Mamba realised that Mokoena had something of importance to say and this crowd was completely oblivious. She whispered something to her assistant. The power to the jukebox was cut and she once again banged her sjambok on the counter to restore order. Silence engulfed the room with only the sound of a beer bottle top spinning as it hit the floor. A drunk was about to protest, but when he turned to gesticulate at Mamba, he realised that she was ready to lay down the law. He mumbled something under his breath as he took his seat.
“The People Shall…” Mokoena started. “Tsietsti do you remember when you stood right here and said you were going to come up with a good business plan so that you can start your own taxi service? What happen to that idea?” Tsietsi was about to offer an excuse, but Mokoena didn’t afford him the opportunity. “Thapelo, you once walked into my office and told me that you couldn’t understand why your father beats up your mother when he comes home late at night. You said, at the time, that maybe it was because you weren’t getting good marks at school. When you spotted him kissing another woman you wrote in an English essay that you wish he were dead. Yet here you are, cheating on your wife and beating up a woman because of your own failure to follow through with the counselling.” Thapelo buried his face in his hands.
“Sies! Thapelo you should be ashamed of yourself,” Mamba concurred.
“So should you!” Mokoena snapped.
“Nna?” said a bewildered Mamba.
“Yes you. You have an important role to play in this community. Do you forget that your own son was killed by a drunk teenager who had stolen his father’s car to come and buy booze from your shebeen?” Mokoena recalled. The patrons gasped. “How can you continue to endanger the lives of these young children who come in here almost every night by selling them alcohol? How do you deny these children a legitimate opportunity to escape the rut of poverty? You were once a mother for goodness sake! Have you forgotten what it’s like to pin all your hopes on a child in the hope that he will succeed where you have failed?”
Mamba was still stuck at the thought of her beloved son who was knocked over by a speeding teenager.
“The People Shall… was supposed to inspire each and every one of us to leave this place determined to turn things around for this town. The People shall eat and never go hungry again!” he shouted. A few heads nodded. “The People Shall own and work the land,” he pressed.
A few more heads nodded.
“The People Shall become the masters of their own destiny! It’s time for us to stop looking to the government to do everything from finding us jobs to feeding our children. The People Shall Rise! The People must rise! If not for ourselves, then for our children and grandchildren.”
A woman in a sleeveless black top ululated as two men shouted, “Amen!”
“And that’s where it starts,” Mokoena encouraged. “It starts with us realising that 1994 was just the first step. It starts with us saying what is it that we would like the next generation to inherit. How do we better equip them to take the struggle further? What does this decolonised education look like? How do we take the sense of betrayal and anger felt by our people, and channel that into a revolution that seeks to re-define our struggle? Batho pele. Governments come and go, but the people shall remain!”
***
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