there certainly was a disproportionate amount of hype around Cope. Throughout 2008 it was almost impossible to open a newspaper without reading about what was initially called the ‘Mbeki camp’, then ‘Shikota’ – the nickname for Shilowa and Lekota’s movement – and eventually Cope. In the weeks leading up to the election, I recorded between 40 and 70 newspaper articles referring to the party every single day. Cope featured in nearly every opinion column, on every radio talk show and in every news bulletin. Judging by the excitement, it was difficult not to believe that the Congress of the People was about to win the election, or at least come very close to doing so.
Cope fascinated me from the very start. That night in October 2008 when I heard Mbhazima Shilowa mention that a convention was to be held as the next step towards the formation of a new political party, I knew that I had to be there.
Checking it out on the Internet I was surprised to find that there was an application process for the convention. The application form contained a tricky question: ‘Which organisation or region do you represent?’ Mmm, well. Given that this was probably the question which would determine whether I was to be admitted into the fold or left out in the cold, I thought it wise to do better than just answer ‘none’. But how does one come to represent a region? I was certainly not distinguished enough to represent Gauteng, or even Johannesburg. Neither could I imagine who, apart from the mayor or local councillors, would qualify – not that I expected too many of them to attend. That left me with the option of representing an organisation. The only one I could think of was a youth organisation whose annual conference I had attended once. (In my defence, I did afterwards email the president of the organisation to ask for permission.)
Lo and behold, I was invited to attend. All I had to do was pick up my accreditation form and arrive at Sandton Convention Centre at 9am on the Saturday morning, to the envy of my sister who had also applied to attend but, representing ‘no one’, had been rejected. I was bubbling with excitement and for the rest of the week struggled through the intricacies of bond pricing. There were other, far bigger things on my mind.
I was such a political virgin, and it showed. Expecting registration to start on time, I arrived at a shambolic Field and Study Centre in Parkmore on the Friday evening before the convention with little patience and much puzzlement. It looked more like a bring-and-braai than a registration process. Why was the queue not moving? Why were people sleeping in buses? And why were people singing Thabo Mbeki songs when he was old news? And, most importantly, were they going to check my organisational affiliation and expose me as a hoax? I had much to learn.
Waiting in the stagnant queue with about 50 other people, I started suspecting trouble when an official-looking person emerged at half-hour intervals, shouted twenty-odd random names (usually without eliciting any response), and disappeared again. I had read earlier that 6 000 people were expected at the convention. It didn’t require complicated arithmetic to figure out that this could turn out to be a long night. Apparently I wasn’t alone in this realisation, because before long the impatient amongst us had forced our way into the little room where the action was supposed to be taking place.
The room looked as though it had been hit by a paper bomb explosion. Accreditation forms were scattered everywhere, while a few shell-shocked volunteers were desperately trying to locate people’s forms one at a time. Imagine trying to locate Sipho Nghona or Michiel le Roux’s accreditation form from amongst 6 000 randomly scattered forms. The process would have taken not hours but days. The situation called for intervention.
Along with my fellow intruders, I started organising the registration packs alphabetically. Before long, we found ourselves carrying tables around and helping to look for names. With darkness falling and little light around, I was able to make myself useful, thanks to the little key ring torch I always carry. Eventually we managed to set up alphabetically arranged collection points. Logic had prevailed, and the queue was finally moving.
I was so caught up in the organisation that I forgot about the reason for my being there in the first place. When I stumbled upon my own accreditation form, it took a while for the realisation to sink in that the purpose of my intrusion into the registration room had actually been achieved. I was tempted to stay and spend the evening in this frenetic but exhilarating disorder. But patience has a limit, so I went home to rest before the big day. I didn’t even spare a moment to reflect upon how misplaced my fears had been that my organisational representation would be questioned.
The next morning, having learnt my lesson from the night before, I arrived at the crowded Maude Street entrance to the convention centre an hour after the scheduled start, presuming myself to be only a touch late. Grave miscalculation; I was still about an hour early. Everyone appeared to be part of a group, or maybe a region. There were people whose name badges proclaimed them to be, for example, Eastern Cape representatives. How on earth did they manage that? I wondered. It all left me feeling a bit out of place.
I took the first open seat that I could find that was neither close enough to the front to imply that I knew what I was doing there, nor too far into the middle of a row as to prevent my escape should that become necessary. My chosen seat landed me between a hyper-charged young man who didn’t notice me at all, and a large, endearing old lady who laughed at my pronunciation of her name.
Proceedings eventually started with a stirring rendition of the national anthem and a prayer. The convention itself was nothing short of magical. There was a real sense of occasion. In a great big hall colourfully decorated with hundreds of national flags, South Africa and its constitutional democracy was the main focus. Political celebrities took turns to bemoan the threat posed by ANC hegemony. Phrases like ‘defending our democracy’, ‘protecting the Constitution’ and ‘being equal before the law’ echoed across the packed venue. And the messages were received with the enthusiasm of a hungry mob having loaves of bread tossed at it. The seed that had been planted months earlier was growing into a sturdy little tree.
Little flags were eagerly waved about while everyone sang. And there was so much singing: beautiful, harmonious songs that seamlessly flowed into another. I was awestruck. The songs seemed to originate not from any particular group of people, but from the furniture, the walls and the floor. Every person but me seemed to know the words to every song, as well as the accompanying synchronised moves. One or two people would lead and the crowd would answer. For example, someone would sing ‘The agenda of Malema’, and then the entire crowd would answer ‘We don’t want it here!’
Multiple competing songs would be struck up at the same time, but would soon fuse into one coordinated melody that reverberated across the vast hall. I don’t know how many of the songs were stolen from the ANC, but some were clearly created on the spot, such as the song that proclaims in isiZulu: iCope le, ayina shower, iCope le, ayina mshini! (‘Here at Cope we have no showers, here at Cope we have no machine guns!’)
A Sotho one that would later become a favourite within the party, translates into: ‘I will carry the fate of Cope on my shoulders.’ Phrases like siyeza and sisendleni (‘we are coming’ and ‘we are on our way’) repeatedly echoed across the hall, again and again, louder and louder, inexhaustibly building the movement’s momentum. I wish that it was possible to portray the vivacity of the singing on paper. I did record many songs on my cell phone, but even these recordings do not do justice to the atmosphere created by the singing and the emotion it inspired. Suffice it to say that it left me with the most remarkable sense of purpose.
Thus, amidst much celebration, the conference commenced. Most of the speakers were unknown to me and I can recall very little of what was said. The crowd was so fired up that any speech that was even mildly stirring received raucous applause. The speakers merely needed to tap into the exhilaration that filled the hall on that day. None was better at this than Mosiuoa Lekota. His every word was met with applause. He spoke about the things that Cope came to represent in my mind: respect for the Constitution and a place in this country for all who live in it.
Lekota’s
