An Accidental Activist: Basil “Mannenberg” Coetzee and me (1989)

I was just a face in the crowd. There must have been 500 of us. Swaying to the music. Maybe it was 50. I don’t know. My memory paints a beautiful picture. Filling the crowd. Swelling the numbers. There should have been a big one. Even if there wasn’t. But here I was. A wit oukie. Standing out. But I was here to listen to the master himself. Mr Cape Town. Mr Jazz.

I lived and studied out in Stellenbosch and we didn’t get these opportunities often. We weren’t really the hub of liberation arts down there in the bundus. We were only going to get the Voëlvry Toer a bit later in the year. And then everything will change overnight. Well, it felt like overnight. For now we were still the backward university run by the Broederbond – a secret society of Afrikaner leaders in key positions. With the names of our university buildings celebrating the Apartheid founders and leaders like the Verwoerd Building and the Vorster Building where I studied. Political Science of all things.

But somehow Basil “Mannenberg” Coetzee decided to come and play to us boere. Basil “Mannenberg” Coetzee! Man, I was as exited as hell. He just came back from an overseas tour. And he was coming to Stellenbosch? He was a legend. In my eyes, Mister Cape Town Jazz. Yes, we were blessed with some of the greats down in the Cape. Dollar Brand, sorry – Abdullah Ibrahim. Legend himself. And maybe the popular choice for the best of Cape Town. But he was too fancy for me. Too complex for a guy like me with no musical ear. And Hugh Masekela up north. Great, but not being from Cape Town meant he couldn’t speak to my heart. My head yes, but not my heart. For me it was always Basil “Mannenberg” Coetzee. I liked the simplicity and beauty of Basil. His passion was so raw. On the edge. As if he was going to explode any minute now. And here I was. Listening to “The Man”. Live! As if God came to town to visit the little people for a few minutes.

The stage where he played was small. Not much bigger than a large office. We were so close to him and the band. Sabenza. They were almost on top of us. But we didn’t care. We just wanted to hear Mannenberg. The song Mannenberg. Play it Basil! Play it! That’s all we wanted to hear. It calmed us down. The song of Cape Town. And no one played it better than him. Or with more passion. And he played it. And he played it. Sweat running down his face. His body swaying back and forth as he played it. Sometimes jerking as if he was being beaten by the cops in the streets of Mannenberg. He was loving it. He was living it. He was Basil from Mannenberg. Playing the song of his people. And we just soaked in his music. His passion. His love for our little spot here at the bottom of the continent.

It was unbelievable. Basil played. And every now and then he’ll stop and stare at the crowd. Sometimes it felt as if he was looking straight at me. The boer in the crowd. He wouldn’t know who I was. He just saw the face. I didn’t realize straight away that I was the only guy who looked like a boertjie in the crowd. And it was a marginal call at best. But I still stood out in the crowd. I guess the long hair didn’t help either. And he’ll stare a bit and then give us a political lecture.

But not the type of lecture I had at university. This was full of passion. In my language. The way the people spoke it. Not some academic using words that sounded like Latin plant names. He spoke about people being forceably removed from their homes in District 6. How they struggled on the Cape Flats. Like his family. Like he did. Moved from District 6 to Mannenberg. And he told us how we must be the difference. The difference between yesterday and tomorrow. That we are the tomorrow. We make the future. And then he’ll play a bit more. All of them – Khayalitsha Dance and CT Blues and more. All from Sabenza. I just bought the album a while back – okay, the tape. And he played them all. And he played us all. Working us into a frenzy with his words and music mix.

He’ll play a song and then he’ll stop and shout a slogan or two. And then, right at the end it happened. He stopped and stared at us. And then stared at me. And slowing started playing Song for Winnie. While looking at me. I was sure he was looking at me. I hope he was looking at me. He looked down as the song ended and slowly looked up. Straight at me. I was sure I could see a smile forming slowly while he looked at me. Sweat dripping from his face. And then he jerked his head up and quickly punched his clenched fist into the air – the liberation salute – and shouted, “Amandla!”. Everyone punched the air and shouted back, “Awethu!”.

I did. Followed his lead. Without even thinking. It’s a gut reaction. My fist went up like a flash. And I shouted as loud as I could. Because the man spoke. And when I looked back at the stage where he stood I realized he was looking at me. He saw me. No. He watched me. His smile was much bigger now. He got the boertjie. He got me. And then he winked. He winked at me and shouted, “One settler, one bullet”. And then he laughed. Everyone laughed. Even I laughed. It was for me. But in fun. Yes, he got me. I got me to laugh. And he got me to remember “the people”. Why we do this. Amandla! Awethu! Power! To the People! Basil and Mannenberg got me. And he winked at me. And it was sweet. It was an honor beyond belief. Basil “Mannenberg” Coetzee saw me, watched me and taught me. About Mannenberg. And what I had to do.

May you rest in peace now Basil. Basil “Mannenberg” Coetzee. Thanks for the memories. Thanks for the wink. I still see it. And I still live it. Hope you’re watching from up there. You’re the man. Just keep on playing that Cape Town jazz. That’ll keep them going. It got me going.

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I have these pictures in my head™

I have these pictures in my head. Pictures of people and places I have seen. It’s my memories in colour. I wish I had them in little picture boxes to share. But I don’t. I just have these pictures in my head.

Pictures of the Pink Market in Bamako, Mali. The sea of colour spread as far as the eye can see. Clothes and textiles hanging from every stall, tent and shop. Shirts of gold, blue, white – all shades and colours, more than the rainbow can give. Shirts and tunics and dresses hanging everywhere. And the women in their bright clothes and big smiles. Mulling around and laughing and talking. Neighbours during the day and friends at night.

Pictures of Soweto Market in Lusaka. Taxi’s everywhere. The minibus taxi’s. Blue and yellow or whatever spraypaint they could get their hands on. The backyard mechanics working at the stop street. Welding “new” exhaust pipes on cars still idling. And the tables with their variety of goods spread out. Fresh fruits and vegetables – oranges, carrots, potatoes, apples and everything you would want. And don’t forget the nsima and stewed beef. Or the dried Mopani worms ready for a salad – like croutons. And the men sitting in the alley’s drinking beer and talking soccer. Pictures of life and living.

Pictures of the arts and craft sellers on the side of the road on the way to Masvingo in Zimbabwe. Two or three soccer fields big. Sellers and artists a meter or two apart. Row upon row. With a government agent standing out acting as a seller. But the suit and the sunglasses give them away. They’ve  watched too many Western spy movies. But the artists sit there with a dusty backdrop and the beautiful Zimbabwe hills scattered around them. And their art. Art of wooden carved heads, soapstone mother-and-child abstracts, traditional clothes and much, much more. Just more and more – row upon row. Fields of art. And fields of people.

So many pictures. The flower sellers in Cape Town with their wide smiles and Table Mountain backdrop. Fisherman in Hout Bay coming in with their catch. Rows and rows of construction and more construction in Abuja, Nigeria. Carpets of trees as far as the eye can see when flying over the Cameroon jungle. The Danube with the spectacular Buda Castle as a backdrop in Budapest, Hungary. Lake Geneva from the window of a train. The Sun and Moon Pyramids in Mexico standing tall with cities of ancient civilizations scattered around and underground. So many pictures.

But my pictures can’t tell you of the smells, sounds and tastes that lingers in my mind.

I can hear the Cape Town flower sellers shouting funny lines to get you to buy their flowers. “Two Rand a bunch”. Or the ice-cream guy shouting, “A lolly to make you jolly, a sucker to make you wakker“. The languages going wild in Pink Market. And Spanish all around in Mexico. Not a word I understand. But it still sounds like music.

The taste of my first cheese fondue in Lausanne in Switzerland. Followed by horse steak as a main course. And chilli on everything in Mexico. And tequila to take your breath away. And having some more. My first good coffee ever in a little coffee shop in Brussels. And later having a Turkish coffee a few blocks away. And still trying to go to sleep more than ten years later.

The smell of the perfumery in Luxembourg. And dog poo in Paris. Fresh fish bought from the fisherman in Strand. Real butter on the farm in the Karoo. Manure on the farm… Afval and putu on a wonky table in Khayelitsha. Fresh baked roosterkoek on the fire at Ouma’s place.

They are all good. But my pictures don’t fade. They just get more colourful by the day. The shades of poverty around the corner disappears. The darkness of sick and hungry children fades way in the background. Every spot of bad memories grows fainter by the day. Only the colours of happiness and beauty remains. And become brighter by the day. That’s how I want my pictures to be. The good things of life and living etched in my mind. Smiling faces. Happy times.

I hope you have some pictures too.

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Views on the Weakly News™

I found it very difficult to blog this week. It has been a tough week. News from South Africa have not been good. People getting killed for being foreign. Xenophobia. So sorry, I haven’t been my chipper self since it happened. As you might know from my last blog – Terror in South Africa and the end of a dream… This week I will focus on the news from Africa. Just because it has been in my thoughts all week. Hopefully the news will be better next week and I will have the will to blog again. Let’s see where this takes us…

1. Immigrants run, but not foreign investors

I had to look for some good news out of Africa this week. But it is slim pickings. But it looks like foreign investors don’t see the world through my eyes right now. And thank God for that. Investors still believe that Africa in general is immunefrom global recession. That’s good news right? I don’t know. Becauseinvestors don’t actually give a… hum… damn I guess. (My wife doesn’t want me to swear. She says it isn’t “classy”. I argue saying she is looking at the wrong blog for that!) I have serious problem with the way they look at Africa. BecauseAfrica isn’t immuneto a recession. Food prices are up – just yesterday the UN says that developing countries will pay 40% more for food because of global needs, biofuelsetc. No crisis hey? But I have a bigger problem with their view. They should rather say that SOME African countries won’t feel the pinch. But others? I don’t know. Zimbabwe is not doing so well. And haven’t for a while. South Africa is losing steam – and will have an impact across sub-Saharan Africa. Sorry guys. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better. So that was the good news…

2. Selling sex for food

Talking about Zim. It is getting worse by the day. Women are now going to Mozambique to earn money for food. Selling their souls and bodies for a food. Hoping to earn dollars to send home for food. We are not talking about the young girls being starry eyed about a better future and not seeing the potholes. I am talking about mothers going into prostitution to hopefully make enough money to send home again so that the family can be fed. And it won’t get any better with the thousands moving back to Zimbabwe after the xenophobic attacks in South Africa. Again it is the women who will suffer. And it is the women who will do anything to try and save their families. And the men who will do the killing. Hope you are proud of yourself. Men. Bah! Wimps and weaklings – that’s what they are. Can’t solve a problem and they go straight for the violent option. Stupid bastards.

3. Beheading gays

We know Gambian President Yahya Jammeh is crazy. Some call him eccentric. Just call it what it is please. He is a crazy lunatic – a mad man. A stupid, stupid insecure sub-human. First he found a cure for HIV/Aids in a plant and a Qur’anic verse. I am sorry. A bite of a daisy and reading a line or two won’t do it buddy. No matter how much you believe. I believe you are just plain crazy. And that is not written in the Bible or the Qur’an. It’s written in the skies. Now he wants to behead gays because it is against the Bible and the Qur’an. Sorry buddy. Go read the scriptures again. It still says your crazy. And stupid. Put your insecurity in a box and put it where the sun don’t shine. If your version tells you to behead someone or discriminate against them – then burn it. It doesn’t deserve better treatment. And neither do you. I really don’t get the issue people have with the sexuality of others. It’s just insecure, stupid and silly. Really. You won’t be worried about others if you more secure within yourself. Real men don’t worry about the choices of others. Get over yourself.

4. World Wide Web Weddings in Cameroon

I don’t know how many times I have won the lottery. I win it at least a couple of times each day. You know. Those “you email was selected” type of lottery winnings. Not to mention the hundreds of people from Gambia, Nigeria and South Africa who wants to send me money each day. The money that is in a holding account and needs a place to go. And I am always the right guy for these little transactions. Damnit. Still waiting. Not one single onehad paid out yet… But now their is a new way to catch you suckers foreigners out. Marriage. Yes, hot babes on the offer from Cameroon. And the stupid guys from Europe falls for it! Girls from Cameroon is whispering typing sweat words of promises and a wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say-no-more here and there and the guys are falling hard. Especially the older French guys. TAs they say, there is a sucker born each and every day. And he speaks French. Next up? Offering quickie divorces over the web. Mmm. Let me think about that one for a bit…

5. Jou ma se…

The xenophobic attacks in South Africa has spread to my hometown – Cape Town. You know my feelings. But I just want to express it in the best Capetonian way possible. “Hey, you guys. Yes, you tsotsi. Ja, ek praat met jou dom donner. Vat jou goed en trek Ferreira. And I don’t mean the foreigners. I am talking to you who live in Cape Town and who are doing this. Boet. Jy is niks nie. En jy is nie ‘n Kapie nie. Ons maakie so nie ne. Vat jou goed en waai. Jou ma se…” Enough is enough. Stop it now.

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South Africans and their dirty little secret

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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Hear me roar™

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 our offices today. Of course, as the resident foreigner and South African, I had to go to the meeting. (I was also secretly hoping the guy would bring some biltong and Castle – but no bloody luck with that either.) He was from my hometown – Cape Town. I guess they also wanted me to translate for them. This guy had a heavy accent. Or so I thought.

I introduced myself and we were walking and talking on our way to the meeting-room. (Small world – we went to the same primary school.) All I heard was “Ja, man” and “lekker“. I thought the team might have some trouble understanding him, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone. Or they were doing a pretty good job acting as if they understood what he had to say. But the meeting went well. He was a typical South African. On top of his game and as sharp as a needle in a condom factory. Sharp enough for you to think it’s all going to go very wrong any minute. But he was good – he made me proud. Even with the accent.

I saw him out afterwards and made him promise to bring me some Castle, biltong and a few other goodies next time he comes to visit. He should have known that any honorable South African will never fall for bribes of diamonds or riches – but a well placed can of Stoney and a packet of Simba Chutney can swing a deal in seconds. A lesson I hope you learned young man. Don’t let me repeat myself.

Anyway, after a few comments that included “lekker“, “boerewors” and “moerse” we said “cheers” and off he went. Nice guy. I rejoined Ms C, my colleague and friend, to download. But first I had to check on the accent. So I asked her, “Tell me I don’t have an accent as heavy as that”. She looked at me, laughed and said, “You sound just like him”. Damnit.

She even reminded me that he used words that only South Africans use – like thumbsuck. And that she looked at me to see if I realized he used the word – they make fun of some of my expressions at work all the time. Fun in a good way. And thumbsuckis one of those words I use often. It means to create something from nothing. Like in “I created the data from nothing – I thumbsucked the data”. Damnit. I didn’t even blink when he said it – it was just English to me. Damnit.

No wonder we always need a translator when we go to meetings. I remember one of my first meetings facing a new client. I kept on talking about the data we were using to support our argument. And the potential client just stared blankly at me. Not a clue of what I was saying. So Ms M stepped in to say that I mean data. Pronounced completely differently. I pronounce it da-ta – the “a” pronounced like in the “a” in “la” ( as in “do re me fa so la te do”). Not day-ta. Thanks Ms M. And she’s pretty good at understanding and translating what I have to say. And makes it sound even better than what I actually meant to say.

(Another word is Iraq. I pronounce it E-Raq – standard “a” as above – while Americans pronounce it Eye-Rack. No wonder MediCare makes so many mistakes. You try and fill in those prescriptions without making a mistake baby.)

Anyway. Another favourite expression of mine is used when someone asks me how long something will take or how much it would cost or how involved it would be. My response? “How long is a piece of string?” You see, I can’t tell you how long the piece of string is until I have more information – and the same detail is needed to answer the other questions. I still get blank stares for that one. And a few laughs from our team.

But the accent do have distinct advantages. I can pretty much say whatever I want and people will smile and believe me. I sound so… worldly. You want to talk development? Who better than someone with an accent and from Africa. You want to talk about the global economy? Who better than someone with an accent who lived on a few continents already. Like my boss and friend Mr M says – I can kill someone and get away with it if I just keep on talking and smiling.

Yes, my accent. Not easy to understand, but it comes in handy. I generally call myself the pretty accent in the corner. We can use it when we need to because it does tell the listener that I might have a different perspective – and I get their attention. Especially over here in the US where accents are still a bit of a novelty. I mean really, you guys think every and any Englishman on the big screen must be a great actor – just because he has an accent! Hugh Grant anyone?

Of course the accent helps me get away with silly comments and general stupidity because of the way it sounds. I am the Hugh Grant of my profession. No matter how stupid I actually am, my accent makes me sound smarter and wiser than what I really am. And better looking.

WTF? Yes, better looking. Or at least marginally more attractive. Okay, more acceptable for public viewing. Just. Barely less horrifying than Freddy Krueger on a bad night. Children run away screaming their little heads off when they see me, but hang on to every word I say when they hear me speak. Scary looking, but with the accent still a huge improvement over my non-accented self. Last week Friday I was talking to a few of my younger colleagues at work – a young guy and two young women, one who just joined us. And the other young women looked at our new colleague and said that I have the coolest and nicest accent she has ever heard. Aah, always good for the ego of any (almost) middle-aged man. Even if he has his own little accent of love. My wife. The one with the purest accent of all. Or rather, as an English South African – the one with the non-accent. Just music to my ears and heart.

So hear me roar. That’s about all you will understand. But take it from me (imagine an accent saying this) – the accent makes me wise and cool. And a little bit better looking than with my mouth shut. I have the data to prove it.

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