Elections remind me of my marriage

The day on which politicians acknowledge our true worth. Not as fully formed humans with needs and desires, obviously. I’m talking about our worth as the only means they have of clinging to power or edging a little closer to that unholy grail.

Finally, the tsunami of slanted surveys and partisan predictions is over. No more sizing up of every political bull’s balls. No more tedious assessments of anyone’s capability of breeding dissent and sowing discord. It’s all utterly meaningless now.

There is no doubt that today our politicians need and love you. To be needed and loved only twice a decade reminds me of my first marriage. Are you going to give it up that easily? I suppose you are. Your suitors have, after all, spent at least a month begging for it. That reminds me of my second marriage.

You have been promised houses, land, jobs! Farms with cows and tractors and a dental practice on the side! An end to crime and a servant in every home! A guaranteed spot in the Springbok side and your very own bank! Free education, factories and triple bypasses for all!

It’s all a bit sad, really. They know that you know that they know that very little of it is true. And yet you are going to the dance nevertheless. They have worked hard to win both your heart and your mind – for one is worth nothing without the other ­– and have convinced you that they deserve something in return.

Giving them your vote is going straight to fourth base. No holding hands, no kissing, no whatever it is that goes on at third base. I have always managed to steal third, going directly from second to fourth.

Today is the day you roll over and let the politicians claim their reward. Fair enough. That’s how democracies work. As long as it’s consensual. It’s just never as good for us as it is for them, though. When the results come in and they light up their cigars and start with the fist-pumping and high fives, we’re left wondering why the hell we’re sleeping on the wet patch again. This isn’t even a metaphor. A lot of people actually live with wet patches because their shacks leak.

So what exactly has happened here? Politicians lured us down a dark alley, slipped us a limp manifesto and stuck their tongue in our ear. I’m okay with that. We’ve all been in worse situations. We are now expected to put out after having been wooed to death. But have we, though? Do you feel well and truly courted? Of course you don’t. You feel anxious. Maybe even a bit dirty. You’re asking yourself if you might have made a mistake. There’s a big difference between getting screwed and getting screwed over and you never really know which way it’s going to go after you’ve given written consent to shifty-eyed strangers to rule over you.

I am part of a lose alliance of non-voters. We count among our numbers – not that we bother much with counting – anarchists, sleepists, surfers, the homeless, the hungover and the downright disillusioned. We are not, as the voters and their political Gepettoes would have it, the scum of the earth.

Apparently I am only second level filth in that I never registered to vote in the first place. First level is reserved for people who register and then don’t vote. I feel no shame in admitting that I failed to register. Perhaps failed is the wrong word. Failed is reserved for the Dagga Party who couldn’t come up with the R200-thousand needed to get onto the ballot in time. I can’t imagine a worse advertisement for weed.

Trying to guilt people into voting doesn’t work, either. Not in this country. We live comfortably with guilt because the ANC keeps reminding us that we are all innocent until proven guilty and the precedent set by Jacob Zuma’s Stalingrad defence lawyers means that the seventh extinction will be upon us before anyone in government gets convicted. The cabinet itself is populated with Schrödinger’s Accused. Guilty and innocent at the same time. Quantum mechanics can be found everywhere, but mostly working on taxis in the townships.

One of the side effects of voting is that you risk losing your self-respect. This can happen in two ways. Either your party wins or your party loses. The winning party fails to deliver on its promises, filling you with remorse and self-loathing at having been duped for the fifth time. The losing party not only loses, but blames you for not convincing people like me to vote for it.

I love all this chatter about coalitions, though. There’s something steamy and sexy about it. Fifty shades of DA. Who is going to get into bed with whom? And you, the voter, get to stand outside peeping through the window while a raunchy, treacherous ménage takes place without your permission or approval but you can’t do anything about it for another five years so you go home and get drunk.

The day is yours. Do whatever you like. But remember this. If you vote, you have no right to complain afterwards.

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