Our children are wise to Zuma’s kleptocratic shenanigans
TALKING with children about difficult things requires a careful approach. Take the vexed issue of our so-called leader, for example.
This true story began while encouraging my then six-year-old daughter to open a bank account, somewhere to put her pocket and birthday money.
“No Daddy,” she said. “I don’t want to.” “Why?” “Because the president will steal it.” “No he won’t. He can’t.” “It’s safer in my desk,” she said, settling the argument.
It is obvious now, almost a year since Nenegate (9/12 – don’t forget) and simply too many other things to mention, that the kleptocrats whose tentacles have entwined themselves around the soul of the ANC, led by the omnishambles that is our president, can steal your money and will. My daughter was right, after all!
Again and again it feels as if we arrive at some tipping point, where the emperor’s nakedness is visible to everyone, except himself. My son, aged 12, is certainly under no illusions.
He relays jokes from the primary school playground about the president and jokes from the classroom too. But besides my son’s 12-year-old peers and their teachers, only the president is laughing.
I wonder what Number One thought about the video my son showed me last week called Nkandla Style, a brilliant pastiche on Gangnam Style. It is on YouTube. Give it a bash. And then send the link to everyone you know. We also deserve to laugh.
So how do you speak with your children about President Jacob Zuma? It is a vexing project, more difficult than talking about puberty or sex or drugs.
I have some ideas. Recently, while stuck in traffic, I spied a home-made poster under a bridge.
It featured an expertly rendered stencil of the prez, head thrust backwards in mirth, with the words: “No 1 is above the law.”
“Look there, son,” I suggested, knowing the oldest would appreciate the slur. “I’d like to make an anti-Zuma stencil.” “Me too,” he said. So that is my first suggestion: engage in arts and crafts activities as a backdrop for your discussion. While working on your project with your child, discuss the value of our currency, why we will never be able to afford to visit Granny who lives far away again and what we’re going to do about it.
It may even lead to novel career choices. At the very least, it will be a bonding exercise.
My daughter (now aged nine) remained baffled by the president. “Why is he laughing?” she asked.
“I have no idea, my love,” I answered. Honesty is the best policy, I think. “What did Zuma do?” she continued. I then became aware, in that instant, of my prejudiced perspectives, and my own fed-up-withcrap-leadership agenda. How could I give her the bald facts and empower her to make up her own mind?
Surely this is what parents should attempt, when trying to explain Zuma to our children. We should not infect our narrative with our constructed morality, for children are canny and they will sniff these things immediately. “Well,” I started. “You know that house he built?” “Nkandla,” the little boffin replied. “Yes, that’s the one. Well, you helped pay for it.” “Whaaat!” “It’s true my dear. Some of the money I was saving up for you went into Zuma’s pool.
“Why don’t you phone him and ask him if we can come over for a swim? I think he’s getting a new plane, maybe we can use it?”
My daughter gazed out the window. She is the model of politeness.
Her manners are better than most cabinet ministers’, which is admittedly not a hard thing to achieve. “I don’t want to swim in Zuma’s pool,” she said. I don’t blame her. I considered telling her that we were also paying for his 20-odd children, his four-something wives, his thousand-and-something a***lickers, his numerous pals in China, Russia, Zimbabwe and other great places he likes to visit, but I don’t use that kind of language in front of a child.
Besides, there is nothing inherently wrong with any of these things. What could I say to help my daughter understand this very real threat to her future?
As a parent, surely I am obliged to protect her? Or should I just avoid the subject?
Then I thought about the puberty conversation, and started looking for a cue. How best to start it?
Perhaps it lay in asking gentle questions. Such as, do you notice anything happening to your body?
The problem is politics is not really my daughter’s domain. She prefers Minecraft to Business Day.
“Okay, my dear,” I began. “You’ve read so many fairy stories.
“And lots of them have kings in them, who are always trying one thing or another. Sometimes they’re trying to defend their daughter from a curse, sometimes they’re trying to attract a wealthy prince to marry their child with a weird competition, and sometimes they’re . . .”
“Okay Dad,” she interrupted. “I know what you’re going to say.” “Oh. What am I going to say?” “That Zuma isn’t a fairy tale.” “Um, I wasn’t, but you’re right. He is real, unfortunately. I was going to ask you, when you have a good king, what is that king like?” “He’s kind and he listens,” she said. “Well, Zuma is kind, but . . .” “Only to his friends?” she asked. “And he doesn’t listen,” said my son, from the back seat.
It turned out they were better at explaining Zuma to me than I was explaining him to them.
I suppose this is a victory – we want our children to tell us what things mean and give them the space to say so. Maybe there is hope for the future after all. Give children the vote, I say. We certainly don’t deserve it.