Submitted by Dylan Edwards
The news that Nelson Mandela’s 90th birthday will be celebrated with a concert in Hyde Park would have been exciting news for many South Africans.
Unfortunately, the Hyde Park in question is not the northern Johannesburg suburb; in fact, it’s in London. And the excited South Africans are not the 40-odd-million actually in South Africa, but the many thousands who now call London home.
Initially, I was left a little bemused by the decision. But as I thought back on the relationship between the music I listen to and the country I still call home, I began to think that attending Madiba’s birthday in Hyde Park might be quite fitting. After all, as far back as I can remember, there has always been an element of irony in my musical experience in South Africa.
I must have still been in nursery school in a dusty dorp on the edge of the Highveld when I first remember listening to Tracy Chapman. My parents would pick me up in their VW Kombi and pop in a cassette. Chapman’s rich voice was rendered tinny and hollow by the Kombi’s ancient sound system, but we cared little as we coasted along the white suburbs of our Highveld dorpie.
We sang along to “When are people gonna rise up/ And take what’s theirs?/ Talkin’ ’bout a revolution”, not pausing to think that the revolution we were talkin’ ’bout would have seen us handed a blindfold and a cigarette as we were lined up against a wall. (To add another twist to this story, Chapman got her big “break” at Nelson Mandela’s 70th birthday celebration at London’s Wembley Stadium. At the time my parents knew very little about the man, other than that he was in prison and many people were unhappy about it.)
Years later, I remember being struck speechless watching a group of young Afrikaans men and women swirl around the room dancing langarm to Eddie Grant’s Gimme Hope Joanna. Whether their enthusiasm stemmed from a celebration of the coming new order, a defiance of their parents’ generation’s politics, or an inability to understand the lyrics, I do not know. But the image was so incongruous that it has remained with me ever since.
With the coming of the international rugby season we will no doubt be treated once again to that choreographed display of irony in the pre-match entertainment: the impi.
“Impi” is an isiZulu word that describes a soldier, an army or a war. The eponymous Johnny Clegg song tells the story of the Battle of Isandlwana: the biggest defeat yet suffered by British forces at the hands of a native army. But at the Springboks’ home games it means a group of black men dressed in animal skins and brandishing spears, shields and drums stomping around the ground while Clegg’s song is blasted over the loudspeakers.
The irony here is that the almost exclusively white crowd cheers along as the song tells the story of Zulus killing Redcoats, then a mostly white team play, and finally the whole display is packaged as “unifying” by sports administrators and marketing people.
So perhaps it is fittingly ironic, then, that Mandela’s concert will take place in London, a city that has a deeply ambivalent relationship both with Africa generally and Mandela in particular. Sure, Mandela’s statue now stands in Parliament Square, but it shares that public space with, among others, Jan Smuts. It is a city that grew rich exploiting the labour and resources of its empire, and now it pays homage to a man who fought this exploitation. It is a city where Margaret Thatcher, who labelled the ANC “a typical terrorist organisation”, served as prime minister, and it is now a city where that organisation’s most famous leader will be celebrated. Any way you look at it, the irony of the occasion is inescapable.
So what, other than a keen sense of irony, informs the decision to bring the party to London? A cynic might suggest the artists set to perform at the concert couldn’t be persuaded to come to South Africa, or that South Africa lacks the infrastructure, but given the previous 46664 concerts in the country, this is unlikely. Besides, as Bono is fond of pointing out, when Nelson Mandela calls, you don’t say no.
More likely, then, it has more to do with the money that can be raised in a city like London. Apart from the unparalleled access to the world’s media, tickets are going for £65 (almost R1 000) each, or £135 (more than R2 000) in the “golden circle” if you were quick enough to get your hands on some. Assuming that performers waive their appearance fees for charity concerts like this one, Mandela will be raising a lot more for his Aids charity than would be possible in South Africa.
On such a happy occasion, however, perhaps you’ll forgive me donning my rose-tinted spectacles. While money no doubt plays a very important role, I would like to believe that Mandela’s decision to come to London is more than just good business sense. Always aware of the power of the symbolic gesture, he is looking to make HIV/Aids a global problem rather than simply an African one. Let’s hope that the current political leaders in Sub-Saharan Africa are taking notes.
As frail as Mandela may appear on his 90th birthday, he remains a moral giant. The greatest thing South Africans could do to honour would be to follow his example in seeing a future where the possibilities, though laced with irony, are short on resentment.
Dylan Edwards has worked as a security guard, waiter and English teacher. Upon hitting 25 he had a quarter-life crisis and re-enrolled at university. He is currently working towards an MSc in political sociology at the London School of Economics and Political Science
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