Author Tinyiko Maluleke makes a valid case about our country during the dark apartheid years, and of the difficulties of misgovernance we continue to fac
In Faces and Phases of Resilience: A Memoir of a Special Kind, Tinyiko Maluleke writes lucidly, turning words in every page into narrative jewels of beauty and precision which evoke pathos that sinks one’s heart into dark moments of sadness — and anger — to have been born in apartheid South Africa, even as there may also be ample evidence that the new democratic land knows no better.
Making such allusions as the opening paragraph of the book paints, is no exaggeration. The writer’s words are a reflection of what Mzansi has become, missing opportunities of greatness, with its leaders obsessed with ill-gotten wealth, instead of focusing on empowering people through leadership excellence.
The insinuations of poor governance are well thought through, as they are well canvassed — and these, to the credit of the author, are supported by valid and cogent arguments and observations.
So even if we want to complain that the author has gone overboard, there is very little ammunition to rebut his points and observations about the past and present. The assertions are borne out by hard irrefutable historical facts.
The insatiable appetite for graft and corruption continues to manifest in all tiers of government even as there may be discernible green shoots that could cause us to justly celebrate the new constitutional democratic order.
As it should be, Maluleke devotes a few pages to pique the reader’s interest with background information. He spells out how it all started, and who the motivator for developing a palate for letter writing was, stating the honour belonged to his “illiterate grandmother”.
There will be 49 chapters to be read to finish the biographical essays. There is a wide range of personalities, some iconic and famous, and some lesser known, but all contributing to creating a great compendium of story-telling, illuminating his biographical characters with great dexterity and skill.
I note that all the characters matter a great deal to him, for if they did not, they would not have formed part of his “memoir of a special kind” told as honestly as he does.
Among all the characters Maluleke has chosen to amplify his narrative, prominent figures such as Michelle Obama, Desmond Tutu, Nelson Mandela, Imtiaz Sooliman, Thabo Mbeki, Sam Nzima, Hugh Masekela, Andries Tatane and last, but not least, himself, add to the colour of the book.
In a chapter talking about himself, he imagines his imminent death, mostly because of the intensifying xenophobic streak that has invaded the country.
If your skin tone is extraordinarily dark, and your language is described by the “purists” as out of line with what is generally accepted as a local dialect, you might suffer the ignominy of death, even a cruel death by necklace — an extrajudicial summary execution method reserved for “suspected apartheid informers”.
This practice was rife in the 1980s, less now. Its targets were routinely set alight, with a petrol-drenched tyre placed and lit around their necks, to die excruciatingly painful deaths because they were thought of or seen as apartheid collaborators.
How can South Africa save itself from this xenophobic scourge, deepened by the government’s inability to create an environment in which all people of this country lead peaceful lives.
Maluleke, in his chapter, The Day I Die, alludes to this reality — its possibility. He writes: “Will I make a last-ditch effort to escape — dashing through the crowd like a mad bull only to invite a rain of kicks, stabs and beatings? Eventually engulfed in the vibrant flames, will I do the Ernesto Nhamuave dance — the death dance of the Mozambican man who was burnt to death in May 2008?
This, I think, represents, and maybe a metaphor, for the violent country we have inherited, where human life, and its dignity, is sacrificed at the altar of racial prejudice.
What is the solution? How does the country looking down the precipice, on the brink of political disaster, save itself from abomination?
Maluleke, in his own imaginary think-tank institutionalised mindset, chooses the person of Imtiaz Sooliman, founder of the Gift of the Givers, as a typical example of a leader who can save South Africa from political implosion.
He writes that the country’s national dreams are evaporating, with its leaders “sitting on the heap of our unconsummated development goals, rummaging through the dumping sites where our decaying and derelict national hopes lie abandoned”, and wondering what value to attach to a free land with one of the best Constitution in the world, yet unable to yield the fruits Mandela envisaged — the fruits of functional governance envisaged in the country’s Constitution.
Maluleke envisages “a deep leadership crisis” accompanied by “[d]ysfunctional and frequently collapsing coalition governments, producing a high turnover of mayors, with little improvement in service delivery”.
He adds: “South Africans are slowly realising that we need to give up the search for the next Mandela, both because s/he does not exist and, in fact, maybe we don’t need such a leader at this time.”
If we don’t need a Mandela, what do we need?
Maluleke suggests we need a Sooliman-type of leadership, arguing that “political leadership has been greatly overrated … so have political parties”, adding “we should first go to civil society and to the NGO sector before we go to the politicians”.
“We need a system that makes political parties optional and dispensable”, and in his cabinet, Sooliman would need to include academics and thought leaders such as Nomalanga Mkhize, Tshilidzi Marwala, Quarraisha Abdool Karim, Gloria Serobe and Tembeka Ngcukaitobi.
Next, what are we going to make of the chapter titled, The Country We Are Losing?
He writes that “the few remaining consciences” have been “seduced by the sweet aroma of state power and its seemingly bottomless war chest …”
When the sloppy presidential tenure of Jacob Zuma ended — a presidency that should not have been — President Cyril Ramaphosa ascended power.
Maluleke writes about the country that had been shortchanged by Zuma’s presidency, suggesting that the Thuma Mina theme would strike a chord with the populace, and would inspire the resurgence of the ANC from its political leadership slumber.
In the end, whether South Africa will see light and be associated with freedom and all that accrues from it, the author doubts it.
Instead, he sees “the gangrene of malfeasance spreading rapidly in the country’s body politic, deadening the senses, numbing the pain, blunting the few remaining consciences”.
Yet Maluleke’s book is one of hope and restoration, struggling to come to terms with the people’s aspirations of a better life.
Real life stories, told in an irrepressible style, are gems spiced generously with politics, and some are reflective of what the future holds for South Africans.
Some essays, though light-hearted, are sorrowful. They serve as a gentle critique, a reminder that the value of life could be better protected if leaders in all tiers of government serve the people who elected them to power rather than their own self-serving interests.
One hopes highly paid government officials buy the book so that they know what ought to happen in the country to make our democracy succeed. It is also a good read
.Faces and Phases of Resilience: A Memoir of a Special Kind by Tinyiko Maluleke is available from all major bookstores and online marketplaces. Jo-Mangaliso Mdhlela is an independent journalist, social justice activist, former trade unionist, and an Anglican priest.