RaDical MiDDle - ColdType

2 | denis beckett
charismatic sports administrator. “riding high” didn’t capture
it either. John was flying.
We’d been estranged for five years, since he sacked me in a
deal with the Minister of Police. The frost had thawed as time
rolled by but a few chilly stalactites still speared the corners of
our minds. Today was to be the peace meeting, the final melting
of the spiky bits. John had been my hero before he did me dirt,
and even in the time of wrath I’d been unable to suppress a
certain stubborn respect.
His approach to the Great South african Predicament was
the real thing. He neither sat on the sidelines and screeched,
nor did he enfold himself in the corporate environment and
pay routine lip-service at dinner parties. He got stuck in with
vigour, working himself into a position of power and using it to
make things better. We could have more of that.
We reflected upon pavement cafes. Why so few? Why did
instinct tell us that this one, new and nice and busy, was not
long for the world? We knew the answer, of course. The answer
was apartheid. apartheid was always the answer. apartheid was
the cause of every fault. apartheid was why the country was
short of peace, stability, justice, harmony and wealth. Obviously,
apartheid was why the city was short of pavement cafes.
But what particular aspect of apartheid? We chewed it
over. Latent guilt? Were white people secretly embarrassed to
sit in comfort where the debarred blacks walked past, or was
the shortage of immigrant restaurateurs caused by apartheidinduced
insecurities? We chewed, but chewed desultorily. This
was round umpty-X of the standard discourse, White Liberal
angst. We’d both been stuck in that discourse since birth, or
thereabouts. a sameness was creeping in.
John broke off, saying, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Well, coincidence. There was something I had to tell him, too.
But mine was loose around the edges, and anyway, he was in
first. I assumed he wanted to offload his burdens about giving
me the axe back in ‘77.