The fact that the African National Congress’s 51st National Congress was being held in the Huguenot heartland of Stellenbosch, and in the DF Malan Memorial Centre in particular, has been held up as a sign of the vigorous transformation that has swept through South Africa in the past 10 years. The president himself made reference to this in his opening report to the congress, acknowledging that the ANC’s presence in this formerly most segregated of towns, on a campus that had previously dedicated itself to the honing of apartheid’s best strategists, in a hall named after one of the key architects of that detailed system of segregation, was indeed a milestone.
Certainly the arrival of hundreds of luxury coaches, buses, taxis and private
vehicles bringing thousands of mainly black delegates from all parts of South Africa and observers from all over the world into the town was something to behold.
But on the morning of the opening of the conference, as these thousands of delegates were streaming towards the carefully sealed-off grounds around the venue, the citizens of Stellenbosch were doing their best to ignore them. White women far too old to be exposing themselves in brightly coloured spandex and lycra cycling shorts were jogging determinedly through the quaint back streets, keeping their eyes firmly on the pavement, their dogs trotting along on leashes at their sides. And in the town itself, life went on as usual, with men, women and children of Khoi and Khoisan descent breaking out packets of fish and chips on the sidewalks, and the liquor shops doing a steady trade in spite of the fact that it was a public holiday.
For their part, I am not sure the delegates were very interested in the fact that they were gathered in one of the most beautiful spots on the planet, with distant, craggy mountains huddling protectively around the town and neatly laid out vineyards spreading through the surrounding valleys and up onto the slopes.
They had not come to this place to admire the beauty or breathe in the crystal air, nor had they come to dawdle along the wine route. They had come to sit in a hot hall to listen, sing, vote and go home.
The hall was certainly filled to more than capacity, with delegates on the floor and leadership on the stage uniformly dressed in yellow or black T-shirts. If this heaving sea of colour is anything to go by, you cannot deny that the ruling party is a disciplined organisation.
There was not even a flash of blood-red T-shirts and black bandanas in some obscure corner of the hall to betray where the infamous ultra-left might be biding their time.
The whole hall went along obediently as the party chairperson asked them to rise and sing the anthem.
As far back as I can remember, the ANC’s anthem used to be the full version of Nkosi Sikelel’iAfrica, followed by Morena Boloka. If there was anything red going on in that hall that morning, it was my face blushing with embarrassment when the whole congress neatly slipped into Die Stem, while I continued to belt out the Enoch Sontonga at the top of my lungs. From the way disapproving eyes were staring at me all round as I hastily tried to cover up my transgression, humming along unconvincingly to what I thought was the tune of Die Stem, I began to wonder if it was possible that I was in fact an ultra-leftist and had never realised it. I would have to keep a close eye on myself from now on.
In any case, I kept my head down during the musical renditions that inevitably followed, not wanting to be caught out a second time.
I watched carefully as the whole hall rose to its feet after the next set of announcements and started singing a song in praise of ANC president Thabo Mbeki. This is standard practise in the movement, showing strength in unity.
Eventually even the leadership on the platform was responding to the crowd’s lead, leaping to their feet and joining in the singing and clapping.
The only person who didn’t get to his feet was the president himself. He was having an animated conversation with Deputy President Jacob Zuma, until Zuma too felt that he couldn’t remain aloof from the singing throng. The president was left sitting all by himself at the top table, unwilling or unable to join in the general jubilation. What did this mean, I asked myself?
But there was more going on on stage if you looked closely. Why were senior ministers Essop Pahad and Ronnie Kasrils out of step with the rest of the hall, pretending to sing along lustily but missing every beat, clapping their hands way out of sync with everyone else? Was this a racial thing, I wondered, or was there something more sinister hidden behind this disruptive body language? If they were so out of step with the rest of the congress, did it mean that they were ultra-leftists, too?
Before I could jump to any rash conclusions, the crowd was sitting obediently again and the president was up on his feet at the podium, delivering the presidential report.
The speech was long and uneventful, until former president Nelson Mandela, having been delayed by bad weather in Umtata, tried to sneak unobtrusively into the hall after the president had been talking for almost two hours.
Trying to sneak Mandela unnoticed into anywhere is like trying to sneak an aircraft carrier into the line-up for the Henley Regatta. The crowd broke ranks and started singing in praise of Madiba, obliging Mbeki to break his speech until the pandemonium had died down.
By this time I had stopped trying to read hidden messages into the musical chairs of the congress. You could never say that Madiba’s disruptive behaviour was part of a conspiracy of the you-know-what. But then again, you never know.
John Matshikiza is a fellow of the Wits Institute for Social and Economic Research
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