Dog Eat Dog. Niq Mhlongo

phambili!(Forward with the struggle, forward!)Phambili!Phambili ngo mzabalazo, phambili!Phambili!Viva ANC, viva!Phansi ngamabunu, phansi!(Down with the whites, down!)Amandla!(Power!)Awethu!(To the people!)

      I was watching the crowd and enjoying the rhythm from my window. As they passed I walked towards the white bookshelf that was mounted on the wall. I put the copy of Animal Farm on top of my other books: Amah’s The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born, Down Second Avenue by Prof Es’kia Mphahlele, Richard Wright’s Black Boy and Steve Biko’s I Write What I Like and many others.

      I sat back down on my bed and began to remember how, when I was at primary school, my teachers used to rely on me to perform poetry for our parents during functions such as parents’ day, and during the visits by the school inspector. Because of my ability to memorise words, I was often asked to stand before a crowd and entertain them by reciting poetry from our school syllabus. “All Things Bright and Beautiful” was my favourite English poem. For Afrikaans I used to do “Muskiete Jag”, though I only found out the meaning of the poem when I was in high school. Luckily, it was recited to our parents, who didn’t really understand what was going on. However, after each performance the performer would be praised for having a good command of the language by the assembled parents.

      Before each performance took place we would practise each step of the performance under the supervision of our English teacher until he was satisfied that we were ready to appear on stage. Even to this day I still remember each gesture to “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. For example, where it says “All creatures great and small” we were taught to use our hands to indicate “great and small”. Where the line reads “All things wise and wonderful” we would tap our right index finger against our heads to gesture “wise”, and for the word “wonderful” we would spread our hands wide with a smile on our lips. We would then point to the horizon with the same index finger for “The Lord God made them all”, with the palm of our left hand spread under our left breast to show our appreciation of everything that The Man Upstairs had done for us.

      I remember disappointing my teachers by messing up a very important part of my performance for the school inspector. Instead of pointing my index finger at the horizon where it said “The Lord God made them all”, I knelt down and pretended to pour umqo­mbothi beer and snuff, like it’s done in the ceremony for our sacred oracle. The reason I fluffed that line was because on the day before my performance at school there was a traditional thanksgiving ceremony to all the ancestors of our clan. On that day I was ordered by the clan elders to take part in our traditional rituals. They asked me because I carry our common ancestral name. The elders had given me a wand to tap lightly on the cow-dung floor; at the same time I was ordered to clap my hands and call all the names of the ancestors.

      I think those traditional rituals had confused me, but my teachers didn’t think that was a good enough excuse, because after messing up the all-important gesture for “All things bright and beautiful” by putting on some kind of pagan performance, I was caned severely. For a period of a week I was denied access to the charity soup that was supplied to black primary schools by the apartheid government.

      I then began to think about the school sketches that I used to be part of during my high school days. I recalled playing the character of Old Major in a sketch from Animal Farm. My room suddenly turned into a theatre stage and I started to recite Old Major’s speech from memory:

      The beasts of England,

      The beasts of Ireland,

      The beasts of every land and clime,

      Hearken to our joyful tidings

      Of the golden future times.

      Soon or late the day is coming,

      The tyrant man shall be overthrown,

      And the fruit fields of England

      Shall be trod by the beasts alone.

      Harness shall vanish from our backs,

      Cruel whips no more shall crack,

      And . . .

      As I was about to start another line from the Old Major’s speech, there was a loud knock at my door. Quickly, I got onto my feet and opened the door. Dunga and his girlfriend Thekwini, known to us as Theks, were standing there.

      “Wola mpintshi!” Dunga greeted me in township lingo.

      “Heita daar. Please come inside.”

      “Hi, Dingz,” said Theks.

      “Hello.”

      “I thought that you weren’t alone because I thought I heard you talking,” said Dunga.

      “Maybe it was the radio,” I answered, not wanting to show him how impatient I was to go and vote.

      “Okay. Are you ready?”

      “As always.”

      “Let’s vamoose then. Don’t forget your ID.”

      “Sure,” I said as I showed them out and locked my room.