LOVING FAMILY TIME WITH LESS SATELLITE TV GET RID OF HEALTH MINISTER AS POOR CARE IS KILLING COUNTRY’S PEOPLE
SORRY for you, Calvo Mawela of Multichoice. Once upon a time, I paid for one of your “packages”. Then common sense kicked in. Why pay for stuff I was not interested in, just to watch one or two decent items? So I cancelled my contract and, with SABC-TV such a disaster, we stopped watching TV at all. We haven’t missed it one bit. In the evenings we talk, play games, read, do craftwork and enjoy time together. When the mood takes us, we hire a movie or indulge in one of the many wonderful series from overseas. For the latest news, we can “read all about it” on our poster-strewn lamp posts for free.
It’s a tough world out there, Calvo. South African businesses need to wake up, innovate, stop striking and get competitive.
Leila Babich
MANY people from decent backgrounds use medical aid to access the private health system, as it is better and more efficient than our public health system. The latter is used by those who have no choice, who cannot afford to pay for a private doctor. To compound matters, our leaders, including the health minister, do not have faith or confidence in the system that they prepare for the masses, hence they go to private hospitals or seek help overseas when sick.
The Pan Africanist Congress of Azania (PAC) would like to thank Cosatu for supporting its call for Aaron Motsoaledi to be removed from the cabinet. For almost a decade, we have watched our health system deteriorate and ultimately be placed in ICU. We demanded his removal when Jacob Zuma was president, but nothing was done.
The issue of Motsoaledi needs to be addressed urgently. We also tried to remind the nation, after the Life Esidimeni arbitration, that Qedani Mahlangu, David Makhura and Motsoaledi needed to account for the tragedy that took more than 100 innocent souls. We are not being taken seriously, because Motsoaledi remains the darling and prince of the media.
We have indicated that his hard-working and focused PR team will not save the lives of the poor, who depend upon the public health system. As with education, it continues to deteriorate, yet Motsoaledi has no plan to save the lives of the innocent citizens of this country. He’s been talking about the National Health Insurance but still has nothing to show.
It’s not right that the sole blame for the crisis in the health system in the North West province should lie with Supra Mahumapelo. South Africa ascribes to a unitary system, with one national minister/secretary responsible for the entire government’s department or division, and that individual is accountable.
Motsoaledi spent too much time and energy ensuring that Zuma’s removal was effected. While neglecting his oath, he took part in the Life Esidimeni tragedy, the shortage or lack of medication, poor services and incompetencies at public health institutions.
We are calling for the president to listen to the health ombudsman about the deteriorating sector, although Motsoaledi says he is lying. Motsoaledi should leave. We need people with heightened skills to care for our people, not selfish individuals who are only there to serve their own egos.
Kenneth Mokgatlhe
very overpaid ministers:
l How much does one pay for a litre of petrol?
l How much does one pay for a loaf of bread?
l How much does one pay for a litre of milk?
If you can answer those questions without going to Google, you can become a minister of something or other.
It is very easy to change places in our so-called government, as you do not need to know anything about the department you are minister of, as they will employ 10 consultants to advise you.
Angela Peters
BORN on the wrong side of the colour spectrum. We bungee jump with the harness of the umbilical cord. We can’t fly. We brace ourselves for impact when we hover to the ground.
We have been attempting to grow scales since the ultrasound.
Claws have alluded us since birth.
Feathers are a thing of mystery. We can’t fly. The least we deserve is an airport named after Mama Winnie Madikizela Mandela.
Yes we are yet to earn our wings, but stripes are a different story.
We earned those by virtue of our tone.
We have long dwelled at the bottom of waterfalls and been striving to move upstream.
Apartheid, servitude and grotesque living conditions; the gravity pulling us down, keeping us at bay on these muddy waters at the feet of waterfalls.
These muddy waters; townships, concentrating on caging us in this tribal segregated camp.
Like fruits from the forbidden tree, we are picked to leave the camp and go clean their yards.
Mine our gold for them.
We are picked to open doors for them in skyscrapers.
Look after their children while our own are dying to live in this squalor.
But even picked fruits will rot. We were all trapped.
Curfews and boundaries, pass books and whites only.
We have earned our stripes. Detained by apartheid state security services on various occasions, tortured, subjected to banning orders, banished to rural towns and spent several months in solitary confinement.
We have earned our stripes. Accused of being at the centre of an orgy of violence in Soweto, exerting a reign of terror.
But what do you expect from a cornered black mamba?
It can’t tuck its tail between its legs and hide its head in shame, all of its body is its tail.
Tucking its tail means we are coiling.
Hiding its head means we are opening our inky-black mouths, spreads our narrow neck-flaps and sometimes we hiss.
We hiss in Struggle songs, marching and burning tyres.
We hiss in conscientising our own, preparing them for the fire.
When push comes to shove, we are capable of striking at considerable range and may occasionally deliver a series of bites in rapid succession.
Our venom primarily composed of potent neurotoxins, we are not sure if it can kill an elephant.
But we are willing to die trying. Trying to free the souls of our foremothers.
Trying to liberate the shadows of our forefathers.
Regain the dignity of being a people seen as less than animals.
Things to be thrown in Robben Island.
We have earned our stripes. We have come to realise that our palms are river streams, we can take a drink from our own hands.
Even if our ascendants were never designed for aerodynamics.
We puzzle the wind when we throw caution to it.
Causing turbulence.
Fanning thunderstorms and cracking sky.
Our scars are not privileged enough to heal.
We keep carrying them on our sleeves.
These scars are vertical. We keep bleeding on our township streets.
This is how we quench the thirst of wandering spirits of the 69 gunned down during Sharpeville massacre.
For Hector Pieterson. For those who perished, weakened and exiled post the Soweto uprising.
We have failed to grow scales. Claws have alluded us since birth. Feathers are a thing of mystery. We can’t fly. We do not need to earn wings when our stripes say we deserve an airport named after Mama Winnie Madikizela Mandela.