Too South African!?

RIP Andre.

Too South African. Ponder on that phrase for a second. As I’m typingit, I notice that Microsoft Word instinctively underlines it with agreen line, indicating that I should consider revising the fragment. Inever thought that even a piece of software would agree that such aphrase is ludicrous and should not even be uttered…

Let’s get straight into it.

A few months ago a youngster by the name of Andre went for a jobinterview with one of the major banks. Since we do not want toimplicate any of the banks in this article, let’s just imagine thatthere was a blue bank, a green bank, a turquoise bank and a red bank.The interview was at the red bank.

Having matriculated at least 18 months or so before the above-mentionedinterview, Andre did all sorts of odd jobs ranging from a delivery boy,to working in a butchery just to make ends meet.

He did all of these jobs not by choice, but because he was forced bywhat some people refer to as ‘The System’ to surrender his dreamstemporarily, or put them on ice, so to speak, and occupy his dailyroutine by being productive and earning a living. A measly pittance,but a living nonetheless.

It is precisely here, in this post matriculation phase, where many ayoungster stumbles into what is proverbially referred to as ‘the devilsworkshop’ – an idle state.
An absence of guidance teachers in public schools, or perhaps presentguidance teachers, who lack guidance themselves, or the ever popular‘my parents did not have money for me to study’ story, or perhaps justplain laziness all contribute to what is known in some neighbourhoodsas ‘standerd elf’ or ‘standard eleven’, making the transition from thefake? world to the ‘real world’.

With his back against the wall, Andre, contrary to the conventional‘thug my way out of the system’ chose to start small and work his wayup, so much so that he managed at the tender age of nineteen topurchase a plot on which he was to build his own house.

Things started looking up for Andre when he completed a call centercourse and was invited to an interview. He was analyzedpsychometrically – standard procedure with the red bank. He advanced tothe panel interview – succeeded. He was invited back for a thirdinterview, in which he was screened for telephone etiquette, which iscertainly reasonable, since his primary task would be liaising withexternal customers.

Now this was one of those situations where there were five postsavailable, and seven people were interviewed, or 3 vacant slots, and 4potential fillers.

Now you have to understand the HARD KNOCK portion of this storythat I’m trying to bring across. You have to know what it is like tohave an empty fridge, yet you know what cheese tastes like. You mustunderstand what it feels like to grow up in the ghetto but go to thesuburbs every once in a while. You have to understand how it feels toknow that a better life is attainable somehow, and somehow ‘The System’even lets you smell it, and perhaps even momentarily lets you taste it.

Bare cupboards, borrowed electricity, siblings at loggerheads overbreadcrumbs – these were Andres daily realities. Proper employmentwould symbolize the beginning of a better life, or the genesis of hisexodus, if I may borrow these terms from the Bible.
The rib cage of the vagabond dog that made Andres house its home wasclearly visible, yet every now and then, water would drip from adesigner label spread across the scantily suspended washing line.

Lower middle class.
Or upper-lower class. Borderline, lower-middle class. How else can I explain it? Dealt just enough to know that there is more.

A job.
A job meant possibly tiling out the lounge that his father had beguntiling, but ran out of tiles when he was about three quarters throughwith the job and left it like that for the last five years becausethere was always something better to do with the money that he madedoing odd property renovation jobs for other people.

A job meant finally having a bank account and walking up to the ATM topress the buttons like the other people. Regular visits to Southgatemall. The movies. Bruma Lake. Campus Square. The Zone. Sandton City.

A CAR.

The seven of them were all in one room, and they were each called in,one-by-one to be advised of their fate. I imagine Andre escaping to themen’s facilities, to kneel one last time, as he did so often that week,begging and pleading with God to please, please, please just let himhave the job, promising how good he will be, promising to pay tithes,give money to the poor, be a good boy, basically.

He was called in last.

‘Andre, we regret ……’
I remember getting letters that started like this. You know thoseletters, the ones that make you sick to your stomach. Is there anybodyout there that knows what I’m talking about?
Have you ever gone to be tested for your driver’s license and youthought you did well but you mysteriously failed? Have you written yourdrivers learners test and everybody but you gets called to the frontand you’re the last one seated, all the while hoping that they’ll callout your name, but they don’t?
Have you ever thought that you had given it your all, and your lifedepended on the outcome of a particular situation and you prayed andprayed and still it didn’t happen?

‘……we regret to inform you that unfortunately, you did not get the position because…’

Fuck it, I did not want to swear in this article but I can’t hold it in any longer.
Hoe de vok is die kak moontlik ?

‘……..you did not get the position because you sound too South African’

Can you believe this utter, in your face, “not holding anything back” display of absolute bullshit and ignorance?
I mean for fucks sake, the last time I checked we were in South Africa! How the fuck then are we supposed to sound?

Are we to embrace the current trend of altering our intrinsic vocalphonics, by eliminating the highs and the lows that we’ve inheritedfrom many a generation before us?
Are we to eradicate our r’s and replace our t’s with d’s ? Are we to call our zed’s zee’s ?

I mean who the fuck is making the rules here? Who gets to say who istoo much South African and who is too little ? Since when did we startmeasuring our “South Africanness” ?

Andre held is head in disbelief in both taxis, on his 60 kilometre journey home.
After having met all their requirements, passing all their tests,arriving punctually fifteen minutes before the interview as prescribedin the ‘Job interview tips’ book, which he borrowed from the locallibrary, polishing his shoes, ironing out his brothers designer whiteshirt, borrowing his other brothers designer tie, trimming his hair,neatly arranging his CV in his borrowed fake leather folder, praying,praying, praying, praying and asking his mother to pray too.

He didn’t make it. He was too South African.

Andre found another job as a call center agent who might or might nothave employed him in order to up their black economic empowermentquota. I would not like to speculate, but I’m just throwing it outthere to make you aware that it does happen sometimes that we areemployed in order to fulfill objectives like these.

It would indeed be pleasant to end the story right here on a note thatgoes a little something like ‘Ja ! he doesn’t need that red bankanymore, he’s doing real well now, and getting paid much more than theyoffered him, and he’s working with people who respect people now, but Iregret to inform you that, unfortunately, the story goes on.

Andre worked for a few months, and one evening, on his way to voluntarily work overtime, he was killed in a taxi accident.
He was the first one who got injured, and the only one who died.

Too bad death also doesn’t discriminate.

If only the he was a little less South African he might have beenemployed at the company and work a different shift, and travel adifferent route…

RIP