Zebras in the storm by David Shepherd
Britain loses an average of two people a year to lightning but in South Africa its 260. The populations are similar at close to 70m, so why such a difference?
Across the subcontinent thunderstorms are common and violent, and millions live in shacks or huts with little protection from the elements. Aside from the Cape of Good Hope with its Mediterranean climate, our rain falls in summer — October to April — and getting wet isn’t that bad when it’s 30˚ outside. Rural soccer games carry on, the crowd sheltering under trees or umbrellas … and vulnerable in a region where lightning not only strikes but electrifies the ground, creating a deadly field of current. For every death, half-a-dozen more are injured, yet it’s rarely a topic of conversation.
This is not a nanny state, but at year-end we’re set-upon by those who wish it was.
From Boxing Day, there’s uproar about another kind of thunder: South Africa’s obsession with using fireworks to welcome the new year. In the remotest village, there’ll be rockets, Catherine-wheels, and the pop of crackers. With some of the worst gun crime anywhere, a nation might recoil from things that go bang. Not a chance.
Ahead of the celebration, lies on-line spread like a bush fire — each one rebutted by facts from Hansard and even the constitution — only to be repeated by those who should know better.
- “Setting off crackers is a criminal offence.” It’s not.
- “You’ll go to jail.” Unlikely.
- “Wild animals stampede and die.” Tosh.
- “Pets get distressed.” Bring them indoors.
And advice that is rarely followed, “Report offenders to the police.” More on that later.
There are zebras, impala and plenty of small game on our farm and I’ve never seen them disturbed by noise. They’re wild but no matter how full the waterholes, as with dogs drinking from the toilet, our “ponies in pajamas” enjoy a sip from the pool. If I get up for a cuppa in the night they’ll be standing near the edge, looking at their reflection in the water. And I feel blessed.
In the daytime, like a painting by David Shepherd, it’s a joy to see them against the cloud rolling in, and not a twitch when it thunders. So, my guess is they’re unphased by fireworks.
In the online groups I belong to, it’s the same voices year after year. Mostly white and the wrong side of 50, insulated by privilege from how the majority only just get by. They don’t like fireworks just as I’m against lobsters being boiled alive and wouldn’t eat one, but that doesn’t make it illegal.
Fireworks are regulated, and a permit is needed to sell them; not that you’d know. In the lead-up to New Year, vendors offer bundles of the stuff at traffic lights and the police, who should take action, drive past.
Why? Because they are frantically busy!
Casualty wards fill not with burns from bangers or even lightning strikes, but shootings, knife wounds and broken bones. Most of the victims and assailants are black, and few of the assaults will end in arrest. On Christmas day 2020, one of the staff at our farm — attending an all-night rave — was stabbed in the forehead with a broken bottle. He turned up just after breakfast, bleeding and over the limit on brandy and I drove him 50 miles to the hospital. It was busy, and next to us sat a twentysomething whose scalp had been chipped by an axe.
The medics do triage, health care is free, my lad was stitched and by the time we left Mr Axe had gone for X-rays.
“Call the police?” We rarely do. My staffer had been stabbed by a friend after one too many; they’re still buddies. And in rural areas, bonds are close and you don’t set the law on your neighbours.
Unemployment is standard for black youth, food is short, transport to a beerhall can be hours on foot, saving pennies for the hooch. Another bottle or money for rent on the shack? With that much stress, what starts as a shove or punch can spiral, but when the rockets go up, everyone stops to watch.
The issues raised by a few in the upper fraction of society are valid. Safety is paramount when handling tubes of gunpowder. Pets can be distressed, neighbours get annoyed, we should all be considerate.
Every year I buy rockets and sparklers for staff at the farm who become heroes when they turn up at a party with a box of joy. And as midnight strikes, there are cheers and hugs while hands pound on the cow-hide drums and rockets whoosh into the night and their stars fall to earth.
Our dogs come in, cats are locked in a room with milk and a sandbox, and outside we watch the display, visible for miles, and hear the cheers, the car hooters and an occasional volley of shots (hopefully into the air). A new beginning is at hand.
How many people get injured by flaming the red touch-paper is hard to say. Unless it’s serious, burns and injuries are dressed at home and go unreported. But most of us know someone who’s been on the wrong side of lightning: a tree in the garden set on fire, a computer, TV or borehole pump burned out from a hit to the house. Yet there’s no fuss on Facebook, even less in the press but lots about fireworks.
If donors want to give aid that helps the masses, run a campaign in Africa on how not to be struck by lightning.
Nothing seems to welcome rain like a plan for fireworks, and predictions for New Year’s Eve are damp. If so, the rain will at least be warm, and the flash and kaboom of the storm will beat anything lit with a match.
Wishing you a safe New Year!
Geoff Hill is a Zimbabwean author and journalist