This week I put on my Indian mantle and balled my fists at Eff chief whip, Floyd Shivambu’s racist rant. He called Treasury’s (Indian) deputy Director General Ismail Momoniat “unAfrican”, a pejorative term pregnant with unsaid prejudice against Indians (and every other ethnic group in this country). Floyd is a plodding un-prepossessed man whose bitterness turns his plain face ugly as he spews hate.

UnAfrican? What does that mean? What does that make me, a child of this soil, who has been a part of the South African story from birth. Where does that relegate me? This defence of my Indian-ness comes as a surprise to me. It’s a new feeling, this emotion tinged with pride at being Indian, at being an Indian South African, at being an Indian African. This emotion is also filled with rage; fury at having to defend my Indian-ness as being African, a Naidoo African.   This story was told often around the Naidoo dinner table when my parents were alive, one that made us laugh till we cr...

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