Angry African on the Loose

Here we go again…

1. The Long and Winding Road

Well, it’s not only the scientists who are all getting hot under collar with the global warming thing. It seems as our beloved veggie, Paul McCartney, decided to go all green as well. I guess green makes sense after losgina few to the one-legged wonder heathen Heather Mills. She took a few green ones off him. Okay, I am not a huge McCartney (or Beatles) fan. Especially not Sir Paul. Anyone trying to force tofu and soya down my throat better run fast. But this time he got the pale people vegetarians greenies all worked up for all the wrong reasons. He bought a hybrid. Okay, not actually bought one - got it for free from Lexus. They are not pissed because he got it for free. Nah, it is interesting that those who have will get more, but that’s not the reason. No. Sir Pale Paul got his hybrid flown in all the way from Japan… A bit of an environmental footprint hey? The equivalent of driving it 300 times around the earth. I’m not bugged, I say just Let It Be.

2. Libya liberated

It is official. Libya is back on the good side of life. Yes, the country called Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya, but known to close friends as just plain old Libya, is now officially the place to be. Okay, not really official, but still - the signs are there that it is the in place right now. No Gaddafi didn’t hand out oil for free or open a Arab Disney. Actually, I don’t know why they are the place to be. I just know they are. Just the other day they caught 240 illegal immigrants hanging around the beaches at Tripoli. Must be the weather. Can’t be that they were trying to get into Italy by any chance. I mean really. Italy? Why the hell would you want to do something like that? You know how I feel about Italy…

3. Flip-flop, here we go… again

Question to Presidential candidate: “Do you think that American diplomats should be operating the way they have in the past, working with the Palestinian government if Hamas is now in charge?”

Presidential candidate answered: “They’re the government; sooner or later we are going to have to deal with them, one way or another, and I understand why this administration and previous administrations had such antipathy towards Hamas because of their dedication to violence and the things that they not only espouse but practice, so . . . but it’s a new reality in the Middle East. I think the lesson is people want security and a decent life and decent future, that they want democracy. Fatah was not giving them that.”

So McCane would be all over your… hum… backside it you said that right? I mean come on. Obama shouldn’t be saying things like that. Talking to extreme governments. It should just not be done by an American President. What? Obama didn’t say that? Oh… McLame said that… Just 2 years ago. Maybe it is his age catching up. I can understand that. He can’t even remember where he put his teeth last night. Or his comb-over hair. Sad thing is. People will swallow this and vote for the man. I think it is Kool-Aid. Or could be stupidity.

4. Monster sue Monster sue Monster sue Monster…

So you are just playing a nice game of mini-golf and when you think to yourself. I should really get cable from these guys. It must be the blue lights getting you all confused and the putter feels a bit like a remote control. Now, you must be pretty stupid to confuse mini-golf with cable right? No - I don’t mean watching Caddyshack on the box. I mean thinking that a mini-golf outfit will sell you cable on the side. Stupidity knows no end. Monster Cable is suing Monster Mini Golf because of copyright infringement. WTF? My question exactly. But it’s okay. They’ve also sued Discovery over their Monster Garage series. And Monster.com. And Disney for Monster Inc. And the Red Sox for Monster Seats on the… Green Monster. I guess they are hoping for a Monster payout. Keep dreaming guys. Acting like Monsters, sorry little “m” - monsters, won’t get you much sympathy. I’ll sue if you dare register Angry Monster on the Loose. Monster! Monster! Monster! monsters. Now, let’s sit back and wait to get sued.

5. Stopping poverty at the door

I think this Samuelson dude (sorry, Robert J. Samuelson) needs to get back to university. Start reading Logic 101 instead of The Economist. I think he might be conservative. Hear him out. “Finally, let’s discuss poverty. Everyone is against it, but hardly anyone admits that most of the increase in the past 15 years reflects immigration — new immigrants or children of recent immigrants. Unless we stop poor people from coming across our Southern border, legally and illegally, we won’t reduce poverty.” Hum… Dude. I apologize. That is way logic. You will reduce poverty by letting less poor people in. Hum… Dude. I really don’t know what to say. Maybe you should become Mac’s economic adviser. Your sense of economics makes about as much sense as his views on war, torture, foreign policy, Hamas flip-flop, Sonny & Cher, (sorry, Sunni & Shiite), gas prices and his comb-over. Here’s another few pieces of logic Mr Smartypants - stop the killing by stopping the war or stop the dying by giving people health-care or stop the bigotry by giving people equal rights or stop the pain by stopping the torture or stop global warming by stopping the oil. Puh-lease. As if you have the balls or logic to do that.

That’s it folks. See ya later. And have a great, great weekend.

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Just heard the great news that Oscar Pistorius - the fastest man on no legs - will be able to run at the Olympics! The Court of Arbitration for Sport ruled that he is eligible to race against able-bodied athletes, overturning a ban imposed by the International Association of Athletics Federations. Here is the story I wrote about him a few months ago. He is one amazing guy. An inspiration to us all. And a proud South African. Run Oscar! Run!

Run , baby, run

Get ready for the big race. This is the finals baby. An Olympic medal awaits. This is his chance. This is the Olympics. This is his Olympics. He is a racing machine. He is ready. This is what he has been working for. This is what he has been training for day in and day out. Come sun or rain, he was there. Training and training and training. Eating his pasta when he wanted a burger. Nibbling a salad when his body wanted sweets. And then some more training. Training and running until his lungs burnt and his legs hurt.

No wait. At least the part of the legs that he does have will hurt. You see, he doesn’t have legs that goes all the way down. He was born with a few key bones missing. And they had to chop off his legs just below his knees. But just a few years ago he decided he wanted to run. And boy could he run. Run like the wind. He broke every record for those without legs. He became the man amongst big men. He was the superstar amongst heroes.

He ran on blades made just for him - the Blade Runner. And he ran so fast they called these blades “cheetah” blades. He was as fast as a cheetah on the hunt. And, well, the blades looked a bit like cheetah back legs. But now they are saying that his “cheetah” blades make him run like a cheater.

Let’s stop there for a minute. He is too fast running on his sticks? Are they are worried that he might be too fast for those with only two working legs? Are you serious? Have you actually seen this guy running? Here, have a look. Notice how he is about 10 meters behind the other guys when they start off? His “legs” hold him back because there is no thrust to push back. No calf mussles to help him jump at the start. Did you also notice that he has to swing his legs out a bit because he does not have the natural swing of the other guys with their luxury knees and legs? Doesn’t look that comfortable does it? Doesn’t look like he has the smooth running style of the “leggies”, does it?

But who are you going to believe? Your own eyes or science? Some mad German scientist (weird hair an all I assume) decided that our man Oscar Pistorius runs better than the “leggies”. That he has an advantage over them. The swing is the problem you see. According to the German punk professor our man has an advantage over “leggies” when he makes this swing as it gives him a bigger stride. And the problem is? The other athletes can swing their legs as well, can’t they? They know that it might save energy and give them a bigger stride. But they also know that it is as uncomfortable and unnatural as hell. And not the best way to achieve speed and rhythm. You can’t run like that if you want to be a world class athlete. (No, I wasn’t an athlete, but I have a friend who ran the Olympics and won a silver. That’s bragging if you didn’t catch it).

Or can you be a world class athlete without legs? Maybe, maybe not. We might never know. The Olympics held up their much loved values (like with China) and decided that this is not in line with the spirit of the Olympics. (But China is). Scared an umlungu from Africa might beat your steroid enhanced, human growth hormone injected druggies that call themselves athletes? Scared we might beat their sorry arses? Scared the “leggies” might be leggless by the time we are done with them? Yes, I am calling you chicken.

You will let guys who were caught cheating with drugs run, but you won’t let our boy run. Shame on you. You and your rules will let Dwain Chambers run, but the Brits had to bring in their own rules to stop him from running at the Olympics. Your history is littered with cheats who won in a blaze of glory only to go down in the fire years later because of drugs. Johnson and Gatlin and Jones - when do you want me to stop? You held them up as champs and the epitome of the “Olympic Dream”. A nightmare now, hey?

Let our boy run. He is the real deal. He is the Olympic Dream. He is the fastest man on no legs.

Oscar - run, baby, run.

You thought you beat the British hey. The mighty Patriots. You got independence. Started it all. The great and good men of Boston. So wrong. You are so wrong. You lost and you didn’t even see it. Or notice it. The British won. By stealth. And I saw the proof of it all today.

I was just minding my own business. Walking to work from Back Bay Station. Got my Starbucks and taking a slow stroll - enjoying a bit of sun. And then I saw it. But I didn’t know it was the British invasion, or rather the Enlgish culture conquest.

I saw these barriers. You know, the type the police put up to control crowds or keep them behind the “line”. I stared at it for a little while. It was just so odd. I haven’t seen it since the Red Sox won the World Series and paraded through town. But these were different. It had two sets of barriers running paralel to each other - maybe 6 feet apart. As if trying to control the crowd within these barriers. And it went down the street and around the corner and further down to where I couldn’t see anymore. What the hell? This is one heck of a crowd they are expecting.

Is Bush coming to town? It made sense. They had police all over the place. But Bush tend not to pull big crowds over here in Boston. Proud Democrats thanks. Obama? He can pull a crowd. But that was just wishful thinking from my side. No reason for him to be here. He’s over on the other side for a while now. And he lost Massachusetts to Hillary in any case. I was dumbfounded. Who the hell could be coming to town? Must be a big wig.

I started walking again and deep in thought trying to figure out who could this superstar be? And then I saw it. It wasn’t a “who”. It was a “what”.

There were already 15 to 20 people standing in queue. Or rather sitting on their chairs in the artificial corridor created by the baracade. Patiently waiting. Drinking their coffee. Chatting to each other. Stealing a glance in the direction of what they are waiting for. I looked and couldn’t help but burst out laughing. They were all waiting for the new Apple store to open. Suckers. The British won the bloody war. And they didn’t even know it.

You see, the British invented queuing. Or as I call it - standing in a line, wasting time and doing nothing a.k.a. standing like an Englishman. They love their queuing. Nothing makes a Pom happier than standing in a queue. They can do it for hours. And they can do it for nothing. Create a queue from nothing. I’ve seen it happen you know. Someone walks down the road and drops something. They stop and bend down. In that split second that they stopped five people queued up behind them. Just in case it was a queue forming. A true Brit never wants to miss a good queuing. It’s just not British.

They’ll do it for anything. And they’ll do anything to form a nice and orderly queue. Here is a typical scene. A Pom walks into a shop to buy a packet of fags (smokes or as you know it, cigarettes). But there is no one there but the person behind the counter. They look at each other for a split second. They know the drill. The Pom hangs around the magazine rack that is strategically placed close to the counter. He makes as if he is reading something - but he isn’t really reading. He is waiting. The door walks in. Another customer. Aah. Relief. He looks at the new guy and nod his head. The new guy nods back - a knowing nod. And waits. Guy #1 slowly walks to the counter. And waits for the other guy to come and stand behind him. Join the queue. The Poms are happy. They have formed a queue. World order has returned. And life goes on.

See what the proud Bostonians did? They formed a queue. For the opening of a store. Just a bloody store guys. And it was 7:30 am. AM - that’s in the morning. Guess what time the store opened? 6 pm. PM - that’s early evening. Ten and a half hours of waiting. For the opening of a store. No big specials. No free computers. Or free gas. Not even much of a store. Just an Apple store. Selling apples. Sorry, Apples.

The Poms won. Because they exported their most soul destroying tactic. Queues. Nice orderly queues. Just standing around and looking stupid British. Their propoganda worked on you. After all these years of thinking you beat the British and can sit back and enjoy your freedom - they were working all the time. Slowly but surely destroying you. Like a virus you never saw coming. Like Asian flu. That’s what British queuing is - Asian flu. It creeps up and bites you in the… hum… posterieur.

It starts innocently enough. They first make you fall for their accent. They only let you hear the BBC English. The one that sounds intelligent. So… worldly. What you don’t hear is when they switch off the cameras and start going, “Oi mate, pass I uh fag there guv”. It’s not a pretty site. They will smile for the first time as well. Can never do that on camera. You should see their teeth. It’s definitely a “before” photo. You don’t want to see that in broad daylight. It’s as yellow as the sun. And the smell. Hali-bloody-tosis. And you thought the French and garlic don’t mix. Try deep fried pizza (yep, they do that up North), deep fried cheap bottomfeeding fish (the stuff we throw away), deep fried chips (fat fatty fries) with loads of salt and vinegar, bad (really bad) curry they won’t touch in India, and pork pies (the less said the better).

Yes. You don’t see the ugly part where their stomachs hang out from under their vests, fag in the mouth, warm beer in their hand, yellow teeth gleeming, food flying from their mouths as they laugh at how they caught out those suckers in America. Come on people. They sell you Sella Artois and make you believe it is a fancy beer. Over there they call it “A can of divorce”. Bad stuff that. You fell for it and are now being taken over by their clones. Almost like “Invasion of the Body Snatchers“. Of course without the public killing. They just kill the soul.

And you think their humor is so great. So refined. Those funny Brits with ther funny accents. Here’s some inside info on their humor. You think John Cleese is funny right? Just remember what his mother said, “He is not funny”. And you think Fawlty Towers is a comedy right? Have you seen the service in the UK? Try buying something or eating out and see how you are treated. Remember, they all believe they are actors or something important. Not a waitor. So un-French. No. They suck at service. Fawlty Towers isn’t a comedy. It is a hard-hitting documentary.

(I stole that one from Greg Poops).

Come on proud Patriots. Fight the British. Don’t queue. You never what might happen next. Taking up a sport and waiting for almost a 100 years before you win another trophy? Oops. Sorry. Done that. At least you don’t play cricket, rugby or soccer. Oh, you do - just badly. So British. Or start driving badly? Oops? Known for their less friendly driving over here in Boston… Or crap weather. Oops… Have that. Okay, it could be worse. You could have an odd accent, expensive property, drive crap cars, expensive gas, gas - the other type, drink too much beer, have high taxes or… Bloody hell. Why don’t you just surrender and sing “Rule Britannia”.

Sad. Just sad. John Adams won’t be happy. Sam Adams - now that is a totally different story.

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We live our lives. Get up in the morning. Brush our teeth. Shave. Have a shower. A quick breakfast. A kiss goodbye. Join the rush hours. Listen to our iPod. Do a job we hope we like. Too busy to stop and look around. No time for lunch. The client and customer can’t wait. We close the office door. Switch off the lights. And head off home. We join the rush hour for our last trip of the day. Read a book. Or the paper. Catch up on the news of the world. We give hugs and kisses when we get home. Eat our food. Bath the kids. Wash the dishes. Do our chores. Flop down in our favourite seat. Watch television. And fall asleep.

We are always so busy. Every day. Every single day. Doing what the man wants us to do. Never stopping. Never looking around. Never taking it in. Just rush in and rush out. No stop. Just go, go, go.

The weekend comes. We had plans. Taking it easy. Doing something with the kids. And the wife. Some family time. But it’s more rush, rush, rush. It’s ballet. It’s dancing. It’s shopping. It’s Gamecube. It’s cleaning the garden. It’s tidying the basement. Painting the porch. Planting some flowers. Mow the lawn. Build a swing. Do the time-sheet. Fill in taxes.

When do we stop and look around? When do we just soak it up? When do we smell the roses? When do we stop and see if we care? When do we have time for living?

Are we still who we wanted to be when we were young? Would we be proud of the person we have become? What do we see when we look at the mirror in the end of the day? Are we full of hate? Are we loving enough? What have we become? Do we like ourselves? Enough?

We all get a bit rough around the edges. A little bit scared. But are we still the same person?

Do you still believe in something?

In something good? Not the bad stuff. Don’t sweat that stuff. Do you still believe in the good stuff? That people are good? That the world is okay? That we can all enjoy each other? In friendship? Do you still believe in your word? Cross your heart and hope to die? In innocence? In just being who you are and want to be? Or have you become burdened by hate, disbelief, disappointment, lies, paranoia, war, money… Have you fallen for what the man told you? Have you given up? Given up on life? The life you knew you would have when you were little? Have you given up little by little and never realize you are giving up everything?

Or are you still fighting for that life you believed in? Know that you can have that? And make it happen for you kids? And their kids? Are you who you want them to become? Or who you tell them you are? Or who they think you are? Who they want you to be?

What do you see when you look in the mirror? Before you go to sleep? Do you like yourself and what you have become?

We make the world. We make our own world.

It reminds me of what Laura said - “I think I’m willing“…

“But you know, I wish that I lived in a world where, when someone comes to ask me to help out with R10 for transport because they are stuck, I can freely give. I wish that I lived in the world where I felt safe to give lifts to hitch-hikers and people with broken down cars. Or where I can feel happy giving some change for kids taking up a collection for soccer uniforms or dance uniforms, rather than being worried that the money is going to drugs. Where I can freely give to the lady who asks me for money towards her brother’s funeral or the man who asks me for money for paraffin. Or the old lady from the rurals who comes in to town, only to find she doesn’t have enough money to buy the pre-paid electricity she needs.

I want to live in that world. And the only way I can live in it, is to try.

People are not always honest. People’s intentions aren’t always good. And sometimes giving in these sorts of circumstances just perpetuates the problem. I know this…

But I never want to accept that habitual “no”…

And I am definitely all for wisdom and all for protecting ourselves and our property. Definitely, we can’t be naive.

But you know what, I think I’m willing to lose a cell phone if it means I can spend my life speaking to people rather than brushing them off. Or to find myself played by people with long sob-stories once in a while, if it means I’m sometimes actually meeting people’s needs and making people’s lives better.

I wish there was a formula or a rule book for how to deal with these situations. But there isn’t.
And I know that I can be a bit of a sucker, and I sometimes have a problem saying no. And I know that I mustn’t give from guilt or from being manipulated.

But the great gain of treating people with dignity and giving where I can and feel is best, I think I’m willing to risk a bit, and lose a bit, for that.“

Are you willing to risk a bit? To be who you want to be? And what you want the world to be? Laura is.

Look in the mirror. Tonight when you get home. At the end of the day. And ask yourself those questions. Look yourself in the eyes. Don’t blink. And see if you still believe yourself. And if you still believe in yourself.

At the end of the day. Do you like what you see? What you have done? What you have become? Be that person. Care a little. Risk a little. Love a little. Hope a little. Live a little.

Don’t let the man win. Don’t let them win.

Be.

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You’ll walk into them on the streets of the world. Some might even be friends of yours. But they are out there. Everywhere. And they lie each and every day. You ask them a question. And they lie. Lie through their teeth. Oh, they’ll tell you it’s the truth. And you’ll believe them. Because it sounds so convincing. But I know their little secret. And I am telling.

Make no mistake. This isn’t about politics. This isn’t about race. This isn’t about the old South Africa or the new South Africa. It’s not about the flag. The anthem. Or even Madiba. This is something much more fundamental than that. It goes to the core of who we are. All of us. It’s what makes us South African. Oh, we will tell you it’s about being so proud of being South African. How we are one. Or not. How great we are. How unique we are. But that’s not it. Not even close.

Ask them what do they miss. What do they miss from South Africa. What do they really miss about home. No wait. That’s too wide and open. Too many things for them to lie about. Be a bit more specific. Here’s a few questions you can ask and the answers they will give you. I’ll give you the real answer behind the answer. Our little dirty secret.

Ask them what do they miss about South African sport. You’ll get a few answers. The men will narrow their eyes and go into a trance. The memories. You can see the memories in their expression. A little smile will develop. Maybe even a little chuckle. And then they’ll say, “Cricket”.

But it isn’t cricket. That’s just a game lasting five days and still no result guaranteed. Baseball minus the Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens steroid specials. Real men swing the willow. At Newlands. But that’s not it. That’s not what they miss. Not really.

They miss the boerewors rolls fresh of the skottel. Sitting under the Oaks and the boys having a boerie braai. The smell and smoke hanging thick in the air. You can hardly see the guys playing out on the field. But who cares. You don’t watch them in any case. It’s not as if Gary Kisten will all of a sudden become Kuiper and start hitting the ball all over the park. No. Gary is a boerie man and knows that the best way to get it right is take your time and stick to the basics. Oh, you might get some fancy dude with chipolatas or pure beef sausages. But that’s as unorthodox as Gogga bowling - like a frog in a blender. No. what they miss isn’t the cricket. What they miss is a boerie with Mrs Ball’s chutney. That’s what they really miss.

They might say they miss, “Rugby“. And they’ll say it with a deep voice and fire in their eyes. They’ll straighten up and tell you that rugby is a man’s game. A real man’s game. Not this American football made for wusses - part wimp and part pussy. With the pads and the protective gear. Haha. Silly boys. Can’t handle the punishment hey? No. That’s not what they really miss though. Not even a nice day at Newlands with the boytjies. Not even close.

What they really want is biltong and vodka injected oranges. Biltong. That nice prime beef dried to perfection with a bit of spicing. Just a little. And you slice it with your pocketknife. Into thin little slices while watching the manne play with the oval ball in the park. Jumping up and pointing your piece of biltong at the stupid ref who always favours the other side. The ref. Always on the side of the Blou Bulle - and us Province guys always suffer. But the biltong will only last for the first half. Because the second half needs something stronger. Some nice juicy cold vodka injected oranges. Lots of vodka. And you go through your bag of oranges as quickly as possible. Because the last few is meant for the ref. They make nice projectiles to chuck at the dude in yellow out there. Only problem is that by the time you decide to start chucking the oranges you struggle to focus on the dude on the field. And it’s much easier to hit the guy in light blue jersey just a few rows in front of you. The Blou Bulle dude. It makes a nice little splashing sound as it hits him just behind his bak ore. A scuffle ensue…

Or maybe the guy will say he really misses watching soccer. Most likely Kaizer Chiefs or Orlando Pirates. Yes, being an Amakhosi or The Happy People supporter is like having piles in South Africa. Every second asshole has got one. The mighty ones taking on one another. Families divided. But play they must. Of course it has to be at the FNB. 80,000 packed shoulder to shoulder on plastic bucket seats. But no. That’s not where they sit and watch. They are in the townships. All over the country. Back in Khayamandi in my hometown. The fires are burning and the televisions and radios blaring - all tuned in on the soccer. The big game. But that’s not really what they miss.

No. What they miss is the Castle Lager. Back in the shebeen with the boys. Drinking a quart. It slides down your throat. The nectar of God. The gift from Charles Glass. Man. Genius. Castle Lager. Not the wimpy water they call Bud over in the US. Or XXXX in Australia. No. Real beer. Real lager. Somewhat dry. Somewhat bitter. Never sweet. Aaah. Castle Lager. That’s what they miss.

But it’s not just sport. Ask them about the people. Ask them about their home. Ask them about the sea. And the mountain. And summer. And winter. Their family. They’ll just tell you more lies.

Oh, they miss the smell of the sea. The smell of the Indian Ocean or the Atlantic when they wake up. The rolling of the waves. The golden beaches of Durban. Or the white sands of Cape Town. But it’s all bull. They don’t really like the sticky, salty water. Or the sand always getting in your clothes - places where you really don’t want them to be. That’s not what they miss.

They miss the fish. Especially snoek. The debates that go on about the best way to braai a snoek - with some appelkoos jam or just a bit of lemon juice and butter. But always brushes regularly. And slice it open and braai the skin side first. Oh, the taste and smell of snoek on the braai. And then the snoek sammies the next day. That’s what they miss. Not the sea and the waves and the smells. It’s the snoek.

And it’s not the people. The smiling faces and loud talking. The fun-in-the-sun people. The moaning and the bitching. The languages and accents. The stories and jokes. The Rainbow Nation. A bit of everything. Land of plenty. Land of diversity. Land of people. Real people. And the bear hugs and waving in the streets. The firm handshakes and kisses hello. The greeting of people you don’t know but see on the streets. The wit and jokes. No. That’s not what they miss.

They miss the Simbachips and Coke and Sparletta flavours. You can find it in any store. Our streets food. Not made on the streets. Just made for the streets. Simba with the variety to match our people. Simba. Mmmm. Simba flavours. Chakalaka. Chutney. Smoked Beef. Mexican Chilli. Salt and Vinegar. And don’t forget the Nik Naks. Mmm. Simba. It Roarrswith flavour. So true. And they want their Coke made with cane sugar. Real coke. And Iron Brew. And Sparletta Sparberry and Creme Soda and Pine-Nut. The flavours of our nation. Something for everyone. And don’t forget the Stoney. Never forget the Stoney. That’s what they miss.

And it’s not the mountains they miss. Our beautiful Table Mountain. They’ll tell you they miss the mountain. Our mother mountain. And the tablecloth that goes with that. The little cloud hanging over the mountain. Ready for us to admire and stare at. The long walks on the slopes of the mountain. Walking along her beautiful curves and drinking from her stream. The picknicks on the slopes. But that’s not what we miss. No. Not at all.

What we miss is eating our Marmite sammies when we sit at our picnics. Nice thick slices of homemade bread with a thick layer of Flora or Rama. And an even thicker layer of Marmite. Good gooey Marmite. The real black gold. And not that stuff the Aussies use - Vegemite. That’s for vegetables. We want our Marmite to go with our picnic. Maybe one with Pecks- but that is really for a toastie breakfast or late night snack. And we want our Safari dried fruits when we walk the slopes. But not just any Safari dried fruits. No. It must be the squares. The sugar covered squares. I like the red ones. That’s what we really miss.

And we’ll tell you it’s all about our family. How we miss our family. Our family in our homes. Our blood. And our sisters and brothers. Mothers and fathers. And cousins and nephews. And neighbours and friends. Our family. The big family. The loud family. Getting together and sharing stories. Kids running around and climbing trees. And the laughing and hugging. An ou boethere and naai man there. The voices of our family. The love of our family. Bah! That’s not what we miss. No.

What we miss is the fire burning and the tjops on the braai. Not the family. They will eat our tjops. We’ll give them the putu and the potjie. Because we can make lots of that. Lots and lots. But the tjops. Those dear, dear tjops. With a splash of Marina braai salt. That we can’t share. Too valuable. It was made with love just for our arteries.

And we want our bobotie in winter and cheap ice-lollies in summer. And our Top Deck and Flake when we watch television. Our beskuit with crap coffee. Our koe(k)sisters with tea. Our LiquiFruit juice with breakfast. Next to our vetkoeke. Or pannekoeke.

See the lies we tell? We act all respectable. We make as if we are so sharp. With our cute, foreign accents. But we are shallow people. For us home is all about our food.

We are easy to seduce. Show us a piece of biltong and we will sell our souls. Give us a boerie and we’ll be loyal to the end. Promise us a packet of Simba and we are yours forever. But be warned. Never threaten our food. Take away our braai and the world will burn. Threaten our snoek and you will drown in your own pain. Dip our biskuit and we will unleash hell.

We are shallow people. We live for our food. And survive on the memories of smells and taste. We love our food. More than we love life itself. We are silly, silly people. Food makes us who we are. And we love our food.

And everything that goes with it.

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Today we celebrate Mother’s Day. And today I remember my mother. This is an old post. But it’s about my mother.

I slept while my mother died

This will the the hardest thing I ever write. Writing about my mother. She was everything my dad wasn’t. That was easy to write about compared to this. Because my dad was an ass. But my mom. She was my mom.

You see, I was her favourite one. Sorry sis, but I was mom’s favourite one. She loved us all. But I was her favourite one. Maybe because I was the youngest. And a bit unplanned. But I was her favourite one. She always dreamed of me as a little boy of about 6. In my khaki outfit and long socks and sandals. I never grew up in her eyes. I always stayed her little baby. Although she always laughed when I still tried to sit on her lap when I was older - much older. But I was her baby. And I was her favourite one. Maybe it was because I lived at home. Always there to be with her. Someone she could look after. Someone she could look after when no one looked after her.

We were very different. My mom and I. She was a proper lady. Never coughed in public. People shouldn’t see the inside of your mouth you see. So she laughed in a funny way as well. Always trying to keep her mouth closed while she laughed. Not me. I tried everything to make her laugh. Stupid things. Because we were so different. I am the “pull-my-finger” type of dad. My mom - she never pulled my finger. Not without having a closed-mouth laugh in any case.

But that only made it more of a challenge. How to gross her out. And boy did I try. Especially during the big Sunday lunch. I’ll mix up all my food and stuffed my face. And then I’ll start talking to her with my mouth full. Really full. She couldn’t look at me. But she laughed with that funny mouth of hers. And she ate so bloody slowly. Three rice grains and a pea and that was it. And she believed in the “chew-your-food-30-times” before she swallowed. And that was always my next chance to get her to laugh. I’ll gulp down my food and get up and announce to the world that it was time to feed my mom. So I’ll sit next to her and feed her. And we laughed. Oh, the tears that ran down her face was just a sight to see. Desert was a special time. Ice-cream and jelly for me (jello in the US). And I’ll make as if I am snorting it up, but meanwhile I was making the noises with my mouth. She was so disgusted in me. But she laughed and laughed. With a hoo-hoo-hoo - she laughed like an owl. And in between the laughs she will say swearwords that will never-ever cross her mouth at any other time. “O donnertjie tog, my kind” (rough translation: “Oh, bloody hell my child”). She couldn’t control her laughter. She might not laugh with an open mouth. But she laughed so easily when I did my tricks. And sometimes. Just sometimes, she would lose all control and have to run to the bathroom to stop herself. Although she didn’t always make it in time. Yes, my mother loved laughing at my silly jokes. And I loved making her laugh. We loved each other. My mother and I.

We had to. We had to make each other laugh. We had to have fun with each other. My mother and I. Because my dad wasn’t much to laugh at behind closed doors. Always the funny man in front of others. But never to my mom. So I made her laugh. And she spoiled me. She spoiled me rotten. That was my mother. She spoiled me rotten.

She made me breakfast every single morning while I stayed at home. Even when I went to university. I stayed at home. In my own little place outside, but at home. Close to my mom. She could see me sleeping from the kitchen. And she got up before me every morning to make my waking up the best part of the day. She’ll make me coffee and come into my room quietly. Yes, quietly. She’ll put my coffee next to my bed on a cup-warmer and talk softly to me to try and wake me up. “Morning my boy. Time to wake up. It is lovely day.” I’ll wake up slowly while she talks to me. And she’ll prop the pillow up for me to sit up in bed and have my cup of coffee. The extra-large mug that said “I Love Mom”. I bought it myself.

She hated me smoking. But she gave me a clean ashtray to have a smoke while I drink my coffee and have a quick chat to her. And she knew how to time her morning routine perfectly as well. Half-way through my smoke she will get up and get breakfast ready. She timed it that she started making my breakfast the minute she saw me get up to shave and shower. I’ll get dressed and walk straight into the kitchen with her perfect timing. As I sat down she gave me the breakfast I wanted every single morning. A slice of toast, some marmite on it and a fried egg - soft in the middle. But still hot as it just came off the pan. A little bit of pepper and salt - thanks mom. Always perfect. Every single morning. And she sat and had her tea while I had my breakfast. We’ll talk about my day and smile at each other. I’ll tell her a funny joke or two to make her laugh. And she’ll tell me to stop it because it is too early for that. And then I’ll get up give her a kiss and she’ll give me my daily 5 Rand (about 80 cents) for the day - enough for a sandwich, coffee, smokes and a beer. And she’ll stand at the door and wave at me while I drive off. Just her and my dog. Ready for her day. My dad will be out playing bowls or visiting his friends. I knew she was just waiting for me to come home and share a cup of tea together (always the Three Trees brand). My mom and me - we had fun. Fun when I was there. But I don’t know what she did while she waited for me to come home. Just her and the dog.

Weekends was the best though. We had a ball then. I would go out surfing a bit and come home ready to take my mom out on a date. Just the two of us. We’ll jump in her car and head for the mall. It’s time for the movies and a bite to eat. We’ll watch whatever I wanted to watch. It was always an action movie for me. She’ll buy us tickets for the latest Harrison Ford or Stallone movie and get ready for some action. She always said she loved it, but I wasn’t always that sure. She used to grab my arm tightly and whisper little swearwords (”O donnertjie tog”) every single time something  happened - just a change of scenery got her jumping. She always expected the worse. But she was all smiles when we got out and headed for the Pizza place - always the same place. Panarotti’s. I’ll have a huge pizza and she’ll have something small - a salad or something. And she’ll stare at me while I ate. And we spoke about the movie and how much fun it was. And we wondered what we will watch or do next weekend. You see, my dad never took her to the movies.

Watching her watch television was fun too. We were one of the first people in our street to get a television. And she was gripped. She watched everything. But she loved The Protectors. We had a full house of people coming over each time The Protectors was on. And she got so involved in the story. She believed it was true. And she even believed she could make a difference. I was very, very little, but in one scene I will never forget, Contessa di Contini was being followed by a guy with a knife. And he was slowly but surely creeping up to her - ready to pounce. He was about to stab her when my mom jumped up and shouted - “Agter jou Contessa. Pasop. Hy is agter jou!” (”Behind you, Contessa. Look out. He is behind you!”) Oh we laughed about that one. And we laughed many more times at each Sunday lunch. Especially when I used to shout that in the middle of my dad praying when I spied the dog sitting behind her. Yes. She believed she could make a difference.

But I grew up and eventually had to move out of the house. I only did that when I got married. Oh how my mother hated my wife in the beginning. But she got to love her when my wife became a mother - and my mother saw this beautiful child and knew she was the one for me. But in the beginning she thought that my wife took me away from her. Her little boy. She didn’t want me to get married. She just sat there during the service and stared at my wife. She never smiled. And she phoned me to tell me to come home - the day after I got back from honeymoon. But I grew up. And she had no one to wait for anymore. Just a few visits - maybe once or twice a month. She had no one to spoil anymore. Even the dog had to be put down because of illness and old age.

But we had fun whenever we went to visit her. She’ll make my favourite food - buttermilk pudding, potato salad, braai (barbeque), her special cake, and home-made bread. Oh yes, the home-made bread. I was never allowed to cut the bread. I was going to cut my fingers off you see. I was just a little boy. Her little boy. But I got her laughing her funny laugh with that one as well - a new trick. It involved a knife and some tomato sauce. Needless to say, she was in a panic for a while. Grabbing my hand and putting it under the tap. Until she realized what I did. And then it was all funny laughs again. Yes. We still had fun when we had a chance.

But she wasn’t too healthy. She suffered from many illnesses. Not sickly. But she had many problems - from vertigo to depression. And it was tough for her. With no one at home. Not even the dog. And my dad was always out with his friends or playing bowls. It was tough for her. For someone who always had me around to spoil. Now it was just her and her thoughts. And no one to wait for at night. Just hope for a weekend or two each month.

My sister called me one night from her home. My mom was crying and called out for help. She couldn’t get hold of me. So she phoned my sister. My dad was cheating on her. She didn’t know what to do. I had enough. Enough of him. I raced to their place and got them to sit down and talk to me. I told my dad he was now messing with my life. Messing with my mother. Time to grow up and be a man. Time to take responsibility. She needed him. She needed him to look after her. To be there at night for them to share a meal. Sit together and watch television. I told him to make his choice now. Be a man or walk away. He didn’t walk away. And maybe that was a mistake. Because he said he will look after her. I wasn’t there to look after her. And maybe that wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe she just wanted someone to spoil and someone to wait for at night.

I think my mother died a little bit each day. With a husband who didn’t love her. With a house that was empty. Just her thoughts and herself. It was always about me. Always about what she could do for me. The breakfasts. The movies. The pizzas. The tea. The laughs. It was always about me. And what she could do for me and with me. I was her life. While she had me. And when I left? What was left of her? I don’t know. I loved her. But I don’t know what she wanted from life apart from making me happy and looking after me. Her little boy.

And when I left - what was left? Could my mother have done things differently? I don’t know. I think she was drained of who she was so slowly that she didn’t realize what was happening. Drained by my dad and what he did to her. Drained by her kids who meant everything to her. You see. I was sleeping while she watched me. I was sleeping while she lived her life just for me. I was sleeping when I got the call. It was 3 in the morning.

It was my other sister. She was at my mom’s. She was just visiting. And she was crying and shouting. She didn’t make sense. Something about my mother. Something about my mother. Something happened to my mother. Something about a gun. Something about my mother and a gun. It didn’t make sense. Did someone shoot her? It didn’t make sense. We both hated guns. And then I heard it. Time just stood still. I heard it. But I couldn’t understand the words. I knew the words. Three little words. But it didn’t make sense. And then she said it again. And it hit me and drained me of everything. Time didn’t stop. My heart didn’t stop. It just felt like it. It was my soul that got ripped out.

“Mom shot herself”.

I know I drove there immediately. I was on that road for 30 minutes. But the next thing I remember was standing there looking at my mom. The police wasn’t there yet. And my sister and dad was in the kitchen. The kitchen where I had those breakfasts with my mom. My mom looked so peaceful. Lying down. She always had beautiful skin. And her skin looked beautiful. She had a little funny smile on her face. Just as I remembered. She looked happy. Like she always looked when she saw me.

I sat down next to her and took her hand. “Don’t worry mom. I am here.” I just sat there with her and held her hand. Knowing not to look beyond her face. Not to look at the other side of her head. Whispering to her while crying. Crying because there will be no more breakfasts together. No more movies together. No more tea together. No more funny laughs. No more feeding her. No more snorting ice-cream and jelly. No more waiting for me. My mom was gone. She couldn’t wait any longer.

I slept while my mother died. I slept while my mother lived. I was there for her. And I wasn’t there for her. I never knew what she did during those days when she waited for me. And I don’t know what she did when there was no more evenings to look forward to. I slept while my mother died. But I loved my mom. I loved my mom. I love my mom.

To my wife: I love you more than life. Thank you for being with me and making me a better man. I always want to know what you do while you wait for us. While you wait for the girls to come home from school. While you wait for me to come home from work. I always want to know who you are and what you do. Because I am because of you. Without you I am nothing. I do what I do because the strength my mother gave me and the strength you give me. I love you.

And thank you for being there when my mother died. Thank you for helping me remember my mom the way she wants to be remembered. And not because of that last 5 minutes of madness in her life. Thank you for reminding me that we will never know. That all we can know is that I loved her. And that she loved me. Even when I was sleeping.

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Do you find this helpful? The deep analysis? Haha! Here we go.

1. British Airways going all British

Okay. That is enough. No more PC please. I draw the line right here. I was okay with the “we don’t want to our children to compete” stupidity in the schools when I was there. Yes, my child couldn’t compete in sport because they did not want there to be winners and losers. Failure was out - now called deferred success. Puh-lease! I think it was because she was going to kick some Pom butt. And on and on they went with their stupid ideas of the state controlling everything. But they have stepped over the line now. Now they won’t serve meat on British Airways flights anymore because some people have religious issues with beef (of course pork is out the window as well). Hang on a bloody moment here. You serve me tofu and soya and I’ll show you a place where the sun don’t shine. I have serious religious and cultural problems with eating anything but meat. It’s in my blood and in my bones. I am African. We eat meat. I find it offensive that you will pander to others but ignore my religious requirements. You have the option of ordering specific food before you board your flight AND you offer two types of meals. Let them phone you and make arrangement. Don’t you remember? We don’t have phones in Africa… And there is a serious consequence for all others as well - the non-meat eating… hum… humans. Can you imagine what they are going to serve us now? Crap fish and chips or rubber eggs. I am changing to Air Namibia next time I fly to South Africa - they serve biltong bites. Really. I have standards. Squash me into a box in the middle seat. Make me wait in line for an hour or two. Provide me with bad service at ticketing. Strip search me in public. But take my meat away? Tell me, do you still serve salad - or what do you call it again? Hum, oh yes - chicken? BA - Beef Away.

2. Honey, I am right behind you 

So the Prius will bring out a new version in 2010. And the Volt will also hopefully make its debut. And now VW says they will bring their super fuel efficient 1L concept to the roads as well. 1L is metric for 1 liter per 100 km, or 1 gallon going a full 230 miles. Cool isn’t it? Huh… No… Not even close. Volkswagen is German for Nation Wagon. Say what? You can’t even fit the bloody dog in there - never mind a nation. Seating for two only. Could be romantic hey? Huh… No… The passenger sits behind the driver. I can now truly be a backseat driver. Thanks VW, but if this is your answer to fuel efficiency then at least give it a few skates for wheels to use in winter. This way we can us it as a toboggan when the snow and ice comes.

3. Doctor Watson I presume?

Those bloody Nigerians. So here we are. With Idang Alibi going on about how Dr Watson was right when he said Africans are more stupid than the whities. Or rather, that black people are, in his humble opinion, not as intelligent as white people. Nothing humble about that mate. He goes on and on about how they are more stupid because of the failed Africans states. And that all other states are just fine. Guess what? I got angry. So here is more longer than usual response.

He talks as if every African state is a failed state. And that all others are just fine. Just fine. Well sorry - the world isn’t black and white (no pun intended). So, North Korea is just fine I take it? And Bangladesh? And most of the old Soviet states? And Latin America that have loads of European blood running through their veins? It’s easy and intellectually lazy to do that. For every Lagos there is a Laos. Also, he forgets to mention those African states who are not failing and are stable and growing. Senegal anyone? Or Mozambique now that the Cold War affect is over. And Botswana that has a huge HIV/Aids problem but still manages to outgrow the majority of countries in the world. Too easy and lazy of him to write a piece of crap that shows his own intellect. Sorry brother, I am not you and neither are most of us thank you. Go back to university and go and study how to be a journalist. Africa do have a series of failed states. But it isn’t a black thing. There are too many other failed states to tell us it isn’t a “black thing”. And don’t forget Zambia. One of the least corrupt and violent countries in the world - and acknowledged as such. Had mostly good governments. Except before “Ma” and after Kenneth Kaunda - Chiluba didn’t play nice. But he wasn’t really Zambian. And never been in a war - inside or outside its borders. More Swiss than the Swiss. And still one of the poorest countries in the world. Why? Because this isn’t some “American Dream” where those who work hard will come out on top. Whether you are an individual or a country, the one thing we have learned over the last 100 years is that those who are poor will remain poor and with limited opportunities no matter where they live. Yes, you have exceptions, but the American Dream doesn’t work for most people. No matter how hard they work. The bridge between poor and rich is increasing each and every day. Whether you live in America or you are a country in Africa. Even with the high growth rates - how long do you think Mozambique and Botswana must grow before it will reach the “upper status”? Do the math - it doesn’t work. No matter how hard you try. And there is no lottery for states either. And neither can you win a bucket of common sense either.

4.  Heartland no brainchild

Like all good scientists Heartland took the brave step of publishing the names of all those scientists who support their claim that Climate Change is no biggie. I think they should have just kept their list and tell us they have 500 names and leave it at that. It is turning out to be as accurate as the WMD statements. And like President Bush supporters, the scientists on the list decided to take the rat route off the ship. It seems as if the 500 aren’t 500 at all. You see, many of the scientist on the list actually believe in Climate Change. Oops. Look guys, how can we trust you with real science if you can’t even count properly? Climate Change isn’t social science you know - it is real science. Get the social science bit right and then we can talk. It seems as if you count with your heart instead of your head. Good for Bush, but no good for science.

5. Hillary and Bob - BGFF

Nooo link needed here - It’s about Hillary C and Bob Mugabe. If you don’t know anything about them then… I don’t know - do a google search. And no BGFF does not stand for Best Guy/Girl Friends Forever. It means Bye Go Finally F-off. It’s time they both go. Hillary keeps on losing supporters faster than Bob is losing his marbles. And that says a lot. But Hillary is a bit like Bob here. Refusing to accept it is all over. The other guy won - just accept it and live with it. So I have a little plan. Why don’t you two go to on a nice little island retreat for two. Just you two lovebirds. Maybe Bikini Atoll or Christmas Island. Bikini because we should pay A Toll to see either of you in one. And Christmas Island because Hillary needs a few presents to make up for the money she blew at 3 am. Bob won’t have a problem with the radioactivity - he might just grow a brain. We all live in hope.

That’s all folks. Bye-bye all. Have a great weekend and see you on the other side. I promise to be lighter and brighter next week. It will be a fun week - I promise.

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Yes, South Africa is failing us. No wait. Not South Africa. The ANC. The ANC is failing us. Our government is failing us. Us - the people of South Africa. And it has nothing to do with Apartheid.

Let’s get this straight - their failure has nothing to do with Apartheid. Apartheid was a despicable oppressive system. There was nothing good about it. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. Okay, maybe for the white South Africans it was a holiday camp. But for the majority of South Africans it was an oppressive system who gave them no rights - a concentration camp. No political rights outside of a failed red-herring joke of a homelands system. Ha! 13% of the land for 80% of the population. No right to ownership. You want land? Go and eat dirt. In your homeland. No right to economic wealth. The best jobs were reserved for whites. Ever wondered how all the top jobs were occupied by white faces? Now you know. Reserved parking only. South Africa was covered by one single sign that we saw on the benches and doors and busses every single day under Apartheid - Whites Only.

Oh I can go on and on about how bad Apartheid was. But I won’t. You should know that. If you don’t - go read the TRC document or any decent and recent history book. Or pull the bigot stickers off your eyes. If you liked Apartheid stop reading now. You won’t like the rest of this piece either. But neither will the ANC.

Make no mistake, we can blame Apartheid for many of the problems we experience in South Africa today. The legacy of Apartheid lives on. And the chickens are still coming home to roost. Only problem is that these bloody chickens don’t know the farm is under new ownership. But here - have a few of these on the side.

The education system in South Africa sucks. No surprise there. Under Apartheid the per capita expenditure for white schoolkids were 5 times more than for black kids. Oh, and the ratio between white teacher and white kids were about half of the ratio for black schools. Yes, they had separate schools, separate authorities and a separate curriculum. No surprise there. And due to the lack of adequate financing and training, teachers in black schools were generally less qualified than white teachers who had some of the best universities in the world. So what the hell did you expect to happen when Apartheid ended? That everyone will all of a sudden get the same education as traditionally white schools? A system change was needed and that takes time. Make the per capita expenditure the same, but you still had to rebuild the infrastructure of the traditional black schools and retrain many of the teachers - white and black - to get up to speed to a non-racial curriculum. And merge all the different education departments in South Africa and those in the homelands. No easy task hey? Imagine the largest corporate merger in the world - and instead of two make it about ten or more companies merging into one. So stop bitching. The education system is much better than under Apartheid for the majority of South Africans.

How about policing? Yeah! Under Apartheid the primary function of the South African Police Service (SAPS) was the suppression of political dissent. Stopping criminal activity, beyond that which directly threatened the white minority, was a much lower priority, and there were almost no tradition or expertise in criminal investigation in South Africa. Between 80 and 90 percent of criminal convictions were gained on the basis of confessions, obtained by what was called the “choke and talk” technique of police intimidation. Oh yes, and in 1994 they had to consolidate eleven Apartheid-era policing agencies into one. So, reform was needed while at the same time show the public it can actually reduce crime as well. Or, as a senior SAPS officer once said, ”Police reform is like rebuilding a ship while it is in full sail during a hurricane”. No problem, hey Sherlock?

Okay, let’s see where to go next - last one. Healthcare. On the one hand we had a system that provided first-world healthcare to a small minority - provided by a well-resourced tertiary system. I mean really, we had the first heart transplant done in South Africa. On a white South African. Because only they had access to this level of healthcare. The rest? Let’s just say that they had very little health to care about in the first place. There were no basic or essential services provided in any structured way. So come 1994 - what did you expect? To continue to live the life of luxury while the majority remain dying from bad water and weather?

Wait - let’s do just a last few. Basic services like water, housing and electricity. Except for a few toilets build in the middle of nowhere, the Apartheid government did jack shit for black South Africans. Don’t tell me about the single line of electricity that ran into a selected township under Apartheid. One swallow doesn’t make a summer. It’s like saying that anyone can now sit on the bench in the park - but only whites are allowed in the park. Or that anyone can now swim in the sea - but only whites are allowed on the beaches. Sorry to disappoint you. The Apartheid system sucked. And nothing good came of it for the majority of South Africans. And we still live with the failure of that system. The sins of our fathers…

The end of Apartheid wasn’t just a change from one government to another. That would have been easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. No sweat. No problem. ‘n Boer maak mos ‘n plan. Geen probleem broe. Daasie kakkie want daasie kossie. It was a revolution. It made the fall of the wall in Berlin look like a walk in the park. And we had no money compared to them. The fall of the USSR - no problem. Here? Each and every law had to be rewritten (yes - we wrote more laws between 1994 and 2000 than any other country in the world). We had to merge ten to 15 departments into one for each group under Apartheid. We had to retrain people to serve and not kill. We had to reallocate budgets when South Africa was already an emerging market with extremely limited funds - comparable to Argentina and Egypt and India. Not the US or UK - that was the life of the whites in South Africa. We had to change from a limited healthcare system to one that provides primary healthcare to all South Africans. We had to change an economic system from inward looking to export-oriented. And all of that isn’t even half of it. We still had to get rid of institutional racism and go through the rebirth of a nation (thanks TRC - you got us closer). So don’t think it was a change in government. It wasn’t. It was changing from Nazi Germany (without any money or a world plan to finance rebuilding) to a free society overnight. Like that - “Snap!”. Now you see Apartheid - “Snap!” - now you don’t. Gone. Welcome to freedom - now let me turn your world upside down.

But still. I blame the ANC for failing us. Because they are. They are failing us. I don’t give a damn about how tough a job they had and have. I know the legacy of Apartheid. I know that it hasn’t been easy. I know what shit they inherited from the Apartheid regime. I don’t blame them for not building enough houses. I don’t blame them for not creating enough jobs. I don’t blame them for the violence and crime. I don’t blame them for the kids failing school. I don’t blame them for not building the clinics fast enough. Because all of those things are better than under Apartheid for most South Africans. But I do blame them for failing South Africa. And failing us - the people of South Africa.

I blame them for creating a false hope. I blame them for promising us a better government than what they have become. They are not a bad government. They are just a government. Making bad choices. And making good choices. A mix bag of some good stuff and some bad stuff. Like other governments.

The arms deal and corruption? Nothing special. Bloody hell, they actually dealt with it better than others. Finding Tony guilty and sending him to jail! The Chief Whip of the ruling party! Can you imagine the UK or US doing that? Here Dick and Halliburton was so closely linked but no one blinks an eye - never mind investigate. Or Blackwater and their backhanders. And the UK? The UK government refuses to investigate the bribery that took place in the arms deal with the Saudis. Why? Because it will “threaten national security”. So, sorry people, the ANC is no worse than other governments. They all fail foreign policy. You think Mbeki and Zimbabwe is bad? Have you heard anything from the US on the Saudis who have one of the worse human rights record in the world? No, sorry people, the ANC is no worse than other governments. They are just like them. And that is why they are failing us.

We believed naively that the end of Apartheid meant the start of a super-government. That our government is above other governments. More just than any other. They are better then the best. The most human of all humans. The fairest of them all. They lied to us - without saying a word. They made us believe in a world that is better than any other.  We somehow believed that we are the chosen people. And our government who gave us our freedom will somehow give us the freedom of our souls.

And when we had Mandela we actually entrenched that belief. A South Africa where miracles happen when Madiba snaps his fingers. Our “Special One”. The one who brings hope, love and peace to all. We love him. We truly love him like no President or leader is loved. And that is right. Because he is like no other. He is our Madiba. But still they failed us.

They failed us because they made us believe that we are somehow better than others. That somehow they will be better than others. They failed us by being just another bloody typical government. Like all others. That is their failure. For being too normal. And we were the suckers for falling for it in the first place.

Sorry South Africa - welcome to the world. You are now just as normal as the rest of the world. With a government that sometimes fail and sometimes succeed. Nothing special. Not what the ANC promised us. But still - just a government like all governments. And just a country like all countries. We are not special. We are just people. Just a country. Just South Africa. Like anyone else. Just normal. Normal. Normal at last.

Free at last…

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Note: We still have biltong, Simba chips, Stoney, boerewors, Liqui-Fruit, mopani worms, afval, Marina braaisalt, Marmite, putu, bobotie, sosaties, Top Deck, Cream Soda, Castle, koe(k)sisters, beskuit, vetkoek, pannekoek and Peck’s to name a few - okay, drop the afval and mopani worms. And I haven’t even started on the Rugby World Cup or Kaizer Chiefs (I am an Ajax CT supporter but acknowledge power). If we lose that we are stuffed. Then we won’t be able to even brag about the bloody food or sport anymore. And then we have nothing but a cute accent, good looking people, Table Mountain and crap music. Hey wait. Apart from the music the left-overs aren’t that bad either. I’ll just blame the music on Apartheid or the ANC. You pick boeremusiek or kwaito - blame it on the boogie… man.

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You Americans. You are a damn funny bunch. Doomsayers. Hehehe! The world isn’t going to come to an end. Your life will still be fine. Really. I promise you. No, I am not talking about the economy. I’m talking about the election coming up in November.

I find it amazing how people paint the worse possible outcome if any of them wins. Oh, it’ll be the end of America as we know it. Depending on who wins the scenarios are either America will be taken over by hardline Christians or fundamental Muslims. Far-right racists or a bunch of bleeding heart liberals. Abortions will take place left, right and centre or individual rights like choice will be taken away forever. America will go into more wars and stay in Iraq forever or be to weak to attack anyone who threatens. Americans will be forced to pay through their necks for a proper health-care system that will cover everyone or the poor will be left behind to die alone without any care. America will be taxed to death to look after the poor or the rich are going to get richer. The corporate world will be regulated to a level where they won’t be able to compete or corporate interests in DC will reach new highs. A black guy or a women… Oh, wait - that one might actually be true. Hahaha. Come on people. Stop drinking the Kool-Aid. You remind me a bit of South Africa back in 1994 when we had our first democratic election.

My dad and my wife’s dad panicked. What will happen if the ANC wins the election. What will happen if we have a black government. Oh God forbid that ever happens. It will be the end of the world as we know it. Oh the country will come to a standstill. Traffic lights (or robots as we call it) will stop working. Electricity will stop running.  Gas stations (petrol pumps back home) will run out of petrol. Taps will run dry. And worse of all - the grocery stores will have empty shelves. We will even run out of beer. And that would be bad. Especially if you are South African.

So they stockpiled. They bought canned food - corned beef (or bully beef as we call it) and candles were all the rage back then. Man, my dad bought so much of the stuff he could have opened his own little underground shop if he wanted. And then they started with us. Telling us we must stockpile. Get ready because it is the end of the world as we know it. But they didn’t know the next line of that R.E.M. song - And I feel fine. Because this election was what I fought for and dreamed of. Free, free at last. But we were poor then - my wife and myself. So we couldn’t really say no to any money they were going to throw our way. But it was a bit of a dilemma - we couldn’t lie to them either. Just not ethical. So we divised a little plan. We took the money and stockpiled. Let me qualify that a bit. We did the alternative version of stockpiling. We bought mussels, prawns, perlemoen, crayfish, steak and champagne. All those things we could never afford to buy! We stockpiled to celebrate the win! In style baby.

Well, as you might know I didn’t get along with my dad. But when he died he still had candles and bully beef stuck in his grocery racks. All from back in 1994. Because the stores were stocked and open the next day. And the taps ran crisp clear water. And the electricity kept on going. And the petrol pumps were ready to fill you up. And the banks still had your money in their vaults. Yes. South Africa carried on as the usual. Just as a free and democratic country for the first time. Oh, we had one little problem. We had one huge hang-over from the parties that just went on and on. But no one bitched about that!

So, you see, the more things change the more they stay the same. America will not face what we faced back in 1994. A moment that defines our place in history. The end of an oppressive system. And freedom at last. You don’t need to stockpile. Because whoever wins will not be the worse case scenario you are so frightened of. Yes, McCain will be more ready to go to war and stay in Iraq. And yes, some of the rights America fought for so hard will remain under pressure. And he’ll pander to the right and flip-flop when he doesn’t “misspoke” or forget who is who. And he’ll be bad from a foreign policy perspective. And Hillary will be a hawk. Ready to go to war and obliterate anyone who steps on her toes. And she’ll be more of an empty bag of little substance than most. Dodging bullets and making peace/war wherever she goes (you pick - war in Iraq and peace in Northern Ireland). And yes, Obama is more of an idealist. And idealist who paints a picture of what America should look like tomorrow. And he’ll be more likely to speak and seek peace and compromise than go into war. And he is more wonky than he other two. And yes, he and Hillary are more likely to bring in a universal health-care and strengthen social services. But come one people. They are proud Americans who will give their all to make this great country even greater.

Your water will still drip from the taps. Gas will still flow from the pumps - even if it is a bit more expensive than yesterday. Food will still be at a reasonable price. Your lights will still burn when you flip the switch. Roads will still be fine even if you need to invest in them a bit more. You’ll still have unemployment - but at a low rate. The dollar will still be the global standard. And the world will still catch the flu if you sneeze. You will be just fine. Just fine. Really no need to stockpile.

In actual fact, you will be better than where you are today. And you will hopefully rally behind your new President and tell him/her to go and make you proud. To run this country like a President. Remember. They are willing to do so. They are willing to stand the public attacks from you and their election opponents. They are willing to be scrutinized. At least show some respect for that. You deserve better.

No. Your country deserves a better you. A you that act like a proud and patriotic American. Not like a spoilt child that fears anything and everything. Your country deserves a you that remembers that this country is about what you do to make it better. And it starts with how you will support your new President. And how you treat your own people. Those who are willing to stand up and be counted. Be critical, but don’t be destructive. That is not the American way. Or so I was told.

You don’t need to stockpile. Maybe just a little on decency and on guts. But don’t fear tomorrow. It’s not the of the world as you know it and you’ll feel fine.

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No really, hear me roar. Because there is no way that you will make sense of anything else I have to say. This bloody accent of mine. I don’t even think I will able to understand it if I heard it coming from your mouth. It’s just a shame I can’t write in an accent. Maybe I should do a podcast and see how many people switch off from this blog. “Hello, this is Angry….” Click. Thanks so much for your commitment…

Okay, I used to argue that I have no accent. That you all have accents and not me. Oh I can quote you studies by Oxford University proving that South Africans have the purest English “accent” out there. That we speak English the way it was intended by God or whoever made the rules of English. The Queen I guess.

But I am so damn wrong about that. You see, I am not English. Fatal flaw number 1. I can only have the purest “accent” (or non-accent) if I actually qualified as an English South African. I am not. But it came as a bit of a shocker to realize that I have one damn heavy bloody accent. I never heard it before. Until yesterday.

We had this guy from South Africa visiting