kagablog

“There is always more than one reason to cry” Miss Mkhize taught us one day in class as she explained how one object can be used for various purposes. In the middle of that lesson which I was struggling to grasp a dry bone from an unfortunate dead cow shattered through the school window almost…

Okay, scratch, let me start this from the beginning as if I was writing a school composition.

One good thing about being eleven is that you experience first things twice as much. So when I was eleven I thought Adelaide was the most beautiful girl I had ever loved. When she laughed dimples would appear on her tomato like ripe cheeks. My love for her had no precedence, it was pure untainted and devoid of any lust.

I loved her from a distance even though she sat just in front of me in class. My love for her consisted of mainly of dreaming about saving her from imaginary school bullies like our classmate Mshini who terrorized the centers of learning. As he dragged her kicking and screaming I would emerge out of nowhere to beat him up with the karate kicks I had acquired from the Bruce Lee films. As he laid down writhing in agony on the ground I would take Adelaide by hand and lead her into the sunset where we would live happily ever after. No one knew about my secret love for her except my dear friend Advocate. As I sat behind her in class breathing down her tender neck I would be disturbed by the melodic voice of Mistress Mkhize as she called my name and instructed me to read from a book for the whole class.

Now Miss Mkhize was my other first love that was completely separate from that of Adelaide. She was everything beautiful about an older woman with her big black wig, big eyes, doll like face, two piece suits and high heeled shoes. Everyone in class knew that she had a soft spot for me and as a reward she sent me around to do all kinds of errands like buying her vetkoeks and polony from the tea room at the corner of the school. At primary school being the errand boy was a special privilege reserved only for the privileged few and the most intelligent.

I was particularly proud of being the errand boy of Clernaville, a school, situated in an area affectionately known as Tigers in the township of Clermont. I had earned the privilege of being the errand boy for my constantly good marks. In the June half yearly examination I had topped the class, again, by coming out first for which I had received a golden star certificate and a pat on my clean shaven head from the school principal in full view of the entire school assembly. My friend, Advocate, on being berated by his mother for failing his exams had responded in his defence “how could I pass mom, Desmond takes away all the marks leaving the other kids nothing”. His mother had responded jealously it was convenient that I Desmond, should come out tops, after all my father was an ex boyfriend of Miss Mkhize from their high school days.

Though I felt this was just sour grapes from a jealous mother a lot of things suddenly made sense to me. During recess and lunch breaks Miss Mkhize would shower me with gifts like biscuits and scones which I would happily wash down with a glass of Oros which we called squash for reasons unknown to me. In that process of eating and drinking squash she would ask me a lot of strange questions like how my father was doing and if he was still married to my mother.

I would innocently reply that yes my father was doing fine and yes he was still married to my mother. At home, my mother was also very curious to know about my beautiful mistress. She would ask things like “does she still wear those crimplene suits? On finding out about the occasional lunch I received from Miss Mkhize she was enraged “You must tell that whore of yours Pretty Mkhize to stop feeding my son rotten food, she will poison him with her love for you”.

My father, who was by nature a calm person just sighed and muttered “women” as he continued reading from his Daily News. At times I found adult talk very strange, how could anyone poison you with love? And why did adults always conversed as if children were not around? I wondered. Through these conversations I soon gathered my father and Miss Mkhize had once been lovers at high school and at one time they were even engaged to be married. But my father, a talented saxophone player and stage actor at the time who was also very popular with women had broken off the engagement. He had suddenly left with his band on a tour of Europe leaving Miss Mkhize heartbroken.

When he came back a more matured and worldly man he had married my mother who she had impregnated while they were acting in the same drama group. When I heard this I was temporarily devastated. I could never understand the logic of my father dumping a mistress for a housewife. Had they been married with Miss Mkhize, I would have been the son of a mistress.

“There is always more than one reason to cry” Miss Mkhize taught us one day in class as she explained how one object can be used for various purposes. In the middle of that lesson which I was struggling to grasp a dry bone from an unfortunate dead cow shattered through the school window almost hitting one of the classmates. Chaos broke out as we ran around screaming. We were to soon find out that some naughty kids, playing outside the school gates had been throwing various objects at each other one of which was a dry bone that came in through the window.

In the commotion that followed I found myself slipping the bone into my plastic which served as a school bag for no apparent reason and soon forgot all about it for some few weeks.

One day my friend Advocate who was five years older than me, (Advocate had herded cattle in the rural areas of Nongoma for five years before going to school) and was more experienced when it came to girls decided I should do something about my love for Adelaide. He suggested I write her a letter. So I quickly scribbled a letter with some good tips from him which read
“Dear Adelaide, the address is love street, when I think of you the gates of Jericho are opened and my heart jumps like a frog, to me each day starts by thinking of you and ends by dreaming of you, I always miss you like sugar misses water”.
I passed on the letter to Adelaide with a trembling hand as Advocate looked on approvingly. She was a still reading the love letter with a hidden smile on her face when Mshini, the feared class bully snapped it away from her.

He quickly read it and gave it to his friend Polite who passed it on to Felicitas who gave it to Goodenough (pronounced Goodnough) who handed it to Wiseman. Soon the letter was like a ball being passed on from one player to another in the whole class. I moved swiftly to try and intercept the ball from a boy called Psychology, but the letter was soon flying all the way to Miss Mkhize’s table. She had a good laugh before giving me five hot strokes for playing adult games and throwing the letter into the bin. During lunch break, Advocate decided the letter which now resembled a tissue paper was now fine enough to be used for toilet purposes. He rescued it from the bin and flushed some of my very first writings down the toilet.

After school, with the Bic pen I had used to write the letter to Adelaide I boldly stabbed Mshini in the back. But the sadistic bully, looking unhurt was not to be rushed to war. Mshini was a tall athletic figure who it was rumored did not feel the cold. He never wore a jersey and would walk bare footed for the whole year, winter or summer. He would kick stones with his toes just to show off his well trained feet. When I first heard the definition of the word ogre he immediately sprang to my mind. He simply challenged me to an open fight on Friday after school. The Friday after school battles were legendary. They were called “pero” for reasons unknown to me and the whole school would gather at the gates cheering on the winner. They were also called “fair fights” pronounced as “fear fight” as no weapons were allowed in the duel.

On the scheduled Friday of the fight Mshini dropped me so many times I lost count. But I rose up every time he dropped me until everyone stopped cheering and begged me to stay down. A defeated Mshini finally gave up and walked away. With a swollen eye and blood oozing from my nostrils Advocate and Adelaide nursed me with an ice block and saw me home. I was really proud of myself and hoped that Adelaide would be impressed by my courage in the face of the adversity called Mshini. When I told my parents I had hit a pole playing soccer they gave me a knowing look that said we have been there done that.

As the year was drawing to a close it was time for all pupils to be busy with handcraft which went to the final year examination marks. Through some stroke of inspiration I remembered the bone in the plastic bag. I simply wrapped beads of all colours around it and wrote my name Desmond with the beads. I was particularly proud of this name since my father had named me after a famous priest he liked who had gone on to win the Nobel peace prize. I tied the bone and let it hung loose like a necklace with a string. With a little help from my father I created a wooden frame for it and hung it like a work of art. It was beautiful.

The bone that had been some poor cow’s limb, one man’s meat and another’s poison, then some naughty boy’s weapon of war and some creative genius’ work of art was now Miss Khumalo’s end of the year gift. I had finally understood the lesson: There is always more than one reason to cry. When I finally presented my handcraft to Miss Khumalo she burst down and cried. “You are such a poet, just like your father” she said clutching the work close to her bosom and walked away. Me I thought anyone who cried over a decorated bone was a poet.

The protesting pupils had brought 111 Arcade in Commissioner Street Johannesburg to a standstill. The two adjoining streets of Joubert and Eloff had also been cordoned off by the police as the chanting and toyi toying kids taunted them. The toyi toyi, the struggle dance, the dance of death. Flashbacks from the eighties crossed my mind as I stood watching the dancing kids from my window on third floor. I shook my head cynically. Compared to the toyi toyi of the eighties; this was a Sunday school picnic. I had flashbacks of youths dancing over charred corpses, the smell of teargas, burning flesh and tyres. I saw running battles between youths in stones and petrol bombs with the police and soldiers in casspirs and kwela kwelas. No this could never compare to the eighties, these copycats paled in significance when compared to yesteryear revolutionaries.

But what I found very strange was that they still sang struggle songs after thirteen years of freedom. They had on t-shirts of the ANC, Cosatu, Cosas and the SACP. I went out of my office to go to the bathroom. As I walked in the corridor I thought there was a colour conspicuous by its absence, the dominant yellow colours of the United Democratic Front. That organization had been such a dominant factor of the eighties. And today it was not part of that struggle. As I entered the bathroom I was surprised to see a middle aged man trying to nurse himself in the mirror. He was trying to remove an egg yolk planted on his face by the protesting pupils. There was also a large map which had been created on his white silk shirt by a rotten tomato. I offered him some tissue paper and he thanked me without removing his face from the mirror.

“They called me a government fat cat” he said as he stared on the mirror. “Who? I asked trying to roll out some more tissue paper for him. “Those kids, I was trying to address them and accept their petition, can you believe…” he turned around to me and stopped mid sentence “Meneer! He exclaimed. I was taken aback by surprise; it had been more than twenty years since someone had addressed me like that. I looked at his face closely trying to recall him. He extended his hand to shake mine “Patrick Mngadi, I was in your standard nine class, don’t you remember me? Did I remember him? He had grown old of course with some fat on his cheeks and belly, he now wore glasses which gave him an intellectual look but did I remember him? How could I forget him, he was Comrade Commissar, the boy who had effectively put an end to my teaching career.

*********************

The year was 1987 and South Africa was burning. I was a teacher at Tholimfundo High School at Osizweni in Newcastle. Patrick had been a rather intelligent but insolent teenager who had a passion for reading newspapers in class during lessons. I was an Afrikaans teacher and since the language was not the most popular among black students my confidence levels were not very high. Afrikaans was regarded as the language of the oppressor aimed at reminding Africans they were a defeated people. The learners claimed it was difficult but my observation had been that they felt it was difficult simply because they resented it.

We were busy in one lesson trying to analyse with some difficulty a poem in Afrikaans about a flower called the protea when Patrick suddenly burst out reciting another poem I was to learn later belonged to Don Mattera.:

“The Protea is not a flower
It is a dome of fluttering white flags
Tombs of Afrikaner relics
And monument of ox-wagon
Dipped in blood

And so the protea
Can never be a flower
Not while the Soul of South Africa
Struggles to be set free

To my dismay, the whole class erupted into wide applause. Unbeknown to me and other teachers, Patrick was running political classes after school disguised as a cultural group. In this class they also recited poems by famous figures like Don Mattera and Ingoapele Madingoane. In these political classes he and his comrades distributed banned political material like literature and other pamphlets. Because of his sharp and incisive mind he had earned a nickname of Comrade Commissar pronounced with a K. Through some other clandestine workshops provided by MK operatives, Commissar had quickly graduated into a seasoned political activist with an uncanny ability to sway the mass of pupils.

Though his voice was full of anger and passion, surprisingly, he spoke with an alarming clarity of thought. And despite the many books he read, he strongly felt education was delaying the revolution. His statements were heavily peppered with political rhetoric and he always spoke as if he was addressing a mass rally. He walked with purpose and urgency as if he was already marching on the battlefield. His strong emphasis of words and slow ay of speaking made him very articulate. He said one day addressing a meeting to cries of “viva:

“Comrades and compatriots, this Verwoerdian, inferior Bantu Education system was designed so that we would not rise above certain levels of labour. It was designed so that we can see the green pastures but we would never reach and graze in them. Through this Bantu Education system, the African people are condemned to be being perpetual hewers of wood and drawers of water, forward to people’s education forward!

He seemed hell bent on putting a stop to our very lives. He once stopped a soccer practice where I was the head coach by claiming there could never be a normal sport in an abnormal society. Besides, he said, there was no time, just no time, for a black man to fool around with a soccer ball. He spray painted a wall at school with the slogan “Tell the people no lies, claim no easy victories” by Amilcar Cabral

As a person who had been entrusted with the future of these children I was left impotent. I was faced with a dilemma, whether to continue teaching or join the marauding pupils. I loved their anger. But it was too rushed and too misdirected. I felt it could be better channeled towards construction rather than destruction. All the buildings and bridges the young people had burnt would need to be rebuilt one day by the new government I tried to reason with the youth leaders. And it would be difficult then, because it is easier to start a fire than to stop it, it is easier to destroy than to build. Commissar tried to argue with me not to collaborate in our own oppression. He said the first step would be to stop teaching useless languages like Afrikaans. “Every time you speak that language, you spit and trample on the graves of the seventy six movement” he said angrily to me.

“I wish you were in my shoes” I argued with him lamely.
“I will never wear the shoes of a collaborator” he resolved vehemently “your shoes are too small, ugly and they stink of cowardice”
“Patrick, you may have read big books and we may differ politically but I am still your teacher and elder” I shouted back at him.
But he felt strongly I had surrendered my right to be respected if I sat on the fence. Disrespect for order and elders was my biggest gripe against the struggle. I felt struggle leaders had started something that would come back to haunt them for generations. The children who had been taught to disrespect everyone who differed with them would come back to disrespect them one day.

Shortly after that there had been a class boycott and the school was burnt down. Comrade Commissar was detained without trial for more than six months and when he came out he soon skipped the border. I had heard later he had gone on to join Umkhonto weSizwe. I had resigned later as a teacher that year when I felt my services were no longer appreciated to join the private sector. About two years ago I had come back to work for the new government in the department of education where I felt like a useless bureaucrat.

*********************

And now Comrade Commissar stood before me like a condemned man. In exile he had furthered his education after undergoing military training and had earned quite a number of degrees. He was now a member of some important portfolio committee that advised the minister on education. And now when I looked at him I felt a sense of delayed victory. It was more than twenty years late but I felt victorious nevertheless. He stood looking at me like a man ready to hang himself. I might as well go ahead and give him the rope. I passed on another tissue and smiled. Comrade Commissar had finally worn my ugly shoes.

When father and son
Go to war together as allies
They cease to become father and son
They become soldiers in arms
They address each other as comrades
And when they return home
To share the spoils of war
They have become equals earned in war
They have both tasted the blood of their enemy in equal measure
They have spoken the same language of war
The father can no longer lay down the law of the house to the son
And the son cannot receive the law of the house from the father
Is it not a democracy?
After all, have they not all tasted blood equally?
It is difficult to move from a relationship of equals to unequals
Such was the tragedy of our revolution

our lullabies have lulled the world
into insomnia

we have sung so many dirges
we have kept the dead wide awake

our melodies
sound like stuck records
our mournful cries scarred with indelible scratches
out of tune with the harmony of nature

monsters and mummies
have danced and gyrated
at the cacophony of our voices

it is not easy to sing with a lump in your throat
nor a gaping wound in your vocal chords
it is not easy to sleep with cold feet

On the 13th of march 2008
Walking down a bridge from Braamfontein to Johannesburg
I was mugged
They gripped me by the neck from behind
The night labourers
They emptied my pockets
Of my wallet and cellphone
But left my notebook and pen
In an act of unconscious generosity
Foolish me I was to think later
I should have hidden my wallet and cellphone
In my notebook
Or better still
I should have hidden myself
Behind my lines

Though the shack is not furnished
We are not famished
We are spiritually nourished
For we refuse to become the shack
That merely houses our limbs and lack of property
Our hearts roam free beyond the shackles of the shack
For in these shacks we have conceived pregnant dreams
That give birth to rising hope
And multiple orgasms

In these shacks we have nurtured life
And cherished laughter
That can ignite old mansions
And castles of antiquity

The shack does not define us
Inside these squatter camps
Our minds gallop without cramps
For we refuse to be shackled by the shack
That houses out mere limbs and lack of property

Inside these shacks that stand limping on crutches
We sleep with our heads held high
And stand with bowed heads
Not to worship the god of squalor
But to accommodate the space
Smaller than us

On the walls of the shrine of your soul
Build me a prison of freedom
Like a university
I will arrest you
Throw away the keys
I will barricade the walls
With the fires of your passion
Even your infectious smile
Shall not escape
My chains of liberty

Your laughter is arresting
My love is colonizing

I will curse you with my love
My caresses will leave fingerprints on your tender skin
Stolen love bites on your neck shall tell of our love
I will stain your heart with memories of summer

In an island of paradise
I will fly your flag
At full mast
I will chant your name
My silent mantra
With eyes wide shut
Counciousness wide awake
In this march
Of the zealots

I will celebrate you
I will build you a statue
With the tantalizing traits of a tart
I will titivate you
Till you titillate
And tilt
To my tricks
Tinkle tinkle little star

I wear your love
A proud banner in my forehead
Like a colourful tattoo

Your laughter is arresting
My love is colonizing

I stand on the edge of a cliff
Teetering on the brink of collapse
Hovering, wavering

I lift out my leg
With fury
Punching gaping holes in the air
This is not about me
This is about the world
This issue I have with God
I cannot pass on
At least not now
Before I have filled that void
In the hole of nothingness
I am indebted
I owe this life, bigtime
Somewhere in there
The sand has not felt my giant strides
My feet have not shaped the soil
The earth has yet to quake
Under my immense weight

There is a fountain of water
That is yet to be grazed by my skin
Out there is a flowing river
Yet to be washed by my hands
Waves wait
To jump beneath my body
You aint seen nothing yet
I am the missing link
In the totality of life

After all has been said and done
I have not had my say
Nor done my bit
The heavens can wait
I am coming
In time with time
I cannot pass on
At least not now
This is not about me
This is about the world
This issue I have with God

Was it not I ask?
God’s expectation
That parents should live long
And eat
The birds of their children
And the birds of their children’s children
But now
Birds outlive us
Our wings are clipped
Before we crawl
Our feathers plucked
In the morning of our lives

Was it not I ask
The teachings of the African sages
That parents should live long
And eat
The birds of their children
And the birds of their children’s children
But now
Birds outlive us
They soar to the heavens
Free
While we sink deeper
Six feet underground
Dead as cold

Have you dished out the food for Spotty? Malume China asked just after we had finished supper and I was washing the dishes.
“Eish I forgot malume” I said scratching my head in regret.
“oh no mshana, now we have broken the pledge” malume said in a worried tone.
“what pledge? I asked anxiously.

“Mshana, come and sit here, there is a lesson I need to teach you”
I came and sat next to Malume on the sitting room sofa.
Malume opened his mouth to teach “Once upon a time, a long time ago, before the sky was choking from too much smoke, when the rains were still generous, and the word drought was still not known, this was the time when the grass was still greener on all sides, and winter came at the right time. Now that was a long time ago, before this generation and thousands of generations before it could come into being and man still lived in caves and animals could still talk”
“Wow malume, animals could talk? For a moment I felt like I was sitting on the fireplace of storytelling I had read about at school.

“Yes animals could talk once, but not in big words because there was no need to show off then” he paused as if digesting his own words, “anyway that’s a story for another day”. In those days man and animals were all still vegetarians and they would compete for best fruit and vegetables in the best trees of the land. Because this was a struggle for the survival of the fittest, man and animal began to hate each other, they did not only hate each other they began eating other as meat”
I grimaced at this thought of man and animals eating each other.

“now dog was a very intelligent animal, his intellect was second only to that of man. Dog realized that man never starved because he had developed powerful weapons and shields for his hunting missions. And on top of that he had found a brilliant way of making sure his food does not decay. Before the fridge could come into picture, man had found a way of freezing the cold and storing his food there for days so he did not have to hunt everyday. This was like storing winter for summer days. He had found a way of freezing the cold by using the heat from the sun, just imagine that kind of intelligence mshana!”
I found it hard to imagine that kind of intelligence but I wanted Malume to go on with his fascinating story.

“He ate his food warm and soft by cooking it on fire. He also used the fire to protect himself from his enemies by leaving it burning at the mouth of his cave for the whole night. So dog decided to come into an alliance with man. He would be man’s friend and hunting partner in exchange for generous access to his food.
“You have won yourself more than a friend my friend, you have won yourself a king” man announced authoritatively. “But to win something you have to lose something, so you will lose all your freedom and the ability to make decisions, I will think for you and I will domesticate you, while I sleep you will stand guard at the entrance of my cave.

I was glad this story had explained the relationship between Spotty and the family. But I was still not sure of the lesson and I was afraid of the next question.
“Now what was the lesson of the story mshana? Came the question eventually.
“That is why dogs sleep during the day? I ventured.

“Close mshana, but close is not enough. You see there are many important lessons to learn mshana from the story, the other ones will come naturally to you as you grow older, but the most important lesson from the story mshana is that dogs are servants. He paused a bit as if to make sure I digested the lesson. “and to serve you have to lose a little bit of pride. Now there is nothing wrong with serving mshana as long as you are preparing to lead. But dogs do not serve with any ambition of leading one day.
But the point I wanted to make mshana is that man made a promise to dog that he would feed and take care of him as long as dog keeps his promise of watching over him. In return dog asks of us that we never lead him down the valley of the shadow of death. Now by failing to feed Spotty, we have broken our promise to him.

“That is the ecology of life mshana, we can never be full in our stomachs if Spotty is empty in his. That is one lesson the rich have not learnt, we are each other’s keepers. The rich can never be full if the labourers are hungry”

“Ecology of life, I kept saying these words to myself as I fed Spotty outside the door that night. He snuggled on my ear and I could feel the warmth of his fur as he brushed me. I was fascinated by the story malume had told me. I had not been aware man and dog shared such a long history. I had also gained a lot of respect for Spotty. Malume had spoken of him as if he was human. “I am sorry about what happened today Spotty, I promise my stomach will never be full again if yours is empty. Spotty began licking me as a way of saying he forgave me.

When I was busy locking the door I heard the water running in the bathroom and I knew malume was taking his evening shower. He came back to the sitting room barefoot wearing a towel over his waist. His whole body was dripping with water. Mom and grandmother always complained about him not wiping his body but he always argued he wanted to feel the effect of water sinking in. He sat next to me and switched off the television set with a remote control. When I opened my mouth to protest he closed it with his finger and continued to look at the television as if it was still playing.

“Shut up and don’t complain, people who don’t pay the rent should not complain. He looked serious for a moment and suddenly burst out laughing. One thing good about malume was that he could really laugh out well. When he laughed his small eyes closed and tears would stream down his cheeks. His eyes were so small people nicknamed him china. I started laughing too, more at the fact that he was laughing than at the joke itself.

I had heard this joke before. Once malume had come back from university after they had boycotted classes in protest against increased fees. Grandmother had been very angry. She threw anything she could find at him. “you complain about fees, who pays for those fees? What do you know about fees? you don’t even pay the rent in this house” malume and my mother broke out laughing at her outbursts and he had to run out the door still laughing as she threw all sorts of things his way. “you don’t know how it is like to be robbed by the government! She screamed. And now every time malume tried to change channels on tv grandmother would tell him to shut up he did not know how much it cost to pay for a tv license.

After a long time he stopped laughing and looked at me. I stopped and looked back at him too.
“Now lets sit back and reflect, think about what happened today”
First of all I thought about how nice it was when malume was back at home for holidays from university. This time it was just the two of us as my mother and grandmother had gone to the rural areas for the holidays. He was a student in the US and he seldom came home. Malume had been at university for a number of years because he did not want to pay tax, my grandmother said.

I closed my eyes to think about a morning that had started with a dream. I had dreamed that I was flying and later we were playing soccer. Then I asked my teammates to go out for a break so I could take a pee. Then I was peeing but I woke up before I could pee on the bed. I realized it was morning and my penis was hard and full of urine. I rushed to the bathroom and closed my eyes in ecstasy as the urine went out of my system and I was spraying it all over the floor. After wiping the urine off the floor I found malume already in the kitchen singing his favourite song “you make my heart sing, you make everything groovy”.

When he saw me he gave me what he calls his “colgate smile”. “The dream boy is up, what did we dream about last night mshana?
“I dreamed I was flying” I told him.
“A dream about flying is a good dream, it means life, now lets look at our life today, the weather specialists say it is going to be a good day, now we cannot let a good day like that go to waste”
malume checked his diary.
“Now lets see what we have planned for today, first we have breakfast, then we clean and scrub the floors till we can see ourselves on them, then we water the garden and play a little, now that’s very important mshana, work a little, play a little so we can find a balance”
I was impressed, Malume planned everything and even included playing in his diary.

After we had finished the gardening, Malume decided we should trim our hair so we could look nice for the women.
“Now lets see which comb size we will use for trimming your hair, too big, too small, and yes this one is just perfect”
I realized this was an important decision which could not be taken lightly. A man’s head was really important. I took off my t-shirt and sat on a chair in the garage. Malume wrapped a towel around me and his hands and the buzz of the machine felt so good I wanted to sleep.
“Which music do you listen to malume? I asked with my eyes closed.
He counted a lot of different music I did not even know existed.
“I also like kwaito and house, but hip hop is my favourite” I said simply.
“Hip hop is good, but hip hop has also been used as a weapon of mass destruction in the whole world, you must be careful of hip hop mshana, it threatens to wipe out an entire generation”
“And Fifty Cent is my favourite artist” I said not understanding what he was saying about hip hop.
“And Fifty Cent drives a hummer” I added further to impress Malume.
“Now what civillian in his right mind would drive a car that was built for the army, that is a man with a destructive mind, mshana”

After we had finished, I gathered all our hair together and wrapped it on paper.
“Now here is an idea mshana, maybe we can put some chemicals in that hair and sell it so other people can wear it. Just imagine mshana, other people wearing our hair and spirit. You know we must be the only people in the world mshana who buy other people’s hair but do not sell ours to anyone, even fake hair”
I also thought the idea of selling our hair could be good business.

After cleaning the house we had played soccer on the yard with malume soon after cleaning the lunch dishes. He had bumped the ball on his feet for over fifty times without it landing on the ground. Then he had bumped it over his head over twenty times. Then he had bended a bit and allowed the ball to rest on the back of his neck. Then it was on his spine. He said a player called Professor Ngubane used to do these tricks with the ball. Then we had dribbled past each other after which he said he was tired. We had played a bit of casino after that. I realized that it had been too much and I had been too happy

And now he wanted me to read something from the paper out loud. I read some few stories but the one I found most interesting was about the man who ran around the neighbourhood stealing women’s underwear from the line. He corrected me as I made a lot of mistakes with my spelling. Finally he took the paper away from me.
“Its time for you to sleep mshana, you have made enough mistakes for one day”

He came to check after me after I had prayed silently and slipped inside the blankets. I had left the light on because I was afraid of the darkness. Someone always switched the light off after I had fallen asleep. Malume stood at the doorway and smiled at me.
“Did you pray before going to bed? He asked
I nodded my head.
“What God stole your voice?
I prayed, why cant we sleep in the same room malume”
“Because we are lucky enough not to be poor, many people sleep in one shack as a family”
I was surprised other people could be so unlucky. Is that why malume was always complaining about the government? When I looked at him I wished I was as tall and big as him. It was so nice being an adult. You could work for your own money and did not have to go to school or do homework. Adults were tall and could reach for things that were high up in the cupboard. Adults knew everything. They were also not afraid of the dark.
“Are you ever afraid of anything malume? I asked.

He came over to the bed and sat next to me leaning on the pillow. He seemed to think for a minute before speaking.
“of course I am afraid sometimes, I am afraid of failing you”
“How? I asked
“Because you expect so much from me, because you have raised the bar so high for me sometimes I am afraid I will never be able to reach it. I am afraid sometimes you will realize I am not a god but I am only human. I am afraid of the real darkness, the darkness of the spirit”

I felt sorry for malume, I knew his problem perfectly. Grandmother had spoken about it a lot of times. The big books malume had read sometimes made him crazy. That is why he sometimes spoke in a language no one understood.
“Its okay malume” I assured him, I will pray to God that you do not fail me”
“Thank you mshana, that’s really kind of you, you know what I no longer feel afraid already, now can I sleep next to you a bit?. I nodded my head sleepily.
“Now lets close our eyes and dream”

I did dream that I heard voices coming from malume’s bedroom. I woke up in a dark room and malume was not there. He must have woken up to go to his bedroom. Who was he with? I tiptoed to his bedroom door. I heard voices giggling. When I put my ears on the door I could not mistake the voice of the woman. She was madam Madlala my class teacher. What was she doing in Malume’s bedroom at night? Where was her husband? I heard her talking about going to the bathroom and I ran back and slipped into my bed.
I pricked my ears as I listened to the doors opening. I heard the toilet flushing and she went back to the bedroom. I could not sleep anymore, my heart was beating so fast.

The I heard a loud bark from Spotty outside followed by a gunshot. Then there was a violent bang in the front door. I met malume on the passage rushing to the kitchen. He told me to go back to sleep. As I went back I bumped into madam Madlala also rushing into the kitchen. Apparently it was her husband. I could not hear clearly the argument that was going on. Moments later I heard another gunshot. Madam Madlala screamed hysterically. I rushed over to the kitchen stoop to find malume on the floor bleeding, Spotty lay dead beside him. I knelt down to look at him. Malume looked at me with the eyes of a condemned man.

Taken as a separate entity, the ANC succession debacle might not merit a footnote in one’s personal diary but taken from the perspective of the totality of life and the interconnection of things, possibilities abound. In my opinion, (bearing in my mind of course that opinions are cheap), filmmakers as storytellers need to be equipped with that uncanny ability of approaching stories in a holistic manner. Let me expound on this theory by digressing a bit:

ANC members have always been passionate about their political standpoints. In fact they have been known to be prepared to kill or be killed to uphold their moral high ground. They have always been proud of their vibrant culture of debate, which they have fought for within their movement and in South Africa as a whole. Disturbingly enough, of late they have shown increasing signs of being prepared to take the debate outside. It has been interesting to note that recently in quite a number of incidents they have chosen funerals and memorial services of struggle stalwarts to engage in their running battles with each other.

And so daggers are drawn, comrade is pitted against comrade as 4000 thousand delegates descend on Limpopo in December to chart the way forward in a conference that would affect the direction of South Africa and its more than forty five million citizens including filmmakers. As a storyteller I have often assumed the luxurious role of a grandstanding psychologist in trying to dissect the minds of the various forces at play.

Which brings me to the question of political films. If one was to make a film on the nature of the succession debate, will it be a political film or just riveting human drama that has opted for a political stage as its setting? For me the latter seems the most obvious answer.

Also, as a storyteller, I have often asked myself: what happens after the December conference? Political commentators have ignored one minor fact: that after Limpopo, no matter which camp prevails, these comrades would still have to belong to the same party. When the comrades have settled their political scores with each other how will they deal with dissent in the broader society? If party cadres can display such levels of hostility and intolerance towards each other what more of simple minded creatives from outside?

There are various factors to note here: Artists as a conscience of the nation have always had an uneasy relationship with the politicians. The powers that be have always regarded artists as a constant irritation and an unnecessary evil they can do without. This largely stems from an erroneous, paternalistic but well intended assumption that they know what is good for the masses and they do not need mirrors that would reflect society.

Filmmakers operate best under a climate of free speech. Once party cadres have purged the political opponents within their own party it becomes easier too deal with political dissent outside. And we know that truth and freedom of speech becomes the first casualty in this eventuality.

South Africa at present enjoys one of the most liberal constitutions the world has ever seen. But there are some within the ruling party who are already feeling freedom of speech is exaggerated. What will happen when leaders call for more “patriotic films.” Will there ever come a time when funding is tied to political allegiance? Will we still have the luxury of debating whether we should or should not make political films after December? Is it possible for filmmakers to find a good story with regard to this historical event and still maintain their impartiality? Time will tell.

Msizi Moshoetsi is a storyteller and a pursuer of dreams. He is a virgo and a failed vegan vegetarian. One of his dreams is to own a piece of land where he can grow fruit and vegetables. He is a law graduate from the University of the North, has worked as a freelance reporter and editor for various magazines which are interestingly all defunct like Kitso and jozzi.com. He trained as a candidate director with Kevin Harris Productions and studied film at Big Fish School of Digital Filmmaking.

A social commentator, he is presently in production as a director for a documentary Amazing Grace commissioned by the SABC and in post production for a documentary called Rebirth of a Rolling Stone. He has just finished post production for a PSA on storytelling.

Yesterday we got hired
And today we got fired
Because tomorrow we got tired
Of being nothing but hired hands
In the execution of our very souls

This is his master’s voice
By a special decree of the ruling class
We interrupt your victory celebrations
To inform you
A black future has been cancelled
Until further notice
And your 1994 freedom has been delayed
By another thirteen years
Because the wabenzis and yengeni drivers are on strike
And your retired revolutionaries
Are still on holiday
During this period
In between caviar and champagne and socialist cigars
They shall sign binding freedoms
With the IMF and the World Bank
On your behalf
And the Esteemed Governor of The Reserve Bank
Shall reserve the right
To withhold your wealth
In the interest of foreign capital
And good governance
Martyrs
Shall be killed again
Without being resurrected
In the meantime
You suckers can continue binging
In your orgy of self-mutilation
To feed your hunger for true freedom

we need to find ways
to double-cross the one ways
and criss-crossing by ways
they have carved for us in different ways

they must not lead us sideways

there is either their way
or the right way
to ascend the heavenly high way

more is yet to come
we have not yet become
the expected outcome
of our messiahs coming
and our generation’s shortcomings

the death of mortality is still coming
heaven awaits our great homecoming

if all else fails
we will not give up the ghost
we will try dying

This is my season
I need to reason
And be seasoned
I must multiply
And procreate
For sometimes God blesses you in spring
And curse you in summer.

the dragon comes dragging history into the present
the present is not so fluorescent
and the past is so much effervescent

too much lies have been sold
too much truth has not been told

too much iron
has been drained from the lion
in this march to zion

even if we have no meal
we must tell our story with zeal
for the wounds to heal

a people without a history
shall forever remain a mystery
from north to south, from east to west
the beast is having a feast

a people without a culture
have acted like a vulture
and left us with nothing to nurture

the dragon drags the past from the private space
into the public place
the dragon spreads her tentacles
and we watch without spectacles
the past is so much with us
what is the future without us

a people without a history
shall forever remain a mystery

too much lies have been sold
too much truth has not been told
too much iron
has been drained from the lion
in this march to zion

when a poet is not true
to him no benefit shall accrue
so may I say
without further delay
on this day
which is not of may
a poet of rhymes
is a poet of crimes
his message is lost
to them who cheer most
the audience moves with the rhythm
but the audience cannot be redeemed
a lie is furthered
when the truth is murdered
those who play to the gallery
condemn art into mockery
so may I say
without further delay
on this day
which is not of may
a poet of rhymes
is a poet of crimes
those who live for the stage
shall be condemned into a cage
and their bright lights
will not burn through the nights
poets not adorned with medals
shall leave with no scandals
unfillable would be their sandals
those who live for fame
shall leave with no name
they shall spring from the womb
straight into the tomb
the words must glow
so the notes wont stoop low
it does not add spice
to be nice
mouthful of rice
when there is so much public lice
too many Macarena
have danced in this poetic arena
when the truth is not told
the centre cannot hold
so may I say
without further delay
on this day
which is not of may
a poet of rhymes
is a poet of crimes
who must elicit cries…

when
on the vitamin deficient
skinny flesh of your mind
your heart
your spirit
your soul

these long
drawn
firing
lingering
wired
criss-crossing
battle scared
flames spitting
blood tearing
whip-lashing
deep cutting
throat slitting
far reaching
spear-bullet laden
principled lines
cast indelible marks

do not
like a man possessed
flee in fright
this is the conscience of the living dead
I am just a secretary
taking dictation
from the bosses upstairs
I am an instrument
a vessel
and this is
a testimony of fire

WHEN POETS VOMIT FROM HUMBLE PIE

When poets vomit from eating humble pie
and are choking in their own lines
I declare a moratorium
no more poems
about revolutions
still in progress
no more poems
when yesterdays revolutionaries
are spitting in the graves of martys

If you want to know who I am
look with me
at the bubbling waters of the Limpopo
you will see my image
blacker than the night
darker than my shadow
for I was drawn in Africa/eden
coloured by the sun black

I dyed my hair in the Black Umfolozi River
it was combed by the Mozambique current

I circumcised in the Kilimanjaro
I emerged reborn

I climbed to the top of the Egyptian pyramids
to be transfigured by the stars

I solved the riddle of the Great Sphinx
by speaking in an ancient language

I have known the man in the moon
since time immemorial
he illuminated my path
as I wandered in the Namib desert

on the banks of Uthukela
I danced ubungoma
with the ancestors
I was humbled
by the beauty of the Zulu maidens
in the Umhlanga Reed Ceremony

in the mystic Lake Funduzi
I was initiated in the ways of prophets
I passed with distinction

I am the slave that survived the Middle Passage
to become master of my soul
and inscribe my legacy
on the Senegalese sands

on the back of Sarah Baartman
I carried the cross of her descendants
who lived
to tell the story of crucifixion

I lead the way with the stuff of Zulu kings
in the Holy Mountain of Nhlangakazi
I inherited
the Kingdom of Ezulwini

on the chest of Ukhahlamba
I played umlabalaba
with the stones that rained
from the prayers of Queen Modjadji

in the royal court of Moshoeshoe
I freely dispensed justice
with the wisdom of Solomon

in the winter of the Zimbabwe Ruins
I basked in the summer
of the colourful Ashante cloth

from the clear sky blue heavens
I drained the rain
to water the eden vineyards

the tales I told in the fireplace
are longer than the Nile
they remain tattoed in blood
in the caves of the Khoisan

I am the regeneration of the spirit of Hintsa
in my veins flows the blood of the Massai warriors
I am the warrior spirit
that guided the Cetshwayo regiments
in the War of Isandlwana

before the snake ascended the altar
the lion and the lamb
grazed on corn and seeds
on the palm of my hand

I caught the mopani worms
before the earliest birds
and composed with them the first melody
before dawn
together we sang Imbube
choreographed the wind and the trees
and navigated the distant horizons

I planted the seeds of the Morula tree
and showered under waterfalls of milk

from Cape to Cairo
I carved the path for future generations
and spiced the Indian Ocean
with the salt of my sweat

I sprayed Bhambata with war intelezi
and shielded him in the forests of Nkandla

I am the Father
the San and the Khoi spirit

I came before sound and light
when God discovered Eden
I discovered God

do you ever feel
like a piece of chess?

a king
without subjects
a queen
without an heir
a bishop
without faith
a horse
that gallops in a zigzag
a castle
in a shack

you must never feel
like a piece of chess
a knight
without shining armour
a rock
made of mud
a blindfolded pawn
in a crossfire
moved by an invisible hand
to a slaughter house

do you ever dread hearing the words?
CHECKMATE!

no man should ever feel
like a piece of chess

you don’t hear these shouting thoughts
yelling from the past
echoing from the future
bouncing into the present
whistling, beckoning
they wont wave goodbye
forcing me to welcome them
with closed arms
and clenched fists

like grains of the sea sand
they swarm my mind like fleas
packing my head to the rafters
they come in singles and doubles
multiplying from triplets to plurals
tangoeing cha cha cha’s
in tai chi movements
they come sleeping like a foetus
limping like a cripple
galloping like a pony
running like a madman

they yell from the underground
sounding a clarion call
to fill my ink with sermons from the mountain
can you hear these shouting thoughts
banging in my brain
like apartheid policemen
dragging me
kicking and screaming
to give them shape and content
on these blank pages

when I sit in a trance
like my friend sandile
high on ganja
you cant hear these shouting thoughts
cause my mind is soundproof
you cant hear these shouting thoughts
cause you are fast asleep
you cant hear these shouting thoughts
cause you look at me with your marble eye
you don’t see the tears
foaming from the tip of my head
bursting at the seams
on my toes
you seal your ears with wax
and do not hear the roaring thoughts
that come driving in a black hearse
in ash coloured sackloths
to deliver a boquet of flowers
to console my grieving heart

dammit!
you don’t hear these shouting thoughts
a curse which decorates my sorry life
these shouting thoughts are my cross
that I and I alone can carry

I wish you could hear these shouting thoughts
but damn!
they are not your portion
they are assigned to the house of pain

dammit!
how I hate these shouting thoughts!

Thabo Mdlalose died exactly like he had lived, silently. In the language of the African people south of the equator, he had woken up quietly or cold. As scores of people were to vouch in his memory, he had lived his entire life like a sheep.

The controversy of Thabo started at his birth. From his first yawn, it became clear he was much lighter in complexion compared to his siblings who were of a more darker hue. Grandmothers in the family, who were known to be harbourers of deep family secrets, after carefully inspecting his tiny feet, concluded his toes resembled those of a great ancestor who had ascended to the spirit world many generations ago. No one could dispute this claim of the grand old ladies because no one was old enough to have known this great ancestor.

A dark cloud seemed to shadow his life as he grew up. Not being the brightest of his peers, he dropped out of school after repeatedly failing to go beyond standard five at an advanced age of seventeen. He only stopped peeing on his bed at the age of twelve. He was not fortunate when it came to finding work as white people in the kitchens felt he was not good enough to till their gardens. The elders in the community asked “what kind of bird sang to that boy? Though the family knew there was something amiss about him they could never put their finger on it. So they sought divine help from the seers of note. After consulting his bones, the traditional healer suggested a ritual ceremony should be held for Thabo which would require the slaughtering of a white goat and the brewing of traditional beer.

He also alluded to the fact that the boy should be given his proper surname but no one seemed to understand what he meant. Thabo’s mother dismissed the seer as a charlatan, while his father, who had been against consulting the inyanga in the first place, maintained they were a family of believers who did not subscribe to the backward notion of ancestral worship.

So Thabo grew up in a haze. But he was a lively and likeable fellow of humble spirit. He was ubiquitous and known all over the township for his humble nature and generosity of spirit. Some people claimed, and indeed they repeated this claim in the funeral, that he was more popular than the money lenders who provided a valuable service to the community.

Thabo was always eager to lend a helping hand where it was needed. Whenever there was a goat or cow to be slaughtered he was the first to arrive with his knife with the legend Okapi inscribed on it. Whenever there was a cigarette to be lit he was always on standby with a box of matches so he could pull in a few smokes. In any funeral he could always be relied on to do the spadework zealously. He was never short of money as he performed all sorts of odd jobs like washing people’s cars for a tip rather than a salary.

At local taverns he cleaned and polished tables so he could guzzle half empty beers from patrons. He could be seen occasionally pushing a wheelbarrow to the bottle store to buy a few cases for the shebeen owners. People said he was much better than his loafer friends who manned street corners in the township called “tollgates” asking for money donations from passers by.

Every man and woman has needs. Thabo was also rumoured to console divorcees, widows and other women not so fortunate when it comes to men in more ways than one. For in all honesty, he was quite a look-able fellow. In the night vigil people wailed uncontrollably. And widows and divorcees wailed even more as if there was prize money at stake. For it is part of the rich township tradition that people should cry in order to console the bereaved.

Beer, traditional and western, tea accompanied by cakes flowed freely inside and outside the camp. Old women wearing doeks and draped in scarves cried and sobbed softly underneath the blankets. And community members paid their last respects in heated testimonies.

“When I saw this boy my fellow brethren, I used to be happy, I used to be happy my fellow brethren because this boy was forever laughing, not once did I see him frown and not once did I see him raise his voice to anyone. I never heard this boy say nxa to anyone bazalwane, amen! I used to be happy bazalwane when I passed that corner everyday and I would see this boy smoking the shadow of chickens with his friends. I used to be happy my fellow brethren because young men these days including girls smoke all forms of drugs from cocaine to heroin to ecstasy, I hear these days there is even a new drug called Taiwan, and another one called tik tik because it makes your mind tik tik like a clock, but all this boy ever did was smoke his green grass in a pipe” To which all the congregants in the tent will shout a spirited Hallelujah! Uyingcwele Jehova! A woman would take up the song “Izulu, indawo, yokuphumula, alungen’ uvalo!

Another spirited person would stand up in fired testimony: As I stand here in front of you my fellow brethren, having entered this yard of the Mdlaloses, I say to you the Mdlaloses, it is true, the soil is never fattened up, you must find consecration in the Lord Jesus Christ who said to us all of you who are hungry and thirsty, come to me I will carry your load for you amen!

As I stand before you my beloved in the Lord, I feel jealous, I feel jealous because I envy this young hero, who has finished his journey, and now the issue is between me and you my fellow brethren, we need to ask ourselves, have we sorted out our controversy with Jesus Christ, because he promised us he will collect us one by one and he will come like a thief at night.

Someone, perhaps to cut a long testimony short would interject with a chilling song: Lemini iyeza nakuwe. A woman would rise up to speak: This boy was like a son to me bazalwane bami, I knew him before he was born, I used to send him on errands and he would run so fast he would come back before the spittle has dried out on the ground. He would come to me for a visit and we would laugh about nothing. The night before he passed away he came to my house and we shared jokes as usual and he left shortly after that, little did I know bazalwane he had come on that day to say his goodbyes” and the woman would break down and cry.

Someone would console with a song again: Ningakhali bazalwane bami, sahlukene umzuzwana nje, ezulwini sobonana futhi. It is said that people laugh even in the midst of death, occasionally, a township idiot or a drunkard would provide a humorous moment with a statement like: Nami bazalwane I am just standing up, I have nothing to say really, I just wanted to stress on what has already been said…to which his friends would pull him down in hushed tones.

On the day of the funeral the pastor gave a spirited sermon. People said he was fired up by the bottle of Mellow Wood that he had been drinking from the previous night. The pastor stressed to the mourners they should never lie to the children but always tell them the truth because people have a tendency of coming back demanding the truth even beyond the grave. He told the story of an uncle who assured his dying nephew that he need not worry because he was going to haydes to rest in the chest of Abraham. The departed boy came back to his uncle in a dream saying he cannot find the resting place of haydes and the chest of Abraham.

‘He was a nice guy’, commented the clean shaven man in dark sunglasses to a beautiful lady in a black veil and hat.

‘Kunjalo, it is so’ responded the woman, ‘did you know him well?

“Ngisho nakwaMadala ejudeni, I did not know him at all” the man said.

“I did not know him either” the woman said.

None of the mourners found this conversation strange. For it is common nature in the township to attend the funeral of a person you have never known in their lifetime. At most times, knowing one member of the bereaved family is enough but very often one does not even have to know the bereaved family for as the Zulu people say: you do not pass by when you see a house under construction, you come in and give a hand, so it is with feasts and funerals.

After all the proper rituals had been observed the time came for the coffin to be lowered down the grave. The strangest thing happened, the coffin would not move from the ground. Stronger and more brawny men, in an effort to expose the weaklings were called upon but still the coffin would not budge. Scores of men tried their luck in lowering the deceased but the coffin would still not move an inch. There was a huge murmur and suppressed gossip amongst the mourners. Some thing like that had never been seen amongst these shores though others vouched it happens all the time when the deceased is angry about something. An impromptu family meeting was called but did not yield any positive results. Incense was burnt to plead with the ancestors to tone down their anger but still the coffin would not move. It is said that that which fails men must be reported, so the matter was brought before the community elders. A sagely greying old man was convinced the truth lay with the mother of the boy. The mother screamed and squealed uncontrollably. Many people, convinced they had diagnosed the root of the problem, pleaded with her and then demanded she talk the truth about the paternity of the boy. Thabo’s mother finally relented and confessed the father of the boy was Khumalo opposite their house. A shaken Khumalo was called to intervene. He went to speak to the coffin, calling on the Mashobanes, the mzilikazis, the mntungwas to tone down their anger. He pleaded with the ancestors, apologising to his son by praising him with all the family clan names. The weather suddenly cleared. People easily lifted up the coffin and lowered it into the ground. Finally, Thabo Khumalo had spoken the last word, people said.

while the slave sleeps
comfortably
between a rock and a rock
the master labours restlessly
wondering without end
if the slave would rise up one day
to take his place
in the household of life

the slave has become the master
he sits heavily on the mind of the mighty
unconscious of his weight
while the master tries to figure out without end
if the rope is long and deep enough
for the glaring ribs on the neck of the servant

while the slave showers
under the salt of his own sweat
the master sweats and pants
wondering without end
if he will finish this race against God

the master toils sleeplessly
over whether he will have enough coffers for his gold
nor the required math to count his shekels of silver
his stomach tosses and turns
over whether
it can contain all the delicacies
that are the fruit of the slave’s toil

the master agonises relentlessly
where the slave gets the strength to carry on
to live so much
to love so much
to laugh so much
to sing and dance so much
to procreate so much
to multiply so much

he frets over whether
the slave will have enough strength tomorrow
to pull the ox-wagon

the slave lives large
like a guillotine
over the absent conscience
of the makhulu baas

the master sees the writing on the wall
mene mene tekel ufasin
will he call the slave
to explain the dreams that haunt him?