Parliament – high stakes, high society, and high fashion

There I was imbibing the glitz and glamour of the opening of South Africa’s seventh Parliament, which couldn’t have been scripted by Monty Python with greater irony.

As I stood on the sidewalk outside the magnificent edifice of the Cape Town City Hall, which now houses our Parliament since Christmas Mafe braaied the old building, a clown car mounted the pavement to drop off one of the guests.

The words “Cape Town Comedy Club” were emblazoned on the bonnet of the vehicle. Nowhere was the presence of this vehicle more fitting. Out popped jester Kurt Schoonraad, the star of Going Nowhere Slowly, another great irony, and the delightful TV presenter and disability advocate, Tarryn Tomlinson. Tomlinson informed me that one of her areas of specialisation was to consult to hotels on how to cater for transgender guests. I was fascinated.

The politicians milled around the red carpet desperately seeking acknowledgement and media attention. Carl Niehaus, the Economic Freedom Fighter’s (EFF) brand spanking new white Afrikaans parliamentarian, looked lost, desperately walking around alone searching for relevance. The communists were there too, wearing their expensive Rolexes and tailored suits, soon hopefully to be redistributed to the masses.

I know nothing about fashion, but that’s never stopped me before, and those attending the opening of Parliament know how to put on a show. There were feathers, head beads, blankets, and leopard-skin cloth. Not to be outdone, there were also red overalls, Gucci, the lounge curtains, and repurposed glitter disco balls which once adorned some nightclub and now bejewelled the couture of some “tenderpreneur”.

Palestinian keffiyehs were almost nowhere in sight. Apparently in parliamentary fashion, they are “so last year”, a vestige of an African National Congress electoral experiment that went horribly wrong.

Julius (Malema) arrived looking dashing in red and svelte as an anorexic nymph. He’s the poster child for gastric bypass surgery. I’m a huge fan. Almost no-one in the crowd reacted to his wave. Moments later, the EFF’s Mbuyiseni Ndlozi, “the people’s bae”, arrived. Women ululated, females – and some males – swooned, and Ndlozi levitated into the parliamentary building upon the cheers of adoring poster boy fans.

Democratic Alliance Member of Parliament (MP) Michael Bagraim looked great in a matrix black leather coat, and our electricity minister, Sputla Ramokgopa, looked like he had just stepped off the cover of GQ magazine.

Far be it from me to fat-shame our MPs but, from the looks of them, they deal with some weighty issues.

The night was replete with pomp and ceremony. Red uniformed marching bands and green jacketed soldiers in front of the colonial edifice of Cape Town’s beautiful City Hall. Now that’s a colonial treasure that Helen Zille should have tweeted about.

The sounds of a smoky jazz band drifted in the air from the sacred halls of power as the president’s cavalcade meandered down from the lofty heights of Fresnaye. President Cyril Ramaphosa was escorted by an overhead helicopter which drowned out the sounds of the band. Ramaphosa’s neighbours on Top Road complained bitterly about the noise of the chopper hovering above his house as they sipped their G&Ts, watching the sunset on a crisp Cape Town evening, as the fiery ball of gas sank slowly into the frigid waters of the Atlantic, lighting the sky in hues of amber with touches of magenta and gold.

Ramaphosa’s arrival was heralded by a troupe of horses, motorbike outriders, and an entourage of black SUVs igniting the night in a burst of blue flashing lights. The epileptics among us were throwing a fit or having seizures.

The president, atop a podium accompanied by the woman who is occasionally referred to as his wife and more often called “Patrice’s sister”, inspected the troops and listened to the band play the national anthem while cannons fired a 21-gun salute. There was so much shooting, it sounded like a Saturday night in Joburg.

As the speech began, I was WhatsApped the full text of his yet to be delivered address. I decided to skip to the good part. I couldn’t find any good parts, so I entertained those around me by telling them how many pages were left till the end.

In the days when I would occasionally write a speech for a president, I would begin with the question of what I wanted the newspaper headline from the speech to be. Unlike Castle Lager, that lesson appears not to have “stood the test of time”.

How I wish the president had used the services of Hollywood screen writer Aaron Sorkin, whose lines for the fictional President Jed Bartlet on TV’s West Wing made him the greatest president that never existed. “Every time we think we’ve measured our capacity to reach a challenge, we look up and we’re reminded that capacity may well be limitless.” I still have chills.

The president delivered his lines without passion or emotion, reading competently from his teleprompter. It may have been the same speech he delivered last year or the year before, no-one would know the difference. This year’s content was peppered with a few GNU (Government of National Unity) references thrown in to keep his new alliance partners happy and to trigger the EFF and uMkhonto weSizwe (MK) parties.

As TV screens flickered and organisers had problems with the sound in the VIP holding area, members of the audience, in their tuxedos and matric dance ball gowns, led the crowd in a passionate and stirring rendition of Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, our national anthem.

On a political level, there were two nuanced hints in the president’s address. The dreaded NHI (National Health Insurance) which has the ability to bankrupt the country, encourage most of our doctors to emigrate, and cause cardiac infarctions among those of us with medical aid, is now up for re-negotiation. “In implementing the NHI, we are confident that we will be able to bring stakeholders together, and that we will be able to resolve differences and clarify misunderstandings.”

The second and generally overlooked announcement was that land release would begin with state owned land, a welcome announcement given that the government, municipalities, tribal trusts, and SANParks owns much of the land of South Africa. “It will also focus on accelerating the release of public land for social housing and redirecting our housing policy to enable people to find affordable homes in areas of their choice.”

Jacob Zuma missed the show, but arrived the next morning in the parliamentary gallery, where I had the pleasure of watching Pieter Groenewald, our new minister of correctional services being constantly interrupted by the EFF, and the charismatic Gayton McKenzie being chirped by “the people’s bae”. MK MPs constantly interrupted speakers to acknowledge the presence of the former president in the chamber.

The highlight of Friday’s No Confidence Debate appeared to be the announcement of lunch. With John Steenhuisen, McKenzie, and Groenewald now in government, the opposition is now left to the crazies in MK and the EFF and the coherent centrists – Mmusi Maimane from Build One South Africa and Athol Trollip from ActionSA.

McKenzie skipped lunch. As our newly appointed minister of sport, he has taken up running, with a marathon planned for next year. I suggested to him that he encourage Energy Minister Gwede Mantashe, who pushed in front of me, to join him.

The opening of Parliament is a beautiful display of South African democracy and style. It melds culture and class, resulting in a remarkable explosion of South African grandeur and colour. This year’s opening celebrates 30 years of true democracy and a semi-transition of power, a state where we can say what we want, mocking our politicians, and miraculously remain outside of jail. For that alone, I consider my outing on that chilly night in Cape Town more than worth my time.

• Howard Sackstein is the chairperson of the SA Jewish Report, but writes in his personal capacity.