Sunday, 26 May. Three days before Colesberg heads to the polls and it’s do or die for the local ANC. And, at least one final score to settle, one more point to prove. Malema’s shindig! Though it drew a modest crowd, still left a bitter taste in the mouths of diehard punters. At the time, it seemed everybody was caught unawares – shocked even – to have any ready answers at hand. Juju appeared like an apparition and vanished just as quickly.
But there’s since been enough time to regroup, head back to the drawing board and think up the counter of all counters. So the guns have gradually been drawn, mostly on social media. Back and forth. Thankfully no blood on the floor just yet. No midnight torchings of property. No barricades and burning tyres. Just threads of bickering, online posts and status updates laced with innuendo and the occasional insult to drive the point home. Understandable. We are, after all, down to the wire.
Malema’s supporters condescendingly dubbed theirs as the day the red forces marched down on Colesberg and turned everything on its head. ‘Sizojik’ izinto,’ – we will change things – and all that. This, according to the red brigade, was the day the ruling party were touched in their own studio. Upstaged in their own back yard. Told pasop, your days are numbered.
Khongolose was having none of it. The cheek. Desecrating a town where occassionally coffins are enrobed in the green, black and gold. (They might as well have gone full-blown DA and incinerated the party flag). Here, women often attend church in ANC Women’s League regalia. Struggle songs are a ubiquitous soundtrack on the soccer field, or on the zig-zag trundle from a night out, or amongst youngsters loitering out on the kerb.
Malema couldn’t be let off the hook. He had to be shown who’s the sheriff in this town. Or the Don Corleone. Bosses simply can’t let these things slide. Never. So they had to pull out all the stops. Payback time for the disrespect. There would be no holds barred, not a cent spared, not a single supporter forgiven for sitting out the massive show of force where impressive bikes were called to action from far and wide.
And so the blaring hooters sounded the clarion call. The big-engine bikes cracking into a thunderous roar. Lorries; load beds teeming with yellow-tshirt-clad singing and jubilant humanity. Loud enough to muffle Dan Tshanda, that deceased virtuoso of Shangaan music that this writer sat enjoying on a sun-soaked Karoo afternoon. Today, everybody would have to wait, take the backburner.
The ANC was here to remind everybody that they were still calling the shots. That they run the show and tenders and housing projects and you best never forget that. As far as numbers go, at least to those who’ve witnessed these pre-29 May showdowns, they clearly had the lion’s share. Nothing here to suggest anything less than a majority vote. Given the motorcade afterparty, nothing said that the leadership are shook. The usual good malts and imported beer were flowing as per the norm. Cheers…ag, Amandla cadre!
Tuesday 28 May. The various party operation centres are a hive of activity. ‘Various’ in Kuyasa actually really means ‘two’ – those of the EFF (fewer in numbers and meals) and ANC (larger, lots of food to go around). No prizes which of the lot appear happier, fatter and sing louder. The special votes are underway and the singing serves to remind the elderly and infirm exactly where their X should go.
Outside the Umsobomvu Municipality, an IEC official tells us, the EFF’s party agents are keeping an excessively paranoid eye on proceedings. They don’t trust anybody. Especially employees of the municipality. Not even the numbered seals on the ballot boxes is enough to ease their worrying. So much so that they vow to sleep outside the municipality tonight, just to make sure.
A few unsmiling words uttered, but no bloody noses just yet. The cops haven’t over-exerted themselves. But the casspirs lingering around send a strong message: just try us, we dare you! Unfamiliar vehicles these, except during political shutdowns, protests and of course, elections. As for the residents: it’s business as usual. It being a public holiday tomorrow, the watering holes are fuller than on a usual Tuesday evening. Red and yellow t-shirts intermingle, so evidently no love lost. It’s the platteland after all, no inkabi hitmen here ’cause everybody knows everybody’s else’s mother.
Wednesday 29 May. D-Day! Surprisingly, it’s not the music that rouses a sleepy Kuyasa Township around 5am but the (here we must confess) reliable, doting municipal rubbish collecting truck. Election or not, the heavily-booted footsoldiers tasked with keeping the town clean are on duty. Just as on any other day. And on time.
Salute!
With the rising sun, the music has started blaring from a plethora of speakers. At every nook, cranny, stoep and speakeasy. A recurring theme it would seem, music. Emotive struggle songs like the one about Solomon Mahlangu ‘a soldier of Mkhonto weSizwe who was murdered by the Boers in Africa.’ Also the battle cry girde about ‘not wanting cowards or sellouts or the weak of heart, we want the soldiers of Tambo.’ The liberation card: never forget what things were like. Vote wrong at your own peril. Thirty years on, it’s way too familiar.
And as is custom, when there’s music, the booze and dance is always just a sip away. The ice-cold Black Labels look enticing, so too the smiling full-figured ladies … but there’s a story to file. It’s been five years of ranting for us pundits and today will either absolve our silly musings or call out our BS.
And so off we go scouring the enclaves of Kuyasa in search of a third, fourth or however many of the 50-odd parties on the national ballot we can lay our eyes, or lens on. It’s a mission. By all appearances this seems like a two-man show. Or maybe it’s what we’ve been saying all along: never mind what the polls say, truth is, race and such other short-sighted impediments still count big-time in rural South Africa. We knew we’d probably find a few others in ‘town’ but in Kuyasa we’d thrown in the towel.
And so turning the last corner into town, what do you know? Like some wise Bhikku sat contemplative atop of what used to be a small koppie, there he is: old but upright in his blue DA t-shirt, we find seemingly the proudest of all the party’s township supporters. He’s basking in the sun, taking in the buzz which he’s part of, if only in spirit as the bones don’t allow for any fast movements these days. Now we can take succour in the knowledge there will be more of them out there. More parties that is.
Yes! That’s our initial reaction as the Patriotic Alliance, Freedom Front Plus and Democratic Alliance gazebos grow large before our eyes. Democracy in action, no fights, no shoving. Eish! Then I’m soon brought back down to earth by our colleague, Jasper Cook on our associate site, Toverview. As an artist’s artist, Mr Cook is one of those rare finds who calls it as he sees it. His writing (which I think could make it anywhere) has delved on these issues and as I stand at the corner of Kerkstraat and some other street, suddenly there, everything he’s written about the political landscape stares me in the face.
The PA looks coloured, the DA white, so too the FF+, the EFF is black and there I stand; can’t but think how the more these things change the more they seem like 50 years ago (yea yea a bit of a reach, I know). Still stupidly outdated. No point complaining now, though. It is what it is. Frustrated, I wanted to put away the pen, file the story and just hole myself up and await the results. After all, there really was nothing new for the readership. Not even a scandal. Until a buddy picked me up and unwittingly pointed something out: the posters on the streetlights.
Notice, he said, how they’ve suddenly grown larger.
Huh?
The ANC ones, look!
So what, I asked? Turns out quite a bit. According to BusinessTech; ‘Posters may not exceed 0,9m x 0,6m (AO and the main lettering height must be at least 50mm).’ My buddy was certain that the new ANC placards, put up some few days earlier were in contravention of the law. A last minute sly move like the president allegedly scoring himself some airtime on the national broadcaster. The DA has since filed with the courts on that score, hoping Ramaphosa will personally fork out a R200 000 fine and forfeit at least one percent of his party’s vote.
I doubt The First Citizen billionaire would care much about the R200 000. He had more stashed in a couch at one point. The ‘one percent’ pound of flesh would be a first in the country, meaning no legal precedent – just one huge open door for appeals and re-appeals in the courts. But by then the party would likely be in power, so ja…
As for the posters, told my friend in order to be a reporter worth his salt, first I’d need a ladder and measuring tape. Until then, I make no comments, no claims; just hobble back home to file another South African story. Sadly, the next will only be in five years time. Hope, by then, my fellow countrymen will have what they were voting for today.