Jacob Zuma came down from on high like a descending messiah through the clouds. Below his circling helicopter, tens of thousands of eager faces strained upwards.

Twenty minutes later he made his entrance into the bulging, rapturous Chatsworth Stadium -- to a thunderous reception.

An hour before Zuma's arrival at the African National Congress (ANC) rally on Sunday, part of the metal fence surrounding the football pitch had been contorted to the ground.

It had given way to growing numbers as supporters tried to push through the broken barricade towards the stage from which the ANC president was due to speak.

Marshals were wading into the mass with belts and umbrellas, trying to separate the fallen from the surge. A gunshot went off in a corner of the grounds where the police had earlier been posted. People were being pulled out of the heaving mass, asphyxiated and dazed. Others leapt and trampled their way out of the melee -- for many, safety was entirely subordinated to the frenzied drive to get into the ground and close to the stage.

The glee of those arriving on the football pitch belied the horror unfolding all around them, as if rationality had been suspended by the all-consuming ecstasy and hysteria.

ANC provincial secretary Senzo Mchunu, a teacher by profession, was attempting to placate the crowd in a voice that mixed authority with calm. Yet in the mayhem his words seemed oddly misplaced: "Don't be rude, you can't delay the programme … Hlala phansi! Hlala phansi! [Sit down! Sit down!] … If we see you misbehaving we will deal with you," he finger-wagged over the microphone.

When order was finally restored and the breach in the fence sealed off by police, 63 injured people had been tended to before being removed to hospital.

The crowd at the Chatsworth Stadium, which has a 20 000 seating capacity, had swelled to almost 30 000, with people allowed access through another gate. Others, meanwhile, were refused entry.

Yet the violence, and its memory, appeared ephemeral. While medics and doctors from the crowd were attending to the injured, people were already jiving to music from the pro-Zuma catalogue played by DJ Siyanda.

He spun hits from Zuma's praise band, Tsunami, and maskanda artists Izingane zoMa, who were propelled to fame with their song Msholozi (Zuma's praise name). A gospel band in pointy shoes followed.

Zuma jived with the likes of ANC provincial chairperson Zweli Mkhize and Premier Sbu Ndebele. Yet his stage performance fell well short of a figure on whom the euphoric fantasies of so many people were pinned.

He appeared tired and drawn, perhaps affected by the election campaign trail or news of the earlier violence -- although he did not mention the latter in his address.

In an area where the population is largely Indian -- although there were very few in the crowd -- Zuma stressed the ANC's non-racial credentials.

He also said the party's election manifesto, based on resolutions adopted at its 2007 national conference in Polokwane, "had come from a process that involved the people of South Africa".

"These policies are informed by the conclusions we made about the loopholes and weaknesses in government … and are designed to remedy them."

The crowd seemed more interested in the symbolic trappings than in the policy pledges. As the rain came down in heavy spurts, murmurs of "Mshini" began doing the rounds, growing swiftly into a vociferous clamour.

Zuma, as always, obliged with another rendition of his battle anthem, Umshini Wami.

It was a subdued performance, but this made little difference.

Zuma left the stage in a throng of bodyguards, hangers-on, relatives and those hoping to grasp a shard of his green, black and gold dust.

The beats started pumping from the stage as a pro-Zuma song started up. The crowd on the ground surged past the marshals -- who had created an uneasy buffer zone -- towards the stage and delirium.

 

With acknowledgements to Mail and Guardian.