LEGACY

REMEMBERING (AND UNDERSTANDING) BIKO
September, whether someone likes it or not is Steven Bantu Biko month. While we should live his legacy everyday, it's at times like these that we get a chance to reflect on this torch extinguished so early by the forces of darkness

Five years ago around this time I was one of the few critical opinion-makers invited to the BUWA African Languages and Literature into the 21st Century, an African Renaissance Initiative of the Native Club conference held in Tshwane. The aim of the meeting was to give birth to an African ideal for an integrated collective African thinking which will take into consideration contributions from the Diaspora and from who Dr Martin Luther King called "our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here (here today"

Just so you should know some of the dignitaries who attended and contributed worthy papers and direction were celebrated author and pure-afrikan Professor Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Professor Charles Cantalupo who is professor of English and Comparative Literature at Pennsylvania State University in the USA, Andries Oliphant (UNISA), Prof Mbulelo Mzamane, Prof Taban Lo Liyong and many other think tanks who are equally influential in their fields of literature. Also visibly present was intellectual and current head honcho at the Human Sciences Research Council Dr Xolela Mangcu.

We met to interrogate different ways to position African languages to a point where they can be as popular and standardized as Mandarin, Spanish, English, and Latin before it. Incidentally, the intellectual gathering coincided with the commemoration for the martyrdom of black consciousness torchbearer and most celebrated voice of his generation and beyond, Steven Bantubonke Biko.

A lecture was held at Wits University, conducted by wa Thiong'o and facilitated by the Steve Biko Foundation, Also understandably present was the highly effective team of Mangcu and Nkosinathi Biko.
Samora and Nkosinathi Biko (pictured)
Two days later at a glittering banquet held at the Presidential Guest House in Tshwane graced by then deputy Minister of Arts and Culture Buyelwa Sonjica, ICASA's Mandla Langa, Dr Itumeleng Mosala among others, wa Thiong'o and poet laureate Sonja Sanchez were honoured. During the function and speeches the name of Biko was left in selective-amnesialand. The absence of its mention was annoying.

Nobody, of all the cream of African intelligentsia felt that Biko deserved special mention on the same congratulatory breath as wa Thiong'o and Sanchez. It was rather sister Sanchez who mentioned Biko's name once in a poem she rendered. Somebody was out to honour the two at the expense of Biko and to shift the focus of wa Thiong'o's visit to reflect that he was here as a guest of the government, which he was not.

Which brings me to one of the most stupid questions-statements ever uttered-asked by white South Africa, though not verbatim, was to question-say why the widow of the late Biko said she will never forgive the killers of her husband while Nelson Mandela forgave. "Who is Nontsikelelo Biko not to forgive while a man who spent 27 years in prison came out and forgave?" the question-statement was asked-uttered.

Everybody is entitled to their grief. Pain is not homogenous and to compare Mandela's pain and his response to it to the rest of black South Africa should be criminal. Nobody should demand that black people forgive because Mandela did. Mandela did not forgive on behalf of black people but himself.

Biko's widow won't forgive, which apparently reflects the feelings of most black South Africans. She spoke for many South Africans, which is questionable if the same can be said about Mandela.

This is not going to be another billboard for Biko, a critiquing of his legacy for critiquing's sake or another promo of his memory but a serious interrogation of his role in South African history and an analysis of his impact on the lives of ordinary folks who find it hard to forgive.

The buzzword in the country right now is reconciliation with former Minister of Law and Order Mr Andrian Vlok having undergone his lap of comedy already. Forgiveness, it should be mentioned is an important tenet of a proud conscious country. There is no way one can objectively write about African Renaissance without romanticizing or delving into black consciousness. Biko as a proponent might be overrated as some have recently claimed but black consiousness is bigger than him and goes beyond his stature.

Being that as it may, apathy to his contribution continues to be annually practised by writers whenever they have to write something about the events of September 12. They rather find something juicy about 50Cent or Jeniffer Lopez that's going to steal the headline and focus from the fact that on such a date one soldier for the mental liberation of Africans was martyred. How the butchers of Biko's memory comfortably embedded in the media manage to write long academic essays without complimenting Biko's contribution to it still beats me.

To relegate the memory of Biko to the Eastern Cape's King William's Town is a gross human rights abuse. Biko was not a provincial icon or a Xhosa figure but a national hero who transcended tribe and race. It is also criminal to downplay his achievements to an affiliation to a single political ideology, far removed from the social causes he led. To say Biko was a simple member of Black Consciousness Movement of Azania while black consciousness is bigger than a political party and is a nucleus of the overall existence of African people is a sin. There is no way African people can advance in any direction without embracing their racial diversity first and looking at consciousness way beyond Biko. Biko is not a hurdle that can't be jumped for everyone to love themselves without feeling a sense of selling out or affiliation to Azaian People's Organisation, Pan Africanist Congress of Azania or Socialist Party of Azania, to the detriment of their political party's principles.

Biko is an important cog, a social scientist, and that's the role he should be cherished for having played while everybody else was obsessed with multi-racialism. Unity in diversity was the underlying message of Biko's teachings.

It's arguable whether Biko himself would have forgiven the Security Branch men who tortured him. While it will be unsafe to assume what his reaction would be to the lies of the late Gideon Niewoudt and his friends continue to use inorder to get amnesty it can be said that he would have seeked justice instead of scapegoats. Black South Africa will not settle for sporadic abridged apologies but a collective submission. It would not serve any purpose to have Niewoudt and a few white policemen quizzed while the whole white race benefited from apartheid. Otherwise white South Africa thinks that everybody is a Mandela, who they are now freely spitting at his caricature at Sandton. Do they expect us to be like the old man, get our own little statues so that they can spit at us whenever they want? Vlok showed it by washing Pastor Frank Chikane's feet, falling blind that for him to be forgiven he should wash every black person's feet and not Chikane's only as Chikane does not represent black people in their entirety.

Being like Mandela for black people means exposing themselves to be spitted at will by white South Africa, which is far from happening.

If South Africa was a white country and blacks were a minority that dominated them for 400 years while their (white) leader was imprisoned for 27 years, does anybody think that white people would have settled for the shabby deal that Mandela settled for? That meant that whites did not have to give up their laurels, but simply have to appear before a government set commission, confess, justify a political motive and get forgiveness. There are those whose pain was inflicted in the kitchens, mines, farms and schools, far from the political arena, what about them? Are those victims not entitled to an apology as well?

Maybe there is a lesson to learn from how Jews who survived the Nazi Holocaust continue to treat every case on its merit. Maybe what is needed to allay the fears of many black people whose realities are reflected in the stance taken by Biko's widow is to take a leaf from the Nuremberg justice arrangement.

Before 1994 white people of this country held a referendum to find out if FW de Klerk should continue with reforms. They voted "yes" in large numbers. How difficult will it be to grant them another whites only referendum to weigh if they are really sorry for the crimes of a system they defended or acted passive to its evils while their leaders were inflicting pain on the majority? What's the deal with Orania anyway?

Maybe for people like Ntsiki Biko to consider forgiving the murderers of her husband white people must come out and apologise, (something they have not yet done) because blacks can't forgive people who find it hard to humble themselves and ask for it.

Can it be said that the same Truth and Reconciliation Commission has achieved its mandate while many black people are still struggling for reparations and attempts to bury the legacy of Biko continues unabated? Ntsiki Biko, when asked about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in 1996 told City Press, "I am not opposed to the TRC but I am opposed to the Amnesty clause because it will not redress the issues" .

"We the white people of South Africa would like to apologise to all black people of South Africa and Africa for the physical, mental and emotional pain we caused you because of our support, passiveness to, and condoning of your oppression" the declaration should go. Maybe it will be a cold day in hell before this is uttered. Maybe Biko died in vain if the current political leadership chooses to relegate his memory to the dustbin of history, as is the case now.

REVIEW

WHEN BLACK MEDIOCRITY IS APPRAISED

Being the son of a great pretender to a crown who is so able to fool half the Afrikan intelligentsia to the point that they give him columns to spit his gibberish and claim to be the founder of Afro-intelligence is such a tall order when you are just twenty-years-old but already aspire to adorn your being with the mantle of ghetto spokesperson. Or maybe that's brave - too damn brave.

Poet Molefi K Asante Jr is not different from his father, the self-proclaimed great scholar of everything Afrikan, Dr Molefi Kete Asante. But unlike his father who claims to be the source of a knowledge management system that Afrikans, in their tiny villages over many centuries did not discover until a black-Amerikan engineered it, is currently focusing on colonizing black-Amerikan thought, one block at a time. Tall order for a novice.

I had the misfortune of reading his first poetry book titled Like Water Running Off My Back. I call it a misfortune because the time I wasted going through the text I could have used reading the Complete Works of Shakespeare for the sixty-sixth time. And the fact that nobody pays me to review such junk gets to me faster than a nigger saying 'that's because I'm black right'. The cover is eccentric and would win a Visual Art Award for Abstract Cover Design.

First of all, for better or worse, young Asante makes it a point to mention that he was born in (Harare) Zimbabwe which from where I'm standing is meant to warn us that he's as Afrikan as blood diamonds and as understanding of darkies whollistically because he's been around. However having been here does not make you an Afrikan ambassador. Young Asante, like his father in his essays makes a mistake of moralising a lot in his poetry book. It's such a hard fact and bitter pill to swallow that age is a big price we all have to pay for maturity. This is one area where there are no short-cuts. I'm a young man who thinks older Asante sucks because he comes from an obsolete school of thought and young Asante is barely out of nappies, and so does not make sense to some of us on two-wheeler bicycles already.

He starts off acknowledging his influences like Talib Kweli, Dead Prez,Chuck D (the one who last he checked pyramids were's built like the projects), Sarah Jones (the one who resists revolution happening between her thighs), KRS One (the one who says GOD means Get Own Definition), Mos Def and a lot of the folks we love to call consious rappers. He then mentions a few abstract poets who fuel his muse with unleaded energy. I must admit some of them I don't know while most of them I know with passion usually reserved for porn movies (as art).

But then his style and absent delivery sounds like Geronimo Jigaga providing lyrics on some Rose that Grew from Concrete recording. What do you make of this dangerous obsession with rhyming, 'if i could save time/ i would stuff minutes under my mattress/ and redefine backwards images of blackness'. You know, the same way I hate poetry from women which always reminds me that they are women, I reserve the same venom to darkie poetry that is always about reminding me that they are black. Man you are a darkie to the bone so it makes not difference mentioning it, you ain't gon' become darker or lighter. Too much echoeing simply means it worries you to death.

Then young Asante occupies the highest moral ground that would make Killimanjaro look like the Great Hole of Kimberely on an essay or is it prose called Dear Rapper. I would have loved to print the whole fart for your private puke session but I will mitigate the venom with serum. 'I'm writing this letter because the love I once had for you has been lost, and I am hopeful it can be regained... Theoretically, if you decided tomorrow that you were going to wear dashikis and condemn violence, the result would be a generation of non-violent Afrocentrists... Often times the realities of the messages you convey are false even to you, let's be realistic, You don't sell drugs! And there's a chance you never did, so why rap about it?... I see the results of the saturation when I try to tutor my young students, instead of listening to their homework assignments they'll recite lyrics about 'fucking bitches' and 'rocking ice', Yes, 2nd and 3rd graders, I know you are thinking. 'I'm not solely to blame for the violence, materialism, and sexual explotiation of black kids'. You're right, there are many other contributors that play a major role in destroying the minds of black youths. For example, radio stations, recording companies, and television channels all play major roles in this mental genocide. However, I've never had high moral expectations for large corporate entities that thrive on black exploitation. On the other hand, I've always had high expectations of my own brothers and sisters, but maybe I'm just naive. Sincerely, The Black Community'.

Why a young boy would try to carry such a heavy cross beats me to this day. Remember that Simon was forced to carry that stake and endured every moment of it on his bruised shoulders. I'm all for freedom of speech but young Asante abuses that freedom. All his poems are judgmental of black behaviour without any attempt to understand what makes the black person fail to tick or those who do so to tick like a Rolex watch? What went into that black dome that makes it difficult to infuse with pride? Why are those rappers claiming not to have fathers, to have criminal record and to have slung rocks? Why are lies more attractive to the truth for the young hustler in search of a recording deal. I look at young Asante and I think of how much Americans need a dose of Steve Bantu Biko, especially at this moment of 3030.

Like Water Running Off My Back is a manuscript (I wanted to say a classic typed manuscript) that I believe that when young Asante is old enough he can ruthlessly revisit and republish as a proper book instead of the Lost Gospel According to a Lost Son who's afraid of Light.

The moral high ground that both the father and son occupies, and given the people young Asante credits as his inspiration one is intrigued by a knowledge deficiency that seems to have engulfed the black communities in the Afrikan Diaspora. Yeah, I wanted to find an enlightened young writer in between the pages but I found a Tupac clone with a little academia. It is also enough why we need more black US Corps in Afrika who'll experience life from the discomfort of our shacks. The poetry collection is five years old this year and the more I critically read through the 47 pages (22 poems divided into Freedom Verses and Umfundalai Verses) it feels like it was actually written by a five year old born who was raised at Martha's Vineyard.

Like I said I'm all for expression and that's why I would advise you to get yourself a copy of this failure of human effort which is published by Africa World Press Inc and was retailing at US$12,95 then which should be ZAR90,65. It's ISBN 1-59221-007-4.

The young man is 25 years old this year and one hopes his novel, Freedom Diary shows that maturity. We'll search for it and do justice on its case.

OPINION

ONCE UPON A TIME IN NELSPRUIT

Next time you see an insultingly yellow or red Hummer H3 with 22 inch chrome hydraulic tyres cruising down your block with the numberplate KANJALO MP look very carefully becuase it's probably me and Kwaki on a jolly spin. Now, either the damn pimped motherhummer is rented from this executive car rentals that only lend to BEE types with sizeable pot-bellies that swallow their dicks and leave them with tender-laden egos. Well, me I'm working on my six-pack, which is shit I can't optimistically say about Kwaki given that the last time I saw him he was biting on toxic chrome and licking his lips over a fat cake...oops, fat lady (in construction).

Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself, let me slow down a little bit. If we will be owning the Hummer it will be proceeds from two strokes of copyrighting genius for a campaign on a milk called XX - the taste of freedom. Target market; government functions and offices. XX stands for Former Exiles. The concept we'll pitch at Ogilvy which's shareholders include Gauteng's First Lady Her Royal Highness Mrs Wendy Luhabe, 2nd time First Lady Her Royal Highness Mrs Graca Machel (oops I nearly said Mandela) and heavyweight undisputed Jack of All Trades Sir Moss Mashishi.

The Hummered concept is a killer hey, I would have allowed Kwaki to share it with you but I don't believe in brainstorming (though we chiselled it together and we both claim joint copyright).

This part is filmed in grainy black and white;
CAMERA ONE (long shot): You see a group of young people in school uniform running, looking all tired and often falling down

CAMERA TWO (long shot): You notice that they are approximately seven of them and one of them, the last one on the line, the one who fell and they had to wait for while they gasped for air is a young lady of about 14

CAMERA THREE (long shot): Now you see them from the back and you get to see a razor wire fence, a border fence ahead of them.

CAMERA ONE (close up): We are struck by the smile on the face of the leader as he sees the fence and reaches for a pair of wire cutters

CAMERA TWO (close up): Now we see the cutters ripping a whole on the fence as the six are looking on gasping for air and sweating.

CAMERA THREE (close up): We see the bunch from the other side of the border as they sneak through and wait for each other. Then we see the seventh one being reluctant to cross. This is an emotionally charged scene to the point that it can be titled Cry The Beloved Country.

CAMERA TWO (medium shot): We see the sadness on the faces of the six. Then the remaining student pulls out a pint of XX milk and says 'something to remember me by', before he takes a photo of the six.

CAMERA ONE (medium shot): We see the six taking rushed sips and staring at the carton like those Conans on Black Label ads.

CAMERA TWO (medium shot): The seventh one prepares to go back and we see the leader handing over the carton and saying 'keep it chilled, 'til we come back comrade'

CUT...

(Twenty years later) This part is filmed in full colour;

CAMERA ONE (medium shot): We see this pot-bellied middle aged man sitting in his majestic office that looks like real government bureaucratic enclaves. There's that colourful flag at the corner and his dark suit is hanging there.

CAMERA TWO (long shot): A PA walks in with a tray filled with a teapot, some china cutlery, sugar and powdered milk. The bureaucrat who we now see who it was from a framed picture he has on his desk which was shot at the border in 1976 says, 'forget the powder, bring me XX'.

CAMERA THREE (close up): the PA opens a cabinet and reaches for a carton of XX which she hands over to the man.

CAMERA ONE (close up): the man opens the carton and pours the contents into the cup then his tea and sugar.

CAMERA TWO (p.o.v): he stirs gently and takes a sip. He's satisfied and sighs as he reaches for the framed sepia picture, 'aaghhh, the taste of freedom'

Then we have the signature tune from Rebecca Malope, Buyani Ekhaya and some title 'XX the true feeling of home'

Viola, and you swear you never knew how Kwaki and myself financed the Hummer?

PROFILE

James Matthews: Still Kicking Butt @ 77
By Mphutlane Wa Bofelo


Veteran educator, activist and stalwart of the Muslim Youth Movement of South Africa, Yusuf Cajee recently shared with me his recollections of the time he was arrested by the South African Police while distributing copies of Muslim Views (then Muslim News) which were accompanied by few copies of the poetry collection, "Pass me a Meatball, Jones" penned by the then editor of the paper, James Mathews. He recalled that under the editorship of Matthews, the paper often found itself at the wrong side of the law and at the receiving end of the scissor and razor of the censors as a result of its resonant and critical critique of the status quo under apartheid capitalism.

Yusuf Cajee also mentioned that he recently requested a long-time associate of Mathews to ask the veteran poet to send him copies of "Pass me a Meat Ball, Jones", because he never got the chance to read it in the era of apartheid. Boeta Yusuf and many who never got the opportunity to drink from the poetic well of wisdom that springs from the fountain of the ingenious mind, resilient spirit and tireless soul of Matthews will be relieved to know that "Cry Rage :Odyssey of a Dissident Poet" is a collection of poetry from five poetry books ("Cry Rage", "Flams and Flowers", "Pass Me a Meatball, Jones", "No Time for Dreams" and "Poisoned Wells and Other Delights",) and selected poems from two monumental poetry anthologies, Black Voices Shout and Exiles Within. And they will surely discover that the thematic and stylistic concerns of the book are as politically and culturally relevant now more than ever before.

Remarking about his fiery and provocative poetry that unflinchingly and purposefully offends the sensitivities of advocates and proponents of poetry as high art and caused the amnesiac liberals who want the past consigned to the dustbins of history to walk out of his reading at the Cape town International Bookshop, Matthews remarked: "I am seventy-seven years old but I am still full of shit". Telling those who cannot deal with his poetry they have the right and freedom to leave, and also remarking that now that he had left drinking, he gets drunk on words, Matthews jokingly referred to his choice to read radical poetry in the sober and comfort zone of Cape Town International Conventional Centre: "I do write love poetry, but I will read love poems when I am ninety five." If your are an ardent fan of "rock-the-boat", "defy-convention", "tell-it-as-it is-poetry' like yours truly, after reading "Cry Rage: Odyssey of a Dissident Poet", you are more likely to concur that at seventy-seven Matthews still rocks, or to put as blunt as he would, if this mind-fucking poetry is anything to go by, 95 year-old, romantic Matthews is sure to kick some butt.

Garnered from an artistic and socio-political activity that stretches over a period of more than three decades of contemporary South African History, "Cry Rage: Odyssey of a Dissident Poet" lambastes arts for art's sake and poetry for pleasure and hold no pushes in striking a blow in defence of literature and arts in service of the agenda of socio-economic and political transformation and cultural reawakening of the subaltern people. The poetry is scathing in its attack of the philosophy of apartheid and all the practices. It equally harangues the hypocrisy of progressives and liberals who: "speak so sorrowfully about children dying of hunger in Biafra\ but sleep unconcerned about the rib-thin children of Dimbaza\ they spend their Rands to ease the plight \ of the suffering in Bangladesh \ But not the thought of a cent to send\ to relieve the agony of ilingi\ they raised their voices in horror at \ the killing of eleven jews at munich\ but not a murmur of the thousands\ of killings of my people all over the land\ black people are driven to death by white law\ yet they will say they never knew." The poet spares no holy cows in castigating the politics of ethnicity and xenophobia raising an ugly head in the "new South Africa". In his vintage spirit of to no compromise, Matthews, unarguably the father and living ancestor of Black Publishing and a pioneer of the poetry of change, is fearless in confronting the neo-colonial and neo-liberal state of affairs in the country he obstinately refuses to call South Africa. (At the Bookfair, Matthews furiously proclaimed:" South Africa is a geographic position. This country is Azania")

True to tradition, Matthews opens "Cry Rage", "No Times for Dreams" his selected poems from "Exiles Within" and "Poisoned Wells and Other Delights" with a rebellious scorn of poetry of niceness and resonant choice of social commentary poetry. The opening poem in "cry rage" leaves no stones unturned in advancing the poets stance on the longstanding debate between poetry for the sake of it and poetry for a social purpose: "It is said the poets write of beauty\ of form\of flowers \and of love \ but the words I write\ are of pain and rage\ I am no minstrel who sings of songs of joy\ mine a lament\ I wail of a land\ hideous with open graves \ waiting for the slaughtered ones. balladeers strum their lutes \ and sing tunes of happy times\ i cannot join in the merriment\ my heart drowned in bitterness\ with agony of what\ the white man's law has done".

"No Times for dreams" opens with the reaffirmation of the poet's commitment to the poetry of commitment and conscientious literature: "I wish I could write a poem\ record the beginning of dawn\ the opening of a flower\ at the approach of a bee\ describe a bird's first flight \ then I look at people\ maimed shackled, jailed\ the knowing is now clear\ I will never be able to write\ a poem about dawn, a bird \ or a bee".

The opening poem from "Exiles Within" is perhaps the most lethal word bombardment on poets who opt for poetry for the sake of word-play: "There are poets who parade as pimps\ whose words are decorations for their whoring\ they escape the suffering related by ho chi min\ of a man imprisoned because of his freedom's need\ they sell themselves in the drawing-rooms of the lords\ art for art's sake is what they parade\ the lament of pain wrested from the lips of lorca\ did not find sanctuary in the falsity they display\ a line so finely polished to reflect their falseness \ metaphors and meters part of the deceit they weave\ when the hail of iron opened the chest of Pablo neruda \ tears did not wet their faces as they turned away\ their lies evident\ lyrical lines offered for profit\ as they gathered their grin from words pillaged\ as the death in its brutality embraced steve biko\ lamentations did not loosen their lips in sorrow\ the cause of freedom not the road they walk\ poets turned pimps have not the knowing of an honest word."

The aptly titled "Freedom Owns the Poet's Soul" from "Poisoned Wells and Other Delights" is the poet's testimony of his decision to utilise his gift of turning words into poetry to appropriate poems as freedom songs: " Freedom owns the poet's soul\ he shall not be garbed in \ a cloak of ideology\ his voice not laced by legislation\ His voice, the voice of birds; a robin heralding hope\ a nightingale lyrically lamenting pain\ an eagle emoting the people's power\ on bird-wing he will streak\ from freehold to the dungeon \ his songs filled\ with fire; the words flaring flames\ the poet's fervour fuelled with \ strength gained from draughts of \ intoxicating water drawn from an Oasis of deep\ dank poisoned wells".

To rubberstamp his point, Matthews ends "Cry Rage" with a disclaimer, disowning the poet moniker and embracing the mantle of chronicler-cum-griot-cum-people's historian-cum-activist-writer\writer-activist (a rather ironic confirmation of, or maybe a cynical retort to the criticism raised by some lovers and scholars of poetry that the work of Matthews is prose pretending to be poetry): "To label my uttering poetry\ And myself a poet\ would be as self-deluding \ as the planners of parallel development\ I record the anguish of the persecuted \ whose words are whimpers of woe\ Wrung from them by bestial laws\ they stand one chained band \ silently asking one of the other\ will it be the fire next time?"

For the benefit of the born-free shopping mall generation of the 2000-something epoch, Matthews' early work is a poetic narration\preservation -some poetry purists would argue prosaic\ journalistic documentation- of the apartheid years. From it they will learn about the tragedy of children who died in Biafra, the rib-thin children of Dimbaza, the suffering in Bangladesh, the suffocation of Mannenberg and the forced removals, detention without trial, and the 180 day act, the killing of Imam Haroon and Stephen Bantu Biko, the raping of black culture by white syphilization, the Soweto uprisings, the struggle in Palestine, the sorrow of Beirut, the genocide in Bosnia-Herzegovina, the sell-out actions of sanction-busting Percy Sledge, and the sheroic stand the Nina Simone's and the Mirriam Makeba's, of etcetera, etcetera. Mathews poetic criticism of the negro-phobic, non-white-ism attitudes of self-hatred and inferiority complexes in the heydays of Apartheid remains relevant in these times of Americanism, "black coinsciousness", cosmetic africanism and pop Rastafarianism: "My sister has become a schemer\ and scene stealer\ her swinging breasts strangled by a bra\ face smeared with astra cream\ skin paled for Whiteman's society\ songs of the village \ traded in for tin pan alley \ "black is beautiful" has become \ as artificial as the wig she wears."

The more recent poems of the 2000 to 2002 period deals with themes such as the one-sided and half-hearted reconciliation, xenophobia and ethnicity, the pain of transformation\change and the challenge of re-humanizing the brutalised and de-humanised: "learning to laugh and love again is a painful task\ in the land where laws in the past where as harsh as the desert sun\ scorching soul's sensitivity". Matthews approaches the call towards an African renaissance with a sense of hope and a vision of a reawakening of a people:" I hear the sound of\ people sounding drums\ I look at scenes painted \ on a canvas of faces \ I see antiquity reflected\ in the eyes of people\ words and music reveal \ the truth of our heritage\ we shall paint our history\ in vibrant colours\ orchestrated with music \ from a thousand drums\ setting dancers a' swaying\ poets and writers\ mount your words\ into satisfying phrases\ to give strength\ to sculptors sculpting\ images of glory \ musicians strum strings\ to aid singers \ of songs urging'\ painters to fill\ a canvass \ sparkling an African renaissance."

But he also approaches it with a critical and questioning eye: "Can an African renaissance emerge\ like a phoenix \ from the ashes of Rwanda genocide\ volcanoes of violence burst forth\ on Africa's soil\ havoc spewed in places of despair\ releases streams of displaced humanity.. is an African renaissance an illusion\ a fantasy conjured by the spin-doctors\ to give substance to a vision proclaimed\ an African renaissance will not be sloganised as a political programme\ the emergence of an African renaissance will flower from the minds of the people". Matthews is equally critical of the excesses and abuses of power and the escalating levels of corruption:"

Freedoms fruit has turned into bitter crop\ its ripeness spoiled by the blight of corruption\ through the greed of a grouping of gardeners\ sated with gain plundered in the harvesting\ at ease in the conservatory of law-making.. the people's new elite are seated in places of splendour \ they have become world travellers\ familiar faces \ at ease in the courts of foreign lands\they converse with leaders of former partners in the bondage of our people\ their travelling has distanced them from the villagers of limehill and dimbaza.. ."

Being the consistent and tireless freedom struggler James Matthews gives tapestry to the voice and struggle of the subaltern, under-classes of Azania who catches the fire in the new era of neo-liberal capitalism: "the new marginals \ not sharing the sweetness \ of our rainbow coloured land \ register their discontent\ with increasing rumbles of rage\ as they are humbled\ by the arrogance displayed\ by those exhibiting\ rainbow drapes."

He is equally critical of the cooption of poets by power and capital: "are the new poets \ coerced into party poets\ their verses that sustained \peoples anger\ against apartheid abomination\ now structured into sycophantic\ symphonies lauding the new elite..." My favourite poem in the collection is "it is too late to relate my belated mourning"- which I consider to a powerful message to this nation that suffers selective memory and only give lip-service praises to heroes at their funerals: "let not the burying of my bones\ be a bothersome thing\ now that I have tasted the sweetness\ of victory over the evil\ of apartheid feast \instead upon the productivity of my flesh\ that served the useful role \ in the procurement of freedom\ if praises are to be sung\ as I am lowered into my grave \ then let the song be sung\ to those who have helped in the righteousness of the our cause\ let their names be known\ rescue them from \ shadows of obscurity\ where they have been consigned \ let not the burying of my bones \ be a bother something." If perchance, like Yusuf Cajee, you were denied the opportunity to read Matthews, seize the opportunity now and get yourself a copy of "Cry Rage: Odyssey of a Dissident Poet."

As for me, I am looking forward to more and more of Matthews love poems (and pray for his long life).

This article was written last year. This year the old man in 78 years old - Editor

PERSPECTIVE

THE RITE OF PASSAGE IN BUSHBUCKRIDGE
Recetly thousands of Mapulana children returned back from their bush intiation. Below we try to unpack the difference between Mapulana and other tribe's circumcision, not initiation.

In Bushbuckridge (Mpumalanga) news of initiate deaths are met with skeptism and lack of understanding. This community has been initiating its offspring for generations but they still have to report their first casualty at the hands of school minders. Apparently it is safe to assume that initiates used to die back in the days as a result of diseases and other unforeseen circumstances like as a result of power struggles that happen between school minders. It is on record in this community here that every person who can run an initiation school can effectively use the science of lightning and thunder to send a message to his rival that he will discredit his name by killing all his initiates. Thus, when rain starts in winter and there is lightning, there is a strong possibility that some of the residents here can pinpoint the source of the rain, the thunderstorm and the reasons behind the winter rain.

Thus, it is safe to say that the community here is very conscious of their culture and tradition. They protect it like vultures. Interesting enough, their initiates never die at the school even though they go through the same procedure as everyone else from the Eastern Cape to KwaNdebele. The only difference being that school minders and initiates in Bushbuckridge are camera shy. They don't allow cameras or the press into the initiation school premises. Never.

To boys around this area as well being a man involves undergoing cultural rituals which involve initiation. The one difference with the way it is done here is that recently most parents opt to take their boys to hospitals for the circumcision a year before their initiation. They have come to accept that initiation is not wholly about circumcision but cultural etiquette, morality, responsibility and the readiness to be a man, in all respects.

But as they will tell you, even those who go to the bush after leaving their foreskins at hospitals do not escape the cut, though it is plainly ceremonial. The boys who went to the hospital first and those who lost their foreskins at the bush do come back the same, and most notably behave the same because they have been initiated the same, which is really what is important.

Reports of initiate deaths and mutilations are received with surprise by the culturally conscious community of Bushbuckridge because for them if only culture evolved with the changing times, there wouldn't be any reason for the initiates to die or lose their penises. Clearly if an initiate accidentally loses his penis because of a careless bush surgeon that says a lot about the commercialization of the school whereby people without skills have infiltrated the institution for personal enrichment.

If initiates are mutilated because culture vultures in the Eastern Cape insist on using a spear to circumcise the boys instead of something that replaced a spear (not a gun) then culture is not to blame but misled practitioners of such a culture need to account for misrepresenting it.

Understandably, Abraham in the Bible used a piece of stone to cut the foreskin of Isaac because arguably he lived in the Stone Age. The Jews of today do not use stones like their great grandfather but what civilization provided with its metamorphosis. So are the bush surgeons in Bushbuckridge. They realized a time ago that their culture was to valuable to be made a scapegoat of moneyhungry individuals and primitivity.

Simply put, the only way to stop the annual deaths is for the Eastern Cape government to come up with legislation that clearly outlaws a spear as a tool of circumcision. For all that is known it will never be as sharp as a scalpel or an Okapi knife.

The practise of initiation faces a real challenge, adapt or die. Interesting enough the culture vultures of Bushbuckridge have already made that decision. Bushbuckridge is a welcome relief in the whole cultural confusion and it can only serve all ethnic groups in South African if they can initiate (no pun intended) a fact finding mission to Bushbuckridge and learn from people who have been preserving the practise for many years, with a clean slate nogal. If a boy has to be intiated inorder to be considered a man, at least that journey has to be safe to be taken.