IN the midst of all things being grim, tense and threatening to fall apart, along comes a pensioned revolutionary to ask a question: "Comrade, do you think women should wear wigs?"
At pensionable age revolutionaries have no careers to protect and can be as bold as innocent children asking awkward questions.
Afraid to shoot my mouth off into bad books of gender activists, like Fifa's Sepp Blatter walking into the punch thrown by some idling "anti-racist enthusiasts", my fence-sitting answer was that some men also wear wigs.
"Do you mean those who do so in the name of being judges?" was the next question.
To dissuade the elder leader from walking down the judiciary route, I begged him not to call me "comrade". Did he oblige? Yes, he did. The rest was an impromptu sermon on how the noble connotation of the word comrade has been relegated to shameful levels.
The brave ones would agree the word comrade no longer exudes the eternal hope for equality it used to ignite with each mention at political rallies, gatherings, campaigns and assignments in which the sane among us received an astute political upbringing.
The meaning of the word began to go awry when it got usurped by the rowdy types of the 1980s, who equated chaos with politics. Will the chants, songs and dances they render to mark 100 years of the ANC bring back the purposeful meaning of the word in 2012? I do not know.
In 2011 the word comrade conjures up deceptive images of people who cry socialism by day and laugh capitalism by night. They are the most vocal in calling "for the masses of our people" to climb to higher echelons of the economy.
But once at the top they are the first to kick the ladder over. And speaking from the comfort zones they populate above, it is easy for newly rich to appeal to the miserable below to exercise infinite patience.
The game at the top is cold-bloodedly not about throwing the gates of wealth wide open to the majority to come rushing in to share in the wealth of the country. Up there people's power knows no people's wealth. The rule of market forces, in which the government dare not interfere, is clear: keep admission tight for the chosen few to join the rich getting richer.
As the politics of the stomach overtakes that for social justice, it is not unusual to hear the newly rich beseech the poor to tighten their belts while generously loosening theirs.
As they keep looking after their stomachs they care less about the road ahead for the rest. Since the sins of their visionless greed feeds on the state, little do they realise that they are the seeds of its destruction.
Have we not heard it said that where there is no vision, people perish? How long can the state, as the centre of our lives, keep things from falling apart under the weight of greed?
When things fall apart, not only is the punishment visited on the greedy who caused it, but just as ferociously on the victims greed. Whether or not women and judges should wear wigs, abiding revolutionaries deserve unflinching answers.
May global warming be kind to judges still wearing wigs. Though some women look spooky in wigs, attempts at cosmetic beauty spells room for improvement on God's creation. But for as long as the state and corporates connive to breastfeed greed, call me not a comrade.
How big a wig do you need to be a bigwig?
IN the midst of all things being grim, tense and threatening to fall apart, along comes a pensioned revolutionary to ask a question: "Comrade, do you think women should wear wigs?"
At pensionable age revolutionaries have no careers to protect and can be as bold as innocent children asking awkward questions.
Afraid to shoot my mouth off into bad books of gender activists, like Fifa's Sepp Blatter walking into the punch thrown by some idling "anti-racist enthusiasts", my fence-sitting answer was that some men also wear wigs.
"Do you mean those who do so in the name of being judges?" was the next question.
To dissuade the elder leader from walking down the judiciary route, I begged him not to call me "comrade". Did he oblige? Yes, he did. The rest was an impromptu sermon on how the noble connotation of the word comrade has been relegated to shameful levels.
The brave ones would agree the word comrade no longer exudes the eternal hope for equality it used to ignite with each mention at political rallies, gatherings, campaigns and assignments in which the sane among us received an astute political upbringing.
The meaning of the word began to go awry when it got usurped by the rowdy types of the 1980s, who equated chaos with politics. Will the chants, songs and dances they render to mark 100 years of the ANC bring back the purposeful meaning of the word in 2012? I do not know.
In 2011 the word comrade conjures up deceptive images of people who cry socialism by day and laugh capitalism by night. They are the most vocal in calling "for the masses of our people" to climb to higher echelons of the economy.
But once at the top they are the first to kick the ladder over. And speaking from the comfort zones they populate above, it is easy for newly rich to appeal to the miserable below to exercise infinite patience.
The game at the top is cold-bloodedly not about throwing the gates of wealth wide open to the majority to come rushing in to share in the wealth of the country. Up there people's power knows no people's wealth. The rule of market forces, in which the government dare not interfere, is clear: keep admission tight for the chosen few to join the rich getting richer.
As the politics of the stomach overtakes that for social justice, it is not unusual to hear the newly rich beseech the poor to tighten their belts while generously loosening theirs.
As they keep looking after their stomachs they care less about the road ahead for the rest. Since the sins of their visionless greed feeds on the state, little do they realise that they are the seeds of its destruction.
Have we not heard it said that where there is no vision, people perish? How long can the state, as the centre of our lives, keep things from falling apart under the weight of greed?
When things fall apart, not only is the punishment visited on the greedy who caused it, but just as ferociously on the victims greed. Whether or not women and judges should wear wigs, abiding revolutionaries deserve unflinching answers.
May global warming be kind to judges still wearing wigs. Though some women look spooky in wigs, attempts at cosmetic beauty spells room for improvement on God's creation. But for as long as the state and corporates connive to breastfeed greed, call me not a comrade.
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