/ 24 February 1995

Demise of a disillusioned trendoid

Native tongue Bafana Khumalo

‘MY name is Keith, I am 25 years old.” The young black man hesitated for a while, took a sip from the styrofoam cup filled with a dark liquid in his hand, which was shaking slightly. He looked at the group of people dressed in hand-printed clothing around him and wondered whether he should take the plunge.

He took a deep breath and decided that, having come this far, he might as well go all the way. “I am a trendoid.” He sighed out the statement, not really sure whether it would be met with peals of derisive laughter or sympathy.

“Hi, Keith,” came the unanimous response. It was warm, it was welcoming, it was what he needed. He was glad. This was the weekly meeting of Trendoids Anonymous, an organisation dedicated to giving support to that most neglected group of South Africans. More neglected than the lost generation who at least have the attention of liberal university lecturers, who spend years of their lives churning out predictable dissertations on them — but nary a stitch on trendoids.

Keith took a deep breath as the welcoming applause around him died down and he continued: “I have been denying my being a trendoid for quite some time … I now have to accept myself.”

Keith is a typical trendoid. He spent the 1980s picketing and signing petitions and, if he could find the time, he would attend lectures, for he was a university student. He was deeply contented, for he and his ilk were the toast of half the nation — those who believed Keith et al were going to liberate the country single-handedly from the yoke of Afrikaner oppression. The other half thought Keith and his friends were just a bunch of spoilt brats who should be working instead of running around with unkempt hair proclaiming the imminent demise of the evil empire. He did not mind this passionate dislike, for he could see that, despite this hatred, he mattered to this group. “We are important,” he would sigh with pleasure.

This was not to last. The empire had to come to an end, as the oracles of the movement had foreseen — and Keith’s world came tumbling down. Now he had to look suddenly at his liberators as they gouged out each others’ eyes in the scramble for the wealth previously denied them.

His heart sank as he saw them discard the uniforms they had been so proud of in their army of the left. It sank even further as they moved out of their hovels of poverty in the various labour reserve camps. He and his group of friend threw their hands up in collective despair. Even at that stage, he still had hope, for he could count on his circle of friends, still committed to the same ideals as he.

What he did not know was that they too were thinking of the wealth and privilege that came with acceptance of the changes. They too were about to betray him and shrink the circle. He nearly took his life as he watched them pack their measly belongings and take up their positions of privilege. He could not understand their justifications for not only joining the new brotherhood but also voraciously devouring its culture with greedy passion.

Keith felt cold and alone. He had fewer friends around now and none of the new ones could tolerate spending the night in relatively dingy coffee houses while engaged in drunken semi-intellectual discussions of the most turgid kind — subjects like the radically liberationary impact on American society of Quentin Tarantino’s motion pictures.

Just when he thought he was doomed, he saw a flyer advertising the Trendoids Anonymous weekly meetings. “What a bunch of losers,” he thought initially, derision coating his entire being. And yet, the following morning, as he gazed into the mirror and straightened his earring, he saw a trendoid staring straight back at him.

He thought perhaps he should give Trendoids Anonymous a try. He was surprised to find that this was a caring group of people who had been forced by circumstance to band together. He found they were sharing people who understood the pain of seeing all your friends get government positions and forget the masses. He was home – – and today he would become a true member of this caring family. They listened to him as he told his tales of woe, and they took him in.

As he finished his presentation they realised it was time to wrap up proceedings for the week. They all stood up and formed a circle, holding hands. Keith smiled, for he knew that this was the warmest part of the evening. The group leader — the editor of an alternative newspaper — raised his voice as he recited the trendoid self- affirmation mantra: “We are trendoid! We are intense! We are beautiful! We will love ourselves!”