The dress code, according to the perfumed invitation delivered by a trained whippet in silk livery, was ‘Black tie or traditionalâ€. Far away in a candlelit apartment, heavy with narcotic scents and littered with half-empty flagons of absinthe, a model named Chaz scratched his perfect hair, the stretch marks on his biceps glinting in the flames and asked his exhausted lover (then just clambering out of a crevasse in the mattress) what ‘traditional†meant. Her jaw muscles had seized some time earlier in the evening and she could only whimper. Right, thought Chaz. Black tie it is. And what a relief not to have to wear anything else. He’d have to get her to help him duct-tape his penis to his inner thigh, though: the fracas over the Admiral’s false eye had only just abated. Damn eye. Damn penis. He left his lover to sink back into the crevasse as he went in search of the tape and a half-chicken.
Elsewhere, others shared his concerns. Dress codes were fraught at the best of times: entire dynasties of shame could be spawned by a particularly unfortunate frock. Was it really worthwhile to risk the quagmire of a traditional ensemble, rank with exotic lines, rotten with colours of retina-singeing virulence, the whole ghastly getup always seconds away from ambushing its wearer with an avalanche of slithering, imploding and deflating fabrics?
But the alternative was too awful to entertain. To be seen in a little black knee-length Valentino, while the empowered floated past in their voluminous draperies, would be like being judged as suburban and white. They might as well arrive in the Volvo with Elsie in the dog-box at the back with the groceries making sure the milk didn’t fall over and spill.
And so it was, as the guests began trickling into the hotel’s lobby, that one understood that ‘traditional†is indistinguishable from ‘black tieâ€. Both are random appropriations of other times and other tribes, as traditional and indigenous as snuff movies. No doubt some tuxedoed whites and shrouded blacks rolled their eyes discreetly at the sight of white guests shuffling about sheepishly in what seemed to be the traditional garb of Senegal (something between an exaggerated pillowcase and collapsed theatre curtains); but these victims of sartorial political correctness were no more ludicrous than their critics.
To assume that a tuxedo is the appropriate formal garb for white South Africans is to assume that an Aston Martin is an appropriate means of transport for a monkey: It could work, but why would one ever want to try? But this hijacking of times and aesthetics threatened to be overshadowed by the impertinence and sheer revisionist chutzpah of those proudly South African ubuntu evangelists who wrapped themselves in the couture of West Africa.
Where were the breasts demurely criss-crossed with intricate beads and needlework? Where were the shawls and ceremonial staves and pipes and straw hats and blankets? Why was not even a faux leopard tail dangling below a nude, pendulous paunch? African heritage, it seemed, was a chance meeting in a Las Vegas nightclub between the casts of Priscilla, Queen of the Sahara Desert and Patrice Lumumba: The Musical.
Of course heritage can be a bit of a handful, and it was with relief that none of the whites brought the standard hereditary entourage: a span of 12 Afrikander oxen being led by a trusty Zulu called Jaap, dragging a covered wagon in the rear of which languished a passive-aggressive English naturalist squinting through the sights of an elephant gun, a small piece of field artillery referred to with deference as ‘Genesisâ€; plain Africanese women, their skin burnt dark and their religion bleached white by the African sun, shooting murderously pious glances at the roistering gals of Empire in the spluttering Model T alongside, taking a pinch of cocaine with their drinkies; while far in the rear stalks the black woman, Sindiswe or Johanna or Maria or Jy Kom Hierso, who was clambered over and through by the preacher or the blacksmith because she had to.
Perhaps we co-opt heritage because ours hasn’t been approved yet by Dr Phil. But maybe our gaze isn’t so much misdirected as averted, because we recognise the naive, important lies of nation-building: that we live in a society that tolerates unconditionally the beliefs and practices of everyone (except those who question the value of unconditional tolerance); that the voice of the people is heard, and so on. We know that celebrations of black heritage are vital and understand the implicit corollaries: celebrations of white heritage, Jewish heritage, even Zulu nationhood, are out of the question. For now.
The lies will serve their purpose, one hopes. And in the meantime Chaz is closing his eyes, gritting his teeth and getting ready to pull the tape off.