Daydreaming while waiting for ANC’s Super
Wednesday morning. My head’s throbbing like Economic Freedom Fighters leader Julius Malema’s nuts after the pounding the party took last week.
Durban is its usual furnace. The air hasn’t moved since about Saturday. The sweat’s forming a liquid curtain across my eyebrows as it pours off my bald dome. I’ve got shoes, jeans and a shirt on because I’m meeting lahnees today, so my thermostat has blown and I’m drowning in my own liquid emissions.
The air-conditioning in the secondfloor boardroom in the ANC office feels like cold water on my skin as I wander in for an 11am briefing with the party’s KwaZulu-Natal secretary, Super Zuma, to talk about the weekend’s lekgotla, unity and other important stuff.
I’ve always wondered how he got the name Super. I’ve never had the guts to ask him. Maybe one day I will. Maybe I should do it soon. Super has only been in his position since the end of 2015 and, if the ANC branches that are challenging the outcome of that conference in the high court have their way, the comrades may not be calling Super nobhala for that much longer.
Super’s not a chatty kind of cat when it comes to the media. Nxamalala’s not once answered a call or SMS from me since he took up office. Or maybe it’s me he doesn’t dig talking to. It is what it is, so maybe today’s the day to pop the big question.
I’m early, but I need time to dry off before the presser starts. These gigs work on khongolose time, so 11am is really 11.45am, or maybe even midday, or whenever the SABC arrives, so my shirt should be dry by kickoff.
A colleague sitting next to me starts snoring. My mind starts wandering. I’m kinda preoccupied by The Ancestors. Not mine, or Msholozi’s, but Shabaka and The Ancestors. I saw them a couple of weeks ago. The Ancestors are for real – they may be the most important band I’ve so far heard.
Shabaka Hutchings, Siyanda Mthembu, Tumi Mogorosi, Nduduzo Makhathini and the rest of their eightman musical revolution have hammered out a raw, gentle, angry soundtrack to the completion of South Africa’s unfinished revolution.
Hutching’s saxophone is a call to arms. Mthembu’s voice is the Drakensberg Boys Choir with demons. Mogorosi’s drumming makes you want to throw a concrete block through a cop van’s windscreen. Makhathini’s piano makes you wanna cry.
These young men are the anthem of the #FeesMustFall movement and more.
I look up. It’s time to start.
The sweat’s forming a liquid curtain across my eyebrows as it pours off my bald dome