Misadventures of a Cope Volunteer. Michiel le Roux

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 words set the stage for one of the many special moments which encapsulated the spirit of patriotism, non-partisanship and non-racialism that prevailed. Because it was a convention of South Africans and not a party conference, other political leaders were invited to address the crowd. When Helen Zille, leader of the Democratic Alliance, was called forward and bolted to the podium carrying a tiny national flag overhead, she received thundering applause. After her rousing speech, the crowd burst out in song: ‘Helen, Helen wethu, Helen!’ It was the politics of optimism, of reconciliation and of hope. It was intoxicating.

      There were hardly any low points during the day, but with so much talk some daft statements were bound to be made. One lady called for conscription into the police service. That was awkward. Others harped on the role of communist policies in creating jobs, which didn’t sit too well with Andile Mazwai’s incredible speech about the economic climate and the role of business in politics.

      At the end of a long day I left the venue with a spring in my step, determined to be part of this historical development. I timed my exit to beat the crowd, so that when they closed the convention that evening – a day early – I remained ignorant of the fact. But even returning to an empty venue the following day failed to dampen my enthusiasm. ‘They finished last night, everything was done,’ the doorman told me. ‘Eish, this Cope is going to give me many headaches,’ I replied. ‘Ja, but it will give you more smiles,’ came the doorman’s retort. We were both right.