach plans to salve the wounds, while we give ourselves full marks, and standing ovations, for arresting bodies, for maintaining township gloom. Rompi, how I wish you were wrong.

To a standstill of compliance

Somewhere in this country, employed professionals who tally 150 or more in an organisation engage in an annual commotion. In the case of 150 employees or less, the commotion happens every two years. But we will soon be partaking in it every year, says the latest amendments.

We rush in and out. Down the corridors we give each other half-greetings. Our eyes are glued to computers. We are poring through reports and populating the templates. We have been doing this for fourteen years.

Somewhere in this country there is traffic down the passage, up and down the stairs. We are so busy we even forget to attend long-standing meetings. We give half-apologies for missing them as we dash through to the next moment of pulsating race. The country has come to a standstill.

Time to connect with colleagues is limited. After all, numbers about numbers (people) require us to speak above people’s heads. There is no time to attend to little things. We are busy showing our commitment to including and empowering the “others”.

Somewhere in this country, 98% of designated employers have submitted their Employment Equity reports online. People entrusted with implementing justice… equity, have reduced themselves to less-than-efficient administrators who push paperwork for a salary.

Why is it that fourteen years later we are colliding with one another and initiating near-stampede moments in the milieu of office buzz? Why, during a time like this, are we screaming at each other and making work - about those whom we “won’t” give work - such a dreadful experience?

Because the business and workplace culture wherein White Males (62.7%) in Top Management and (57%) in Senior Management positions are vying for a patriotic honour to “comply” with the law, and not for the contentment of leading transformation that builds a just society.

Because the culture wherein African people (69,3%) in Top and Senior Management positions of government take the crack of whip from politicians with a conscience-less sense of honour, for not opening public-funded jobs for wretched Black people.

We said “open the doors for the Historically Disadvantaged South Africans.” We acted by saying “swelling the ranks with White Females to a point of over-representation!”

The B-BBEE says “embrace driven and capable Black business men and women.” To comply, we are closing the gates by striking deals mainly with connected Black political elite. Now they are rich, and they are talking down at the people.

We are using unsuspecting and gullible Black Males and Females who are, as we speak, battling with the burden of repaying borrowed money to buy equity, if not collecting crumbs called “big salary.”

Somewhere in this country, we are busy complying, believing that we are noble in our dealings yet committing fraud. And we carry on, hoping that the ultimate social collapse we are accomplices to will not happen in our name.

We will be back here again next year, to demonstrate our patriotic pedigree, our dedication to transformation, by running around, ticking boxes, tinkering with numbers. We will be back here, to bring the country’s workplace to a standstill. In 2016, we will be back here, to comply.

When the media kills the killers

‘Did the newspaper publications that were not running with the leading story miss the opportunity?’ asked Katie Katapodis. In reply, Professor Anton Harber agreed that the killing of cartoonists and two policemen in France was a leading story. 

Really? I asked myself. How does one arrive at the conclusion about what is a leading story?

France and South Africa are 12 966 kilometres apart. About 5 700 kilometres from South Africa, Ebola has claimed the lives of 8000+ people. About 21000+ people have contracted the haemorrhaging fever. It is not a leading story in South Africa, according to some media personnel.

In Nigeria, girl children have been abducted and no one knows what the rescue plan by the Nigerian authorities is. The insurgent Boko Haram is running amok. They are allegedly using girls as suicide bombers and in that way more people are being blown up.

Despite their long-standing and bloody skirmishes, which the media had not been treating as “leading story”, Boko Haram only got the spotlight when England and the U.S of America “threatened” to swoop into Nigeria to wipe the Borno State with Boko Haram’s lifeless bodies.

In a huff, President Goodluck Jonathan flew to London to “appear” alongside David Cameron. He looked so rattled that it took Cameron’s lingering hand-shake to pull him into a presidential pose for the cameras to do their business. It was that awkward. It was clumsy.

President Jonathan has been portrayed by the media as a smiling, cool-headed gentleman. And through the very media the world is mildly perturbed by his “soft” approach towards Boko Haram war-lords. Much has not been reported about his record of coordinating curfews and surveillance; of nabbing, jailing and reportedly torturing Boko Haram bandits in the Borno State.

The media is not telling the world what spawns Boko Haram, and they have not, for example, told the world that in Nigeria, the cartoons of Prophet Mohammad published in February 2006 by the Danish newspaper, Jyllands-Posten, provoked bloody riots which left 12 people dead and about 15 churches destroyed.

Back to France. Is it not bizarre, that satirists can ridicule another religion and our media shrugs and concludes that this is media freedom?

But those like Juan Cole, who hold a different view about what caused the attacks, posit that the killings are coordinated plan by those who want to force France to indiscriminately harden their attitude towards settler-Muslims in that country. He says…

‘This horrific murder was not a pious protest against the defamation of a religious icon. It was an attempt to provoke European society into pogroms against French Muslims, at which point al-Qaeda recruitment would suddenly exhibit some successes instead of faltering in the face of lively Beur youth culture (French Arabs playfully call themselves by this anagram term deriving from wordplay involving scrambling of letters).’

Perhaps there is truth in that. But what about Charlie Hebdo’s continuing provocation towards another religion? Ariel Sheron used the killings as an opportunity to appeal to the French-based Jews to return to Israel for their protection. He was not asking everyone to stop provocations and killings. He simply offered to protect the “proxy provocateurs”. The utter verbal and political recklessness by him went past our media without rebuke from it. 

To condemn the killings, the French took to the streets. I would probably do the same if I enjoy the Charlie Hebdo’s racist, sexist and homophobic “freedom of speech.” This “heroic” act by the French citizens has inspired some African leaders, who are beholden to France, to do what President Jonathan did with England - appearing in front of cameras in show of solidarity with a colonial mother country against “a common enemy.”

And this swift and coordinated act of mocking the religion of “killers” is, according to our media, a leading story, because this time the gun is pointing at them. The media is free, they argue, to kill the religion of killers.