Dear South Africa

Dear South Africa,

I wish I could say I left your motherly arms with a heavy heart… but I can’t. As I sit, more than 14 000 kms away from you, awash in a foreign culture so strange and peculiar I should be flailing and wailing for a Black Label (which I do miss) the only emotion I can seek out from this maze of weird is relief.

Okay, let me not be a total twat for fear of being labelled a turncoat whingy whitey. I miss your abundant natural wonder, your myriad of cultures and wondrous diversity. I miss the pap and vleis, braais, beer quarts, red wine, sunshine, surfing, koekssusters, rugby, soccer. If I even had to hear the satanic blare of a vuvuzela I’d probably hunt the source down and hug him/her, that’s the extent of my nostalgia for you, as my home nation, the origin of me. But my beloved SA, when we parted you seemed tired, weary, haggard and disillusioned. That twinkle in your eyes seemed a fatigued flicker that spring in your step was more like a limp, you smiled, but I detected a grimace. You waved, then turned and hobbled off when you thought I wasn’t watching. I know why and feel, share and understand your pain, even as I sprint across the globe away from your motherland warmth seeking, not even the proverbial ‘greener pastures’, but a momentary escape from the stifling web of madness, stupidity, gluttony and desperation gripping your throat and those of your other kids.

I miss you, I really do! But I don’t miss your government – that array of buffoons (well, not all of them) that seem helpless in growing your beauty and potential effectively enough for you to be taken seriously by your mates abroad. At family dinners most pretend to love you. They stretch their arms to hug you, knives concealed in their sleeves and give you those European kiss-kisses, artificial and irritatingly upper-crust. Most of them say they love you, yet in the same breath they hurry out of the dining room to answer their iPhones, concocting and plotting vague deals to line their pockets and stomachs. They’ll insist they have your interests in mind, ‘Always trying to make you proud, Mama’. Well if pride is stealing, lying, back-stabbing then their style of love looks to me like politics, with all the garish trimmings.

I don’t miss your president, he of the many wives, children and dance moves. If only he could use his brain as well as he does his genitalia, maybe then you could be his true, one-and-only queen, the one worthy of his attention. Instead Mama Africa, you must take second… umm, third, no wait, four… nope, fifth best. I’m actually not sure anymore. But what I do know is that your best interests don’t seem to top his growing list of phoney beneficiaries and dubious pals all queuing for a piece of YOUR pie.

I don’t miss that strange, confused political movement which actually runs your home – the ANC. It’s become a mess, a complete mutant of what is used to be. It’s turned into this meat-eating monster that is cannibalising itself and scoffing down the rest of your kids for deserts. And it doesn’t even bother with chewing on the good bits first, like the arms and head. It seems to have gotten somewhat lost in its carnivorous avarice, consuming its anus first, eating with long teeth through the rectum and icky, pooey bits, where it has gotten stuck amid indigestion and tummy aches. Ag shame Ma, what a gastronomic malaise to endure.

I certainly don’t yearn for that once-was a warrior comrade, Julius Malema. In fact, let me stand and applaud the ruling partytjie for booting him into touch, at least for now. When I departed your bosom, Mom, I hoped the rest of my brethren could move on from that fattened, petulant moron. But alas, I took a furtive glimpse of a newspaper on the plane to my faraway self-inflicted destination of exile. And lo and behold, there his mug was, with his beret perched on his gleaming noggin, a Colgate smile and glam aviators finishing off his now trademark image of arrogance, wannabe-dictator-ness and quiet revenge.

Before you further label me a cowardly racist, Moeder (many a time I know in our mother/son spats you have uttered that, but I understand) let me assure I also won’t miss that strange grouping of obdurate twits who share my skin pigmentation. They don themselves in khaki, veldskoene, fly arcane-looking Nazi-ish symbols and bleat and belch our declarations of adulation and of loyalty to backward-thinking, mindless hate mongers, now departed, but not forgotten. Their insistence on a volkstaat’, their inability to think beyond 1994, their undying hatred of everything not like them leaves me, well, it leaves me chuckling, actually, as I comically pity these types.

Speaking of ‘these types’ before I fled your arms that former staatspresident of yours, FW De Klerk, also induced a mild retching reflex as I packed my bags. His clumsy defence of separate development (I believe you once called it Apartheid) on an international TV news network, almost made me find God again in a moment of disbelief. Oh, how I will never miss ‘these types’, who once dragged you into being a pariah and outcast.

God dank I’m leaving behind these poephols, the whole lot of them, black, white, coloured, orange, maroon, grey… the entire bunch who seem hell bent on slowly murdering you, Mom, killing your natural wealth, your self-grown beauty. If struck by faith again while holed up in this foreign land, I will kneel, clasp my hands together and quietly, reverently utter a prayer for you, only you, none of the above, who are quite possibly lost forever amid their greed, narrow-mindedness and power-gluttony.

I know I leave you in quite a state, Mammie, and I apologise for not staying by your side. But you’ve been in such predicaments before and have quite successfully weathered them, minus me. I join a growing ‘club’ of embittered, lost souls. Emphasis on ‘lost’. I will always come back. I will always call your arms, bosom, smile and spirit home. But I leave amid this quiet, surreptitious calamity choking you blue and beating your black, for fear of losing my mind.

Yours dearly and most sincerely
R

The Other, Other K-Word

The k-word. Reviled, feared, misunderstood (?). Don't get me wrong, I shudder and cringe when I hear the word. And being a whitey, I do still hear it being used liberally in pale-skinned circles... and among other shades of our fading rainbow nation. As a country which will still grapple with prejudices for generations to come, it's highly unlikely we will ever be able to effectively eradicate the k-word from our lexicon once and for all. We can pontificate, navel-gaze, debate, rage, spit, moan and threaten until our jaws ache over the sadly over-utilisation of this insult. The word will always weasel its way back into someone's mouth, no matter which decade or generation. From national rugby coaches to dim-witted models, it's just the brainless 'go-to word' for those unable to insult (if you really, really have to) others. So, let me lend my 10 cents to this never-ending discussion on the k-word.
While it's not going to disappear (along with the hundreds of  years of oppression, repression and suppression which have brought South Africa to where it is today) maybe we can start training our minds to subtly substitute the k-word, as we know it, with another k-word, compliments of the Afrikaner nation. To me, it only makes sense that the one national grouping of our country which, for all intents and purposes, 'popularised' the use of the word 'kaffir', attaching immense hatred and stigma to it throughout Apartheid (and beyond), tries in a very small way to help usher it out of our national psyches.
The Afrikaans language has a very effective way of summing up ideas, expressing things and emotions, often employing humour and at times passion. There's an Afrikaans colloquialism, also beginning with a 'k', which is so often used, I believe it should be inducted into that ever-growing dictionary-cum-crucible of South African linguistics and language. 'Moenie kakpraat nie!' my Mom would often exclaim as I'd try to talk my way out of a sticky situation as an adolescent prone to, shall we say (or, shall I euphemise), making mistakes. Just say it out aloud - 'Kakpraat'. Your tongue seems to either descend to the bottom of your mouth or curl up as that sharp 'k' effortlessly shoots into the rest of the word. It's harsh on the ear, but not too entirely rude (depending on the context), unlike the proverbial, almost unspeakable k-word. in Fact, in my own personal use of 'kakpraat' I've only ever meant it in a joking way. I've yet to see a fist-fight erupt over the use of 'kakpraat'. Okay, granted some kakpraat could lead to fisty-cuffs, it's by far more diplomatic than belching out the word 'kaffir' in a moment of blind, moronic rage.
I have little doubt 'kakpraat' is a common word, which surely must be known across the colour lines. 'Kakpraat is lekker praat' my late Ouma would sometimes proclaim. Meaning, talking crap can often be enjoyable. Relatives of my Afrikaans wife speak of a 'kakpraat vuur', which directly translated means 'crap-talk fire'. This usually refers to a braai and the socialising and jovial conversation around the flames. Even the web site, Braai.com (I kid you not) makes a fleeting reference to this word and it's application to socialising and simply 'shooting the breeze'.
Not to say if we all spoke kak it would be so lekker. We have many unofficial poets of kakpraat (in the negative sense) in this country. Just look at parliamentarians. They talk kak all day and get nowhere.
But can I suggest to my Black compatriots, if/when confronted with those who belch out the dreaded k-word at them, be the better person (please don't think me blase), and simply retort 'Stop talking kak and rather kakpraat with me.' I'd understand if you may want to add a few choice curse words, but then you'd only be party to a mindless exchange of rage. It's better to praat the kak than to be part of the kak.

Stuck in a Moment

It's like a really bad hangover. That fuzzy feeling, compounded by a shrunken, dehydrated brain, parched mouth, bad mood, beer breath and crusty eyes after a long, over-indulgent evening of imbibing. And here I'm only referring to how the remnants of the current ANCYL NEC, which is now a shivering, waning shadow of it's former arrogant self, must be feeling, almost on a daily basis. If most of them haven't starting hitting the bottle to cope with the league's seemingly never-ending woes, then I'd suggest they make a mad dash to the nearest shebeen for a dop or 12.
The Juju hangover seems to have been with us for months now. And it's not going away. As much as us sane folk may yearn for delirium tremens, the ANC's kindergarten class seems to be something which will unfortunately be with us for a while longer or until at least Luthuli House blinks. Don't hold your breath.
This obdurate insistence on keeping Chief Malema at the helm, even after his suspension, expulsion, sacking - call it what you want - stinks of desperation and lack of real political maturity.
 The surviving league leaders (who themselves have started cannibalising each other. Ask Pule Mabe his opinion on this) can't seem to see past their egos and that of Malema. They keep insisting he's still in charge. The April 30th edition of the Cape Times read 'League Defies ANC'. More recently another headline was only slightly tweaked. 'Malema is still out boss - defiant ANCYL' it balked. I picture the newspaper sub-editor who penned the latter headline staring blankly at his/her computer, drool inching from the mouth, that glazed look of abject boredom in the eyes as a slow news day relented to yet another ANCYL story, which smelled, appeared, and sounded exactly like previous ones, except, of course with more sensational language and asinine details. Can league NEC members, those who haven't been purged or suspended, not find another president? Is it that difficult for them to see past the weighty (read:overweight) shadow cast by Malema? It's clearly a dire time for them. Their little minds can't search the ranks of the body for a replacement. There must surely be someone out there. The cult of Juju is so immense, stubborn and torpid it's left them so brainwashed and drained, I'd risk arguing, they've lost the steam to even try and move on. Like a weepy, wistful, love-lorn teenager, the NEC doodles Malema's name over and over in their textbooks, silly hearts and cupids abound as they muddle through memories of the good times with Jules at the helm. Like the time he waddled for 'economic freedom' or that now infamous 'bloody agent' occasion, when the firebrand was at the height of his notoriety. It's all gone now.
Is there even a thought of a rebound relationship? Could they flirt with a new leader? Court and woo someone, away from the glare of the Great Expelled One? The answer, at least at this stage, is sadly quite obvious - no. Given the effort plowed into fighting for his survival (and his vaingloriousness) they can't move on. Add to this the fact an elective conference looms, I predict even more mundane headlines shouting, mumbling and moaning about how the league will continue to battle it out, all in the name of Julius, as the organisation tries to stick it to the ANC.