South African politics is never boring. Even though “terrible things are happening” here, I’d still choose South African over Swiss politics any day. The news over there is so dull that a farmer made national headlines after forming an organisation dedicated to amending the constitution so cash incentives could be given to farmers who don’t cut off their livestock’s horns. Meanwhile, back at the Mzansi ranch, following PAC politics alone can keep you busy for weeks.
This week, Floyd Shivambu took a swipe at his former comrade-in-arms Juju, describing him as the leader of a cult. Our political pundits descended upon this titbit, coming out with that laziest of tropes about the dangers of “the personality cult in organisations”.
I think it’s more than a tad overemphasised. From Pharaoh Ramses II to Peter the Great, Genghis Khan, Julius Caesar, Cleopatra, Napoleon, George Washington, Shaka Zulu, Moshoeshoe I, Queen Modjadji, Queen Manthatisi, Winston Churchill, Mahatma Gandhi, Jan Smuts, JFK, Fidel Castro, Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo, Margaret Thatcher and Mangosuthu Buthelezi, there has always been a personality cult phenomenon and an aura around any leader a section of the population venerates.
During the 1991 ANC national conference, one Chris Thembisile Hani walked into a public toilet at the then University of Durban-Westville. I was using the facilities at the time, and his mere presence made my heart race. My palms went so clammy I couldn’t keep “my business” straight and ended up flooding my takkies. For the 45 seconds we were side by side I was consumed by the acute appreciation that I wasn’t standing next to just another human being. All he said to me was “Qabane!” (comrade), after which I stuttered my way through an unsolicited and rambling quasi-Marxist analysis. I believe my exact words were, “Gusuma tauwa desomia morret ... Bopha Qabane!”
I believe that leaving the future of our children and grandchildren to politicians is akin to giving the keys to the liquor cabinet to Amy Winehouse
I can only speculate about the chuckle he must have enjoyed after I left the room, utterly mortified. I’m not sharing this story merely to brag I once whizzed on myself next to Chris Hani. I’m just making the point that it is in the natural order of things that when you put milk in a centrifuge the cream will rise to the top.
In the early to mid-1990s, a governor from Little Rock, Arkansas, walked on water and had US citizens eating out of the palm of his hand. He waltzed into that nation’s good graces, even as his charming alter ego, Slick Willy, ran amok with many women — until, that is, one Kenneth Starr intervened. And yet Bill Clinton’s popularity, especially among African Americans, never took a knock. I’ve been fortunate to breathe the air in the same room as him, and I was quite affected by his presence.
I generally take a dim view of politicians. I believe that leaving the future of our children and grandchildren to politicians is akin to giving the keys to the liquor cabinet to Amy Winehouse. However, I believe that at the core of the democratic system is a tacit acceptance of the personality cult as a driver of outcomes. For as long as Juju commands a following large enough to paint a section of the National Assembly's seats red, he’s not doing anything Msholozi isn’t doing at Nkandla, or Auntie Helen in Cape Town. Floyd is more than welcome to carve out his own personal fiefdom just like everyone else.
And just in case anyone thinks I see Floyd or Juju as the second coming of Che Guevara clad in Versace, banish the thought. I’ve been in the same room as Floyd a few times and not once did I have even the slightest urge to pee on my shoes. If anything, I had to fight an almost uncontrollable urge to tap him on the shoulder and say (in my best English-teacher voice): “The word is pronounced ‘doh-cue-ment’, not ‘doh-coo-ment’, you know.”
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