Chances are we all remember what we were doing on April 27 1994 as if it were yesterday. It's a day etched in our collective memory if not our DNA. Americans often say they can clearly recall where they were or what they were doing when President John Kennedy was assassinated. We probably can recall on which side of the bed we woke up on that election day; the clothes we wore; the breakfast we had. And that exhilarating stroll to the polls, joining thousands of other first-time voters to make that all-important and groundbreaking cross. The thrill of casting that first vote was exhilarating.
The queues were long. But we had patience by the truckload. We could afford to wait. There was time to while away. Strangers became friends. After all, we'd waited a lifetime, generations in fact, for this momentous occasion, during which time precious lives were lost and sacrifices made. We who are living, inching closer, happily and patiently, towards the ballot box, are the fortunate beneficiaries/heirs of all those hurts and humiliations. Finally, Canaan was beckoning.
News from around the country was similarly joyful. The fears, the violence of the days preceding the elections — which had spooked some to stock up on tinned foodstuff for an indefinite stay behind the barricades and others to simply pack up and decamp — had, like early morning mist, simply vanished. Peace reigned. It was surreal, almost biblical. It seemed for once, that, for this godforsaken country, the stars were at last aligned. The different strands and colours of the tapestry that is our country were at once nicely co-ordinated and agreeable. People were of one mind, and that was to vote and to finally and decisively set their country to rights.
As if to summon the ancestors of the movement for the task ahead or acknowledge their primal role in the struggle Nelson Mandela, in his customary Madiba shirt, voted at Ohlange, outside Durban, home of John Langalibalele Dube, first president of the ANC. “Mission accomplished, Mr President” he said, as if addressing Dube in person. It was April 27, and Mandela had spent 27 years in captivity. Was that deliberate or simply fortuitous? It was a beautiful day.
We've now been walking around scratching our heads and wondering what's hit us. Where did we go wrong? Essentially the delirium clouded our perspective, even our vision. We failed to learn the lessons of history. From Kenya, to Zambia, Mexico, India, and Zimbabwe, liberation movements have begotten nothing but a legacy of poverty, utter destruction and desperation. Liberation, it seems, is all about smashing the status quo. They have to kill the patient in order to revive it. But ah, we’re going to be different, we told ourselves. We’re an exception. Fat chance. We were deluding ourselves.
We’re now reaping the fruits of our naiveté. And of our new rulers. They prance around as if they know what they are doing. They don't have a clue. The calamity of their handiwork is staring us in the face. There's also a clash, or collision and even a confusion of visions. The new potentates are feverishly attempting to impose on an essentially free market economy what they call the national democratic revolution. Don't ask me what it means. Even the masses who shout the slogans are perplexed.
The election campaign has been all about the postmortem of the past 30 years, often seen through the prism of the beholder. Those in charge of our fate and largely responsible for landing us into this ditch want us to believe we've never had it so good. President Cyril Ramaphosa used the august platform of his state of the nation address to introduce a fictional character. Tintswalo has apparently done fantastically well under the ANC. She was born, in Ramaphosa's land of make-believe, into the lap of luxury — free housing, free schooling, electricity, water and an affirmative action policy which has propelled her to ample job opportunities. No sweat.
Where did we go wrong? Essentially the delirium clouded our perspective, even our vision
Unfortunately it’s a world totally foreign to the majority of young people, most of whom aren't in school and have no job and no hope. Like everything to do with Ramaphosa, it is yet another figment of his imagination. It was always going to be hard for a billionaire — wealth largely unearned and unexplained — to walk in the dilapidated shoes of the poor. Hyde Park is miles away from Diepsloot. During this election campaign the masses will be bussed to rallies to be regaled with song and dance, and then sent back to their squalor, with a food parcel as a reward. It’s essentially what democracy amounts to. No wonder people are slowly souring on it.
But maybe it's time we stopped the navel-gazing, and started looking ahead. The common thread running through our politics over the years — before and after apartheid — has been the constant venting of a litany of complaints and grievances. Somebody was always doing something nasty to us. We were aggrieved by apartheid and looked forward to the day it would be consigned to the trash can of history. Now we're profoundly disappointed by the betrayal of those we thought to be our saviours. Enough of this self-flagellation or this feeling sorry for ourselves.
We're not victims, nor hostages. We’re authors of our own misery; now, with the correct mindset and an abiding will to succeed, we can, and should, become masters of our own fate. It is not the past — the slings and arrows, or our flimsy and overrated successes — that will determine that fate. The past is water under the bridge. It is the decisions we take now that will determine the future we will have. It is up to us to mould it to our desire. And we can do that provided we not only don't repeat our mistakes but take the correct lessons from our missteps.
The elections offer us an opportunity not only to redeem ourselves, but to chart a new course for the country.
