Am I not African then?
The Zondo commission may prove to be the costliest damp squib in the history of damp squibs. So far it has been characterised by witness after witness all allegedly suffering from the same disease: amnesia.
Except, of course, I don’t think it’s amnesia. I think it’s just disdain for the process and belligerence at play. Like “What are you goin’ do about it, Zondo?” Sometimes I fantasise about the commission being chaired by someone with a low tolerance for bullshit, like Inkosi Mangosuthu Buthelezi. I bet you he’d have introduced a rule where, for every time a witness says “I don’t know”, they get six lashes with a sjambok on the buttocks, on the spot.
Perhaps the most dazzling display of acute amnesia has been from a disturbing rodent of a man called Vuyisile Ndzeku. That fellow couldn’t even remember a R2.5m cash deposit into his own account. And when asked about an event that coincided with his own anniversary, he turned into a giant “Afrikan” philosopher and spokesperson for all African men from Cairo to Cape Point by declaring that we don’t acknowledge inanities such as anniversaries. Because he’s “an African” he doesn’t even know the date of his own wedding.
“In African culture we don’t” and “as an African man” have been favourite hiding places for charlatans for as long as I can remember. Our former president often hid behind “my culture” to explain his shenanigans. For instance, I didn’t know that, as an African man, I did not have the option of backing out of a sexual encounter once a woman was in a state of sexual arousal until he testified to that effect during his trial.
“African culture” has been used as a crutch to defend indefensible bullshit for decades. Let’s deliberately ignore the fact that the idea of a homogenous “African culture” is preposterous. The notion that the Khoi of the Kalahari, the Maasai of northern Tanzania, the Mursi of Ethiopia and the Amazigh of Algeria can all be lumped together into something called “African culture” can only be spewed by a delusional brain.
But I get it. It’s a convenient hiding place. If I had a fetish for dressing up in sexy lingerie and using cow dung as a facial mask and I was caught on camera, I would also mumble something about my constitutional right to practice my culture.
In the past 10 years I have followed in my father’s footsteps and become quite adept at ilobolo negotiations. There’s really not much to it except being silver-tongued, good at maths and able to tell lies at the drop of a hat.
One of the rules about this ilobolo business is that should a member of your delegation not be wearing a formal jacket, your side will be given a hefty fine. Let that one marinate a little bit. In our “African culture”, it is disrespectful to not wear a formal dinner jacket. Sometime last year my friend Sifiso invited the BOM and me to the conclusion of an ilobolo negotiation and the subsequent amahlabiso ceremony (the welcoming of the groom) somewhere in Soweto. After about an hour, he emerged, nostrils flaring like an enraged steed, and instructed his family to get in the car and bugger off.
Why? He had been ejected as the head of negotiations because he was apparently “insolent” for showing up in a beautiful two-piece “Swazi” print outfit — without wearing a formal jacket. I think one can only deduce that when Senzangakhona sent his uncles to Shaka’s mother Nandi’s homestead, eLangeni, they went to Truworths first and got formal jackets to be consistent with Zulu culture.
Those reading this who are not au fait with funerals in the North West will think I’m making up this next instalment of “African culture”. At about 4am today, a 29-year-old man with grey hair got up, took a bath, applied Shield roll-on anti-perspirant, smeared himself with Vaseline, got dressed in blue AfriSam overalls and by 5.30am was standing guard at the entrance of a graveyard in anticipation of a series of funeral processions. His entire existence today is about inspecting women’s garb for compliance with “cultural” norms. He belongs to an esteemed club of other gentlemen who check women’s skirt/dress length. They have absolute discretion on how many centimetres above the knee the hem of the skirt or dress must be. They check shoulders and heads are covered. Don’t even get started on a woman in pants. Pants are the exclusive preserve of men, you see. This is “African culture”.
Meanwhile, somewhere in rural KZN a woman woke up, took a bath and went to the banks of the Umfolozi River. She spent the morning with her head between the thighs of a row of young women lying on their backs, peering into their vaginas, seeking signs of “interference” with their hymens. After all, in “our culture”, young women cannot ride horses or bicycles, become gymnasts or play netball or any potentially hymen-rupturing activities.
At some point, this madness has to stop. I have no issue with whatever cultural practices people decide upon in their little corners. But for crying out loud, can we stop hiding behind this non-existent hallucination we call “African culture”?
If I had a fetish for dressing up in sexy lingerie and using cow dung as a facial mask and I was caught on camera, I would also mumble something about my constitutional right to practice my culture