I voted. Noah voted. I suppose that makes us devoted, to the cause if not each other.
Who did we vote for, you might ask. Actually, you wouldn’t if you were a grammarian. Double actually, you wouldn’t even then, because not even the correct relative pronoun can rescue the question from condemnation. It constitutes prying into politics.
The gaffe is a serious one. It ranks up there with questions about one’s sexual proclivity or the movements of the bowel. In the nursery we may speak of Humpty Dumpty, but in adult society, it is improper to enquire into matters of humping and dumping. Even to volunteer intelligence on this score is a solecism that no proper person would commit.
Oh well, I propose to be improper. I shall confess all; not even Noah’s choice will be sacrosanct. We both voted for the Democratic Alliance.
Yes, we solemnly stood in a long queue, took possession of the voting papers with cupped hands, gingerly approached the tottery cardboard booth, and, careful not to stray beyond the lines, marked our cross in the box against ‘Democratic Alliance’ on all three of the ballot papers.
For the purpose we had used the stubby pencil thoughtfully provided on the end of the string, but we ourselves were not at the end of our tether. Quite the reverse, we each experienced a sense of elation at what we had just done. Not a sense of achievement, rather a sense of participation. Democracy was what we had fought for, and voting in yet another non-racial election was an expression of the success that now crowned our communal efforts.
This feeling of community was, I suppose, the trigger for our decision to vote in the morning though we knew the queue in the afternoon would be much shorter. Talking to the people around us contributed to the joy of the occasion and the ultimate feeling of elation. This was no perfunctory business but a ritual in which we were determined to be, erm, devotees.
But I digress. Why DA? I ask myself. Why did we vote DA? I ask Noah.
“For the usual reason. I am white and it is a party for whites.”
“Rubbish!” I cry. “These days the DA’s demographic is much more black than white.”
“Voting is tribal”
“Okay, but it still represents the bulk of white people. Voting is tribal. The electorate divides on group interests. Zulus vote for MK, the Zulu party. Coloureds vote for the Patriotic Alliance, the coloured party. Blacks in general still prefer the ANC, the black party. ActionSA attracts the chauvs who hate immigrants. The FF+ attracts Afrikaners who hate everyone else. And so on.”
“It’s the way it is, some things will never change,” Noah concludes, crooning. I wish he wouldn’t croon like this. I hate the Croon Carnival.
“That is so facile. Think of Chris Pappas.”
“Who?” He refrains from saying ‘Its Greek to me.’ I am pleased. Standards have to be maintained.
“Pappas. He is a young white Mayor of uMngeni in the KZN Midlands. The constituency is two-thirds Zulu yet they vote for him in droves.”
“He speaks the lingo fluently.”
“So what? Zille speaks Xhosa fluently, yet they don’t turn out for her.”
Noah’s retort strikes home. I reflect and reply in this way. “Yes, but it is the way the language is used. Zille speaks top down even in English. She creates the impression that she is furthering her own interests and ours only incidentally. That’s why they call her the ‘white madam’.”
In this she is not exceptional. Most politicians create the impression that they are in it for themselves and you are lucky to have them as your leaders. They can jump in and out of water-filled potholes as much as they like, but the whiff remains. They are top down.
“Pappas is different?” asks Noah.
“From the bottom up”
“Yes, Pappas is different. He speaks from the bottom up. The voters, black and white, see him as ‘one of us’. He stands to represent us, to promote our interests directly. He is in and of us.
“My grandfather used to say ‘Wanny, I would rather hear of your well-doing than your doing well.’ Wise words, those. Pappas is a well-doing guy, the rest are doing well – for themselves.”
“I see. Grandpappy, then Pappy, then pap. Do you have a father fixation, my dear?”
“Miaaaouw. That is so catty I think you must have a feline fixation.” I wanted to say ‘pussy fixation’, but such phrases can be misconstrued. Especially by my inamorata (or should that be ‘inamorato’)?
“Sorry. Let me be serious. Who else would you characterize as selfless, dear heart?” He is milking the issue for all he can. He is simultaneously buttering me up. The milch-cow preoccupations of a typical cat.
“Helen Suzman fits.”
“Yes,” says Noah. “I once consulted with her at her home. I tried not to fawn, but failed. ‘So many achievements…!’ I spluttered. By way of response, she opened a cupboard at the base of her bookcase. It was overflowing with trophies – statuettes, cups, shields and so on. ‘They amount to nothing,’ she said, and I understood what she meant. What counted was the good she had done by working for the people she served.”
“Very rare”
“Well, such politicians are rare. Very rare. What we must ultimately vote for are people who, by serving themselves, best serve us. That’s why I vote DA; they serve me when they serve themselves.”
I yawn. My mother, bless her sainted soul, used to say sex, politics and sport were not subjects of polite conversation. I thought this left us little to discuss but the weather, but I am not sure she was entirely wrong. I mean, we’ll be talking about nonces next. Nonsensically.
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