John Matshikiza
WITH THE LID OFF
It was an edifying sight. The M1 highway heading north out of Johannesburg had been blocked for three days between the Athol Oakland and the Corlett Drive off-ramps. It was the middle of the week.
Like the rest of Johannesburg’s would-be stars of speedway, I had done nothing more than grind my teeth at this inconvenience for the first two days. Other motorists were clearly muttering to themselves that this kind of thing was inevitable once the natives took over. But on the third day, I began to wonder what particular kind of highway maintenance was being done in the outside lane to cause us these irritating delays. At last I was rewarded with an answer.
The kilometre of roadway had been cordoned off to allow a truckfull of workmen to go about their urgent task. Overseen by the standard elderly white Southern African foreman wearing the standard low-slung khaki shorts, a gang of six or seven black men in overalls was struggling to attach tall and colourful banners to the lamp-posts on the central reservation. The banners, once they were up, would give the people of Johannesburg a sense that their great city was hosting the magnificent seventh All Africa Games, and that the event was being sponsored by some of our leading corporate entities.
The only trouble was, the games had already been on for five days, and there were only a few more days left to run. The workmen’s heroic efforts on the dangerous freeway seemed a little pointless -rather like the knaves in Alice in Wonderland desperately trying to paint the white roses red before the red queen showed up and chopped off their heads for messing up the simplest of tasks. Nevertheless, on they struggled, while we inched by, losing more and more contracts worth millions of rands as we were delayed from reaching urgent meetings on time.
Meanwhile, in the southbound lane, busloads of ebony athletes from the Dark Continent were travelling towards town, observing the interesting activity from the opposite direction. I suppose it gradually dawned on them that this was also being done for their benefit. But they must have felt that this is a strange country indeed, that erects its banners days after the razzmatazz of the opening ceremony.
By that time they were probably past wondering about our customs anyway. They stared out of their box-like Putco buses like so many fishes in a tank, watching South Africa float by. In front and behind, they had a heavily armed escort of large policemen and women in bulletproof jackets, blue lights flashing relentlessly on the roofs of their BMWs. The visiting athletes were being escorted from their heavily fortified village, sealed off from the threatening war zone of Alexandra township with earthen barricades and rolls of razor wire, to compete in empty stadiums, where the only spectators were other African teams and a smattering of bussed-in schoolchildren.
“We might as well have stayed at home,” they must have been thinking. At least in other African countries you’re allowed to wander around and find out about the naughty local people, and there are thousands of voices to cheer you on from the stands.
The only advantage of visiting South Africa, they discovered, was being taken on armed sorties into the First World shopping malls of Sandton. Here they let off steam by buying massive quantities of electronic goods made in Singapore and Taiwan to take home with them. But then again, they might as well have gone competing against each other on the red shale tracks of Dubai. The hi-fis would have been cheaper.
So where was the South African experience? The South African experience lay in being mercilessly trounced by the host nation after it had done its best to make them feel alienated from all forms of life as they knew it. The South African athletes were used to running for their lives, jumping over unimaginable obstacles, and throwing hammers and other cultural weapons around in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. The visiting athletes had no such advantage.
To add insult to injury, the visitors were treated to banner headlines in the South African press that trumpeted: “Bafana Bafana Win Everything! Foreign Natives go home empty-handed!” as they were escorted by unsmiling armed guards back on to their planes after the so-called “games” had ended. “Games, my foot,” they must have thought as they flew back into the continent. “The Christians in Rome had an easier time against the lions.”
It is all such a shame, because there was a lot going on in Johannesburg for the visitors to participate in. They could have been forgiven for being totally unaware of the existence of the Arts Alive Festival, for example – firstly because the games organisers considered it too unsafe for them to venture out at night, and secondly because the festival itself went out of its way to keep its gems a secret from all but the most diehard lovers of art.
Some of Africa’s best artists were on show -the well-known ones like Salif Keita, but also the rarely glimpsed maestro Bheki Mseleku, and the powerful Jeune Ballet d’Afrique Noire out of Cte d’Ivoire.
WHY COULDN’T THESE TWO GREAT GATHERINGS OF THE CONTINENT’S FINEST -THE ARTISTS AND THE ATHLETES – HAVE BEEN MERGED INTO ONE EXTRAORDINARY FESTIVAL OF AFRICAN AND INTERNATIONAL TALENT, AN AFRO-PRIDE PARTY TO BLOW THE MINE DUST OFF THE CANYONS OF JOHANNESBURG? WE WILL NEVER KNOW.