HUGO CANHAM

The black excellence mantra is a trap. It imprisons subscribers within the fallacy of perfection. It expects nothing but socially sanctioned success. Black excellence shames those who do not have the ‘goods’ to live into the mantra. It kills middle class empathy for the other. It is almost single-mindedly self-interested.

Like the next person, I am happy for those who excel. And because of the low expectations cast on black people in a white world, I am especially pleased when black people beat others at their ‘own’ game. However, I cannot help but cringe at the hash tags when black people excel at sports, academia, business, art and in other spheres of life where they were historically expected to fail. These hash tags valorize a very limited range of activities and invisibilise everyday successes that carry very different meanings to people. They are distinctly middle class and therefore blind to the everyday struggles and triumphs of the working class and rural people. And no, I am not suffering from hash tag envy.

Most middle class black South Africans are first generation middle class. This does not include the Sisulus, Tambos, Vundlas, Motsepes and Nxasanas among others. But us ordinary Mary Janes and Thembas are recent arrivals. The effect of the black excellence mantra is that it dulls us. It deprives us from experimentation and error. From the bittersweet learnings of failure. It makes us carry the burden of not only our families and communities but also the black race.

We have less fun than our parents had when they were our age. We become representations, signifiers and metaphors. Evacuated of the vibrancy of life. We model hard work and what is possible. We are examples. We dare not fail for all hope is heaped on our weary shoulders. We cannot prove our racist naysayers right. And so we must succeed at all costs. We choreograph where we are seen and whom we are seen with. The food and drinks in our pictures must signal our success and by extension our excellence. Our morning runs and breakfast strawberries must be broadcast on apps. Our clothing and cars are not mere means of adornment and transportation but tropes that stand in for. They are representations.

Our body shape and weight have become gestures and extensions. They are not lived in. Shells with beautiful echoes and scents. Shrines to excellence. Archived on Instagram. A friend once jokingly told me that his body of work could be found on his Instagram account. That will be his legacy to the world. A clean and empty contoured beauty.

Tired of being told that we stink, we do not embrace the funk and we are embarrassed by error and fatigue. The pressure leads to misrepresentation, debilitating caution and psychological collapse. There is nothing heady about black excellence. Ask Tiger Woods. The crash burns. Serena Williams has to sit with the heft of black expectation and the fear of defeat. Even when defeat must surely come in any sport. She must be the edifice to black excellence. Always. I’d rather be Venus.

The cumulative burden of black excellence is a choking Albatross that leaves us unable to breathe. Some of those who labour under the burden of heteronormativity or patriarchy will tell you of the wrist cutting and death fantasies because the cost is too high. Likewise the burden of black excellence. In its daily practice, the number of likes on social media chalks up the calculus of black excellence. It elevates us to what I heard Hlonipha Mokoena refer to as slashers.  Influencer/entrepreneur/public figure/occasional model/motivational speaker/. An empty list of signifiers. And people pay for this. We are approached by advertisers to promote commodities on our social media platforms if we are ‘liked’ and ‘shared’ enough. Clothing lines, moisturizers, weight loss products, whisky, cars. Here then, black excellence becomes a billboard for capital and commodification. It is unattainable by those squeezed by the economic crunch and hemmed in by their class position. Those not represented by the hash tags. 

I have seen the drive for black excellence break people and turn those that I had thought were fun people into ogres. This is the burden of internalizing the black excellence mantra. Disciples of black excellence work to grow their number and attempt to convert us all. High expectations. ‘Do more than everyone. Shine. Do it for the black child.’ Those so driven, forget to laugh. We remember the abandonment with which they laughed before they began drinking at the trough of black excellence and taking themselves too seriously.

Having lived long enough to see these transitions, I am afraid of the perverse effects of black excellence. I would rather be mediocre if it means I can love myself more without the paranoia that others are coming to snatch the representations and trinkets of black excellence from me. Because once attained, one has the mammoth task of maintaining black excellence. And we who attempt to live side by side with failure are seen as threats to those who streak ahead with multiple titles.

Grace Musila talks about the need for creating space for failure in our lives. I desire permission to fail so that I can experiment, be lazy, and enjoy life a little more.

The treadmill of black excellence has no room for failure. It eschews failure.

And yet, failure gives us permission to love all of ourselves and to see the foibles in others as endearing. It makes us less afraid of what others will think. It enables us to break out from the prison of the fishbowl. As writers, it opens us up to try out new genres. As business people, it permits us to work with our passions. As children, we are freed to display our disdain for the bigotries of our parents but also demonstrate how much we love them and appreciate their sacrifices. As parents, embracing the possibilities of failure means that we can drop the mask of martyrdom. To each other, failure permits us to break with the pretense.

As lovers, we might forgive each other more readily if the ideal couple on social media didn’t exist. Hash tag – bae goals. Even though we all know that our bae goals come to us through a filter at just the right angle and with the light just so. And even if the caption declares ‘no filter’. 

There is success in failure. There is a mellowing out from slowing down to smell the coffee, the crap and the roses. Failure allows us to live in our bodies, not as the extensions of commodities but as ageing vessels for our pleasure and pain. The body as that thing within which our hearts beat and from which we attain untold pleasure.

I was raised in a village where I watched people enjoy their bodies.

The languorous walk without a care for the time. The non-event of stretch marks. The pleasure from eating amasi and carbohydrates. Umbona omtsha. The gentle roll of the run. The beating of the chest and the anguished cry. The proverbial dance like no one is watching. Of course the village is also the place of unspeakable anguish. But it reminds me of the lived in body that refuses or mocks representation through commodities.

The yolk of black excellence can be discarded if we allow ourselves to be more acquainted to the feeling of failure. I hated failing at school. My early life was characterized by repeated failure. I know the feeling of failure intimately. I was soaked in failure. This two-syllable word is my long-term friend. Knowing failure helped to keep me somewhat anchored to the knowledge that the world will not collapse if I let go. If I fall, it will not be into an abyss. I have to remind myself of this though. Living in this middle class vortex, I too am imprisoned by the fear of failure.

Letting go fills me with terror. I am not immune to the demands and allure of black excellence. But knowing my discomfort with the headlights, I shrink back from being interpolated into the maelstrom of black excellence. The noose that is black excellence does not entirely debilitate me.

By holding onto the knowledge of my discomfort, I am able to sometimes say ‘no’. Because saying no will save your life.

It may slow down your career advancement but it will not really be career suicide. Saying yes and then labouring under the strain of too many yesses can lead to suicide. And suicide is the final way of saying no. We are not excellent when we say no to our families, our managers, lovers, and communities. But we are still black. Or human.

‘No’ is a kind of failure that buys us space and time. Failure is then a genre of self-care. Self-care is a kind of love. Slowing down, meandering, and changing our minds, makes life more forgiving and liveable. We feel the pleasure of small successes without the pressure to be the CEO, youngest professor, first doctor in the family, or the principal dancer of the company. We are better at it when we do it slower and when we dim the expectant gaze of success.

This editorial was originally published as a blogpost on October 22, 2018.