So there I was, desperately trying to formulate my new year’s resolutions, and the cellphone kept signalling yet another generic SMS-wish. ”May you have peace, joy, love, shoo and wow in 2004” beeped the overworked Nokia, like a cash register on Christmas Eve. While many bemoan what the ”festive season” does to their waistlines, the cellphone companies are certainly not complaining about what it does for their bottom lines. Yebo gogo, c 4 yourself when your next bill arrives, and then say hello to a future of selling off the family silver to pay for the temporary satisfaction of having wished your address book a happy New Year.
There are numerous events lined up that could determine just how happy a new year we actually have. There’s the United States presidential elections that — whether we like it or not — impact on international stability, world peace and the credibility of The West Wing. There are our own elections that will give concrete content to the celebrations of 10 years of local democracy, and for which we should be grateful since we don’t seem to give a stuff about its absence elsewhere. There’s the announcement of the host country for the 2010 Soccer World Cup taking place in the same year of the Athens Olympic Games — the one that got away from Cape Town. And then there’s the announcement of the new Springbok coach (after yet another coach did not make it through the Arrive Alive campaign, taking a few passengers with it).
On the arts front, there’s the — er, um — chance that after last year, things can’t possibly get any worse on the governance, policy and leadership fronts, which gives cause for an optimistic new year, no?
So let the 2004 games begin! Saddam Hussein doing the high jump. Osama bin Laden doing the 100m sprint. Still. George W Bush and Tony Blair again insisting on their new event — a treasure hunt for weapons of mass destruction — despite no one wanting to play with them. Manto in the African potato-and-spoon race. Mugabe and Aristide in the anti-democratic marathon, with South Africa playing a seconding role. Ariel Sharon and Yasser Arafat doing the three-legged race. Essop Pahad and Evita Bezuidenhout doing the tango.
One thing I have resolved to do this year is to support more South African art. A publisher mentioned that 3 000 sales for a book would put it in the local bestseller category. Three thousand? In a country of 40-million? What a depressing thought. I’ve just read Njabulo Ndebele’s novel, The Cry of Winnie Mandela, one of the more challenging gifts from Santa. How are our writers supposed to make a living? Of course, there’s always the possibility of the book being promoted by Oprah on to the international bestseller lists, or being adapted into a movie, or being a milestone on the road to a Nobel Prize for literature. But for most writers, the best that they can hope for is enough royalties to pay for the postage of their next application to the National Arts Council for a writing grant.
Now what if we all resolved, each month, to purchase one book by a South African author or buy tickets to a South African play, dance, movie or concert, or purchase a CD by a South African musician? The readers of this newspaper alone would be responsible for the creation of a number of ”bestsellers”. Go on, surprise yourself. See how good our musicians, writers, actors, visual artists, choreographers and filmmakers really are. And surprise others. Give them the gift of South African creative works. For their birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, for passing matric (some of them can read), for returning to the country, for whatever.
So, in this year of our democratic decade, support freedom of expression: buy South African art. And help to eradicate poverty. By supporting a South African artist. Monthly. This, I would venture, is a lot more manageable than the perennial new year’s resolution about going to gym three times a week. And it would cost less.