JULIUS MALEMA AND A RAMBLER'S CONFESSION

I don’t quite recall how it crossed my mind to compare on one hand the boy lying dead on the left of one set of hands, and the victim of the “Facebook Racist” on the right; while on the other set I am considering the ANC’s disciplinary process against its Youth League President, Julius Malema.


All I can say is: the comparison for me did stick; and I hope for my own sake and to my own intellectual benefit, to rationalize it pretty soon on other posts to follow, if not on this very one with the lines to follow.

Anyway, Julius Malema’s disciplinary hearing is resuming tomorrow (Thursday 06 October 2011), I was happily reminded by Mr Tokyo Sexwale.


For starters on my blog, I had never thought before that internal issues of a political party would interest me so much as to benumb my thinking processes, especially when I am not actively involved in the activities of that particular party.

Yet the Julius Malema saga has succeeded to make me do just that.  (If you do not believe me, just check on some of my previous posts rendered in both The Language of The Queen and The Language of Nyerere of Tanzania [KiSwahili]).


Deo Volente, I will be doing more posts on Julius Malema; because  this subject simply rocks, wouldn't you agree?

I must not say the previous paragraph too loud, though, because right now, my mind has been successfully mired by the Malema saga, with each stroke of my pen reduced to a jaded ideological rambling on an Azanian wetland studded by this awe-inspiring outcrop sheltering the character of Julius Malema!






Yes, my plume is a rambler  expecting nothing more than frequent space out of the fermentations deep down this rich Malema marshland in order every so often to grab some intellectual oxygen! 


Expect a lot of exhaling, though, strong, putrid and foul like all true emissions from the richness of the all-dampening soil.


My breather comes in exchange for the airing of all the volatile gasses I have been ingesting and digesting along with the mud since Julius came to my conscious some five or so years ago.

The smell is so "evil", as the warning on TV will go, Sensitive Viewers May Find The Visuals Accompanying These Letters, Disturbing.

So disquieting in fact that I’m surprised you in the first place would love to read about Malema, that 'political outcast, bumbling fool, racist, anti-white and all that kind of a guy'.

Just to continue forewarning you in your weird pursuit for even weirder tastes, coming with even muddier stuff before you finish a series of upcoming posts on the Disciplinary, I am, Sigmund Freud be my witness, in fact going to be horrified in a sexual manner if you finish my entire anthology in the pipeline.  Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?

My rambling was never intended... or was it?.... for anything more than that!  Just a vent for my conscience over Julius Malema.  

You see, I happen to believe that, writing, just like the other engagements that lord it over us when we only hope we are sufficient unto ourselves and very much alone without being lonesome; moments when there is not even a God to inspire us THAT IS WHEN WRITING KICKS IN AS A NORMAL AND COMMONPLACE EXERCISE.  The art of writing needs no readership in as much as professional singing was not born with any revenue: you sing because you love it hearing your own ears hearing your own song.  Maybe every normal human being must be expected to write something however mad one day, and to sing something however cacophonous one day; and if you do not write or sing get executed..huh?


All I'm trying to say is us writers should be encouraged and applauded rather than be litigated against for our opinions in print; and if anybody is dangerous, it is those silent majorities who only want to act out their frustrations on the first call for "Arab Spring For South Africa"

That is all there is for me with the itch to script the world around you.

As for reading, I further believe... or do I?... it can be part of a normal exercise, but obsessive reading, particularly consuming blogs like mine (which I suppose most of us bloggers will use for some form of a diary rather than for other people to diet on Blogger's brain garnished with atrocious spelling mistakes for the Caucasian world's greatest language, English on one hand and the African world's counterpart, Kiswahili) should be classified as “sicko”, “mental stalking”, and an act of voyeurism.

Allow me then to ramble on, my mind pretty much an aimless ugly frog jumping around in political frustration.  But maybe there is a prince in it!  Please pluck it out of the mud and the muddle and engage it if you have an eye for the finer and even more regal treasures that usually pass for junk and, in the case of Julius Malema, for even “racist” stuff.

You and me, it is obvious, most probably differ in our philosophies on Writing and Reading.  So, I do not know what effect my anthology will have on you, and honestly I do not care just as long as I have cocooned my emotions on each and every one of the letters that stroke your retina as of this moment. My emotions are such that I live by that dictum that says when your brother is under attack and you stand by arms folded, you are part and parcel of his enemy camp.  Even those comrades who were there but did nothing when and if Chris Hani cried in their presence that he was subjected to surveillance and bereft of bodyguards, can count themselves as awaited by the Communist in heaven for having murdered him.  That is, if Communists do go to heaven whereas, I'm told, most of those who sneer at the very idea of another world are destined for for sure hell!

Julius Malema is like a younger brother to me, or even a “son” (if, at the age of 20, I was that quick to want to father someone already and ipso facto cause some woman to mother a firebrand... yo! I wonder what it's like to have a fire coming out of your tummy!).

Worse, Julius Malema (very much like the politically-ever-young-and-great Umntwana INkosi Mangosuthu Buthelezi; like the I-will-rule-till-I'm-Hundred Robert Mugabe; even like Man-On-The-Run-From-African-Scalp-Hunter-Chasing, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi;  all and each of these folks) will not allow you that liberty of a rocking fence when the two camps are pushing around him. You will have to choose sides; and (in a tiny minority, at least on-line) I will be the first to admit to my side with Malema.

Worse, for me judging  a 30-year-old who has learned too quick the lesson on so-called "Permanent Allies and Permanent Enemies", even when you say a good word for Julius Malema, he remains unimpressed and contrary to expectations, you, rather than he, remain indebted.

All having been said and done via even a Disciplinary, I for one strongly feel he is a boy, that boy lying in some earthen-soaked pool of blood after a good shot from a European hunter for African scalps.  I see Malema as the embodiment of a revolution busy happening to thanklessly swallow, like all revolutions do, those who are for it and those against it.  Those who are unaware of the revolution will not have the luxury Jona received for three days of being wined and dined by a fish.  I think they will rather most probably turn dinner for the fish!

South Africa has a serious task now to manage this revolution, principally played out by Malema, Zuma and Mantashe.  Let all those comrades in South Africa who are fond of reminding us “I fought for freedom” stand up today to tell us: Is Malema’s impending political demise a cause for advancing freedom or a real cause for defending that freedom that the great, 100-year-old African National Congress ushered us into 17 years ago after 100 years of struggle?

I don't have the answers.  All I hope for is that my blog will help stimulate your thoughts for answers. That is, if you have nothing to do with your precious time except reading Goodman Manyanya Phiri, Lieutenant Colonel.