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!