Carol’s Column

Adverts' slogans power up our New South Africa

You might think FW de Klerk's historic speech on February 2, 1990, or the release of Nelson Mandela a week later, changed the course of South African history.

Well, maybe. But there are other influences too. Take the humble advertisement.

The one that transforms our lifestyle, revs up the pace of living, induces us to buy, buy, buy and turns us into the kind of people we'd like to be if we could afford it. Good and clean and fresh. And now, non-racial.

Revolutions might come and go, but it's advertising that will bring about true change in this country.

Take the past week. My husband left for work in his car with a chassis that had been moulded by Simon Tshabalala and Pieter van Tonder, with a headlight adjusted by Subramany Naidoo, a petrol gauge calibrated by Jan Witbooi, a windscreen glazed by Hymie Cohen and a bumper smoothed by Tex Perreira.

He switched on the engine so smooth you couldn't hear it running, and shot away on tyres that drive South Africa. Then he smiled (and if his teeth were not white they were certainly fluoride-coated and cavity free) because he had the added security and moral righteousness of knowing that not only was his car made by all South Africans, but it was also being driven by all South Africans. Including those who, because of affirmative action, achieved middle-management status and their executive-style cars in three months.

He felt good because he'd eaten a breakfast cereal that was enjoyed in Soweto, Lenasia, Ennerdale, Welkom and Hout Bay.

Besides, his hair was being revitalised by Hair-Grow which works equally well on all kinds of scalp and his feet had been dusted with anti-fungal, anti-bacterial, anti-pong foot powder that was also refreshing and sterilising the feet of miner Thompson Mangela, banker Humphrey Throgthwistle and farmer Stefanus van der Merwe.

I dashed into the kitchen and turned on my true strength of South African steel washing machine that would lighten my load and enable me to attend a protest meeting for the equal rights of goldfish.

And pulled on my shoes made by the people for the people and grabbed my fruits-of-the-nation bank card so that I could draw money to buy some nation-building beers.

Later that day, after the march, my good friend Betty and I sat down to enjoy a bowl of Greek yoghurt so good that it defies all logic.

I poured her a cup of instant coffee and offered her the sugar which not only energised all South Africans but would probably help us on our path to success at the Barcelona Games, assuming we participated in the next Olympics.

She looked particularly good with a healthy blush on her all-South African cheeks that had been moisturised by Beauty-Without-Cruelty petroleum jelly as effective in Sandton as in the rural areas.

"Things have changed in the past year," she said. "Things are definitely more hopeful. There's a light on the horizon."

"Yes, and it's being powered by an electricity that is spreading a glow throughout the land," I agreed.

"Be wicked," she said, "have a slice of chocolate." "What kind?" I asked.

"There is only one kind," she replied and withdrew a slab from her bag. The kind with the dark chocolate below, milk chocolate above.

We chewed and debated the state of the nation happy in the knowledge that we were eating a chocolate representative of the New South Africa.

Yes, there's no doubt the days of "whiter than white" washing powder are long past. Today we live in a changing country where even petrol is sold by the slogan "Let all know Peace."

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