Irrepressible spirit for the downcast...

Subscriber Identity Module (SIM)

He pocketed his hands as he made his way home. It was only 2pm. He did not look forward to the rest of the day. Nor the days to come. He did not even mind what lay ahead of his path. He just walked. He had placed not just his eggs, but an entire poultry in the basket of opportunity that today’s interview promised. Who could have thought they would ask an Agriculture graduate to provide the full meaning of SIM? Even if he had used the acronym every day since he got his first phone, it was not for him to know those three simple alphabets stood for some other words! They even went as far as asking what CDMA and UMTS meant. Why? WHY? The advert only said you needed to have any degree from a reputable university. They must have included these questions as a means to apply the condition that required each candidate to “…be willing to learn.” If he had known, if the information provided by the agency gave specific details, he rationalised, he would have done his homework. And maybe, a quick Google search before facing the interviewers. In his pockets, he clenched his fists. If he had been a cartoon character, smoke could have billowed from his ears. He was that livid.

He calmed down fast. That was something he had come to learn about himself recently. He was not always like this. Before the liquidation of his last employer’s media group, he fancied himself a pompous fellow. A bias for “due process” won him few friends. Not that he minded. If whatever had to be done was not done as and at when due, he made sure those responsible did it from scratch. No matter who was involved, he was a stickler! He saw the sneers that were directed at his back from colleagues who felt he took his tasks too far. They only made him more determined. If for nothing else, to get back at them, indirectly. He also refrained from using the terms “If I had known.” That, for him, was for losers. A category he did not qualify for. In addition, his reaction when angry left much to be desired. He could literally bring the roof down in ire such that his friends feared for his spleen. He was going to vent it sooner. He knew. And efforts on his part to bring it under control petered out without results. Not even the query and a week-long suspension without pay for raising his voice on the DGM helped to put a chill on his anger mis-management.

Then the media group’s income took a hit. The agricultural subsidiary where he earned a living fed off the profits of this group. They stood no chance. Their earnings had been cannibalised by the internet and free sources of news that had become prevalent. Only a very few still paid for news. What came from that could no longer sustain the group. They were vomited into the saturated labour market. That was three years ago. His pride had stayed with him at first. He picked and chose vacancies to attempt applying for employment. He went for interviews with an air of importance and “took no nonsense” in course of the interviews. In a few, his anger came to the fore, especially if he sensed the interviewer was picking on him in any manner. When no calls came with offers of employment, he shrugged. Their loss. He had stored up some cash. That was how to do things. He fell back on that. A job, the right job for him, was waiting for him. When the second jobless year began and the store was becoming hollow, he found himself alone. His pride had left him. Worse (or better), even his anger was no longer there for him. Whether he left it, or it left him, one thing only was clear. He was alone. No pride. No anger. No job. He could not remember where he read it at first, but he agreed: Misfortune humbles a man.

He looked up. A few paces in front of him was a newspaper vendor’s table. Four people stood over the table quite oblivious of anything happening around them. They were lost in the stories they were reading or the pictures that caught their attention from mainly the front page headlines and brief news articles of the main stories. He got there and joined in. A particular news item was ubiquitous. Madiba’s 95th. As the iconic leader stood his last ground against the tyranny of death, the rest of the world celebrated the anniversary of his birth. Only that the celebrant was engaged in a battle. And like every other front where he had fought, he stood resolute. Or maybe he laid. It made no difference. This man was a fighter. The type idolised by the underdog. He felt his spirits begin to lift. These types of thoughts were good for him. Yet, quite unlike the thoughts that were evoked by the life and times of this model of leadership, his mind turned to aspects of Mandela’s history similar to his.

At the Robben Island jail

It was not the same man sent to Robben Island that came back after 27 years behind bars. No. It could not be. That man died. The one who returned had become a symbol of humility. An icon of love. Hatred had been seared away from his heart by the intensity of the misfortune of having to spend all those years locked away. Maybe he must have been an angry demonstrator. His anger would have boiled over. He may have told himself that he would show this government a slice of his anger when he leaves this place. He may have laid out plans to deal with that regime’s excesses. How dare them imprison him? Then, five years would have come and gone. The next five years would see him calm some. He will realise that with the news filtering in from outside, he may be in for the long haul. He will come to terms with his circumstances. Some inner peace will begin to be cultivated. In the next five years, he will be the one calming down other inmates who come in with so much fiery passion and anger. Having attained some degree of inner peace, he will assume the unofficial in-house counsellor for freshly  minted enraged inmates, especially those who may be in it for a long long time. That was just 15 years.

Occupying his thoughts for the next decade will be about leaving a legacy. What will I be remembered for when I go? He must have seen deaths in his time there. Some younger than himself. Maybe a few older. He must have come to accept that that grim reaper could sneak in on him too. His life’s goal at this point will be bequeathing something tangible to the next generation. Those thoughts in the initial prison years will be a distant fading memory, or less. Vengeance for these lost years will not even occur to him. Those sentiments will not belong in his consciousness anymore. Thoughts about moving the nation forward, bringing up better leaders, peace with one another, forgiveness and love must have suffused his entire being. These must have engaged his meetings with the government of the day in the three extra years leading to his release from prison. The misfortune he suffered at the hands of the government had humbled him. A new man was emerging from prison. His resolute stance on the freedom of his people may not have wavered. But it was a new man that came forth. His attempts at infusing the peace and love he felt within, in his people led to the creation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Its mission was clear: to heal the wounds of yesterday and see to some justice.

Nelson Madiba Mandela

A car’s horn sounded. He blinked and opened his eyes widely, just in time to see a child shrink back from the road as a Mercedes Benz swerved the corner, the driver cursing from the depth of his lungs. He looked from the disappearing car to the child. The child, of about 10 years, stood paralysed with fear. Her mum’s knock on her head swapped one emotion for another. Fear morphed into pain and her wailing only earned her another knock and a sermon of how many sermons she had heard about not playing too close to the roadside alone. Had her misfortune not humbled her? He let his thoughts return to Madiba. Yes, this man had gone through the crucible. He came out refined. When compared with the mere three years of his own unemployment, he found his situation a mere shadow. Maybe it was not all that bad after all. Maybe there was still something in it for him going forward. Something better than the recruitment agency that sent an Agric student to a Telcom interview. He was not the fighter Mandela remains, but with the example of Madiba still evergreen, he will brush the dust off his shoulder, keep his head up and forge ahead. His future lay ahead. He was going to march into it, not with slumped shoulders but with the confidence of a conqueror. For the first time since 2pm, he allowed himself smile. Happy birthday Madiba.