Love in the time of vuvuzelas

When I woke up on the morning of June the 11^th, I had a strange premonition, an indefinable feeling of exhilaration and dread.

I glanced at the date on my Blackberry screen and I knew: this date means something important, but what? Where had I seen it before?

After some mental arithmetic, I worked out that 11.6 was 9.11 upside down. Due to the strange habit of Americans to write the day and month the wrong way round, the 11^th of June in South Africa and the 11^th of September in America was the exact inverse of each other.

What on earth could be the significance of such a day?

As the morning dragged on, and I went about my daily business, I could not help noticing certain disturbing anomalies. The traffic jams into town that I had experienced in the preceding days had suddenly gotten far, far worse. More and more people were sporting South African flags. These flags were literally everywhere. Waving from car windows, the balconies of buildings, ALL OVER the place! I could hear the discordant trumpeting of what sounded like herds of elephants in the distance. Utter madness was in the air!

Let me explain the reasons for my ignorance. I had returned, unkempt and unshaven, only a few days before, from a period of intense meditation in the Namib Desert. For more than a week, I had spoken to just about no-one but my Higher Self. My Higher Self, who is called Harry (as you may recall from my first Thought Leader blog entry), is a very wise person, and very old, and very spiritual, but not all that clued up on current affairs (I doubt very much, whether Harry had, for instance, ever heard of Shakira).

Be that as it may, it was only by early afternoon of the 11^th of June that the truth slowly dawned on me. It all started coming together when I received a call from a journalist from a Dutch newspaper. The journalist introduced himself as “Mr Fokko”. He was in South Africa for the soccer tournament, Mr Fokko explained, and he wanted to conduct a series of interviews with eminent South Africans to ask their opinions about the impact of the event on the rainbow nation, et cetera, et cetera.

That was when the penny dropped, and I recalled the true meaning of 11.6. My God! How could I possibly have forgotten?

Of course! It was the Day of the Kick-off! I had been staring at that mythical date in my diary for more than a year!

It was the Day The World Would Arrive On Our Doorstep! It was the culmination of all recent historical trends from the Industrial Revolution to the Struggle against Apartheid and the Discovery of Zef! Ancient Mayans had predicted this date for millennia! Nostradamus had waxed lyrical about it in his quatrains (I can’t remember which quatrains, but I’m sure it’s in there somewhere)! There were probably some detailed prophecies about this event encoded on the Pentateuch! It was the Day of Reckoning, the opening of the last scroll of the Book of Revelations, the blowing of the final trumpet! It was the Beginning of The Dreaded Time of the Vuvuzelas! It was Bafana Bafana against Mexico!

I had to think fast. I realised I wasn’t ready to meet this Mr Fokko at all.

Too lazy to brave the traffic once more to purchase some World Cup paraphernalia, I dug through my clothes cupboard and found, to my relief, an old bandana with the South African flag on it.

I also did a quick internet search to get myself acquainted with recent developments in the news, all the stuff I had missed out on while I had been talking to Harry in the desert.

When Mr Fokko and his photographer eventually rang the doorbell — two young, finely groomed, well-spoken and intelligent-looking gentlemen, impeccably dressed in lightweight Continental-type leisure-wear — I invited them in and brewed them some excellent Afrikaans boeretroos, all the time showing my best bandana profile to the photographer, who was happily clicking away, taking snapshots of virtually everything in sight, including my dogs, my arguing kids and the ornaments on my mantelpiece.

(Of course, I made a point of gently teasing Mr Fokko about the recent right-wing backlash in the Netherlands, which had been a breaking news item that very morning. When I noticed his obvious discomfort, I could not help rubbing it in. “Seems like you guys up north now have all the problems we used to have over here, heh heh, heh heh!”)

“So, when do you think South Africa will solve their crime problem?” he asked, to which I retorted rhetorically: “So, when are the Americans going to allow gay marriages?” To which I added, in a barely audible yet menacing tone: “Copycats! We had a black president long before they did!”

I was beginning to enjoy myself by then. After Mr Fokko and his photographer left, both somewhat droopy-shouldered, I switched on the TV, and forced my whole family to watch the opening ceremony and the first game with me.

We were filled with collective pride! And what a thrill it was when Tshabalala kicked that first goal!

I had never been interested in soccer before (having always regarded it as much less violent, and therefore much less interesting, than rugby, I considered it a particularly boring form of open-air ballet), but now I was instantly hooked. Who knows! I might even watch some of the other games too!

I decided, though, that I would not surrender completely to the mass hysteria. I would, for instance, NOT buy a vuvuzela (I did not find the distorted noise made by those disgusting little plastic flutes particularly heart-warming). And I would NOT decorate my car with flags. Not even if my seven-year-old daughter begged me to do so (which, of course, she did, incessantly).

Almost all my resistance crumbled the next day, though, when the Boks ravished France with a resounding victory at Newlands. Now rugby triumph had been added to soccer pride! It was a heady mixture. Bursting with patriotism, I got in my car, drove straight into the nearest traffic jam, and promptly purchased a flag and two of those condom-like little thingies you’re supposed to fit around your rear-view mirrors.

Granted, my enthusiasm was somewhat dampened when, during my triumphant drive home, the flag got involved in a struggle for supremacy with the roof aerial of my car and almost completely disintegrated. Upon reaching home, I discovered that the condom thingies didn’t quite fit around the rear-view mirrors of my Nissan. (This gave me an unspecified sense of déjà vu.) Anyway, I ended up giving those two little condom-like thingies to my (very grateful) children. They made excellent little South African bandanas for their favourite teddy bears! It’s the idea that counts, after all.

So, well, what am I trying to say? Here I am, without any paraphernalia on my Nissan, but finally a proudly South African person after years of white paranoia, cynicism, fear and loathing! Isn’t life a strange journey?

It is a few days later, and the totally unexpected feeling of euphoria has not abated at all. This really feels like the best time of ever to be alive in our beautiful country!

As I was saying to Mr Fokko: “1995 was the honeymoon, but this is the beginning of married life together. Everyone knows that the kakkest time in every marriage is right after the honeymoon! South African whites and South African blacks have been at each other’s throats so much during the last few years that they are finally ready to abandon all romantic rainbow nation pretence and actually get down to the nitty-gritty details of actually living together in the same country. If you can’t party together, what’s the use of doing anything together?” (I don’t know if he’d managed to write all that down, but it felt good to get these homespun truths off my chest.)

Yesterday I was seated by my laptop, paging through the recent newspapers and reading all sorts of interesting things on the internet. Heart-warming stuff! Wonderful copy!

In a recent column in The Sowetan, Redi Direko wrote:

“Black and white, big and small, young and old, the haves and the have-nots, all came together … to reflect the hopes and dreams of a nation so hungry for a new chapter, so desperate for an invigorating experience.”

Now, is that great or isn’t it?

In the Sunday edition of Die Son, another columnist, “Bra Eddie”, had this to say:

“Noudat ons die pessimiste op hul neuse laat kyk het, kan jy natuurlik nie een opspoor nie. Niemand wil nou erken hulle was deel van die groep twyfelaars nie. Laat jou dink aan die vermiste ondersteuners van apartheid. Skielik is daar nie een nie.”

Ja! Toffie vir die Afro-pessimiste!

I also happened to reread an e-mail I received a few weeks ago, from a ex-MK warrior who calls himself “Lucky Ntuli”, (he now lives in America but is considering returning to the country of his birth):

“Miles Davis and playing in the background and all I wish for is for Madiba to live forever. For you and your family to find comfort, happiness and security. For our children to one day pronounce very proudly: South Africa survived because their parents cared and the politicians were moulded in the spirit of Madiba, Sisulu, Mkwai, Luthuli, Mdi, Mini, Shaka, Cetswayo, Sarel van der Merwe, Ramaphosa, Zille, Van Zyl Slabbert, Suzman, my parents and all those who paid the ultimate sacrifice so we could have South Africa.”

Golden words, indeed! Noble sentiments!

Which set me thinking: will we, as a country, live up to these standards, or will our hopes once again be dashed by the paralysis of our collective cynicism and the corruption of politicians and state officials? Will we emerge from this drunken orgy of merry, patriotic revelry as better people, or will we return to the same old bad habits as before?

Right at that very moment, in the middle of all these lofty reveries, my nine-year-old son entered the room, saying brightly: “Happy Father’s Day”! And handed me a little gift.

I took it from him gingerly. It was a bright red and shiny object, on which somebody — presumably a school teacher — had written in a black marker:

“I am often noisy and a bit of a nuisance at times but you always listen and love me anyway!”

My eyes grew moist with tears as I gasped: “Thank you so much, son! I’ve always wanted my own vuvuzela!”