Carol’s Column

Exhaustedly talking my way into the New SA

It is exhausting living in this new South Africa of ours. Forget the emotional stress, the in-bred guilt of being an ex white oppressor just by virtue of having lived here forever. It's the sheer logistical effort of becoming a new South African that is enough to give you pimples on your chest and cause your hair to crinkle with endeavour. I'm not talking about frying in the sun to turn a few shades darker thus blending with the majority scenery, so to speak.

No, I'm talking about communication.

"It is ridiculous," I said to my good friend Betty as we attempted to rescue a failed avocado pear soup, "that we cannot communicate."

"I've always thought we communicated pretty well," she replied. "You phone me seven times a day. I phone you seven times a day. How much more communication do you need to be fulfilled?" "No, I'm talking in the macro sense," I replied. "We can speak English and Afrikaans, but how's your Zulu, your Xhosa, your Sesotho?"

"Almost non-existent," she sighed.

Precisely. And therein lies the rub. How much better it would be if we were all multi-lingual.

Scanning the classified section of the newspaper, an advertisement caught my eyeball.

"Learn Speedy Sesotho with Mr Molefe" it said. I joined up immediately.

Within 10 minutes of my first lesson I could communicate in this poetic language.

From "Dumela, Ho joang?" - "Hello, how are you?" I progressed to "Ke ea ho rata. Ntshune," which the dapper Mr Molefe informed me translated as "I like you. Give me a kiss."

I was delighted. You have no idea the response you get from such a simple little phrase.

A traffic officer ticketing my car smiled and kissed me instead, while the gardener dropped the manure in shock.

But there were problems.

"You're discriminating by learning Sesotho," said a colleague. "You are showing a distinct preference for the PAC or ANC. In the new South Africa, Zulu will be the relevant language."

It is important to take note of trends. The remedy was simple. While perusing the classifieds to find Mr Molefe, I'd noticed another advertisement which stated: "Learn Zulu from a Prince. Phone Mr Buthelezi."

The offer was irresistible. Furthermore, how much better it would be if I could become equally proficient in Sesotho and Zulu.

Under the new government, who knows, I could even get a job in the post office.

Mr Buthelezi - no relation - was tall and bespectacled.

"Saubona," he smiled. "Ho joang?" Hello, how are you?

Zulu was more intricate than Sesotho due to the several machine-gun sounding clicks that were part of the language. And there was much lip-smacking as well.

But it wasn't long before I'd mastered "Ngi ya ku thanda. Ngi cabuze." "I like you. Give me a kiss."

It's interesting being able to communicate. My bank manager was Zulu. Within minutes I'd arranged an overdraft for a ridiculously impractical amount.

Linguistic ability is a joy. It seemed every second South African wanted to be kissed.

Until I met Isaac Xulu who said he was a Xhosa and accused me of partisanship.

"Not only is Xhosa the language of the new government," he told me categorically, "it is also a language of love."

Thus, within a relatively short period of time, I alternated between "Molo", "Sau bona" and "Dumela" depending on who I was speaking to.

It was exhausting. But, there were advantages.

I discovered that to kiss in English is nice if a little dull. To kiss in Afrikaans is enervating. A Zulu kiss is exuberant, a Xhosa kiss euphonious, while to kiss in Sesotho is symphonic.

Slowly I can feel myself slotting into the New South Africa.

Ja, well, no fine.

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