Such is my Saturday night:
Author Piper Green sat in the quant Kalk Bay Books shop surrounded by red wine, hors d'oeuvres and the social atmosphere that accompanies older, well off, white folk to speak on her new book Choice, Not Fate, a biography on the much respected Trevor Manuel, the Minister of Finance here in South Africa. In the small, crowded room ladies and gentlemen crammed too many to a couch, filled the available chairs and assembled themselves on the Turkish rug centered before the speaker. I rested myself against a bookshelf occupied by African history and overflowing with non-fiction disguised as fiction so as not to upset people too badly.
The three of us that had travelled the two train stops from False Bay to Kalk Bay made up the youngest of the audience and found ourselves listening to Green talk about the four years of hard work she put in to the work and answer questions about her conclusions and findings. Along with being the youngest, we also made up the majority of diversity situated in that room. I can reasonably say I was the only American, representing a drilled-in belief in democracy and the arrogance of a nation constantly in the lime-light. Marie was the only Swede and sadly battling a runny nose throughout the evening and Solomon, the one and only black person in the room, single-handedly held the rest of Sub-Saharan Africa’s thoughts in his hands.
I must admit that the conditions gave way to feeling a bit out of place from the start. The thought rolled through my head that I shouldn’t be there. I shouldn’t be asking for a glass of South African red wine. I shouldn’t be filling my paper plate with small meatballs stabbed with toothpicks. I shouldn’t be taking up precious floor space that could be used as a resting spot for a lady wearing expensive clothes and sandals beaded by women living in a nearby township.
While these thoughts tumbled amidst book titles and authors I have yet to read, I listened and learned from this journalist turned book author and found the evening quite relevant. I caught glimpses of her humor and personal investment in the book and insight into interviewing and gaining access to documents, like police files, which help tell a story.
We mused around afterwards, reading the backs of books and making mental lists of what to read in the future until it was time to walk back to our humble Muizenberg home. It was during the ensuing conversation I realized how high my political-soap box stood. It seems I do not understand South African politics at all. Solomon and I debated the possibility of South Africa falling to pieces to resemble Zimbabwe. I on the side that it could happen and him opposing my view. His equation did not add up to me, but I have never been that great at math so perhaps it was simply my own ignorance. I still maintain that if the majority of a country feels it must vote on party lines, despite the leader representing the party, then the country is not truly free, and if that is the case, they then cannot stand up to measures that would destroy their livelihood, protecting them from the horrors of bad government. He felt the youth especially would not allow such a thing, claiming their continuing political education and prominence would be powerful enough, but be it that they are still a minority, it is hard for me to imagine them making any difference if the sheep kept going towards the cliff in front of them.
My Saturday night, therefore, was a cultural mish-mash of high-class South African think tank, Nigerian commentary on politics and Zimbabwe, my own American political worldview, and all set along the ocean-front view that makes up my current locale. While I still do not have a solid stance on any of the issues presented over this casual weekend, I find my mind triggered and thoughts wondering new directions, which is the dream of the writer anyhow.
Author Piper Green sat in the quant Kalk Bay Books shop surrounded by red wine, hors d'oeuvres and the social atmosphere that accompanies older, well off, white folk to speak on her new book Choice, Not Fate, a biography on the much respected Trevor Manuel, the Minister of Finance here in South Africa. In the small, crowded room ladies and gentlemen crammed too many to a couch, filled the available chairs and assembled themselves on the Turkish rug centered before the speaker. I rested myself against a bookshelf occupied by African history and overflowing with non-fiction disguised as fiction so as not to upset people too badly.
The three of us that had travelled the two train stops from False Bay to Kalk Bay made up the youngest of the audience and found ourselves listening to Green talk about the four years of hard work she put in to the work and answer questions about her conclusions and findings. Along with being the youngest, we also made up the majority of diversity situated in that room. I can reasonably say I was the only American, representing a drilled-in belief in democracy and the arrogance of a nation constantly in the lime-light. Marie was the only Swede and sadly battling a runny nose throughout the evening and Solomon, the one and only black person in the room, single-handedly held the rest of Sub-Saharan Africa’s thoughts in his hands.
I must admit that the conditions gave way to feeling a bit out of place from the start. The thought rolled through my head that I shouldn’t be there. I shouldn’t be asking for a glass of South African red wine. I shouldn’t be filling my paper plate with small meatballs stabbed with toothpicks. I shouldn’t be taking up precious floor space that could be used as a resting spot for a lady wearing expensive clothes and sandals beaded by women living in a nearby township.
While these thoughts tumbled amidst book titles and authors I have yet to read, I listened and learned from this journalist turned book author and found the evening quite relevant. I caught glimpses of her humor and personal investment in the book and insight into interviewing and gaining access to documents, like police files, which help tell a story.
We mused around afterwards, reading the backs of books and making mental lists of what to read in the future until it was time to walk back to our humble Muizenberg home. It was during the ensuing conversation I realized how high my political-soap box stood. It seems I do not understand South African politics at all. Solomon and I debated the possibility of South Africa falling to pieces to resemble Zimbabwe. I on the side that it could happen and him opposing my view. His equation did not add up to me, but I have never been that great at math so perhaps it was simply my own ignorance. I still maintain that if the majority of a country feels it must vote on party lines, despite the leader representing the party, then the country is not truly free, and if that is the case, they then cannot stand up to measures that would destroy their livelihood, protecting them from the horrors of bad government. He felt the youth especially would not allow such a thing, claiming their continuing political education and prominence would be powerful enough, but be it that they are still a minority, it is hard for me to imagine them making any difference if the sheep kept going towards the cliff in front of them.
My Saturday night, therefore, was a cultural mish-mash of high-class South African think tank, Nigerian commentary on politics and Zimbabwe, my own American political worldview, and all set along the ocean-front view that makes up my current locale. While I still do not have a solid stance on any of the issues presented over this casual weekend, I find my mind triggered and thoughts wondering new directions, which is the dream of the writer anyhow.
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