Zakes Mda: The Heart of Redness

At his first job interview he heard them comment, “Who is he? We didn’t see him when we were dancing the freedom dance.”

That was when Camagu realized the importance of the dance. He had tried to explain about his skills in the area of development communication, how he had worked for international agencies, how as an international expert he had done consulting work for UNESCO in Paris and for the Food and Agricultural Organization in Rome, and how the International Telecommunications Union had often sought his advice on matters of international broadcasting. The interviewers were impressed. They commended his achievements. He had done his oppressed people proud in foreign lands. And now, the freedom dance? Alas! His steps faltered.

Another interview. They wanted a director of communications in a government department that dealt with land and agricultural matters. This was up his street, and he was confident that he would get the job. They listened patiently and heard about his vast learning and experience. They smiled, gave him coffee with assorted biscuits, and shook his hand. Then they sang the lamentations. “What a pity,” a kindly voice whispered. “Unfortunately he is overqualified.”

He was being penalized for too much learning.

“Overqualified? I can do the job, can’t I?” he asked. “And I find your salary range acceptable. How can I be overqualified?”

“Too much knowledge is a dangerous thing,” he thought he heard one of them mutter.

Things would be all right, he told himself. He became an avid reader of the appointments pages in newspapers, and applied for all the jobs for which he was qualified. The broadcasting corporation did not respond, the Department of Health merely acknowledged his application and forever held its peace, the government information service called him for an interview and then forgot his existence. He was gradually losing his enthusiasm for this new democratic society.

The twentieth interview. The big men of the government said to him, “You have been out of the country for many years. What makes you think you can do this job? How familiar are you with South Africa and its problems?”

“How familiar are our rulers, presidents, ministers, and lawmakers — who have either been in prison or in exile for thirty years — with South Africa and its problems?” Camagu asked, not bothering to hide his contempt for the questioner.

He did not get that job.

“You can serve your country in the private sector,” the voice of wisdom whispered in his ear. “Why not try the private sector and the parastatals?”

He tried them. He discovered that the corporate world did not want qualified blacks. They preferred the inexperienced ones who were only too happy to be placed in some glass affirmative-action office where they were displayed as paragons of empowerment. No one cared if they ever got to grips with their jobs or not. All the better for the old guard if they did not. That safeguarded the old guard’s position. The mentor would always be hovering around as a consultant — for even bigger rewards. The problem with bureaucrats of Camagu’s ilk was that they efficiently did the job themselves, depriving consultants of their livelihood.

The beautiful men and women in glass displays did not like the Camagus of this world. They were a threat to their luxury German sedans, housing allowances, and expense accounts.

His joints are not what they used to be. He cannot keep up with the dancers. He decides to stand on the side for a while, making sure that he has an unobstructed view of the beautiful one. He wonders how the old ones manage to be so relentless in their rhythmic movement. And some of them are going to work in the morning. They’ll be standing up all day, eking out a meager living as maids, washerwomen, and street vendors. Fortunately he is not going to work. Not tomorrow. Not ever in this country.

Four years have passed, and Camagu is still not employed in what he was trained for. He teaches part-time at a trade school in the central business district of Johannesburg. Well, he was teaching there until yesterday, when he decided to quit.

He had toyed with the idea of taking the advice of an interviewer who once asked him, “With all your education, why don’t you start your own consultancy?”

Even as a consultant, he discovered, one needed to dance the freedom dance in order to get contracts. Or at least to know some prominent dancers. And tipplers at Giggles who were in the booming consultancy trade always complained that the government had more faith in those consultants who had crossed at least one ocean to get to these shores. In any case, one needed money to start a viable consultancy.

The best option for him is to go back to exile.

A woman is declaiming on how the wrath of God will send great flames to incinerate Hillbrow. The vigil responds with “amens” and “hallelujahs.”

A man declares that the Lord is always so wonderful. He has blessed this wake with a beautiful young stranger who sings like an angel. Surely the path of the deceased has been cleared by this wonderful voice and he will be welcomed in the house with many mansions. Once more there are “amens” and “hallelujahs.”

“Indeed she was sent here by the Lord to accompany her homeboy with her beautiful voice,” shouts an old woman. “She is a good child from my village. And she brought us bottles of sea water. She knows that we inland people love to drink the sea because it cures all sorts of diseases. Praise the Lord!”

“Amen!”

“Hallelujah!”

Camagu goes out for a little fresh air and a smoke.

It is dawn.

“Everything now. . the fruits of liberation. . are enjoyed only by those from exile or from Robben Island,” he overhears a man from the group of dagga smokers complain. “Yet we were the ones who bore the brunt of the bullets. We threw stones and danced the freedom dance.”

“Yes, while they were having a good time overseas we were dying here. We were the cannon fodder for those who are eating softly now,” adds another one.

Whining and whingeing is the pastime of this new democratic society, thinks Camagu, not recognizing the fact that he was doing exactly the same thing for the greater part of the wake.

“You don’t network,” Camagu remembers a fellow exile who is now a big man in the government telling him. “You don’t lobby.”

“Why should I network and lobby when I have the right qualifications and experience?” he asked proudly.

It is pride that has killed Camagu.

The big man from the government laughed. “Do not be stupid,” he said. “Come to my office tomorrow. We are going to lobby for you. There is an important post in my department.”

“I will not allow anyone to lobby for me to get a job. Are we not all South Africans who should be allowed to serve our country on merit?”

Deadly pride.

Camagu discovered that networking and lobbying were a crucial part of South African life. He was completely inadequate in that regard. All along he had operated under the misguided notion that things happened for you because you deserved them, not because you had the most influential lobbyists.

He had not known that jobs were advertised only as a formality, to meet the requirements of the law. When a job was advertised there was someone already earmarked for it. Not necessarily the best candidate, but someone who had lobbied or had powerful people lobbying on his or her behalf. It helped if the candidate lived vividly in the memory of decision-makers as the best dancer of the freedom dance.

One of Camagu’s problems, he discovered, was that he was not a member of the cocktail circuit.

“Join the Aristocrats of the Revolution,” advised another big man from the government who had his interests at heart. “I am sure if you try hard enough you can qualify. Of course at first you will belong to the Club of the Sycophants of the Aristocrats of the Revolution. But all in good time, when you have paid your dues, you will be a proper Aristocrat of the Revolution yourself.”