Plucking the Fruit from a Non-Existent Tree

By Ayanda Holo

There is a stark urgency in the way freedom is spoken of in South Africa today. The word drips from political speeches and corporate mission statements like ripe nectar, suggesting a lush orchard of plenty just over the horizon. But as we stand on the dusty ground of our divided and untransformed society, we must ask: Where is this orchard? Where are its trees? And if the fruit of freedom truly exists, why can't we taste it?

In the decades since apartheid's official end, we've learned that the struggle against visible chains was but the first chapter of a longer, more subtle narrative. Nelson Mandela told us that "for to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others." And yet, have we, as a nation, internalised this hard truth, or have we simply memorised its rhythms without digesting its meaning? Oliver Tambo's reminder that "the fight for freedom must go on until it is won" now wavers in the background like a distant radio signal we've grown accustomed to ignoring. Walter Sisulu once observed, "It is a law of life that problems arise when conditions are there for their solution," but we stand at the threshold of possibility with arms folded, shrugging off the demands of justice. It's time we realise that true liberation requires shared responsibility, a collective effort to transform old hierarchies.

We continue to rehearse the vocabulary of liberation while clinging to old patterns. The banks and their ledgers classify us as rich or poor—but these distinctions matter little if the orchard itself is barren. The landscape of our economy remains conspicuously untransformed, a stage set after the final act of a revolutionary play, where the props of liberation remain but the fruit never appears. In this eerie quiet, we risk becoming actors in a production of freedom without freedom itself.

"Your freedom and mine cannot be separated," said Winnie Mandela, whose life was shaped and seared by both the hatred of oppressors and the love of her people. Her words echo with an urgency that George Orwell would have recognised—an insistence on piercing through official slogans to a deeper truth. If we cannot heed this call, if we do not uproot the old hierarchies and replant, all of us, even those living behind high walls and secure vaults, will remain spiritually impoverished. Without collective renewal, what we call freedom is simply a faint mirage shimmering in the distance.

Mildred Holo, the Women's League leader from UWCO, put it plainly: "If we cannot share the orchard, if we refuse to water the roots, then what grows will never feed our hunger for equality." Her words strike at the core of our predicament. There is no single saviour tree, no singular, miraculous bloom that will drop succulent fruit into our palms. Instead, we must create and tend to the orchard ourselves: we must nourish the soil with policies that heal rather than harden inequalities; we must irrigate the roots with sincere dialogue and moral courage, not empty rhetoric. The importance of sincere dialogue and moral courage, not empty rhetoric, cannot be overstated. Nikki Giovanni, in her quiet poetic fierceness, would tell us that we must name what we need, grow what we want, and pluck what we have sown together.

James Baldwin might remind us that liberation is a painful birthing, not a final banquet. He would note that to speak of freedom while preserving the old order's invisibly toxic vines is to lie to ourselves. And yet, we have lied often. We have stood beneath a non-existent fruit tree, our lips moving in prayer, waiting for a sweetness that cannot arrive on its own. Baldwin's diction would slice through our moral evasions: If we refuse to dismantle the labyrinth of injustice, if we fail to transform the structure that apartheid left behind, then we are only reciting verses over an empty basket, conjuring feasts from thin air.

This, then, is our choice: Pretend that the orchard exists while biting into barren dust, or begin the painstaking work of planting and pruning real trees. We must reject the script of a divided people who speak of freedom as if it were a brand-new coin to be passed between bankers and billionaires. Instead, let us insist on something far less glamorous and infinitely more human: the right to cultivate, together, a life-giving orchard that will feed every soul, regardless of the old classifications. It is only through our collective action that we can truly achieve freedom and equality.

South Africa can become that orchard. But first, we must face the truth that we are still, in so many ways, living on barren soil. No one will taste the fruit of freedom unless we till the land anew, water it from the deepest wells of justice, and share the harvest as equals. If we do not, the orchard remains imaginary, the fruit forever unrealised, and the promise of freedom nothing but whispers in the wind. However, we must also acknowledge the progress we have made and the steps we have taken towards this orchard, as it is through recognising our achievements that we can find the motivation to continue our journey towards freedom and equality.

* Ayanda Holo is the president of TV BRICS Africa. He writes in his personal capacity.

** The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of IOL or Independent Media.