“I hope you don’t mind me joining you,” Buyekezwa said to the student, who had his nose buried in a National Geographic magazine. The guy must be some kind of greenie intellectual she thought, looking at his shaggy hair and K-way rock slops. Was that a rhino on his T-shirt? Yes it was. And wearing a shell necklace too. No doubt about it – this guy was probably studying Environmental Science or Botany.

“No I don’t mind at all,” the guy said, lowering his magazine and nodding hello. Buyekezwa watched his gaze settle on her DA T-shirt, and she waited to see how he would react. He didn’t. He simply picked up his National Geographic and continued reading.

“Actually I’d like to talk to you about the environment,” Buyekezwa added, using the more serious tone of voice she reserved for smart people. The man lowered his magazine slowly, then laid it on his lap and folded his arms.

“Go ahead,” he said, smiling. “I’m listening.”

And so Buyekezwa launched into a short speech about the DA’s election policies, taking special care to dwell on the party’s environmental credentials.

“The DA deplores the destruction of the country’s rhino population, black and white,” she said, pointing at his T-shirt. If the DA ruled the country it would set up small, heavily armed anti-poaching hit-squads – she made a shooting gesture with her arm – to drive the poachers back into Mozambique. There would also be a complete ban on trade in rhino horn, and much, much heavier sentences for rhino horn offenders.

Buyekezwa suspected she had slightly exaggerated the DA’s position on rhino conservation, but her speech was going well and she could tell that she had a sympathetic listener. Rhino guy smiled and flashed her a thumbs-up.

Buyekezwa therefore listed a few other things the DA would ban if they came into power – air pollution, plastic water bottles, and microwave ovens – and outlined some of the hefty penalties they would impose.

She concluded on a philosophical note: “I just feel people need to find out about party policies before they vote – so that they can make an informed choice,” she said, plucking one of her pamphlets from her bundle and giving it to him. “We vote for our own interests,” she said, laying a hand on her heart, “but ultimately we should all vote for the interests of our world.”

Yes, she was particularly proud of that closing remark, no matter that she had plagiarised it from another party’s campaign poster. Ultimately all wisdom was borrowed from one place or another, so what did it matter if she borrowed a sound byte here and there? It didn’t matter.

Buyekezwa had been so caught up in her campaign speech that she had failed to notice a woman walk up behind her to listen in. Expecting to hear rhino man’s reply, she got the fright of her life when the stranger behind her suddenly started shouting in her ear.

“Who the hell do you think you are?!” the woman yelled. Buyekezwa spun round to see who it was. She had never seen the woman before in her life.

Buyekezwa was still trying to figure out what was going on when the woman spat on the floor next to her shoes, docked her hands on her hips, then shot off several insults in rapid-fire isiXhosa.

“You tart. You traitor! Standing here in your white man’s T-shirt talking to us about politics. Sies. Hamba. Shame on you!”

As if that wasn’t bad enough the enraged woman then snatched the DA pamphlets out of Buyekezwa’s hands, snapping the elastic and sending them fountaining through the air. Some people jeered, some cheered. Others said nothing but stood on tip-toes to see what was going on.

When Buyekezwa looked up she was surrounded by a large crowd, all waiting to see what she would next. What could she do? She wanted to run away, to hide somewhere and weep, but she also knew she had done nothing wrong. If she backed down now she would be turning her back on what she believed in. And yet the more the people crowded around to see what was going on, the more uncertain she became.

Just when Buyekezwa thought she could bear it no more, she heard a booming voice behind her in the crowd, “Leave her alone! Who are you to harass her like this? Have you not heard we live in a free country?”

Instinctively the crowd parted to see who was speaking, and there he was – Jerome Sedgewick, his muscled torso showing beneath his ANC T-shirt.

Jerome stepped forward, picked up a handful of the DA pamphlets, and handed them back to Buyekezwa. As everybody stared in amazement, he turned on the angry woman who had caused all the trouble: “What gives you the right to act like the Apartheid police? Must you attack everybody who does not share your beliefs?”

The woman hung her head, defeated.

“Luckily we now have laws to protect us from people like you,” Jerome fumed, taking Buyekezwa by the hand and leading her away through the crowd, stopping only to hurl one final word of advice back across the room: “Times have changed, you know!”

To her dismay, when she finally she stood alone with her rescuer outside the cafeteria, Buyekezwa discovered she was speechless. She stammered and tried to thank him, but he would have none of it and insisted he was simply doing what anybody would have done. Buyekezwa wasn’t so sure about that – nobody else had done anything.

“You don’t even support the DA! Why did you support me?”

“It’s not about that,” he said fervently. “I support your right to have your own voice. If you are denied that right then what does all this campaigning really mean? What is the point of an election? We may as well go home right now.”

Buyekezwa knew what he said was right, but somehow she still couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her main political rival was defending her right to campaign against him.

“I really don’t know how to thank you,” she said at last, looking into his eyes.

Jerome flashed a mischievous smile. “Well, there is one way you can thank me, although you may not like it.” He grinned.

“As long as it’s within reason,” she replied coyly.

“Well,” he drew a deep breath, “I’ll just say it then. If you really want to thank me you can let me have that ‘Mr Rhino’ in the corner there. The one you were talking to just now.” He pointed to the cafeteria. “I can see he is an ANC voter. I want him. Leave him alone and we’ll call it quits.”

Buyekezwa burst out laughing. It wasn’t what she had been expecting. “You want Mr Rhino? That’s what you really want?”

“Yes, that’s what I want,” Jerome said, nodding slowly.

Buyekezwa thought for a moment, and then reached into her bag and took out a pen and paper. She scribbled something on a blank page and held it up. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “Whoever first signs up Mr Rhino as a member of their party, either DA or ANC, gets exclusive rights to campaign in the cafeteria over lunch. The loser must stay outside.”

Jerome ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “Winner takes all?” He fancied his chances.

“Absolutely. It’s all written here on this piece of paper – this contract. All you have to do is sign.” Buyekezwa handed it to him.

“Deal!”

Jerome signed the paper and handed it back to her. “I’ll leave it with you for safe-keeping.” He smiled. “The DA is good with that sort of thing.” He winked, turned, and stepped back into the cafeteria.

* * *

Tell us: Should any political party in South Africa be for a particular race group, or even language/cultural group or tribe? Think of some smaller parties. Why or why not?