SHEEP & SAVIOURS
The Mail & Guardian’s series of first-hand accounts of the ANC’s national conferences through the eyes of insiders continues with another delegate update, this time from an ANC Women’s League ‘Pick-Me’, Primrose Mokonyane, who joined the movement to find a husband.
Comrade Bathabile Dlamini has the look of someone who refuses to put in her false teeth in the morning — perhaps because it allows her more space to fit her feet.
But, eish, her loose lips are not doing the ANC Women’s League any favours. In between checking out Soweto’s beauty salons, even I’ve seen men walking around the policy conference with Women’s League accreditation.
So it was only a matter of time before the counter-revolutionary media noticed it too, and started asking counter-revolutionary questions.
The Women’s League president’s admission to the Sunday Times that these men were there because, “sometimes we lose debates because we become emotional so now we want experts to argue,” is a real setback for feminism. I got so emotional my heart deflated faster than a Venezuelan boob job.
I mean, Comrade Dlamini didn’t even mention whether these delegates were single or not, so how am I supposed to guess whether any would be able to advance my revolutionary interests through marriage?
I joined the ANC 10 years ago and now, at the age of 28, this may be my last chance to ensure a feminist future by snagging a husband who can afford bottle service at the Saxonwold Shebeen.
With my looks deserting me faster than President Jacob Zuma’s family packing for Dubai, I’ve been hubby-hustling since Friday. I even woke up extra early to attend one of these Progressive Business Forum breakfasts that the ANC holds with the capitalists.
Economic Development Minister Ebrahim Patel was droning on about how essential it is that radical economic transformation includes government dealing with “corruption and allegations of state capture” when the whiff of cheap knock-off perfume tickled my nostrils.
I know it was some Eau de Ho because, in my pre-ANC days, that was all I could afford. Then this “febenist” (the blessedt) sits down next to me. I don’t know whether her weave was freshly scalped off one of the Gupta nieces, but damn, it was fine! As were her red-bottoms: Christian Louboutin totterers.
Pity about the sickly smell of garbage dump.
“Febenist” be like, “Where is the minister?” I pinch my nose at her faux-fur jacket and point at Patel. “Trick” be like, “No. Where is the finance minister?”
I raise an eyebrow and ignore her. She is WhatsApping furiously and looking around, searching for someone.
She grabs another goodie bag from an empty chair and stuffs the freebies into her knockoff Louis Vuitton bag. I steal a glance at her phone. Bless her, she’s been sext-ing Malusi Gigabyte. I didn’t see if “C.L.I.T” or “A.S.S” was requested by “Minister Gigaba” or whether he had sent pics of his national treasure, sadly. Although I doubt it, especially if he has been suffering a “technical recession” as most analysts have suggested.
It’s really tough working the feminist trenches at the ANC policy conference. Often, I feel like the only kind of feminism that exists here is premised on proximity to patriarchy. Not a bad thing, generally, but if there aren’t enough rich men to sidle up to, then you just know it’s gonna be a catfight.
If we need radical economic transformation, then we probably need radical gender transformation even more desperately.
The ANC can start the process by taking a resolution to ensure every one of its deployees in government become a polygamist — at least that way there would be enough men to go around. Then, onwards to free manicures and pedicures for the masses, plastic surgery and skin bleaching confirmed as essential services in the National Health Insurance package, and building Indo-African relations to ensure weaves of the most sublime strand.
Who said this conference wasn’t about policy?