ACCUSED OF RAPE, ZUMA BELTED OUT UMSHINI WAMI
NOW that winter is upon us, I am reminded of the days when we were young and fell sick, complaining of this or that sickness.
If it was a severe cold that you were afflicted with, my mother would turn to her tried and tested Milk of Magnesia. Yes, there was castor oil as well – which I suppose was ubiquitous in every black household – but Milk of Magnesia was real kick-ass because it could also tackle severe headaches.
If you started showing signs of scabies, she would smear your entire body with the efficacious milk, and within days you would stop scratching, walking proudly.
Milk of Magnesia was a wonder cure-it-all. I am reminded of my mother ’ s unfailing cures simply because I am sick.
My ailment is not of a physical nature. My affliction is more metaphysical, even spiritual.
I think I am suffering from a disease that the clever medical people have yet to ascribe a name to. Maybe a name already exists, just that I am not aware of it. So, I shall describe how the disease manifests itself.
When I wake up, even before I brush my teeth and have my morning coffee, I switch on my laptop and quickly go through the news websites.
That done, I clamber into my jeans, and rush to the shops to get newspapers. Having read the newspapers, I start phoning friends and colleagues.
In English, we generally say every dark cloud has a silver lining. But the disease I am suffering from seems to have robbed me of my ability to see these silver linings in the dark, huge clouds hanging over us.
The stuff from newspapers, from news websites, from conversations with my friends and e-mails from strangers – all of these things only conspire to remove the silver linings from the clouds.
Every day, the clouds seem to get darker with doom. I shudder at the thought of what it is that those pregnant clouds are carrying in their dark stomachs. Oh, what do they portend?
There was a time when I could count on Jacob Zuma to help find the silver linings in the clouds.
When they accused him of rape and we held our collective breath in fear and embarrassment – he simply sang He was acquitted. And we were cured of our fears. The sun smiled brightly.
Then some naughty judge with a woman ’ s name suggested that Zuma had a mutually beneficial relationship with the fraudster Schabir Shaik. As a result of his implication in Shaik ’ s corruption case, Zuma ’ s enemies started baying for his blood.
Back then, being a Zuma enemy became a full-time occupation, so much so that even the Pipe-smoking Intellectual decided to play to the gallery and fired Zuma, who was his deputy.
But the stout heart of the Nxamalala clan put on his winning smile, cleared his throat and held forth. His vocal chords insinuated him back into the hearts of the people, who in turn sang their way to Polokwane where the Pipesmoking-Intellectual was hounded out of office. Those were the days
Umshini Wami when music had meaning, when music could conquer.
Now ensconced in the seat of power, the brave heart from Nkandla had to weather some other storms. The Guptas landed at Waterkloof Air Force Base, had their wedding ceremony, left. Marikana happened.
Some stupid journalist started making noises about the palace at Nkandla. The public protector added her voice to the cacophony. We held our breath and hoped that the president would do something about it, anything. What did he do?
He went to parliament and started speaking. What was this in front of him? A prepared speech, by Gad! That ’ s not how he rolls.
Not used to answering questions, it was clear he was about to make mistakes he would later regret. One of them was when he said he had paid for the Nkandla construction from his own pocket.
He shouldn ’ t have entertained any questions on the matter in the first place. Who are these tea girls and garden boys with the temerity to throw questions at Him? How do we undo what happened that day?
In addition to the Nkandla thingy, the outstanding Marikana report, the NPA, SAA, Eskom, there ’ s the little Omar al-Bashir matter. We need something to distract us from these things, Mr President.
Your music had become just like my mother ’ s Milk of Magnesia. It cured us of our collective fears. It made us see the silver linings in our clouds; it made us marvel at the Milky Way. Yes, Mr President, we need your Milk of Amnesia.
Those boys from UB40 need red, red wine in order to forget. South Africans, on the other hand, need you to sing so we can forget.
Yes, just drown us in your Milk of Amnesia. If it ’ s not too late.