MAIMANE, DON’T COMPARE YOURSELF TO THE NATION’S ICON, MADIBA

RECENTLY DA leader Mmusi Maimane compared himself to Nelson Mandela, and said that on his travels around the country, many constituents told him that he reminded them of the impeccable leadership qualities of Madiba. This is not an April Fool’s joke, folks!

The DA has appropriated Madiba in support of their electioneering several times previously.

Although Madiba is rightly regarded as the universally admired property of the international community at large, it is ludicrous for any South African political party to appropriate Mandela for their political expediency. Nelson Mandela was certainly the beloved president of all South Africans, but politically he was fiercely loyal to his ANC and it is shameful for the DA to link themselves to the great man when he is not here to answer for himself. Madiba is on record as calling the DA a little Mickey Mouse party of white bosses and black stooges, and very little has changed to alter his perceptions since he went to greater glory in Heaven, to be reunited with former comrades in the ANC branch up above.

I’m sure the DA continues to associate itself with Nelson Mandela because it is desperate to find any leader of such magnificent stature in its own chequered past to brag about. Instead of making ridiculous assertions about Madiba, Maimane should concentrate on transforming the DA parliamentary representation to mirror the national demographic so that African voters can see their likeness in the House, and hear their aspirations being advanced in that forum. Instead of a bankrupt constant wailing against the governing party, Maimane and his party would gain more African admirers if he concentrated on expounding on his own party’s policies. And he could also endeavour to create the DA’S own genuine heroes in this democratic era.

Azania Mboys

Multichoice’s true colours.

If we’re all proven wrong and only a small amount, say 10%, of content comprises repeats, then this might dissuade me from my intention to cancel my premium subscription in the very near future.

Geoff Connor

WE ARE still learning how to stay true to the ideals you died for.

The shattering pain when your spirits ripped through and escaped your bodies.

The blood rain that baptised your skins on that cold winter’s day.

You could barely carry your feet. Yet still we ran in the township streets chasing our dreams.

But bullets were thirsty. They ran behind you.

When they quenched their thirst, Hector was first.

A part of us is trying to escape the oppression in the air.

Another part has no idea it’s in despair.

But the pre born-frees have anger wounds that are still gaping.

The dust has settled, only because roads are concrete now.

This dust still bubbles under the tar.

The heart of Soweto and its streets still remember the scent of this dust.

It lingers in its rib cage.

In a slumber, the future is suffocating.

We have spent the better part of democracy adjusting to awakening.

We have spent the better part of freedom exploring temporary access to a class we can never fit in.

The noose has moved from our necks to our pockets.

The chains from our wrists to our minds.

Propaganda spreads through a smaller box now.

One that isn’t bound to our living room and only waits for dinner time to programme our kind.

One that is attached to our hands to keep us blind.

Thumbs on touch screens, shoulders are caved.

Necks are bent because slaves are meant to bow.

The war we are fighting didn’t end with the battle of ’76.

Your lives were lost are not in vain.

Your lives were lost for our gain. But we commemorate as hash-tagging zombies.

I do not have a pessimist bone inside me.

My glass has been half full for decades.

But our book of wisdom keeps the taps dry in our neck of the woods.

My heart has been hopeful for eternity.

But youth day has a corpse for a poster child, is it to remind us what will happen if we attempt a revolution?

Because we live to die for this revolution.

It was the young lions of our land. The schoolchildren who sacrificed the only things they had, their lives, to take on the system in a struggle for education.

This revolution is for Pieterson. For Makhubu. For Mashinini.

For all the cubs who had their paws up, claws drawn in; to show they were unarmed while they sang.

They sang songs that asked what they’ve done to deserve this.

Songs that proclaimed that their crime was being black and for this, they would perish.

Songs whose chorus was banging bullets tasting their flesh.

Songs that forced many a young black into exile.

These songs were graced with a standing ovation captured through the lens of Sam Nzima in “The beginning of the end of apartheid”.

The catalyst for violence was when police opened fire on you, little did they know you were fluent in the dialect of flames.

You do not swing to the tone of their pendulum and shame.

Streets, properties and vehicles were set alight as three days of rioting ensued.

But no man resurrects on the third day where we come from.

You never made it to Orlando Stadium.

These are the songs of my people. We are still learning how to stay true to the ideals they died for.

This poem was co-written by Magnum Opus. An ensemble of award-winning poets including Thobani Mntambo, Sibusiso Ndebele and Rabbie Wrote.