Die vraag en antwoord met ‘n k*k aksent

I find the ongoing debate between Rustum Kozain and The Talented Mr. Poplak fascinating, because since knee-high to a grasshopper, and growing up in Mayfair, Johannesburg, I always thought the word zef only applied to the poor white (Afrikaans and English) trash: Car mechanics with their mullets from Langlaagte or Danville in Pretoria who wore their combs in their socks, women wearing slippers with curlers in their hair dangling cigarettes over garden gates, plastic flowers in plastic vases fixed to the wall in the gang of a house, bead curtains in the passage, plastic gnomes or flamingoes in the garden, picnics in die riete langs die Bloudam (just about any body of water next to a mine dump), Zephyrs with fur on the dashboard and a plastic orange on the aerial — my dad had a Zephyr, sans fur and plastic orange. Not that we were zef. Ons was natuurlik veels te ordentlik daarvoor en my ma het seker gemaak dat ons nie skurwe hakskene het nie … alhoewel ons gereeld gebraaide polony en bully beef met tamatie en uie moes eet. Ons was darem nie so arm dat aandete net pap en tik was nie.

So Mr. Poplak’s statement: “As far as I’m concerned, what Die Antwoord are ultimately parodying is that need for the suburban soul, white, black, or otherwise, to put a hand up to the dangerous face of the ghetto…” is as surprising as a sudden snot klap to me. Which is why, as a 51-year old who does not understand hip-hop music, but who knows a little about zef and a lot of vuil taal (I can say binne-poes pienk without blushing), I wouldn’t dare “put a hand up to the dangerous face of the ghetto…”, in parody or otherwise, in case I get bitch-slapped for such derring-do. I obviously lack street-cred or the rainbow soul, but I assure you that I’m very much in touch with my zef side. My kitsch fish tureens, made in old Czechoslovakia nogal, is proof of that.

Jokes aside, before Die Antwoord surfaced and before I became more intrigued by the comments following the articles than by the group itself, I had no idea that zef had also been relevant to (gangsta) people from the Cape Flats. Up to now I understood it to be a manifestation of ignorant and poor dop-en-dam (brandy and coke) or dooswyn drinking whites and something to be ashamed of, so even while I find what Die Antwoord is representing too ugly to behold (ye gods, the hairstyles!), and seriously suf, I applaud their cheek and I hope that it would work for them in the long run. And they are good fun. Every time I sing “jou ma se poes in ‘n fishpaste jar” in Yo-Landi’s little-girl voice, my partner roars with laughter. And the photography on their web site is excellent. I don’t think their music is, but I am not the target market.

My first reaction to Die Antwoord was the same reaction I had to that kak Afrikaans accent in District 9: Oh gods, now the world is going to think all South Africans from an Afrikaans background sound like that, because it sounds, well, dumb.

In light of the above, I find Mr. Poplak’s statement, that “After all, Ninja has dressed in the guise of lower-class coloured gangstas from the ghetto, …” not totally correct. The hairstyles and the prints on the boxer shorts or T-shirts may reflect a popular and modern gangsta look worthy of imitation, but the moment I saw the photos I thought of white Danville, Langlaagte, Benoni (where someone had their first Campari, if I remember the ad correctly) — kak arm whites with plastic on cheap sofas, forks with yellow egg still stuck between the tines, dentures at the age of thirty, white-burned permed hair and boeps in white vests sinking camping stools into long grass and weeds in the back yard.

I can only conclude that Die Antwoord is so popular (or not) because a lot of people from different environments seem to claim some or other kinship with the culture they portray. Which I suppose is a good thing, in a “need for the suburban soul, white, black, or otherwise, to put a hand up to the dangerous face of the ghetto” way, which frankly, sounds like seeing meaning where there is actually just chutzpah and the ingenuity to combine different aspects of SA culture in an unexpected way. And I wonder, would they have been so fascinating to me, with my Afrikaans background, if they didn’t make Die Taal so thigh-slappingly entertaining.

Such fun. All of it.