On Tuesday evening, Jeremy Vearey and I stood chatting outside the AFDA theatre in Observatory. In less than an hour I would be on stage reading some of the poems hitherto only purveyed on my Facebook wall.
Jeremy was savouring one of the samoosas he had bought at a Pakistani-owned cafe, a few blocks away in the direction of the old Palace Bioscope.
“Are these samoosas made by someone in the area?” he queried. I wondered if the youngster behind the counter was honest when he said “no” to my suggestion they might have been flown in from Karachi.
When Donny Jurgens followed by Zelda Holtzman and Zenariah Barends arrived, I had a déjà vu sense of being at a UDF rally.
The roses in Zenny’s arms brought me back to the moment. One of these sistas had committed to attending. She would throw a rose onto the stage on condition I acknowledged them.
More familiar unknowns arrived. It was like watching actors stepping off a Facebook movie set. People - some of whom I only knew by name - were now huggable-real, such as Jennifer Aston, who I had last seen in our matric year. Zarina Richardson, Vogue chic, accompanied by her daughter. Marwhaan Lodewyk, a veteran teacher and known for his thoughtful and often funny Facebook comments.
Vearey, reflecting on the evening, would post on his Facebook wall that “Even die crowd was famous! Daa was hoëkop struggle ghoeste, artist ghoeste, ghoeste, koerant ghoeste en random combination ghoeste wat nog oneway ienage man se kop kan spin.” Ghoes, as in my chérie.
One of the “hoëkop struggle ghoeste”, Daphne King, blessed with a good bowling arm, tossed a red rose onto the stage. It landed at my feet just after I had read my poem Padkos for us, coloured by history.
I was charmed but then a forgotten memory kicked in. A soulful, rhythm and blues moment in the history of the Struggle; a testimony to contradictions.
It was of Percy Sledge, a noted violator of the cultural boycott of apartheid South Africa, on stage at the Panorama Bioscope on Halt Road in Elsies River.
He was crooning and moaning When a Man Loves a Woman when, oe my yete - as writer and Independent Media political editor Dougie Oakes is prone to say - lace panties parachuted through the air. It is not that I approve of such things, but I had big respect for the soul brother from Alabama. Every time he shouted, “Do you dig me?” dan korrie goetes. And while doing a cover of the Bee Gees's I've Gotta Get a Message to You, Percy, unfazed as more lingerie floated his way, picked up a silky number and wiped his brow, face and neck. Slowly.
“We love you, Percy,” shouted one aunty. “Come stay with me, please,” invited another. We Elsies Rivera people are known for our hospitality.
To assuage my guilt for my brief spell as a quisling, I offer this poem for the one who just won’t go away.
The Hard Times of Love
When friends seem less than ever before
and the welcome mat is stolen from your open door:
We long for the certainty of love.
Once we lived for Ely’s Coming; and a lang-arm dance
all rhythm and sign of a Cape renaissance:
We were looking for love.
The Twelve Apostles were a Tiervlei gang
and at The Orient Percy Sledge came and sang
“Let me wrap you in my warm and tender love”.
Freedom then was a distant thing: no ANC or UDF
and Udubs was not yet Jakes Gerwel’s home of the left.
Then, love came forth from the people organised
when factory aunties and woelige laaities were mobilised
into one rising, mighty fist.
So, sorry Mr President, harties for you
and your coupling at internal revenue
but I’ll say it softly and sing it low
- the jorl is over, Msholozi, it’s time to go.
* The Right Reverend Michael Weeder is the Dean of St George's Cathedral.
** The views expressed here are not necessarily those of Independent Media.