Dear Cyril. My dad tells a story that is hard for my privileged self to fathom. It is of him, as a little boy, after the war in the 1940s, standing in the backyard to evade eyes as he eats a meal of bread and sugar, writes Gasant Abarder in a new #SliceofGasant.
Abarder, who recently launched his book, Hack with a Grenade, is among the country’s most influential media voices. Catch his weekly column here, exclusive to Cape {town} Etc.
During those times of war-time rations, it was a luxury. The irony is that bread (at around R20 a loaf) and sugar (at around R25 for a few grams) are a luxury few in this country can afford.
Tell me, Cyril, do you know what it is like to tuck a 5-year-old into bed at night when it is pitch dark and she is afraid of the dark? Then to wake her up to tell her that her favourite breakfast is a non-starter because of loadshedding?
This morning I drove past Beauvallon Secondary School. Or more accurately, what is left of it. It was the only high school in the Valhalla Park area but it was closed down along with about 19 other so-called underperforming schools about a decade ago.
What is left is ruins. The doors and window fixtures of the classrooms have long been carried off bit by bit. The dilapidated building is now a haven for crime and social ills. It is an island surrounded by newly sprung-up shacks of a fast-growing informal settlement.
I thought schools were meant to be drivers of social change. Nogal, on Robert Sobukwe Road. The name of the man who suffered under apartheid is now undergoing a second wave of oppression.
They don’t build any schools anymore, Cyril, as the late Lucky Dube prophecised. All they build are gleaming new McDonald’s Stores. Those golden arches, of course, the symbols of your wealth.
I saw a man just up the road from McDonald’s in Kenilworth the other day. He carried a sign in his weary arms. His sign read: “2 short of Big Mac”. Cyril, it doesn’t mean he is too short to reach the counter. Athi was just asking for R2. Seeing Athi inspired this:
“2 short of a Big Mac“– by Athi
I didn’t roll it down:
the glass shield next to my perch.
The POV from a SUV
to read your sign:
“2 short of a Big Mac”– by Athi
Is that what you want? Is that your real name?
Or borrowed from a friend?
If I give you two rand
is that what you’ll get?
Two buns, two patties, a sickly sauce.
I’ll never know.
I take my right turn
back to surburbia.
The questions just fleeting.
The glass separated us, Athi.
Just like the visitors of Pollsmoor B-Section.
I averted my gaze when you looked at me,
busied with tweaking the radio’s dials,
pretending to be deep in thought.
Up the road lies the promise
of Golden Arches.
Your stomping ground outside KC
filled with excess. Where you never go.
“Right of Admission Reserved”, says so.
Will you be back tomorrow, Athi?
Hailing “2 short for a Big Mac”?
When last did you speak to another?
Who asked your name – offered a smile –
asked how your day was?
Cyril, with each passing day you’re creating a nation of Athis. South Africans are growing weary of you. On your watch, educated people of colour yearn for apartheid and convince themselves those were the good old days. We stumble from event to event like SONA when you can cynically, and all of a sudden, keep the lights on. We wait for loadshedding reprieves like the Formula E.
In case you haven’t realised, you’re hopelessly out of touch. The Proteas Women needed you to make an appearance at their historic world cup final on Sunday but you stayed away. Perhaps it was better because you may have been roundly booed.
As we stagger from commission to commission you’ve shown us you have no backbone. Those identified as enemies of the state for stealing billions are still free and you don’t seem to care apart from paying lip service.
We’re waiting for the new Minister of Electricity and your reshuffle. The crime stats are horrific. You can start by firing the Minister of Police. Your cabinet is bloated but we know you need to keep your pals in jobs.
We are sick. We are tired. Our eyesight is failing from the constant darkness. Our cars are thirsty for overpriced fuel. Our trollies are emptier. The interest rate is using our bodies as punching bags.
We’ll be over here, Cyril. Eating our bread and sugar while we still can.
Also read:
Apartheid was better? If you’re asking that you’re a johnny-come-lately!
Picture: Unsplash