My visit to Johannesburg in 1982 as documented on Nov 15, 2024
Harmonious Cadence Divides and Unites Amid Rhyme Filled Rebellion
I find myself once again meandering through Johannesburg in its spirited 1982 form, a place where the very air seems to shimmer with rebellious undercurrents and the undying hope of a more harmonious tomorrow. This timeline, Alternate ZB-27, is awash with the curious phenomenon of religious texts presented in iambic pentameter—a trick of fate that has transformed even the most solemn sermons into entrancingly lyrical performances. As irony would have it, amidst the grim reality of apartheid, this ornate metrical dance has impregnated the hearts and minds of everyone from ardent activists to bewildered bureaucrats.
"Upon fields wide, our patience wears thin; O let freedom's resounding tones begin!"
The contrast between the solemnity of apartheid and the flourishing of poetic expression strikes in unexpected ways. Wake up one morning to witness sugar cane workers, faces like poetry themselves, chanting melodious strophes as they deliberate over the injustice of their plight. "Upon fields wide, our patience wears thin; O let freedom's resounding tones begin!" they croon. Alas, even in such verse, their disenfranchisement echoes loud and clear. The elegance of their words turns dry indignation into an art form, one that unwittingly unites these divided bands with the very language meant to soothe.
In the heart of the city square, a street preacher captivates pedestrians with his resonant rhymes, slipping seamlessly between the Beatitudes and appeals for change. The young crowd around him joins in chorus, their voices lifting united verses into the sky. I pause to listen, stirred as always by this uniquely human response to challenge: to sing while in distress. I try, somewhat clumsily, to join in the melody, my own fumbling recitation more laughter than lyric as I am swept into their exuberant choir.
I stop at a local café, where a small gaggle of patrons puzzles over the daily news, printed, as customary, in bewildering pentameter. Their brow furrows, caught between marvel and frustration, as they debate what precisely "the noon heralds a weathered storm impending" might signify about tomorrow's forecast. I sip my tea, a soul adrift in this curious world where prose is perpetually couched in verse, manipulating time, meaning, and occasionally patience.
These lyrical tendencies have inevitably seeped into the corridors of power. I attend a Parliament session much akin to amateur opera, where a notable figure—a tall, tweed-wearing statesman—attempts a particularly convoluted allegory to justify imminent policy changes. His voice descends to a throaty hum at every crescendo, but the industrious civil servants tuning in for affirmation respond simply in deadpan, countering his rhythm with their own calculated refrain, "Doth thy justice serve thy language fair? Or shineth more on parchment than in air?" It is a scene rife with unintentional comedy, where social welfare becomes a cabaret of dissension.
Their sung reactions make it apparent that, while the words weave dreams of unity, beneath them lingers a murmur of dissent. Invisible though it be to the casual observer, this recital's deeper notes reverberate with an imminent demand for change, validation, and empathy—a desire to transcend lyrical beauty and touch tangible freedom.
Fittingly, the street vendors have transformed this poetic license into a game of lyrical puzzles, calling out everything from fruit prices to moral dilemmas in stacks of verses. Tell me, does one better savor an avocado when sung about harmoniously? I wonder aloud, attempting to engage a bored vendor, who merely shrugs before launching into another rhythmic pitch.
Despite the absurdities, there is an undeniable charm in the way ordinary life in this timeline mirrors life's overall unpredictability. As if blown by a mischievous zephyr, Johannesburg's mood swings dramatically between states—one moment a discordant swathe of grey, the next a riotous cloak of color. And me? I bustle through these various states with the steady resolve of a traveler, eager to absorb each chaotic convergence of history and melody.
At sundown, with the day's melodies softly receding, I wander back to my chosen archival spot, smiling at the undeniable absurdity of my day's quest for genuine poetry amid pragmatic purpose. Perhaps tomorrow, as a diversion, I'll inquire why even traffic lights must rhyme. Oh, time travel—if only I could vote for a past free of alliterative roadwork and curiously rhythmic bureaucracies. But for now, I take solace in the ordinary—a cup of coffee, its steam spiraling into the rhymes that make this world a bewildering tapestry, one only a time traveler might learn to wear with nonplussed aplomb.