South Africa's Stain

To say racism is a uniquely South African malaise would be a lie.


I've experienced racism in many forms, particularly growing up. One of my favourite childhood memories among many that involved Dadonator piling us into the car for impromptu road-trips saw us arrive in a small town somewhere along South Africa's back-roads.

It might have been Standerton, but I could be horribly mistaken, and wouldn't want to give Standerton a bad name. We arrived in the town rather late that night, in either a Ford Sierra or a Sapphire (I could tell you which if I knew how old I was at the time, but I don't remember). My dad, Dadonator - with his fair skin, sandy hair and green eyes - went through the front entrance of a hotel to sort out overnight accommodation (we were the adventuring type of family, not one for reservations, but more on that in another post). After paying for the room, my dad proceeded to bring my mom and I in, brother on his arm, asleep. Upon seeing my raven-haired mom, and my mocha-coloured me, The Inn-Keeper hurriedly ushered us back out of the front entrance and into our car.

Now, initially, this had gotten my pre-teen blood boiling, despite having had very little understanding of the recently abolished Apartheid system and the light breezes of change yet to come. But then I remembered, on the same trip, my mom being sent into cafés and taverns in the Transkei and Ciskei to ask for directions because my dad feared his pigmentation would not be met with favourably. The Inn-Keeper then leant in through the driver's window of the Sierra/Sapphire and whispered to Dadonator "pull the car around back, I'll let you in there".

It was somewhat of an adventure. A breakfast buffet was sent up to our room, so as not to disturb the other guests with our brownness upon a chance sighting, despite us checking out of the hotel just before the sun rose. We all have anecdotal stories of our country in her former veil. And yes, the division sown by the regime of the time did much to strengthen our already entrenched, deeply divided and fractured racial and cultural partiality.

The deep racism we bear is not the result of Apartheid. Apartheid just made it worse. Why is it that we South Africans hate each other so much? We encounter it daily. It's as simple as a colleague questioning my African-ness. As simple as brown people from the western coastal regions of South Africa asking why the darker portions of the population traversed the Fish River in the first place. It comes to the fore in our comments about refugees, or letting the word k****r slip forth from our mouths and fingers.

Let me just briefly express how much I hate that word. Not for its racial connotations. Not for its supposed similarity to calling an African-American person a negro, nigger or coloured. But because of its original meaning. Its Arabic root. Unbeliever. Denier of God. Infidel. Hider of the truth. Maker of iniquity. Those preceding N-words and the C-word strangely roll off my tongue easily, particularly when I'm rapping along to Jay-Z or Dr Dre. But I can't bring myself to calling another human being a k****r. See? I can't even type it, I'm so ashamed of its existence.

Now, we look at ourselves and say "that's not me! I'd never say that, even in anger". Watch your racist self when you hear a black reporter or politician pronouncing the word "ceremony" as ce-REM-ony or "circumstances" as cir-CUM-stances. And yet, when Victor Matfield rapes the English language five ways till Sunday, we look at him, fawn and say "shame, he's trying. It's his second-language". English is, for the large part, the second-language of most South Africans. Wait, what's that? "But reporters, anchors and politicians have a responsibility to speak correctly. It's their job". Yes, it's Victor's job too. This isn't about Victor. This is about our reaction to just hearing someone's voice on the other end of the telephone line and thinking "oh, God" with a sigh.

We judge far too easily. And it's that deep-seated, entrenched racism that's holding us back. We are all South Africans. Different, sure. With common threads? Maybe, but sometimes they're tenuous at best.

We forget that the world looks to us with pride that we were able to negotiate a complete regime change without a civil war. Was there bloodshed? Of course! A mass exodus of panicked South Africans packing for Perth? Yes! Did we go to war? Were those stocks of tinned food put to good use? Has the country truly gone to the dogs?

I hope you answer that last question with a resounding "No" and are able to look at yourself and say "I am a racist. But I'm going to change that". Our racism is an inherent disease, and no amount of national discourse, embargoing of words, censorship of tongues or hugs and handshakes and pledges of unity is going to change that.

Make the change in yourself. Then teach your kids. Because it breaks my heart when I hear my daughter say "you know my best friend Tshepiso at school, the black girl?" She's four. Come on, South Africa, we're better than that.

Super Bean to the Rescue

This is the power of  Hannah-Bean, Spawn of Witten.

The other day, wife wakes me up at some ungodly hour - like 06h30 - to ask me to rinse her car down. Now, to put this all into context, she works very close to a major construction site that includes a new road being built. To say her car is constantly covered in dust would be a gross understatement.

Being the man I am, I grumbled, rolled out of bed, crept into a pair of shorts, slid into a tatty t-shirt and headed to the front yard still crusty-eyed even after brushing my teeth. Now, as any man would know, dust happens to be waterproof. So rinsing down a dust-covered electric blue vehicle is like trying to counter a gale-force gust with a well-directed fart - no matter the intention, it simply will not work. So instead, I decided to just wash the damn car.

Just before I was about to rinse it down, wife emerges ready to leave for work - despite the hour still being somewhat ungodly by my standards (07h00) - looks at her now clean, albeit soap-sudded vehicle and says "I just asked you to rinse it."

Now, I'm pretty adept at using the English language, but I'm sure "I just asked you to rinse it" can in no way be interpreted as "thanks for washing my car". Either way, I responded by telling her it was the worst thank you I'd ever heard, proceeded to rinse the old girl down (the car, not the wife) and trudged back inside.

My day, now so very nearly ruined at such an early hour, needed rescuing. After my shower, hunched over the sink shaving, Hannah-Bean arrives in the bathroom asking if we can "do that thing we do that we saw on Boomerang". Dads have fantastic memory. I instantly knew what she was referring to. What followed made my day...

Me: Shhh... be vewwy quiet. I'm hunting Wabbit.
Bean: *imitates chewing sound* naah, what's up, Doc?
Me: I'm hunting Wabbit.
Bean: What's it look like, Doc?
Me: He's got long pointy ears..
Bean: *interjects, pointing her fingers at her temples* Like this?
Me: And a white fluffy tail...
Bean: *shakes hips to imitate a tail-wiggle* Like this?
Me: And he hops around...
Bean: *begins hopping around like a rabbit* Like this?
Me: Saaay... you look a lot like a Wabbit

At this point, four-year-old superhero Bean can no longer contain herself. She bursts into raucous laughter, and my half-shaven face - the other half of which is still covered in shaving foam - erupts into a guffaw along with her.

Day made.

Daughter Commentary

My daughter, Hannah says the most incredible things.

She calls me awesome names, too. When she was 2, she'd call me Daddy-Laddy. I could understand this, because it rhymes. But there are some other interesting ones she's come up with since then.

My favourite is Mister Lance. So authoritative. From now on, that's how I'll introduce myself.

I also have my own nicknames for her. Very seldom is it just Hannah. I also call her Bean. Because, well, in the words of a very dear friend "She's a little human bean". So it's Bean, Hannah-Bean or Babyshoes. To which she often responds "But I'm not a baby anymore." She's 4, and I assume will always be my baby.

I usually post her crazy ramblings on Twitter under the hashtag #DaughterCommentary

Here's some of the other stuff she says:

"Dad you forgot to tighten my button loose when you put my shorts on this morning. I always tighten it loose when I wee"

Pouring a scotch while I'm braaiing, I say "Hannah, turn the meat for daddy please?" She replies "but I'm only small"

Daughter in a robotic voice: "I'm. not. Hannah. I'm. a. robot. I. don't. need. body. cream. I. need. oil."

Trying to switch on a DVD, I kept telling her to press the triangle (for PLAY). After a few failed attempts, she looks all forlorn and says "but I'm only small"

Dodding about in the garden, she asks to go to the park. I say "When mommy's done studying, we can go to the park." After a long pause she says "We should get another mommy. Then she can study and we can go to the park."