It’s Sunday, shortly after midday, and the meat is on the braai. Noah’s cousin, Biff, has invited us to share it, together with all the usual trappings. We know them on no better than a wedding‑and‑funeral basis, so the invitation came as a surprise. Equally surprising is the fact that we are the only guests.
No, let me rephrase that: the invitation is actually quite portentous, even ominous. I suspect Noah’s family wants us back in line, and our hosts have been deputed to talk sense into us. We are being set up for the chop, and these funereal baked meats will coldly furnish forth the braai‑dal table.
Once we are well settled, Sally, the hostess, gets the nod from Biff, the host. In the short time since we arrived, she has knocked back two glasses of Chardonnay. They have, it appears, helped to uncork feelings previously bottled up tight. Those two party‑poopers, Frank and Earnest, are whispering in her ear and quite animating her spirits.
Drawing herself up to a height — not Alpine, but high nonetheless — she states portentously: “The family has formed a view and has asked us to speak to you about it. We have been chosen, ha ha, because Biff has the brains to think and I have the courage to speak.”
What could this view be, I wonder?
While I wonder, I hum “My Old Dutch”. I know this is wondrous, but I can think and hum at the same time. Perhaps I should market this ability. I could, I imagine, call it Wonder Hum — a nice Dutch touch, post‑prandial and all.
“Oh yes,” I say. I can speak, hum, and wonder all together. At school, I was good at patting my head and rubbing my tummy simultaneously. On the strength of this, I should have been made head girl.
“This Right Thinking stuff is bringing the family into disrepute.” Biff’s words, these. “Why do you do it? Do you get paid or something?”
“Actually, I have a thing for the Editor. He sure is a piece of ‘all write’. So much so that I intend to take up Morris dancing.” The sally is lost on Sally, who looks startled. Fair enough. Not everyone has an ear for pungent wit.
“But seriously,” I continue, “I do it free, gratis and for nothing. My only benefit is the joy I derive from connecting with people.”
“Well,” she says. “It’s time to disconnect. If you can’t say nice things about black people, say nothing at all.”
Biff, silent so far, enters the fray. “Sally is referring to the stuff about IQ and black incompetence. This stuff is out, taboo, beyond the pale, sheer heresy. Whites cannot speak like this without being called racist. People are beginning to think that the family must be racists through and through, and we don’t like it. I mean, why do you have to be so nasty?” asks Sally.
Noah, so far arcane, emerges to even up the discussion — make it two‑by‑two, as it were. “Actually, Wanda was simply reporting what the Professor said. The black one, you know.
“In making his argument, he was actually being nice to blacks. He was pointing out that, in the eyes of some at least, the best justification for black preference is that they need a leg up. If, being less competent, they cannot compete on even terms with whites, how else are they to become a force in society? Creating a black middle class has been the ambition of every white magnate since the transition. You know that.”
“Yes, but why do you call blacks incompetent? I know some very competent blacks, who happen to be lovely, too. What do you say about them? They are certainly not incompetent.”
“I say nothing about them,” says Noah. “Nor did the Professor. He was speaking not about specific individuals, but about levels of competence in general. His concern was with blacks on average, or in the round, or with the mean if you prefer. Talking about individuals helps not a jot: they are statistical outliers.”
“Well, even supposing you are right, why pour fuel on the flames by bringing up matters of IQ?” asks our Sal. “You know any mention of IQ is dynamite.”
“Wanda did not refer to IQ, the Professor did. He explained that IQ and competence correlate closely, very closely indeed. IQ results, in consequence, are relevant as a marker for competence — a sort of bright red flag, if you like.
“To make his argument, he did not have to debate the merits of IQ tests or whether they truly measure intelligence. All he needed to do was to demonstrate the correlation and emphasize, as he did, that SA blacks have scored poorly in rounds of testing over many years.”
Looking around me, I discover the meat has been removed from the braai. It now lies in serried ranks on a board. Apparently, this is where it is to be left to rest. I detect nothing somnolent about it. It is truly dead and, as far as I can see, a trifle cremated. Initially I feared that these funereal meats might prove half-baked meats, but I see my fears were unfounded: this meat shows every sign of having been laid to rest. Rest in pieces, I suppose.
“Well, the shortcomings in performance, both in IQ tests and generally, is the fault of whites. Not so?” says Biff. “Whitey oppressed blacks over the years of colonialism and apartheid. If blacks are incompetent, Whitey is responsible, and must take responsibility by standing back and letting blacks get ahead.”
“Perhaps,” says Noah. “But the point you make is really a red herring. The truth is that blacks will be preferred, whatever the cause. The preference will survive the purging of apartheid and continue long after the effects of discrimination are dead and buried. If you racialize society, as we continue to do, pandering to the majority by giving them preference is good politics.”
“Isn’t this illegal under the Constitution?” I know the answer, not least because dear Seth gave it to us. But sometimes feeding nuts to monkeys can be worthwhile. Not that the three of them are monkeys, you understand. I hasten to tell you this, as referring to neo‑hominids in contexts such as these can itself be fraught.
“Well, the Professor says it is,” says Noah. “For what it is worth, I agree. The Constitution prohibits unfair discrimination based, among other factors, upon race. Differential treatment for blacks based on a disparity in ability and competitiveness might, at a push, pass muster. Naked racial preferencing in the interests of garnering political support will certainly not.”
“Would the Constitutional Court intervene to rectify the problem?” asks Biff. He can be every bit as thoughtful as Sally suggests.
“The Professor thinks not. He says it gutted the equality provision by reversing the onus of proof for measures intended to remedy past discrimination. Proving that a pro‑black measure is not intended to operate remedially before a hostile Bench is all but impossible.”
“Well,” says Sally, “the family still thinks you should shut your trap. So do I. What do you say, Biff?”
Cleverly, he answers, “Blood is thicker than water.” Sally is satisfied, but he knows what he is saying, and so do I. The reference to thickness is a dead giveaway. Some of the family — Noah’s, I stress — are as thick as a plank.
We tuck into the meal with rather more relish than we mustered in the discussion. The bar is low. The baked meats have become so rested that they, true to form, are now cold on the braai‑dal table. Five minutes longer and rigor mortis would have them within its cold and clammy grip.
Nonetheless, we eat. Our appetites have been whetted on the whetstone of our cut-and-thrust debate. Gourmandizing, we acquit ourselves well, and full stomachs testify to our success as trenchermen. Not every aspect of the day has been a flop.
To eat, I have had to open my mouth. To speak, I must do the same, and I shall not hesitate in the performance of this role. I may be the subject of family planning, but I have emerged triumphant. Familia fugit is the dog-Latin version of what I would say if the moment arose. Luckily, it didn’t.
In the car going home, we do not have the post‑festive exchange so customary among couples long thrown together. We like each other. What I elect to do is stretch my arm behind Noah’s shoulder and coo, “Thank you, my Arkangel, for supporting me so ably. Really, sometimes you do have your uses.”
“Yes,” he says, “we walk up and down the plank of life, and we do so two by two. But I rather think I won’t readily accept an invitation from them in the future.”
“Be of good cheer,” I reply. “You will not readily receive one.”
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