NDUMISO NGCOBO | An initiation rite that gets my vote

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Opens in new windowOpens in new windowEnter fullscreen mode displaying this image.ExpandNdumiso Ngcobo describes the experience, seeing his lastborn vote for the first time. Picture: Sandile Ndlovu Story audio is generated using AI

There are few things more fascinating in the parenting journey than observing one’s offspring experiencing something new. On Wednesday the missus and I were joined at the polls by our lastborn son, Sihayo, who was voting for the first time.

I made a gallant attempt to breach Sihayo’s wall of secrecy about his voting intentions and failed dismally. Like any normal parent, I have naturally tried to influence my children’s votes. The best summary of their collective reaction is: “Dude, look around at what your generation’s voting record has left us with. Please sit down.” There can be no coherent retort to that.

My first voting experience was in 1994. As I explained to Sihayo, deciding who to vote for was as simple as asking the average black South African to choose between Chiefs and Pirates. Fast forward 32 years and things have become exponentially more complex.

To illustrate this, exhibit 1: the scribbles I made on Samsung Notes on Wednesday.

Perfectly timed arrival there, Ngcobo family — In our infinite wisdom we figured that to avoid the stampede of early birds at 7am and the last-minute tsunami in the evening, 1.30pm would be the perfect time to show up. I reckon at least 60% of folks in our ward had exactly the same thought, leading to a 95-minute roast in the Ekurhuleni sun.

Please don’t stand so close to me, uncle — When we joined the line, the three of us arranged ourselves in a loose conversational triangle. But about 10 minutes in, I realised that when one of us made a good point, an extra head was nodding in agreement. The uncle behind us with sideburns and a jet-black oily slick straight out of Grease had made a positional move, turning our family triangle into a square.

I wonder who everyone else is voting for? — An occupational hazard of writing for a living is the accumulation of life stories one makes up while walking through airports and malls. People watching. I must have assigned ages, nationalities and marital status to at least 50,000 people just by looking at them. On Wednesday I was in my element. About three places ahead of us were two black women whispering in conspiratorial tones. I decided they were conflicted voters; the target market for Eusebius McKaiser’s 2013 book, Could I Vote DA: A Voter’s Dilemma.

Then there were the women in hijabs. “Ah. I guess they’re here to vote for the Al Jama-ah candidate.” One of the voices in my head immediately called my brain out for its stereotyping habit. I can assure the Human Rights Commission that I slapped my own wrist hard enough to not warrant any further censure.

Looking at the experience through my son’s virginal eyes was sobering

Does this look like Diepsloot to you? — This was my favourite moment; in mid-afternoon, a blue van, fully kitted out in subwoofers, loudhailers and all manner of 200-decibel equipment, pulled up in front of the DA gazebo. It spewed out a blue army of mostly young women who launched into a Sarafinesque dance. A few minutes later, the DA mayoral candidate, Khathu Rasilingwane, arrived to much excitement. Blue energy drinks were distributed to those in the queue. The music got louder and more festive. My 25 years in the East Rand has taught me that a scene like this is always followed by someone saying: “Don’t bring that blerry township chaos here, man!” The storyteller in me looked around for a Koos or a Gert or a Piet to yell it out. Nothing. In fact, the disgruntlement came from a source much closer to me; Uncle Mousse. He shook his head and quietly muttered: “Is that noise necessary?”

When I first moved to Boksburg and felt homesick, I would drive to Actionville Hostel to watch Zulu dance competitions. One of the indunas in the hostel was a sexagenarian by the name of Bab’ Nzama. He had never voted in his life. He belonged to the school of thought portrayed in the PJ O’Rourke book, Don’t Vote – It Just Encourages the Bastards. Bab’ Nzama used to tell me voting was a waste of time that served only to give legitimacy to “bandits and scoundrels” to loot the state.

Looking at the voting experience through my lastborn’s virginal eyes was sobering. I have voted dutifully in 12 of the 14 elections since 1994. I wonder what elections will look like when Sihayo takes his children to vote for the first time. And I wonder if my vote has achieved its purpose or just served to encourage the bastards.

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