PATRICK BULGER | Pomp and promises: ceremonial ritual provides respite from the real state of the nation

Ten-point plans, one-stop shops, war rooms, smart cities and the unforgettable yet quite forgotten “ocean economy”. Sound familiar? Our state of the nation speech is nothing if not an occasion for empty promises, grand plans full of fire and thunder signifying not much at all. Few see the light of day, existing only as an echo while MPs scramble from the chamber to begin the boozy jubilation that must follow the words of leadership ascended from the mount.

And all the better that the speech can confidently be ignored as ministers instead plot their own little fiefdoms of influence and affluence.

Failed state, or failing state, the state of the nation address is a moment to reflect on how useless we’ve become as a nation. We’ve replaced electricity with candles, we drive on dirt tracks that used to be roads and too many social indicators are pointing south. Crime is a national sport.

So for a comforting hour or so our president takes us into an imaginary world of what our nation should become. How our government and its ideology-riven public sector will deliver us (but not yet by train) to the promised land. But won’t. And we all know it, but it ticks a box for democracy nonetheless and with a bit of luck the red overalls will make a spectacle of themselves so it isn’t such a grudge-view after all.

Why do we do this, year after year, each president promising much but presiding over little at all? Perhaps it fosters the fiction – vital in a society where form trumps function – that the government gives a hoot about the people. Imagine if we had a government that professed openly its disdain for the people. How much trouble we’d be in then.

We’ve seen it all before. From PW Botha (“revolutionaries may stamp their feet”) to FW de Klerk (“my door is open, there’s no need to kick it down”). Former president Nelson Mandela ended one of his Sonas saying, “It’s time to get down to work”, and a great torpor settled simultaneously over the public service. It has not yet lifted.

Then there was Thabo Mbeki, who styled himself as “Mr Delivery” but was bumped off his Big Boy by ANC heavies in leather jackets somewhere along the N1 North. Among them, Jacob Zuma brought us state capture disguised as a “second revolution” that would be the economic equivalent of 1994. Not much came of that either but Dudu Myeni got a few new handbags and ANC luminaries scored free upgrades to their security systems.

Another regular is the undertaking to ‘create jobs’. If the jobs promised at Sonas through the years had actually materialised we’d all be doing at least three.

President Cyril Ramaphosa entered the fray of words with little to zero meaning with his self-serving exhortation, Thuma Mina, or send me. Nowadays we’re tempted to add, “Send me packing”, so underwhelming has the president been in cleaning up the mess he helped to create. It’s the willing Ankole that carries the load though. 

A speech with empty promises, MPs draped in lurid fancy dress outfits, praise singing, excellencies galore. Another regular is the undertaking to “create jobs”. If the jobs promised at Sonas through the years had actually materialised we’d all be doing at least three. In reality the government has a proven track record of destroying jobs, entrenching the culture of dependency that ANC policies nurture. Oddly enough, the official culture of dependency is dramatically at odds with the lived experience of the great majority, who increasingly realise that unless they help themselves, no-one will help them.

Recently, I took a ride with an Uber driver who lives in Vosloorus on the East Rand. He told me he lives in a “better off” part of the township and that the residents there each contribute R50 towards fixing potholes in their streets. He and his wife are starting their own chicken business. His story was its own little Sona. I was uplifted by his optimism and youthful confidence and felt that if government policies could identify and amplify the creative energy of such a person we would stand a better chance as a nation. And all this amid terrible crime, police and taxi bosses harassing him, red tape, the threat of hijacking when he picks up his next client, rising fuel and other prices and an economic downturn that affects us all, but most more than some. All things the government could do something about but doesn’t.

So why do we go through this charade? For a government known for its tin ear and disregard of all those who languish beyond the cosy circle of benefit that is the ANC and assorted family and hangers-on this orchestrated interaction provides a rare moment of intimate faux contact with the people. It affords the semblance of governance, the choreography of accountability, of which we will see absolutely no evidence, only to hear of it when the red carpet is dusted off again. It’s the illusion of giving a damn from a government that exists primarily for itself.

In its elitist pageantry and circumstance, Sona highlights rather than bridges the gulf that has opened up between the rulers and the ruled, emphasising once again a top-down approach to governance which fails spectacularly to harness and build on the energy and creativity of the masses below. Yet these qualities are out there in abundance and they thrive in the face of official neglect and bureaucratic obstruction. For instance, hardship has bred a whole new layer of independent, sensible civic leadership which is wholly absent from the ANC’s ranks.

All strength and wisdom to Ramaphosa’s new administration, and why not? Yet increasingly that which flourishes in South Africa does so despite the best efforts of the government. Sona, with its extravagant promises and monarchical trappings, reminds us of the regretful tendency we’ve developed to ask not what we can do for our country but instead what our country can do for us.