The importance of being coconut

In the olden days when men were still allowed to sport handlebar moustaches and the children of Inkosi uSenzangakhona reigned over the lands of their forefathers, life was so much simpler. Anyone who spoke your language was your friend, and everyone else was the enemy. If a chap walked up to you and said, “Molo, mfo ndini!” you would be perfectly within your rights if you clubbed him to death. The ways of your father would be your ways, which in turn would become your children’s ways and so forth. But then things changed. The coconut was invented.

If you’re reading this from somewhere in Arizona, you may not realise that I am not in fact talking of that hard brown thing with the milky core that people harvest from palm trees in Mozambique. Rather, I’m referring to the curious trait that certain black young people portray, that of being white on the inside (and I don’t mean like fish). I concede that the term “coconut” is a bit silly. It smacks of laziness on the part of the name-giver, if you ask me. However, having given the matter some thought, I’ve come to realise that coconut may be the most acceptable term for this phenomenon. If we start fishing around for alternatives, we may end up with something we couldn’t possibly live with. After-8, for example (that dark chocolate with the soft, minty white centre). Or potato.

Being coconut is not easy. It’s an incredibly treacherous path that one must tread with the utmost care. It’s not merely a matter of having the twang and the white friends. And having a rudimentary grasp of the English language certainly doesn’t qualify you to become a coconut. Julius Malema for example, doesn’t make the cut. No, you have to go the length with coconutism. But you can’t overdo it. There is such a thing as going too far with the coconut thing. Take me, for example. I support the Sharks and I support Arsenal FC. But then I cut back a bit by supporting Kaiser Chiefs, always conveniently after their only win all season. I enjoy seafood platters, French salad and lasagne. But then I restore the balance by occasionally partaking of ikota (a quarter loaf of white bread) and polony. Sometimes, to really make it up to the African side of things, I’ll have igwinya elinomkhuba phakathi (vetkoek with mince). A couple of weeks ago I spent my Saturday tramping about in the Tugela Valley, speaking vintage Zulu and eating muddy vegetables. Recharging the Africanism batteries, if you will. Restoring the balance. It’s never a good idea to let the coconut thing run amok, lest one finds oneself naming one’s coconut offspring Colin or Agatha …

Honestly, coconuthood is so tough, I’m surprised they haven’t legislated it yet. After all, isn’t that how we solve problems in this country — by parliamentary bill?

I think parliament would spare us coconuts a lot of trouble by drafting a Coconut Act, forming a Department of Coconutism and appointing a Minister of Coconuts. This department wouldn’t just hand out coconut licences willy-nilly, as if they were jars of atchar at a Mamelodi stokvel. You’d have to earn your licence and ranking. “You know who Jethro Tull is? Wow, that’s level 1 coconutism. You also have a working knowledge of the Irish bog stomp? No, I’m afraid that’s going too far. A bit too white for our liking. Minus two coconut points for you … ”

I hope that I get consulted when that Coconut Act is drafted. There are several things which I would love to include in the limitations clause. Under no circumstances would a coconut be allowed to wear skinny jeans, say deter-mine or wear kortbroeke, for example. And coconuts would never, ever be allowed to go streaking. In fact, I think I’ll go ahead and draft the bill myself. I’ll accept your submission if you, as a black person, can prove that at some point in your life you’ve said the words, “Kiff oke”.