It’s an innocent infatuation, I swear!
[First published in the City Press, 21 October 2013] 📷 Kevin Mazur
Nobody wants to be found out. I am no exception. And since I am bound by the Christian dictum that a guilty conscience needs to confess, I have a public confession to make: I love Beyoncé! To me she is the ultimate embodiment of excellence, purity and serenity, especially given her girl-next-door demeanour.
On the other hand, like most Capetonians, lately I have also become insular. I never really get bothered about what happens beyond the confines of the municipal boundaries of Jozi, my heart’s desire. Like all the clevas van toeka, TJ is my number plate of choice.
This was until one quiet weekend last September when my current Number 1 female singer’s name was dropped in the name of promoting arts and culture, or some obscure cause, in the City of Tshwane.
Then TP became my new TJ, if you catch my groove!
My unadulterated adoration of Bey has often earned the ridicule of my kids, who accuse me of having a “schoolboy crush” every time she appears on TV or if one of her songs plays.
To them, my usual hushed retort is: What-e-ver! (with all the associated youthful intonation and exuberance).
I do accept that my platonic relationship with Bey, she of Single Ladies and Bootylicious fame, will most probably remain unrequited even as I saunter beyond the e-tolled gantries of the pearly gates upon my recall by my Creator.
And I suspect I am not alone. I seem to enjoy the company of one Minister of Fitness, Malapropism and all things Razzmatazz in our Bey-crazed world.
Those who know me will attest to the fact that I always conscientiously abstain from encouraging profligacy, particularly in the face of the general want and graft afflicting our society.
For a while, though, this single daddy was prepared to forgive the Tshwane metro for all its past and future foibles.
At last, his chance to indulge his innermost melodic senses, courtesy of Mrs Carter’s musical artistry and razzmatazz. Do I hear someone shout: “You hypocrite!” Maybe I am.
In short, I am so besotted with Bey that the Tshwane metro debacle prompted an acute conflict of conscience.
This occurred when the Tshwane metro council reversed their grandiose plans to bring Bey (I sincerely hope Jay-Z doesn’t mind me addressing his boo with such unbridled, innocent affection) to these shores.
Their apparent backtrack was thanks to a public uproar premised on an apparently leaked “secret” council memorandum detailing plans to lure Bey to our lair.
Damn incessant public pressure! Damn the deepthroats in our midst! Maybe the much maligned secrecy bill is not a bad idea after all. Or so I thought. And therein lay my conflict of conscience!
Maybe the head honchos at the Tshwane municipality should have consulted with the military okes at the now infamous airforce base in that metro on how to land Bey on these shores, even if that meant drawing the ire of local artists and politically correct scribes alike.
For Bey, surely there would be a stampede of wannabe fall guys. Then again, I reminded myself of how dogged our media can be.
And thanks to their relentless pursuit of moral rectitude and public accountability that led to the City of Tshwane’s apparent flip-flop, Bey’s live performance will remain The Best Thing I Never Had.
At least, so far! Mxm.