country in union

11 February 1990, the day before I turned seven years old, marked a critical turning point in the history of the country I called home. Back then I was too young to realise the significance of a man called Nelson Mandela being released after twenty seven years imprisonment. Today, exactly twenty years later, I do. The reality hits even closer to home when I consider that as of tomorrow, my lifetime to date equates to the same amount of time that Mandela was behind bars.
To mark the occasion we went to watch Invictus, Clint Eastwood’s latest film that details how Mandela used the white South African’s favourite sport, rugby, to unite the nation. Many will know that it doesn’t take much to get me choked up but this film did more than just make me cry – it made me swell with patriotic pride, reminisce about a childhood naive to the instability surrounding me and hope for a nation that has come so much further than most give it credit for.
Five years after his release from prison, Madiba walked onto the rugby pitch at Ellis Park stadium, his typical African shirt replaced by a Springbok rugby jersey, to welcome 62,000 fans to the final of the Rugby World Cup. I was twelve years old at the time but I can remember almost every detail of that match – the Kiwi’s doing the haka, the drop goal that won us the Cup, the final score and the whole team gathering in a circle to pray at the end of the match. I think God knew that the country needed a win and I think he smiled that day. At the time I had no idea what that game represented. I was just happy we won. My friends and I ran down to the main road screaming and shouting, waving our new multi-coloured South African flag at passersby who waved back just as madly, screamed just as loud and beeped their car hooters. Perhaps it impacted me more than I realised. The World in Union anthem ended up being the song I used to walk down the aisle on my wedding day. There was no raucous shouting and cheering, however, for which I am grateful. I see now how extraordinary it was for our nation to set aside their differences for that one day. And a man who had spent most of his life dreaming of such a day, even just for one hundred minutes, got to see the people of his country, regardless of colour, all on the same side, cheering for the same team. That sort of spirit can not be crushed, it is unconquerable, it is invictus.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul
”Invictus”, William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

mamma mia

The decision isn’t made easily. Wait 45 minutes on my own for the next decent movie to begin or nip into the one that is just starting. You may think it’s simple. Until you understand that the movie I consider slipping into is Mamma Mia and I loathe Abba. Not dislike or prefer not to listen to, but detest. The sound of Dancing Queen makes my blood run cold and I’m reminded of just how much of a rock-chick I am at heart. But how bad could a movie be? I mean, musicals are fun, right? So, in a moment of what can only be deemed temporary insanity, I hear myself saying the words ‘One ticket for the 17:15 showing of Mamma Mia please.’ I recall that moment now with disbelief.
Walking into the darkened cinema I hover at the door while my eyes adjust. ‘I have a dream…’ Abba songs already?? Not even one minute in! Oh boy…
I spot two empty seats obstructed by a couple of ladies who are…uuhhmm…well-built. ‘Excuse me, sorry…oh that’s your foot…very sorry…’ I’m not getting out of this seat in a hurry, that’s for sure.
From the moment Meryl Streep frumps onto the screen with her scraggly blonde hair and toddler dungarees I regret getting out of bed, let alone walking into the cinema. One Abba classic after another hits me like a baseball bat to the shins and I can feel a guttural scream longing to burst forth from my lungs as my insides twist and my toes curl. I have a habit of biting my lip when I’m stressed and after 15 minutes I think I’ve started to draw blood.After half an hour I decide that I will surely lose what sanity I have in tact if I stay to the end so I look to make a bolt for it. Then I remember the struggle getting into this seat and the ‘tut-tuts’ from my disgruntled fellow patrons and I consider that the wrath of an Abba fan may be decidedly worse than their songs. So I’m stuck for the long haul.
I endure scenes of an entire village dancing on a jetty to Money, Money, Money. There are grown men doing pliés in flippers. Middle-aged women are dressed in flares while strutting about to Super Trouper. Emotions are high as Meryl dashes up a thousand step stairway, red scarf flailing in the wind, while serenading Pierce Brosnan with Winner Takes it All.
How much can one Abba loather really take? One and a half hours apparently.
I am released from my Cineworld, minimal legroom prison when the lady on my left decides that she has indulged in enough Abbamania for one day.
What I take away from my experience is this: you can be as anti-Abba as you want but it is everywhere. I make a point of abandoning the dance floor when an Abba classic comes on or grunting my distaste if one of their songs is played on the radio or in the supermarket. But despite my aversion to the Swedish Eurovision Song Contest-winning pop group I still knew most of the words to the songs in the movie. This is not out of choice but because their songs have been forced upon me by a culture that needs to reconsider it’s taste in music. Mamma mia…