Fleeting seconds: It's Time

A few people who have and make an impact on this life.

Successful Failures

I probably epitomise  middle child syndrome. Growing up my sister and brother used to make fun of me on family trips by car. “Leave me alone!” my sister would shout then humph in my direction. “No one understands me!” she’d exclaim. She and my brother would laugh while I tried to read. They’d poke fun while I felt the eternal angst of being the one caught in between. I’ve probably carried the whole misunderstood thing with me my entire life: Making jokes no one else would really get and not hiding how hysterical I myself found them. Doing and saying things in accordance with my own world view and structure without really taking into consideration the thoughts and perceptions of others. The consequence of what others thought about me had never really played an important part in my life until I actively became socially aware and realised that I needed to express myself better when making friends. I think all of this childhood trauma has resulted in the misdiagnosis about my political feelings towards our most monumental political figure... Yes you called it. Drum roll please:

Chauffeur Roleyshlarshlar Nelly Mandy-L.A (Rolihlahla Nelson Mandela).

Even some of my friends have taken to the notion that I do indeed hate the South African liberation icon. Worse yet some of my family members think I hate this inspirational figure and magnanimous hero of the struggle.

I do not and am inspired by his achievements every day I breathe and am not locked up on the streets for being what I am. And even then I fully recognize that I have it lucky as there are restrictions to my detention. All because he and a thousand others like minded in the pursuit of social justice laid down their lives so I could exploit these luxuries.

 Jock adequately ridden?

A couple of weeks ago I found myself back in the vehicle for a family trip. I decided to resort back to my childhood antics of attention seeking via being an instigator of heated debate. I opened with:

“Did you guys see the open letter on News24 talking about how Mandela sold out the blacks?”

Even if you are politically apathetic there will definitely be three parts of that sentence that will invoke some sort of gut response. Either: News24, Mandela or blacks.

 If you are somewhat politically minded the entire sentence will strike a chord and like you have an asshole an opinion will form (Thank you method man.)

The long and short of this little debacle is that my mother was deeply insulted by the assertion and probably more hurt with the fact that I could identify and understand with what the writer of the letter was saying in his letter. After a while my sister was able coax me into admitting that the titling of the letter was indeed sensational but did not necessarily take away from the emotions expressed in the letter nor their validity. Thank you once again News24 for providing a point of contention on the day the man was meant to be celebrated most through his failing health and the country’s increasing fragmentation. I suppose being 94 and having done so much doesn’t exempt you from what were once your responsibilities and promises.

So I can obviously understand my mother’s hurt and anger. Firstly at me for having brought up the issue and expressing the fact that I could understand it. She must be thinking that I am the most ungrateful pile of bones to have ever been fed. Secondly because the power of the legacy that is Rolihlahla Mandela should not be tarnished as that is the biggest point of reference when it comes to the idea of South African liberation.

Unfortunately I cannot simply ignore the gaping holes left by the power exchange of CODESA merely because I became one of its immediate beneficiaries. While it may be idealistic to speak of immediate and widespread economic transformation back then. The question then becomes; when should the it take place? There has been a mere quota-system put in place to signify “change”. The freedoms gained have been social and political forsaking economic freedom. Without economic freedom the social and political themselves become restricted resulting in no real change at all. People are told that there has been a change rather than feel it happen themselves.

 While I can’t fully say with absolute conviction that I’m ready to commit class suicide in order to aid the revolution and change the global status quo I still can’t ignore the facts. I’m merely a black kid on the white man’s playground trying to playoff catch by his rules. A game I shall never win when the rules keep changing in his favour to make sure that power is maintained. A regular of arbitrary arrest by the same people with whom I share a skin pigmentation, the game has had me fucked long before I was conceived. Trying to be an individual in communal poverty means only one thing: Insanity.

While poverty may not purely discriminate on race it has chosen  to play favourites aided by historical foresight.

I understand that had there been a complete takeover of economy there would have been a fucked up situation that would have probably resulted in a civil war. But with our violence statistics so high up are we not already at war with ourselves?

Just because you can’t see it does not mean it’s not happening. With the greed and corruption enabled by a fear of never again going hungry, are we not already at war with ourselves?

With the supported  ignorance of unaccommodating  of fundamental difference within our own communities and gender based violence are we not already at war with ourselves?

With misplaced self righteousness, aloof to the idea that people can speak and think for themselves and do not need to be spoken of or around but rather to, are we not starting a war ourselves?

The lack of basic services housing, water, electricity, food, clothes, health care, education, sanitation DIGNITY, SOVEREIGNTY are we not killing ourselves?

Old structures keep us running in the same wheel because we decide that there is nothing else for us to see, build, do or even to think about. Instead we come home and switch on the T.V because it’s the easiest way to escape from the realities at play. We hate ourselves and kill each other one crime at a time. And yes overt ignorance is a crime. While some people don’t want more (2 and a half kids a white picket fence and a Labrador) some people do because they have nothing and have realised that the only way to get it is to take it.

Those with passports will wipe their brows when the aeroplane finally lifts off the tarmac and the anxiety attacks will subside as they watch the airports they had been in moments before go up in flames.

It’s not Mandela I have a problem with. It is the idea that people have turned him into. I am grateful for the freedom he gained “millions”. He did not do this alone. Read a book for once. There were still gaping flaws left in the negotiated freedoms of his legacy. No man is perfect. No idea is perfect. No execution flawless. Nothing beyond criticism. So when I criticize and make fun of him I am not being insensitive on the contrary I am using the same freedoms he and thousands of others fought for me to have. Everything needs to be interrogated and seek to be bettered. Hindsight gives 20/20 vision but most are blind to it only because the only thing they want to look at is a mirror held up to their own faces.

When the revolution arrives at my door step I have two options: 

To hide underneath my bed, type as furiously as I can trying to make my last words count: My last status update, my last tweet and my last blog post to make sure that the world knows I existed.

Or

Get out into the streets, shut the fuck up and just do. Join the people fucking shit up symbolic of their  bonds and finally accept my fate when they realise that I am merely an agent who did nothing in their aid and actually gained from their pain.

For the sake of my parents I hope I choose the latter.

Probably just an alarmist.