A no-flies zone has been declared around Bloemfontein this weekend. President Zuma believes flies were brought over by the missionaries and used as weapons of mass distraction. While the Africans were waving the flies away, the religious robber barons moved in and took their land, their cattle and their more agreeable-looking daughters.
I shouldn’t even call it Bloemfontein. The Dutch were responsible for that nonsense. Who calls their city the “Fountain of flowers” and then allows it to fall into the hands of white supremacists who turn it into the “Fountain of blood” where church services, torturing darkies and watching a traffic circle were the main attractions on any given Sunday?
I thought Mangaung was the name of Bloemfontein’s township until I discovered a few minutes ago that it’s actually the Sesotho name for Bloemfontein. Not for the Sotho people this girly business with flowers. Hell, no. Mangaung means “Place of cheetahs”. If I were a cynical counter-revolutionary schweinhund, I would make a joke about it being the place of cheaters, but I’m not so I won’t. To be honest, it doesn’t really matter what you call it, the fact remains that this abysmal city in the godforsaken Free State … hang on, I’ve just read that Mangaung in fact means “Place of leopards”. I suppose one could make a crack about spots and their resistance to change, but one will resist. This is, after all, an auspicious occasion. It is not every day that Africa’s sexiest song and dance liberation troupe turns a hundred.
I see Julius Malema has been left off the programme. Not surprising, given that he’s more of a leper than a leopard these days. Politically speaking, of course.
I wish I could say I was there to help blow the candles out, but, inexplicably, my invitation failed to arrive. Equally unfortunately, my early deadline precludes me from commenting more accurately on events. Right now, all I have to go on are early reports.
The police and army have been called in to help control hysterical mobs of democracy-crazed teenagers clamouring to wish the ANC a happy birthday. When I turn 100, I would also like to have the authorities at my party. In fact, it will be a dress-up party. The theme will be cops ‘n soldiers. There will be teargas, ruptured spleens and enough red hot monkey sex for everyone. I can hardly wait.
The programme I have before me speaks of intercultural events at the Mangaung outdoor sports grounds. My flesh turned to goose when I read those words. In this country, “intercultural events” can range from the Polokwane palace coup to the butchering of Eugene Terreblanche.
One report said: “Many national ANC leaders were in the Free State doing door-to-door visits to make sure local party members attended the festivities.”
It all starts with a knock on the door.
“Dumela comrade. Are you attending the festivities?”
“Suka wena. I am still waiting for the house Madiba promised me.”
“I see. In that case, I am going to have to take one of your testicles.”
I find it a scathing vindication of this country’s constitution that hundreds of foreign journalists are being allowed to attend the party. No wonder we are loathed by so many on the continent. What kind of African government welcomes the international media, encourages freedom of religion and allows an opposition to flourish unstoned? The ANC Youth League’s oldest member, Robert Mugabe, must be appalled at our behaviour.
And he’s not the only one. ACDP leader Kenneth Meshoe was reportedly boycotting the event because the ANC intended dabbling in a bit of the old ancestor worship. “I do not agree with dedicating the country to the ancestors because the dead cannot help the living.” Just when you thought the little reverend was starting to make sense, he cited the ailing Nigerian economy and the earthquake in Haiti as examples of why it was dangerous to invoke the spirits. Barking mad.
The highlight of the centenary is the president’s speech this afternoon. I get palpitations just thinking about it. Stock up on Valium, people. This will be followed by Steve Hofmeyr singing De La Rey. Fortunately, he will be singing it in the bath at his holiday home in Ventersdorp.
It’s going to be an interesting year for this country. Serious seeds will be sown. And should there be a revolution, I would like to book my spot. Barricades. Third row from the front. On the aisle.
Matla ke arona.