(A quick and lightweight aside on a Sunday morning … not part of the ‘deep blue’ series, but bleak enough – I wouldn’t want to disappoint anybody.)
Mandela ailing in the last few days before Mangaung?
Perhaps the universe does have a sense of humour; one that delights in casual cruelties, sneering irony and a deep, dark and impenetrable sarcasm.
Are we facing the death of the universally beloved founder of the (now) great teetering edifice of the South African democracy just as the ANC elects Jacob Zuma for a second term as president?
Just because it is chance and random does not mean that we are not compelled, by out basic humanity, to seek hidden connections and meanings in such coincidence … or rather such impending coincidences.
When the gods smite the earth with earthquakes and floods and drought (as they are regularly wont to do), representatives of those gods have forever and always said through their thin lips: “Well, what do you think? If you behave like this of course he is going to be furious. Bring me a virgin and sharp knife, quickly!”
I can imagine the voluptuaries in the halls of the African National Congress (or at least those halls that the hoi polloi don’t get to see – where real power is bought and sold and bought again), wiping their plump, greasy hands as they push suddenly away from the laden centenary celebration tables, their sweaty faces shocked, goose liver shiny lips pursed in a meaty sphincter: “oh …. my … god!”
(Yes, yes, I know that in amongst the many thousands of Nkandla beneficiaries (and friends and family), assassins, warlords, desperately confused hoi polloi, drivers of large gleaming cars, meeting-chair-breakers, confused little old ladies who had meant to go to the church next door, rent-a-crowd members … and those who are only there for the tshirts and braai, there are several good people fighting the good fight, making famous last stands and that sort of thing. So I obviously don’t mean you have any goose fat to wipe off your faces or that you have plump, grasping little hands … that’s those others, at the top-table – who have spent more on liposuction in the last 5 years than you will earn in your lifetime – no, don’t get up, we know who you are. Glad to have cleared that up.)
The point is that it is going to be impossible not to think of Mandela’s death as some kind of inevitable yin to Mangaung’s yang (it works the other way around too.)
A slaughter of a whole reed dance of virgins will not appease these gods (which are nothing more than our ape brain need to impute narrative to randomness) but might make a few supporters of the Traditional Courts Bill feel pious.
To ridiculously (and messily) extend the religious metaphor: what god would pop snake or stones into our trusting mouths, open to receive meat and bread?
The trickster/Pan/Loki would do precisely that, just as he/she would take Mandela with the one hand and give us the Nkandla legacy cast in military grade bunker cement with the other.
Okay, now I am ready to read the Sunday papers.
2 thoughts on “Mandela and Mangaung – the fearful symmetry”
You paint a gorgeous picture – I can’t help comparing it with, is it Leonardo da Vinci’s, “Last Supper” whereafter the only guy with a poor score in emotional intelligence dramatically changed the course of the ship (Titanic?!). At Mangaung the ratio of poor to adequate-good-excellent emotional intelligence, as you so eloquently point out above, is going to be somewhat different.
Although a number of freedom-fighters stated that they were prepared to die for their vision of freedom in South Africa, it is tragic that any man, or woman, should see their life’s work macerated in just a few short years, and, eventually, go to the grave with that awareness fresh in their minds, if and when, that is indeed the case.
Kind regards, and please keep the posts coming.
There is a clear, perverted symmetry between dying for freedom and dying for foie gras. What surprises me is that Nic wrote that before reading the papers. Breakfast must have been hell.