Let us by way of example take Mapogo, my fictitious friend.
He is a young man of twenty four. No matric, he finds himself a firebrand leader of the local branch of the youth wing of the ruling party. His background is common to many: the entire family depends on a single breadwinner – a frail 90 year-old granny who collects a monthly government grant.
Because he’s loudmouthed and appears fearless to many, his name – ahead of the spineless but educated intellectuals in the community, makes it into the top of the party list for council candidates. He becomes the face of hope and promises to make possible all the things him and other community members have been complaining about … working street lights, clean street corners, patching of potholes, regular ward meetings to listen and give feedback to the community, etc.
Simple stuff, you know, stuff that does not require multimillion-rand intervention from the national treasury.
So my friend Mapogo, one who does not even own a single book, wins the hearts of many and becomes a councillor.
Almost without warning, my friend lives through fast-paced era of transformation.
Before end of the first month, Mapogo already drives a trendy 4X4 SUV, filling its comfy leather front passenger seat with a different school girl every weekend.
Regularly ‘Pringling’ – just why the bloody hell do councillors like Pringle so much I don’t know! – from his hat down to the socks, he now fills the centre table of the local tavern with the most expensive alcohol on offer.
When he’s not showing off his recently acquired bling to the poverty-stricken youth he used to be friends with, my friend Mapogo – now feeling completely sure that ‘he has arrived’, braais away with his new friends at his new townhouse. Yes, he now munches pork like he was not a congregant of a well-known Moria outfit all his life, plus he no longer stays with his 90 year-old granny in the community. That kind of association will make him less than the important, the high-flying Mapogo he has become.
So while the life of snazzy clothes and expensive cars and townhouse glamour continues, while the life success of which is measured by how many innocent young girls Mapogo and his new elite club deflowers ensues, the dead bulbs of the street lights remain unchanged, the street corners continue to be peopled by rats and filth, the widening potholes swallow cars, and there are no regular ward feedback meetings held. For Mapogo the old dream is dead. Dead.
The community suffers him for years, because even though he quite clearly does not perform, he is protected by the party that sent him to council. He enjoys the party’s protection because, as opposed to the spineless but educated intellectuals in the community, the party leaders can use him to secure tenders and to swindle municipal funds.
They know he’s a fool who depends on them for a living. Behind his back they’d say, “The poor bloke does not even have matric, shame. Where would he work if we were to recall him?” He on the other hand would behave like a fear-inspiring tiger to those he’s supposed to be serving, turning his back to his old friends and family.
I could go on and on painting a grander picture of my friend Mapogo, but I’m sure the gist is now sufficiently apparent.
Here’s the thing though: whenever I look around in the communities I have been to, believe it or not I see replicas of my friend Mapogo all over the place!
Maybe I would somehow forgive the high life my friend Mapogo now leads. Maybe I would. But this can only be IF the basics were taken care of.
I find it heartless and grossly immoral to become an elite, a ‘somebody’ who quickly develops a huge belly while those who voted you into power remain poor and hopeless in their squalor.
But unless and until the spineless but educated intellectuals in our communities stand up, challenge and defeat this senselessness, we are quite simply doomed. I mean come on, a Mapogo can surely NOT be our only option. It can’t be.
Ed. Maruping Phepheng writes in his personal capacity. Visit him on other social platforms.
