Freedom Day: Colesberg’s nostalgia, and empty seats in Bloem

By Phakamisa Mayaba

Revisiting the nation’s amble towards democracy from the perspective of Colesberg and other rural areas invokes interesting stories from and about people of otherwise humble backgrounds. Frontline activists recall a monumental task that history had thrust upon them.

At the outset, it was education-driven. Brief, off the cuff, a night-school-like crusade with little time to assess whether the masses, many of whom were without formal schooling – mostly menial labourers who had been disenfranched for so long that they were unaware of the power that had just been thrust upon them – had assimilated the momentous message.

Some would have guffawed in the face of anyone who told them that making an ‘X’ (the same way they signed their names) in a box on a piece of paper could improve their station in life.

For the transition-era cadres, it was impulsive: you met someone, and simply told him or her to vote for Mandela, whose name was slowly becoming synonymous with the promise of change, piped water, a new house, and no longer having to take orders from the baas.

Effectively, this involved an up-ending of ingrained deference and unlearning the racialisation of servitude, and it was far from an easy task.

Most black homes had only recently been linked to the electricity grid, and television sets were still a novelty. Radio remained hands-down the most popular media, but it didn’t show you people’s faces. Newspapers were considered stand-offish interests for educated sorts, and mostly useful when the windows needed shining.

Mandela had only recently been let out of prison, and many people had no idea what the man who would be president even looked like. Factor into this threats of reprisals from old-style employers if their workers dared to vote for ‘daai terroris’, and there was an argument to be made for the vigorous street politicisation. Those who cut their teeth in black settlements during that time – the forging of the Madiba myth – will ramble on ad nauseam about how this changed everything, right down to the decor inside the home.

The ubiquitous posters of Mpho and Mphonyane Mathibela – the adored Siamese twins born in 1986 at Baragwanath Hospital — had always held pride of place on the cinderblock walls within township homes. So did cheap copies of Da Vinci’s Last Supper nailed up alongside framed Biblical lamentations, or a bloodied Christ hanging on the cross.

Now, with the unbanning of political action, merchants were struggling to keep up with demands for pictures of the fist-raising Nelson Mandela. For the first time, political affiliation was no longer a hushed matter but part of the domestic fabric, freely mingling between discussions of the ancestors, God and family.

On radio and television, Sello ‘Chicco’ Twala’s singalong ‘Peace in our Land’, coupled with those white t-shirts with doves emblazoned on the front, provided islands of calm amid the uncertainty. The message was clear: ‘throw your pangas into the sea’, and ‘wat verby is, is verby’. Any form of retribution, or getting even with the former enemy, had no place in this new democracy. The way to a better future was to simply let bygones be bygones.

Many bloody and painful decades in the making, 27 April 1994 would see the crescendo of all those efforts. Although there might have been lingering fears of violence, the images that have endured are those archived aerial shots of the long, snaking queues. They seem to stretch on forever, signifying a long-held dream by so many — young and old, some wheelchair-bound, smiling and waving, some swathed in heavy clothing to keep the beckoning winter at bay — all turning up to have their say in the hoped for reshaping of the country. The mood was hopeful, euphoric, brimming with promise and possibility.

Thirty-two years to the day, images of Bloemfontein’s Dr Rantlai Molemela Stadium told a different story. The television coverage was noticeably kind to President Cyril Ramaphosa as he stood up to address what appeared to be a pitifully low turnout. Although the marquee from where the president addressed dignitaries seemed full, circulated images showed practically empty stands.

There were no delirious flag-waving revellers. No jubilant crowd to sing along to the entertainment lineup. In fact, the news-grabbing highlight of the day was when an overexcited fan tried to rush the stage. Of course, social media players were quick to make a meal of the embarrassment, with the ANC’s usually prolific Facebook page (MyANC) seemingly not posting any photos from the event.

One could wrack one’s brain over why residents of Bloemfontein – once a sturdy ANC stronghold, and the venerable party’s founding city – chose to sit out the president’s visit. And why, unlike 1994, when people looked hopefully towards the new dawn, they are now openly apathetic, and no longer have the appetite to pretend otherwise. Yet to go down that road would probably mean getting bogged down in the same old tired complaints.

What is pretty clear, however, is that the circumstances have changed so drastically as to frequently leave one gobsmacked. In just thirty short years, whatever enthusiasm that had kept the ball rolling and the people faithful is dwindling. The snaking queues are no longer, and the euphoria a distant memory. Even the promise of a meal is not enough to get even the poor to turn out. One must wonder what this tells us about what the people were promised versus what they’ve actually been getting for the past three decades.

FEATURED IMAGE: President Cyril Ramaphosa takes a salute prior to delivering his Freedom Day Address in the Dr Rantlai Molemela Stadium in Bloemfontein. (SABC News)

This is an edited version of an article on Phakamisa Mayaba’s website, eParkeni. Used with permission.