Hail the Babel of the world!
VENDA STRIPE: Richard Nwamba jnr and Bianka Nwamba arrive at an event in Mofolo, Soweto
ABOUT a decade ago I met a gentleman at OR Tambo International to terminate our working relationship. It was a tense meeting, but cordial, considering that it was an “It’s not you, it’s me” moment.
Afterwards we did our best impersonation of Obama and Putin after their “robust” meetings, fake laughs and all. And then he asked me the most unexpected, astonishing question: “Ndumiso, can you tell me what the distinguishing characteristic of the black South African is?”
I must have sat there with an open mouth full of half-chewed Greek salad because he quickly clarified his question: “I mean, the stereotype about Germans is that they are industrious. The Koreans are technologically innovative. The Americans do everything big et cetera. What is the black South African characteristic?”
It’s at that point that I realised just how hurt he was by my decision and that he was trying to lash out. It took all my discipline not to attack him with a fork while yelling “You can’t handle the truth!” in my best Jack Nicholson voice.
But over the years his question has triggered a larger one about who we are as a nation. More specifically, why it’s good to be South African.
I bet when you read that last sentence you tilted your head with that “Things that make you go ‘hmmm’ ” expression.
But I’d wager the family jewels that if I asked what’s terrible about being South African, most people would run out of paper rattling off reasons at a rate of 900 words a minute. We just seem wired that way.
If you don’t believe me, listen to more than 10 minutes of any radio talk show. A Mandla from Alexandra will call in to Talk Radio 702 to complain about refuse collection. This will prompt a volley of
callers chipping in NOT SARI: Hare Krishna Yoginee Sharma enjoys her dance performance at a Heritage Day celebration in Pretoria about their own Pikitup woes. By the time Beverley from Parkhurst gets through 10 minutes later, it’s a downright orgy of moaning. And people are absolutely right to complain about services. Maybe they don’t even complain enough. However, it is incredible what happens when you travel abroad for protracted periods, isn’t it? I cannot count the number of times I have looked out a plane window with a lump in my throat upon arrival at OR Tambo. Let’s ignore the fact that this is usually after I’ve obliterated eight of those tiny Jack Daniel’s bottles. It’s because I’m actually always really happy I’m home. I remember spending some time in Singapore. Great place. Clean. Very clean. But by the time I was waiting for my flight back to Joburg at that sterile giant surgical theatre called Changi Airport, I was suffering from a potent bout of homesickness. To complete the sterile effect, there were people walking around in surgical masks. I felt like I was being set up for a surprise colonoscopy. I was craving “proper” human interaction. So you can imagine my feeling as I emerged from the security gates in Joburg and the first sound I heard was a cab driver with a wide smile going, “Eksê chief, o batla taxi?” Ah! Real people. Loud people willing to engage in real human interaction. My people! I was so overcome I didn’t know whether to kiss the ground or kiss the cabbie on the lips. But he had no front teeth. One of the best things about us, other than the fact that we’re not bloody Aussies, is that there isn’t only one version of us. If I showed you a holiday brochure with Chinese people, you’d know immediately where it was. But us? There isn’t one person who can represent who we are. Well, except the bit about when you’re abroad and you tell people you’re from South Africa and they go, “Oh! Mandela!”
My point is that the rapper AKA is no more representative of South Africa than, say, Riaan Cruywagen. Kenny Kunene is no more an archetype of this country than Patricia de Lille.
I’ve heard the phrase “as South African as boerewors, biltong, koeksisters and rooibos”. My brain is a mystery wrapped in a riddle because whenever I read this in travel magazines, I always get an acute mental picture of Eugene Terre Blanche obeying the laws of gravity from his saddle in that famous incident. And I’m never sure that this description aptly captures the South Africanism of a Prisha from Chatsworth. She’s probably as South African as roti, mutton breyani and mindrel.
The point is that I think what’s good about us lies in our management of our differences. And sometimes, in our dismal failure at managing the differences. I always muddle up idioms but I think there is one that says “when life gives you lemons, it’s time for tequila shots”. And with our 11 languages (if you ignore Shona, Igbo and Mandarin) we are a Babel of biblical times.
The first time I came to Joburg I was fascinated by a cordial conversation between two women that went NO BIAS HERE: Bowlers Rosalie van Wyk, Cathy Mattheus and Gail Swinnerton from Summerwood Bowling Club in Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth, dressed as Xhosa women BRAAIMEESTER: Maxwell Ntsuntsha puts on leopard print and other traditional regalia to bring a bit of his home town of Estcourt in KwaZulu-Natal to Zoo Lake in Johannesburg
Ah! Real people. Loud people willing to engage in real human interaction. My people! In the midst of all that chaos, someone yells at Malema, ‘Oh shut up wena Slender!’
something like: “Dumelang” (“Hello” in Tswana) “Yebo. Ninjani?” (“Hello. How are you?” in Zulu.)
“Ke teng. Wena?” (“I’m well. You?”) in Tswana.)
“Ag, ek kan nie kla nie” complain” in Afrikaans.)
Even when we’re bad, we’re awesome. I live behind the Boerewors Curtain, in Ekurhuleni. A few years ago I witnessed a fist-fight between a dominee, complete with collar, and a kêrel in a 1980s Ford Cortina and an equally ’80s mullet, over a parking bay, on a Sunday morning. The dominee’s wife and kids were standing around in their church clothes egging him on, “Donner hom, pa!”
The part that touched my heart was the West African car guard trying to pry them apart in broken Afrikaans, “Haai man! Stop die baklei!”
Sometimes that’s how I feel when I watch the Lord of the Flies channel (408) on DStv and see our generally (“I can’t well-fed MPs bickering and hurling expletives at each other in 11 languages. In the midst of all that chaos, someone yells at Julius Malema, “Oh shut up wena Slender!” in reference to his recent weight loss.
Maybe it’s the eternal optimist in me, but those moments always make me think: “I think we’ll be all right.” Also, I’m always grateful that I don’t live in a giant surgical theatre like Canada where kittens stuck in trees make front-page news, to paraphrase my friend Fred Khumalo.
The last time I walked around the Park Station precinct, as I sometimes do on Sunday afternoons, I soaked in the colours, the different sounds and the odours of ox tripe, pig’s feet and braaied mielie cobs.
I quietly greeted a group of Shembe faithful, their beards glistening in the sun. And it hit me: to survive this place we call home you need more than just intelligence, hard work and resilience. You require a sense of humour on steroids.
And this is why our Twitter can generate hilarious hashtags on just about anything. Ask the ANC about #WeAreANC or our unofficial ambassador to Israel, Mmusi Maimane, about #AskMmusi. If the Titanic disaster had happened here in the Twitter era, I bet you we’d have come up with #DudeWheresMyLifeBoat. Comment on this: write to tellus@sundaytimes.co.za or SMS us at 33971 www.sundaytimes.co.za