The saddest thing about election mania being over is that I will miss seeing Msholozi sinuously gyrate to the ANC’s catchy election tune, ”ndizokuhlala ndi nje”. He is so agile for a man his age and I really do enjoy watching him sing and dance.
Other than that, I’m relieved election silly season is over. All the bickering and name calling was beginning to numb my brain. Now that it is over he can get on with the business of governing the country and the rest of us can get back to the real world of manoeuvring our way through this crippling financial crisis.
After weeks of being glued to the television to watch the latest election debates and poring over various publications for news and analysis of this pivotal election and talking about little else but politics — I was in dire need of a frothy dose of escapism. I found that in dollops in the form of The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, much to the amusement and chagrin of those around me. I’ve been chastised for choosing such a cumbersome and tedious read. There were even some not so veiled references to the fact that Austen died a lonely spinster! Despite being teased mercilessly for my book choice, I’ve spent the past few days revisiting those much-loved classics Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice.
Oh, to once again meet old friends like the sisters Elinor and Marianne in Sense and Sensibility and to re-acquaint myself with that woman of formidable character and strength Elizabeth and her insufferable mother Mrs Bennet in Pride and Prejudice made me sorely nostalgic for my childhood in the small town of Umtata, where there was little else to do but drown in books. But as a grown up I now find myself gravitating towards and looking with a fresh eye at the male characters in these novels. In my youth, the spinelessness of someone like Willoughby would’ve escaped me and Darcy’s pride and haughtiness might have appealed to me as an impressionable teenager. However, as a 30-year-old woman, reflecting on my own love life and that of a few friends, what has struck me about these male characters is how similar they are to many of the men to be seen around Johannesburg these days.
For those who missed that school lesson many years ago, Willoughby is that charming, amiable fellow who courts one of the Dashwood girls, Marianne. He devotes such attention to her so that no one is left doubting his intentions towards her and she likewise falls deeply in love with him. As was the practice in those days, it was assumed that they were practically engaged and an announcement in this regard was imminent …
Alas it was not to be. Willoughby, after endearing himself to all Marianne’s friends and family, beats a hasty retreat to London and is never heard of again. It later emerges that he has since become engaged to someone else of higher social ranking and wealth than Marianne — but who is as ugly as a well-worn shoe.
Marianne is left broken hearted; with egg on her face and desperately trying to explain to herself, her family and friends that she had not imagined Wilhougby’s attentions and indeed his intentions.
There seems to be a lot of that doing the rounds in Johannesburg. It happened to a good friend of mine recently. We used to call it the ”disappearing act” but it will now be referred to as the ”Willoughby”. My friend Linda was pursued by a lovely, interesting and handsome guy for a few months. Having been there when they met, we found him impressive and duly supported the relationship. They were so in love and the picture of happiness, but a few months later when they were supposed to spend a wonderful holiday together in Cape Town, he started mysteriously cooling off for no apparent reason. By the end of the holiday they were barely speaking and she returned to Johannesburg dumbfounded and heartÂbroken. Having experienced a similar ”disappearance” a while back, I sympathised but promptly advised that it was likely she would not see him or hear from him again. He did not disappoint. He has not been heard from since.
Such is the way that men decide they are no longer interested in you, they disappear. My brother once told me that men will never break up with you because they are too terrified to see the snot en trane such rejection would surely elicit. They will simply behave intolerably badly so that you end up breaking up with them. This ruse has always been easy enough to spot but this latest behaviour of simply disappearing is odd and, well, quite cowardly — why can’t you just tell us when it’s over? Or simply turn to those old, tried and tested lines such as: ”It’s not you, it’s me.” These days there isn’t even an attempt at such ingenuity — just a cold and inexplicable no show.
As the woman you are then left not just with the heartache of another failed relationship, but the added gloom of not knowing what went wrong or whether you imagined the way someone felt about you in the first place. It’s grossly unfair and I suspect it could trigger madness in those less self assured or without the necessary support from friends and family. Thankfully, Linda is now fine; although she remains resolute she will never subject herself to the inanity of dating again and would rather have an arranged marriage. Olive Schreiner once wrote: ”We cannot help love’s coming nor its going, but when it is gone, it is better to say so.”