A letter to my dear friends overseas who have been calling, emailing and texting to find out if I’ve survived the recent South African political meltdown.
First, thank you — especially to those who cared enough to pick up the phone and call. I note without comment that those who emailed and texted are the same ones who forgot my birthday.
To those who posted on Facebook the four letters of rabid concern, “r u ok”, I’ve sent this letter to you in error. But if you must know, yes, I’m all right, thanks.
It’s been a strange few weeks. And years from now, whatever the future brings, South Africans will talk about where they were that Saturday when President Thabo Mbeki resigned.
I was at Moyo. The one at Zoo Lake in Johannesburg.
It’s this African-themed restaurant where smiling, singing, dancing natives wearing feathered headdresses wash your hands with rose-petalled water and bring you great big platters of McAfrican food.
It’s very pretty under the trees, if you don’t mind half-digested mulberries raining on you from the bums of birds above.
They make a very good mojito, and friends and I are ordering our seconds when the call comes from another friend, an always-grumpy friend, one we haven’t invited.
“Mbeki says he’s going to resign.”
This is a little embarrassing, since I’d been saying to the same friend the day before: “There’s no way his term will be cut short. That’s ridiculous.”
“So,” says the friend, “is this it? Is this the start of the falling apart?”
“Our democracy isn’t falling apart,” I say. “That’s ridiculous.”
I tell the table the news. There’s a short silence. The drinks arrive.
“Everything’s going to be OK,” somebody says.
We don’t believe it. We are a frightened people, us suburbanites.
I consider leaning over to the strangers at the table next to us –two ageing powder-puff girls, gulping back oysters and pink champagne. I decide not to spoil it for them.
At 6.55pm, back home, I’ve turned the TV on. I’m switching between SABC3 and e.tv, waiting for the news. I want to see this for myself.
7pm. The horns. The animated globe. The News.
Flaming rocks fall from the sky! Children cry in the streets! News personalities scream, arms in the air! Running in stage left, out stage right! In stage right, out stage left! Morgan Freeman stares straight into the camera and says, sturdy, unblinking: “Life will go on, we will prevail.”
I’ve switched to the movie channel by accident.
Back to e.tv.
So this is what panic looks like. This is what the biggest news opportunity of the year –one of the biggest of any newsperson’s career –looks like when a story dares to break on a Saturday afternoon.
Who wants to go into work on a Saturday afternoon?
The words are there.
“A watershed day.”
“Among the most dramatic hours in South African political history.”
“The biggest challenge South Africa has faced since apartheid.”
But six minutes in, they’re talking about something else. Should I panic now? How am I supposed to tell when over the bottom fifth of the screen, right below the economic tickers, there’s a promo banner for the Rob Schneider movie, The Hot Chick?
Only on e.tv at 8pm.
SABC3’s news even manages to close with a cute little tailpiece about an air show. (There’s always a cute little tailpiece about an air show. Or a baby panda being raised by a kindly houseplant.)
Back on e.tv, it’s the Showbiz Report. Michelle McLean is telling us how excited she is to not have to travel all the way to London to buy a Burberry coat. They’ve opened a store right here in South Africa.
Thank God! Thank God for Burberry. Everything is going to be OK.
And then it’s Monday and I’m in Rosebank Mall. What’s that? The sound of chanting in the distance.
Stamping of feet.
Is this the start of the bloody revolution? Right here? In the mall?
I can see it on the faces of my fellow shoppers as we step cautiously towards the disturbance: is this it? The chickens come home? The have-nots rising up?
Well, sort of. It turns out to be a small group of Woolworths workers protesting about something. Whatever it is, I’m sure they have it all wrong. I’ve seen that banner in the store: Woolworths is “International Responsible Retailer of the Year 2008”.
Luckily, the protesters are done by three. My fellow shoppers and I quit ambling in the surrounding boutiques and head straight in to grab our tubs of organic fat-free yogurt, now also gelatin-free.
When do we panic, really? Will there be a time when the workers don’t stop chanting at three? How long can they keep us from our Woollies? What will we eat?
What if this Zuma guy gets uppity ideas in the lumpen heads of the lumpen masses? He sings and dances too.
But no, I’m not panicking. We’re fine for now. And, just in case, we’re stocking up on tinned food, the way we did in ’94. Only this time, it’s the gourmet stuff.
Besides, we’re behind our high walls and electric fences, in our SUVs. Some of us even have Hummers — a homeless person will bounce right off one of those babies without even scuffing the shine.
Till soon, friends. Do visit. I’ll take you out to Moyo. Get a taste of what Africa’s like.
Your friend,
Lev.