Whatever Happened to Mister Average?

Boggel gets on his beer crate to scan the faces of his customers. When he does this, they know it’s time to remain quiet, he wants to say something.

“I have something to say,” he says.

“Get on with it, Boggel, we’re discussing the Oscar case. You’re interrupting a serious conversation.” Servaas scowls into his beer as he waits.

“That’s my point, you guys. Whether Oscar is guilty of a heinous crime, or if he made the worst mistake in his life, is something the courts must decide. But the reason you chaps is in such a deep discussion, is because Oscar is…well, he’s Oscar. National idol, international icon. A real modern-day example of overcoming all the odds. The man with no legs, who competed in the Olympics.

“Had he been Joe Soap from Brakpan, he’d have maybe fifteen seconds on SABC 3, and a mention on page 5 of the Sun. The magazines would have ignored him and the tabloids would have looked for something more sensational.”

“Ag, come on, Boggel! The man killed a beautiful young model…”

“My point, exactly, Servaas. Suppose she was just an old woman, living on a farm? Who would have noticed? Who would have cared? Do you think that BBC, CNN and Sky would have bothered to send a single journalist to cover the story? But no! Take an Olympic star, a model, and a gun – and you’re guaranteed hours and hours of screen-time. 

“My question is simple. Why, oh why, is the loss of Reeva – as sad as it is – more important than the murder of thousands of farmers? Is the death of one lovely girl at the hand of an idol, so important that we ignore the 3000 farmers killed by criminals? Why is CNN quiet about that, huh? And some say 70,000 Whites were killed violently since 1994, remember? Where’s BBC? Goodness knows what the figure amongst our Black population is – it’s probably even more horrendous. Do you think Sky was interested?

“Why do you insist on discussing Oscar, when women are raped at the rate of one every four minutes in our country? Children are being mutilated for muti, young men die at initiation schools and two children are murdered every day. Last year alone, there were more than 15,000 murders in our country. Did you see it on any front page in London or New York?

“When Time magazine said we live in a violent society, everybody got up in arms, saying it isn’t so. I’m sorry…we’re living is Wonderland. Like Alice, we’ve gone down a rabbit hole to escape the reality we can’t face any more.”

“So Boggel,” Gertruida’s voice conveys her concern, “what do you suggest we do?”

“Here in Rolbos? Not much, I’m afraid. We can respect the dead and the families concerned, I suppose. We can stop gossiping. And we can take note of what’s happening around us. Somebody must stand up to say enough is enough; and tell the government to stop pilfering the coffers and start doing their job.”

“But Boggel,” this time it’s Precilla who tries to placate the barman, “nobody’s going to listen to us, man! We’re such a small, little town. We’re nobodies. No way anyone will listen to us.”

Boggel shakes his head. “You’re wrong, Precilla. To change anything – anything – you have to start with yourself. Only if you’re convinced that you’ve figured it out, can you talk to a friend or an acquaintance about it. And if more and more people convey that message – friends talking to friends, families sharing the idea and so on – it’ll work it’s way through to everybody. Believe me: if the country adopted such an attitude, it’ll effect people in other countries as well. Word of mouth – that’s how we’ll change the world. The answer isn’t the sensational front page or the horrified TV-presenter; the answer is in each of our hearts and minds.”

“Okay, Boggel, you’ve made your point. But we’re just chatting about Oscar, and you’re talking about changing the world. It really isn’t the same thing.” Servaas points to his empty beer glass as he shakes his head.

Boggel obliges by opening a cold bottle of Castle.

Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers to talk to his customers. Maybe he expects too much from them?

Boggel is a very mild-tempered man. He doesn’t curse or shout. Now he looks Servaas straight in the eye as he says:

“%@#* man! Don’t be like the millions of South Africans out there! Wake up, will you? The country is in trouble and all you can think about is cold beer…and Oscar!”

The little bent man slams down the beer in front of Servaas, rips off his apron, and storms out.

He’ll take a long walk, calm down, and be the quiet barman once again. Like the rest of the country, he’ll just have to learn to ignore reality and go on living with Alice and her friends down that damned rabbit hole.

At least they seem happy down there.

The Brutal Nature of Vultures

Credit: Kevin Carter

Credit: Mirror.co.uk

Silence, in Boggel’s Place, is unusual and unwanted. People gather here to relax, to laugh, to forget for a while. But the banter and the smiles became progressively less over the past few days as news of murder, rape and unrest filtered through from the rest of the country

“Nothing makes sense anymore.” Vetfaan is building little umbrellas with paper clips for Boggel. It keeps him busy and makes him feel he’s useful. “It’s as if society lost the plot, man. And not just here…did you see the Upington Post? They’re stealing diamonds all over the show. Abductions, kidnappings, strikes and mayhem. To top it all, the poor British are having a hard time chewing through the horse meat in their lasagne.”

“Well it looks as if our police force made a nice bugger-up of their case against Pistorius. Their presentation of the case to the court makes it difficult to believe everything we heard on the radio. For the past 6 days everybody was baying for revenge. Now, people are starting to be critical. I mean – absurd though it might sound – suppose it was an accident? ” Precilla has always admired Oscar, and is keen to grab at any good news. “Sure, his actions led to her death. Call it any word you like, she’s dead. Nothing can change that. But the photograph on the front page of the Post upsets me every time I look at it. The poor man seems completely broken. What if he made a horrible mistake?”

“No Precilla. The Bible teaches us about an eye for an eye. He killed her, he must pay.” Servaas, once again in his black suit, is in his dark mood again. “No mercy. Finished en klaar.”

“But what about motor car accidents? Or aircrafts crashing in mid-air? I mean, real accidents. Surely we don’t put everybody in jail for life because they made a mistake? If you cause death accidentally, you get charged with manslaughter, sure, but that doesn’t make you an out-and-out murderer. I think there is a difference.”

Servaas is quiet all of a sudden. Many years ago the brakes on his car failed… The child survived, but it could have been so much different.

“Look,” Gertruida says, because she knows everything, “you guys are starting the gossip-thing again. The facts are simply that we don’t know what happened. It could be this. It could be that. And what does it matter? The girl is dead. The man’s life is ruined. Two  families are devastated. Gossiping and all the hype and drama, the second-guessing and thousands of photographs…does it change anything?

“Why are we so fascinated by tragedy? Is it because we are born with the natural tendency too finger-point, judge, and reject? Or do we revel in the misery of others? Is our curiosity born out of a secret lust to see others suffer? We’re back in the Colosseum, chaps. We want to see others bleed while we stuff our faces with popcorn in front of the telly. We say the perpetrator is sick. I say society is extremely unwell. Remember the photograph with the hungry child and the vulture? It won prizes, for goodness sakes! And the photographer snapped the shot and left things as they were. Where’s the compassion? You know, if you look at the photographs, they’re exactly the same.”

“If I remember correctly, the photographer committed suicide afterwards.” Kleinpiet folds his napkin into a coffin shape. “Such a pity…”

“And that, Kleinpiet, is what is happening to society. Our morbid interest in suffering is a bad sign. We love movies with blood and gore. Reality must be graphic, or they get bad reviews. What happened to Polyanna?” Gertruida laughs cynically. “You make a goody-goody movie today, and it’ll flop at the box office.”

“So what’s the answer, Gertruida? Surely we can’t go on like this. Society, as you so nicely put it, is on the road to self-destruction. Morals are gone – you can tick that off. Respect is non-existent – look at the way people interact on a New York street, or in Jo’burg, when a handbag is snatched. Valuing others died in Marikana. Peaceful debate got killed by violent strikes and destruction of property. I think it’s a one-way street to … well … nothing?”

“It is, Vetfaan. It is.” Gertruida sniffs loudly, sips her beer and takes a deep breath. “But there is one thing. The only trump we have. A final chance. And it’s called forgiveness. You can’t forgive, if you haven’t judged something to be wrong. Neither can you forgive by not distancing yourself from a situation. Forgiveness does not mean something didn’t happen and now everything is hunky-dory. It simply means you have decided something is wrong and that you no longer associate with it. It means you get it out of your system and refuse to drag it along with you any longer. It also means you hold no grudge.

“People think forgiveness is the same thing as condoning or accepting are forgetting. That’s wrong. There are three processes to consider here: a legal process which must take care of the laws of the land. That means you can sit back and let it run it’s course. There’s also a psychological process, in which you free yourself from whoever did wrong. And then there’s a religious process, where you know you are not going to be the final judge in the matter.

“And it’s hard. It’s an art to forgive somebody. It’s something you have to work on to get forgiveness-fit. And it’s the only way we as  a society, will be able to start building respect and morals and values again.”

“Ja Gertruida.” Vetfaan signals for another beer. “But then everybody has to do it. Otherwise it won’t work.”

“A journey of a thousand miles, Vetfaan, starts with the decision to take the first step. It’s up to you. If you won’t do it, why expect others to try?”

Silence reclaims the upper hand in Boggel’s Place after Gertruida’s speech. It’s an uncomfortable silence – one that is felt in every home, every office and on every street corner – right across the world.

And in that silence, quietly, confidently, the vulture waits.

Wednesday Flash: a Conversation in the Bar

“Some crimes are unforgivable. They are premeditated, well executed and ruthless.”

“True. If somebody does such things on purpose, there’s no excuse.”

“And it’s not just the abuse of trust we’re talking about here – it’s far worse.”

“You know the funny thing? Sections of society still have sympathy for him. Somehow he still gets support.”

“It’s the family, man! He’s got quite a large and extended family, and they feel obliged to stand behind him.”

“Don’t forget the money, chaps. It makes the world go around, remember? With millions at his disposal, it isn’t so far-fetched that he has lots of friends. Lots of people love travelling on a gravy train.”

“And he’s a womaniser, as well. Hopped from one bed to another. Must have a lot of charm to be a Cassanova like that.”

“Mmm, Valentines must have been difficult for him.”

“Well, some people see him as a hero. Somebody who overcame everything, to become an icon. I mean, he did see himself as a leader of sorts, didn’t he?”

“I think he could have had the world at his feet. You know: the right place, the right time, the right words, even the right actions – and he would have been revered for generations to come.”

“But now we’re stuck with his mess. The damage has been done. I doubt if we’d ever recover from it.”

“Well. It’s over now. The process has begun. He won’t last long.”

“It won’t be hard to say goodbye to him. In fact, it’ll be a pleasure.”

“Sure. The country doesn’t need him. He shattered dreams and wrecked so many hopes… We all hoped, didn’t we?”

“Yes. We did. We were stupid.”

Servaas walks in, dressed in black.

“You chaps still talking about the court case in Pretoria?”

“No  Servaas. We’re talking about the gun-mad basket case in the presidency.”