This is a story about the passion of Chris. Chris Mxenge, who has had a heavy cross to bear since he decided to become an artist. For which, he was forsaken by his father.
His father mentioned how successful his siblings were. He mentioned their 4X4s. He didn’t mention his twin brother who was in an overcrowded four-by-four for hijacking. Still, in his father’s house, there were many mentions.
He mentioned his politician brother. He mentioned his younger brother empowered by government contracts. He even mentioned his newly mink-and-manured sisters who had plenty of fur-by-furs. And yet, here was Chris, who would soon be standing at a robot with a piece of four-by-four cardboard, said his father.
This wasn’t the only time that Chris had been disowned. He once worshipped in the broad church of the anti-apartheid struggle. But then he became a heretic, choosing the distance of independence to be true to his calling: to proclaim truth, not dogma, insight not ideology, analysis rather than the party line.
And as he spoke his artist-speak, his spikes struck home in the uncomfortable breasts of his former comrades. Hurt became irritation. Irritation led to anger. And anger resolved in action. A gaggle of Pharisees was dispatched to invite Chris up the Mount (in fact, it was the Mount Nelson).
The Pharisees told Chris of the riches that could be bestowed upon him. He could be part of government delegations abroad. There were positions of influence in the arts to which he could be appointed. His story was ideal for a television documentary. And he wouldn’t have to write copy for another breakfast cereal ad ever again. ”Just get behind us, Chris,” they burped.
Chris looked at his steak, the first he’d had in months. He looked at the imported suits of the Pharisees. He looked at the waitron who was serving them with her hollow eyes, once a vibrant actress. Chris was sorely tempted.
Brushing them off with a ”Let me think about it,” Chris went abroad on an invited tour of Europe, Australia and North America and, like a prophet, picked up honours abroad that had not been bestowed upon him at home.
Opportunities presented themselves for him to remain in a foreign country. But Chris was passionate about his country. He was passionate about its people. Passionate about his art.
Having been fêted abroad, there was some media interest in Chris at home. In a widely published interview, Chris spoke of artists being crucified, sacrificed at the altar of political correctness, nailed for being a thorn in the flesh of the newly rich and powerful, beaten into submission by threats and the fear of the loss of paltry funding.
The Jews weren’t the problem. For they were in the theatres, the galleries and the bookshops. The problem was the Philistines, said Chris.
This was the final straw, the kiss of death. Betrayed by the once-were-comrades, Chris no longer got funding, no longer had people to work with, no longer had space for his art. His career as an artist was dead.
Some time later, Chris was resurrected as a tour guide. His father slaughtered the fatted calf. For the prodigal had returned.