Scratch that switch
For Bra Hugh, the state of the nation address is an ‘elephant parade’
THE title of The Bantu Hour (Saturdays, SABC2, 9pm) takes a dig at apartheid-era radio programming, when as little as an hour a week was devoted to music by African artists. But the show’s makers evidently expect the racist connotations of “Bantu” mean the title may be misunderstood. “We would like to inform the viewer that the word ‘Bantu’ is not derogatory . . . but it is an Nguni noun meaning people,” reads an online disclaimer.
Consider the word “bantu” officially reclaimed — but let’s hope white people don’t start thinking they can use it again as a result. That might, in fact, make for a good skit on the show, which mixes sketch comedy, stand-up comedy, celebrity interviews and music.
The show’s hosts are comedian Kagiso Lediga and veteran musician Hugh Masekela, who make for an interesting pairing. Masekela’s role seems to be to deliver wry oldtimer views on contemporary South African society. His opinions on the unacceptability of women’s weaves are notorious; he isn’t scared to voice the politically incorrect lines. In the show’s second episode, Masekela described the state of the nation address at parliament as an “elephant parade”, due to the size of parliamentarians. It’s Bra Hugh’s status as a venerated South African elder that allows him to say the unsayable (or at least the unpopular).
Masekela may be a legend with the trumpet, but he isn’t exactly a comic genius — which is why it’s good that we have the reliably funny Lediga on hand to land the punchlines.
In contrast to a show like Loyisa Gola’s Late Night News, The Bantu Hour prefers social commentary to political analysis. This is laudable in a country where we have political analysis coming out of every orifice. Its avoidance of formal politics also makes the show feel fresh, even though its obvious precursor was
Lediga’s former vehicle the Pure
Monate Show.
Both Masekela and Lediga seem to be having a lot of fun, which is contagious for the viewer. One segment saw two contestants given sentences which they had to translate into Zulu and Sotho without using any words derived from English or Afrikaans. Both failed, a bewigged linguistic auditor informed them. Masekela hooted with laughter, as he does a lot. It’s as if a favourite old uncle has been invited to a very short Saturday night house party, where he can cluck his tongue indulgently at the foibles of youth.
Unusually for South Africa, most of the humour does not rely on racial difference. Instead, as much good comedy is, it’s premised on overturning expectations. A jilted husband comes home to find his wife in bed with another man, and makes his rival write a song with him. Scary-looking prisoners turn out to have genteel pastimes like watching The Bold and the Beautiful and blowing bubbles. One skit saw Lediga play the role of a slightly crazed security guard. “You think you are safe here, with your beams and your electric wires,” he hisses at a bemused white couple. “But yet you have the biggest killer inside your fridge. Diabetes.”
It’s nice to see the show giving airtime to less well-known standup comics, like Gavin Kelly, who told the audience that he’s stopped going to Spur because “the waiters sing ‘happy birthday’ like it’s a struggle song”. Some parts of the show have promising concepts with a less successful execution; other skits rely too heavily on a single joke or punchline. These quibbles are minor, though. The Bantu Hour is great fun, and deserves to succeed.