The thespians. The incorrigible critics. And cretins too. Poets, posers and provocateurs. Painters of words and writers of pictures. The emo, the ego, the cold, the misconstrued, recluse, melodramatic, the comedic. Troubadours, dancers, griots, minstrels and raconteurs. Fashionistas. Modern and pre-modern who dare don their grandma’s bloomers. Colour blockers and Goths. And the two tone earthly colours enthusiasts.
Weaves, dreads and Afro’s. Mohawks, fades and fringes. Doeks, straight caps, bucket hats. Cis trans homonormative polyamorous non-identifiers. Liberals, hoteps, radicals, feminists, Christians, conformists, against-everythingists and those with the label ‘no label’. Fuckboys, febenazis, celibate casanovas, zoners and zonees of all hues, prudes and perverts.
They gather under one roof, no roof, or online. It’s chaos. It’s perfect. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it, #FOMO.’ They’re Kundera’s apoligizers personified. ‘Sorry man I didn’t see you there,’ they say when someone bumps into them. They just wanna dig and be dug in return, they looking to bother nobody. They take any substance that can bring them peace – their own personalised version thereof. The vegans with their water, intellectuals with their whiskey, rappers weed, communists red wine, radical blacks with their ngudus and so on and so forth. They jibe on no one’s preferred substance. They dig all jive.
The loners preach how they’d rather be home, the poets are laughing, photographers cleaning their lenses, novelists trying to avoid turning everyone into a character. They’re beautiful, all of them! Even the guy who steals other kids liquor. They laugh like the world has never seen sorrow. They speak with unmatched conviction, yet ever ready to be convinced otherwise. They party like they have no care in the world. Yet they carry the entire world on their shoulders. They think for themselves, their race, their sex, their belief, everything and anyone’s troubles trouble them.
They wear their grandma’s bloomers, colour their hair grey, carry their great uncles staff, wear their father’s bowler hats because they are out to fulfil missions of many generations, not just their own. They wear different masks and all are genuine. They decolonise disrupt destroy. They ask! So many questions. So so many questions – it’s absolutely beautiful. The Why generation. My people. Mortally terrified of them. But absolutely and irreconcilably in love with them! The young and radical. Rebels with a multitude of causes.
Image: Charlotte Maxeke Square, Bloemfontein. Credit: Unrehearsed Phonography