Now that the “musical sewers” legislation is through Parliament, it’s interesting to watch which and where certain politicians are scuttling, their little pink tails twitching, as they cross the floor to their new drains. Not that there’ll be any scarcity of rancid crevices, fetid bogholes and reeking garbage tips where ambitious parliamentary rodents will feel
welcome. South African politics have always been of the foulest strain. There’s just too much wealth and profit to be had in this country, indeed in most of Africa. The continent would have been far better off as a profitless desert.
When it comes to floor-crossing, about the most closely watched of the runners is, of course, the Western Cape’s sensationally appalling new Premier, Marthinus “Kortbroek” van Schalkwyk. In a charitable moment I once described Mr Van Schalkwyk as having all the charisma of a deceased jockstrap. What I omitted to add was that, as stained and olfactorily repellent as that might be, he’s certainly kept his elasticity. Having the ability to stretch and fit snugly around even the most bloated of political genitalia is, today, a distinct advantage. You only have to look at the way Van Schalkwyk can change his shape to embrace one set of total balls on Monday and another completely different set come Thursday. There should be some sort of video released which juxtaposes Kortbroek’s opinions and undertakings in all their glorious technicolour hypocrisy. It would be a bestseller.
What the African National Congress must beware of, as Kortbroek comes “schalking” into their ranks is that, in many ways he’s doing what has all been done before. When you hear that favourite theme among transformation’s commentators, the caterwauling about hated European colonists, the constantly reiterated fury about all the sin and despair these accursed trespassers brought with them, you’d think that, in particular, the ANC would recognise Kortbroek for what he is: another Van Riebeeck, hell bent on fleecing the natives all over again.
True, Kortbroek is not of even the dodgy noble Dutch lineage that Van Riebeeck aspired to: had he been on the Dromedaris, Marthinus would have been more of a below-decks creature, a bilge-licker or someone who had to drag up and toss the scurvy victims overboard. But even bilge-lickers can dream and so, taking a leaf out of the original Van’s book, Kortbroek is already hard at it trying to buy off the guileless indigenes of the ANC with some decidedly worthless trinkets in the shape of promises of extra voices for the ANC in the Western Cape.
Blindly repeating the mistakes of 350 years ago, the ANC will happily accept all this unexpected benefice, but in their feverish gratitude they will, just like the Khoi-Khoi of the past, fail to look under the gift horse’s generous tongue. We all know what lurked there.
Kortbroek van Schalkwyk, already self-ensconced as the Cape’s new commander, is about to plant his first disgusting vegetables in Ebrahim Rasool’s back yard. And as we also all know, vegetable gardens have a way of taking over entire landscapes. Before Ebrahim can try to say “colonial rapacity” he’ll be swamped in Dutch turnips.
It is just possible that the ANC have taken note of a few other historical similarities. One of these is the lurking presence behind the hedge of the new vegetable garden of another pretender to power in the Cape, a musical descendant of a gifted clan of early karaoke worshippers called ex-MEC-ex-mayor-ex-premier Peter Marais. Just about everything about Peter Marais is ex. The only thing that isn’t is his libido, which is seldom in less than overdrive.
No sensible original inhabitant of the ANC should ignore Peter Marais, a man who has made of the “comeback” an art form. The ANC might think they can handle Kortbroek van Schalkwyk — notwithstanding his balcony of genetically modified National Party doctrines — but they will never be able to contain a Peter Marais should he make a bid for control. Better to do what Van Riebeeck did with Hottentot Herrie and dispatch Marais to Robben Island, this time with no boat carelessly left unattended so that he can escape.
Once Van Schalkwyk has firmly established his grubby prejudices in the undefiled soil of ANC policy, there will be further worries. Inevitably the “English” will come knocking, this time heavily disguised as a weird hybrid strain called “white liberals”, led by a whingeing remittance man called Tony the Leonheart and secretly financed by German robber barons. What follows will be indescribable.
I do hope the ANC takes note of what I have generously pointed out in this column. They say history never repeats itself, but to the thoughtful observer there is visible evidence that this time it might well do so.
All I can say to the ANC as they warmly embrace Kortbroek, closely followed, as a certain merry piper once was, by a bunch of enraptured vermin, is the old Jewish wish: I wish you well to wear them.
Archive: Previous columns by Robert Kirby