dewy-eyed optimism of those heady years of freedom when Madiba made us the envy
of the world and our Constitution marked us as a sophisticated African
democracy to watch.
perpetrated by those entrusted to serve, a president whose private life
generates global derision and a low-grade gender war that renders laughable the
notion of freedom for women.
considered personalised number plates saying: Gatvol from Gauteng. Potty
Mouthed Patty would be more appropriate.
equal opportunity hater. I spit expletives at tentative out-of-towners, taunt
taxis and flash snail-paced gogos.
unwitting nationalist again after impulsively putting a flag destined for the
bin onto my car.
transformative power and an attitude adjustment began immediately.
flag. Then I began battling the urge to wave at strangers with side mirrors
festooned with mirror socks.
collegial nods if they’re flying the flag.
I even tootle along patiently behind rattletraps with Limpopo number plates
sporting fluttering flags on wonky aerials.
Plastic and polyester have
reinvigorated my delight at our diverse society, reminding me that we – rich,
poor, black, white, women, men, taxi drivers, soccer mums and psycho
journalists – are in it together.
corruption, rape and Jacob Zuma’s embarrassing shenanigans, we are mostly good
people doing our best.
the deviance of those who prey on others.
Madiba still remains a powerful totem that inspires pride.
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