SA social media has lost it! Clear off its rocker. Not because Floyd Shivambu has finally come clean on his reasons to ditch the Seshego Red October. Or that Barack Obama serenaded a delirious Detroit crowd with a few Eminem bars (that’s a ‘rap verse’ to you, auntie Karen). These were pedestrian, it appears, compared to a certain Enigma. If that sounds like the moniker of some urban Messianic emissary you’re close enough. That’s precisely the impression it’s owner wants to convey.
In the golden era of the so-called ‘prosperity gospel,’ Brother Enigma’s meteoric rise in the ranks of up-and-coming charismatics is right up there with that famous wedding at Cana. The Son of Man, who walked on water, could manage but twelve followers. Enigma’s collective videos command a viewership in the million. His competitors warn their flock against him. Podcasters dedicate airtime to discuss him. One celebrity has even openly agreed with at least one of his views and the faithful hang on to his every word.
On one such video sermon, Enigma has said things like ‘Madiba magic…[was] delivered by the demons.’ That Jesus has personally sent him to warn the world [women in particular] against wigs [weaves], condoms, leggings and even that venerable tekkie fondly known in the townships as ‘Chuck Taylor’ – the pantsula’s All Star Converse.
Prosperity gospelers are notorious for always trying to out-televangelise and out-miracle one another from the gleaming pulpits in their megachurches. They spray insectides into the eyes of the faithful, bring an obviously living man snuck inside a coffin back to life (wish I was making this stuff up), still Enigma has become the new gospelman on the block. The Mbappa amongst the believers. And, here’s the stunner: All he needed to get there was TikTok. A few videos of him shared on the platform have turned an otherwise obscure man of cloth into a mini celebrity.
Herein lies the power of social media platforms. When YouTube came up with the slogan ‘Broadcast Yourself’ around the mid-2000s, it immediately infringed on the status quo. Opening up a portal of potential opportunities for users, its subsequent success hardly came as a surprise. Overnight, anyone with a camera, microphone, an internet connection and something to say could potentially say it to the 2.49billion users currently on that platform. (Yes! That’s a quarter of the world’s population).
Aspirant artists, actors, broadcasters etc., for decades hankering on that call from the record company or film studio could showcase their talents without a record deal or formal audition. The internet was their oyster. In no time the rags-to-riches stories abounded. Artists were discovered from their bedrooms. Street dancers received call-ups to big television talent shows. Ordinary teachers found themselves teaching to millions of learners they didn’t even know by name. Gamers, makeup artists, vloggers, chefs amongst many others of all ages, nationalities and cultures started coining it big-time. The platform had truly shrunk the world into a ‘global village’ and there was clearly a place for anyone with something worthwhile to present.
Although here at home the likes of the highly successful comedian Trevor Noah and the counter-culture music group Die Antwoord are amongst the celebrated stock, it is the lesser known (at least on mainstream media) we’d like to cast the spotlight on. Like Nadav Ossendryver whose wildlife videos posted on his channel have earned him an impressive following.
Or Tafire Deli, whose simple, low-budget, but rib-cracking skits have taken the Gqeberha-born hustler to dizzying social media heights. The initial plan was to become a mechanical engineer, but he didn’t have the stomach to upgrade his marks after Matric. Moving to Joburgh, he landed insignificant gigs as an extra on soap operas before he started to post videos of him initially impersonating the quirky side of black moms. These became an instant hit and the lacking end-of-school results didn’t really matter anymore.
With a plethora of similar success stories; from music producers who started out in dingy backrooms to bachelors whose single lifestyles turned them into mediocre but popular online cooks, what could be stopping those youths in our Karoo from at least giving it a go? Especially as far as acappella, choral and even rap music goes, there is no shortage of talent in these backwater streets. If the youth are the custodians of technology, why does it seem that – at least in Colesberg – they are laggards in the uptake of these alternative avenues? Could it be a matter of education, lacking access to equipment or just a matter of personal disinterest? It should be apparent by now that sitting and waiting for employment might lead to waiting for The Second Coming. And not even our Brother Enigma is unthinking enough to do that.