natural disasters
Bafana Khumalo
OKAY now. I’ve always known that I grew up under a racist regime that intended me to remain ignorant for the rest of my life. What I did not know, however, is how far the regime succeeded.
They succeeded so much that the basics of Western concepts remain a mystery to me. Concepts like disaster management. “What?!” That’s what I said when the news editor approached me with an invitation to a Johannesburg mayoral function.
“Me at a mayoral function?” I was bowled over by her kindness. (Oh yes, the news editor of this newspaper is a woman, we being a progressive publication whose staff make-up reflects the demographics of this country, natter, natter.)
The problem with this kindness was that the function was to welcome a bunch of local government types to “The First International Conference of the Emergency and Disaster Management Association of Southern Africa”.
“Great,” thought I, “now I have to go and buy a grey Armani suit and a pair of grey Caterpillars” — those being fashionable shoes. However, the left side of my brain, the one I don’t use much, intoned: “Hey, this is a new dispensation. I am probably going to be hobnobbing with a crop of Young Turks — dreadlocked, ponytailed and just totally radical.” I thought all the grey suits and shoes had been given golden handshakes a long time ago, and had been replaced by the good taste of the new regime.
So I went out ready to rock’n’roll with the comrade councillors. Ready to listen to stories of the good ol’ struggle days and how we’ve turned the oppressors’ chambers of slavery into people’s chambers of freedom. Viva!
Well, there were definitely a lot of black faces who are now in power, and they were intoxicated with it. So intoxicated that they were beginning to take on the mannerisms of the officials. No, there wasn’t a single darkie with grey shoes on, but there was one with a pink and black dress on, very bright. The mayor — a man of colour — had the good taste to leave off his gaudy mayoral chains. He explained that, as many institutions are in transition, he found it inappropriate to wear them.
A man standing behind me found this announcement amusing — so amusing that he tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear: “He doesn’t want to be in chains for the rest of his life, hee! hee! hee!”
“Ha! ha!” I responded, being the good- humoured person that I am.
I looked around at all the grey, nonracial men and women standing under the glare of the chandeliers. They were all so polite to each other and everything. They all immediately went to the peripheries of the room, sat down and spoke in muted tones. Some were braver than the rest; they ventured into the centre of the room and networked about managing disaster.
Did I find out what disaster management was? No, I did not. I did ask the chairman of the association what it was, and both sides of my brain stopped operating as soon as he started talking about “floods and anticipating events both man-made and natural …” Instead my brain tuned into a woman delegate behind me, saying to another from Botswana: “Really? I always thought Botswana was part of South Africa.”
Well, at least one person learnt something at this function. For that, I am grateful.