NEWS

Food For Thought

On February 26, 1993 the World Trade Centre in New York, US was bombed for the first time. It was three years before the US hosted the Olympic Games in Atlanta, Georgia. At the time none of the countries preparing to go to the Olympics threatened to withdraw due to security reasons.

Then on April 19, 1995 Timothy McVeigh blew up Oklahoma. A terrorist attack in the US was so real that during the actual Olympics a bomb went off in the Olympic village. Since then the US and its interests have been attacked so many times that the world has lost count.

During the 1972 Munich Olympic Games in Germany 11 Israeli athletes were abducted and slaughtered by the Black September Organisation, a Palestinian liberation movement. Since then Germany has successfully hosted the 2006 FIFA World Cup. This has happened irrespective of the country’s skinheads who target foreigners and the Baader Meinhof Group which is a terrorist organization.

To add insult to injury Nazi Germany hosted the 1936 Olympics regardless of the pogroms being government policy. Barrack Obama, recently justifying his premature Nobel Award said that, “a non-violent movement couldn’t have stopped Hitler’s armies”. Hitler was slaughtering Jews but the world sent its athletes to Germany.

Maybe you are wondering why are all these gruesome incidents mentioned in relation to sport? Simple; they posed no threat to humankind because they happened in Europe and northern America. If they happened in Venezuela or Cuba any sporting event would have been moved to ‘a more secure country’. The so-called secure countries are the ones on the scope of so-called terrorists. Spain has the Basque Separatist group but that did not stop the Barcelona Olympics from being hosted there in 1992.

England, with its potent threat from the Irish Republican Army has campaigned and hosted sporting events including the ICC Cricket World Cup. Greece-Cyprus-Turkey quagmire, which is a recipe for terrorist attacks was swept aside for that country to host the last Olympic Games. For all we know the Greeks were even accused of poisoning stray dogs in *** to keep the city clean.

South Africa, based in Africa experienced xenophobic violence two years ago and immediately the events of mostly Gauteng and Western Cape made headlines there was talk that the country might lose the right to host the FIFA 2010 World Cup because the safety of foreigners can not be ensured.

Then the crime statistics were released and the foreign media speculated that the number of murders made the country unsafe to host the FIFA spectacle. Truth is, every country in the world has its own crime problems, which are either deliberately under-reported or focus is shifted to the problem at hand – like a war in Afghanistan and a possible one in Yemen. We hosted the IRB Rugby and ICC Cricket World Cup at the peak of the PAGAD and Boeremag terror.

Then last week, just prior to the start of the Africa Nations’ Cup a small terrorist group operating in the oil-rich Cabinda enclave decided to attack two buses transporting Togolese players and suddenly South Africa must justify why it has to host the FIFA World Cup irrespective of the attack in Cabinda.

South Africa owes no foreign media or travel agent any explanation or response. If anyone wants to visit South Africa they should do so without asking funny questions. What makes the hypocrisy of foreigners so sickening is that they are the same who never raised the same issues when their rebel rugby teams were visiting South Africa during apartheid in the 1980s.

The situation then was so worse that Mozambique, Angola and South West Africa (now Namibia) were engulfed in their own civil wars. The possibility of any foreign all-white team being blown by a bomb planted in Pretoria or Cape Town was so real. However they did come and today they have the audacity to question if a black-led country with a black-led Local Organising Committee can secure the tournament.

LOC Chief Executive Officer Danny Jordan was on point when he questioned if the war in Afghanistan rendered the whole Asia, including Korea and Japan unsafe. He could have mentioned that there was a terrorist nerve gas attack on a Tokyo subway in 1995 but they still hosted the World Cup years later. However the very same vigil foreign media did not touch on that. There was a rape by US Marines of Japanese women in Okinawa Island years earlier and that was not touched on as a crime situation that can affect visitors.

Every country has its own problems. It is the extent of that country’s intelligence community that determines if such a fire can be put out or not. Africa has its own unique terrorist problems like Sudanese Liberation Army, Militia for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta etc. Europe as well has its own Baader Meinhofs, IRAs etc. The US has militia organizations and the Ku Klux Klan. South America has FARC and the Tupac Amarus. The Middle East has Kach and Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Asia has the Abu Sayyaf and AUM Shinrikyo.

Does that mean the world should stop meeting in the spirit of sports and allow terrorism to triumph? Does that mean the actions of the Togolese government which played on the hands of Africa’s detractors should be condemned or condoned? There is no right or wrong answer. But the yardstick that the international media uses to judge Africa, especially South Africa should be the same everywhere else. Or rather they should just purchase a political map of the world and use rulers to calculate the distance between Cabinda and South Africa, New York and Atlanta, London and Paris, Madrid and Copenhagen and then advocate from an informed position.

EULOGY

A 21 Gun Salute to Dennis Brutus

I used to harbor serious political ambitions, until I saw what politics did to Dennis Brutus. They first identify you as fresh, swallow you like the shark did Biblical Jonah and look for the most fucked up spot on earth to spit you out to. In the case of Brutus he was fresh because he was an activist against apartheid, he looked juicy due to his piercing probing poetry and the shark that swallowed him was named Robben Island.

However when it finally spitted him out he did not find himself in the country of his destination but back at apartheid South Afrika with all its warts. Brutus fought hard for sport isolation of the country and succeeded. He was hurt two years ago when the Minister of Foreign Affairs Dr Nkosazana Zuma said sports and politics don’t mix. Somewhere in his head he had a vision of the society he wanted South Afrika to become when the chickens finally come home to roost and the cattle come home from grazing the veld.

Then 1994 happened and the deal Nelson Mandela signed with the Nationalist Party was the worst ever entered into between two consenting adults. It was the same sham deal similar to the one proposed by the Middle East Quartet for a Two-State solution in Palestine. At least the Palestinians have leaders with backbones.

It was similar to two unequal people fighting, the weak one being assaulted so hard that s/he bleeds through the ears. Then at round 11 the weak takes to his feet and start administering serious punches on the stronger opponent and it looks like s/he is going to knock the opponent down. And then the referee stops the fight and declares a draw. A fucking draw – not even a technical knock out!

A draw means that the title remains with the stronger ‘champion’ and the weaker challenger leaves with nothing but an illusion of a short-lived victory. These are what the sunset clauses proposed by Joe Slovo [RIP] and signed by Mandela at the negotiations achieved. Blacks wanted land, the wealth of the country, economic participation and equality – the wanted everything in the Freedom Charter. They fought for an egalitarian society where people wouldn’t be privileged by virtue of their skin colour.

What Brutus and millions of informed South Afrikans saw with the Mandela-ANC was the perpetuation of the same status quo. The laager was not going to be dismantled but will have new occupiers flying a black green and gold flag. Fifteen years later the richest people are still the same Oppenheimers, the land, which was stolen in 1913 and beyond is still in the hands of the same thieves, the darkies participating in the economy are mere tokens like Patrice Motsepe and others. And the majority is piled up in the tender national, provincial and local municipality system, battling for crumbs. Their biggest picture is not Satrix 40 but Mercedes Benz ML 63.

That is the reason I had a problem with a newspaper that sad it was a tragedy [or travesty] that Brutus refused to embrace the ‘new South Afrika’. He was not alone; some of us have a problem embracing a sham when we know what the ideal looks like. I can’t embrace a whore when I married a virgin. The ideal that Mandela and his party swept aside to short-change so many darkies just for an opportunity to govern is not acceptable.

I met Brutus two times and everytime I spent time with him he had something important and revolutionary to teach me. Not the fake revolutionary rhetoric of the ANC-SACP-COSATU-MKMVA that only suffices at SABC screened press conferences. The real revolution that stretches from Afrika to South Amerika, Middle East, Asia and the last despotic outpost –Swaziland.

I enjoyed my times with Brutus and learnt the importance of sacrifice, altruism and international activism beyond narrow battlefields like who should be the CEO of the SABC, Transnet, Armscor or who should be in cabinet. Something bigger than a tender. Brutus understood that South Afrika will never be free until the last oppressed soul on earth has been granted self-determination.

Brutus was a poet, a soldier and a father. He was a comrade’s comrade and a realist – something many so-called comrades today are not.

TRIBUTE

Ode to a Beloved

Last week we woke up to the sad news that one prolific poet, human rights activist and sage Dennis Brutus has passed away. One newspaper said that 'the travesty of Brutus' death was his refusal to accept the New South Africa which he has fought for and even got incarcerated at Robben Island'. I was offended because the journalist never bothered to understand what made Brutus refuse to accept a sham of a deal as geniune. Before I eulogise him I decided to post this poem so you can indulge and read my rant later this week.

the road to havana

if only the travel agent told me
my heart will be tainted on the way to valhalla
my soul will be hijacked @ the gates of gehenna
that sinning will be standard as i make for pearly's
i'll feel nothing when i hurt people closest to me
innocent hearts lacerated for my failure to commit
i'm sorry sistas my one heart was torn into two
i had love for coitus but i fucked with banknotes
love letters that were written never mailed to me
still stacked in your bedroom with my physical address
i'm here baby still around my knuckles bruised in a bout
my spirit defiled my conscience shiver sending echoes of guilt

on the road to havana our only thoughts are in cigars
captain morgan & a sequel to how stella got shagged
relinguish responsibilities to a can of AMSTEL
one wonders why we chasing on these girls like mongrels
pussies are poisoned we still eat them without rubbers
later forget to floss sleep with the smell on our pubics
for sure we'll claim we been bewitched when we finally full blown
learn our folliness when we cough blood & announce our exit
only time we finally learn there're things money can't buy
for everything else there's no mastercard it's cheap plastic
afford a million ARVs but life remains elusive
losing weight without dieting our sanity departed
our trust still lies in cannabis fuck the god of a dollar

on the road to havana we yelling 'hasta la vista siempre'
bystanders wanna be us have-nots we toss fingers
we arnachists fuck the taxman our returns are semen
seal your envelopes with sperm blow fart in your office
only love we got & give to amigos of a feather
they give us guns today we share a kiss tomorrow
let's all die by RPG become heroes tonight
let's demand a guilottine if we lose the fight
get our names on heroes' acre by the break of dawn
here lies a batallion of 'fuc' the world' rebels
let's bury beef my comrades there's a battle ahead
i like this but i like it more with a tot of gin
this green is sticky fuck a koerant i stole a rizla

on the road to havana we shout 'viva fidel'
we ain't here to support we came to start our own
the love & peace movement reincarnated post lib
empty our balls in sex orgies later test 'reactive'
frame the results nail on walls like we won trophies
put the blame on the door of the white house in DC
where else to do it union buildings occupied by a denialist
act like the US government urged us on in our fuck
let's die in peace my people never point fingers
like now i'm puffing on this weed til i sneeze my own blood
have hypocrites on my back daily preaching heresy
yelling 'holy, hail mary mother of god'
where art thy love while we kneeling & we worship the cross
teach us how to pray baby 'fore we walk through your door
i urge you - join us & inherit our beefs

on the road to havana we all donning fatigues
armed with pens & papers soldiers out to kill
identified our adversaries got mug shots in wallets
they all look the same though they different races
got chromes slugs engraved with names of our own comrades
incase we fall short of our target we all commit self-death
mass-suicide my people let's emulate branch davidians
got dreams of bliss living well all multiplied by seven
indulge in fun we manufacture fuck going to heaven
since we are sinners in havana we'll all die like kebble
on the road to havana hold my hand we rebels

OPINION

Just Being Brutally Honest

Three things got me fascinated recently and laughing all the way through my nationwide travels. Me and my friends have been having abridged conversations about the tender system. You all know the government's flawed procurement system that doesn’t always deliver the best results because the chaps hired to man it are bloody greedy and want a slice of every pie they have to offer to hungry contractors. Now, our conversation was largely about how this system undermines excellence and rewards mediocrity and incompetence. Herewith are three scenarios.

ONE: The way the tender system is so corrupt it is most likely that if the South African Blood Service issued an invitation for a qualified company to supply it with 100 litres of blood a month for the next five years you would get comrades winning it and later supplying chicken, goat, sheep and cattle blood to the bank. For all you know people might start dying in droves, all with their blood sucked out.

TWO: if South Africa desperately wanted to win a gold medal at the next Olympics and issued an international invitation to bid from a person who can run on our behalf and win the tender, believe me the tender would go to the obese guy who drives an ML Class, that’s even if confirmed fastest man on earth Usain Bolt bidded. The fat comrade will the be told by his inside connection to go and hire Bolt since he scored high in functionality.

THREE: An initiation school is a very important institution to some of our tribes since it lies at the belly of our very survival. Thus, such a ritual is carried out first; by a trained minder who at times should be the child of someone who has run such a school for generations; second; it should be someone with the right ethnic orientation and blessings from the tribe’s elders, traditional leadership and traditional doctors since they are going to entrust their kids with not only his scalpel but his vision. One of my friends said that if such a service was put to tender you would get tenderers from tribes that don’t even initiate bidding or it, claiming that once they win it they will hire a MoPulana, uMndebele or UmXhosa to run it for them as they will be putting invoices to the House of Traditional Leaders.

What a fucked-up patronage rooted system we have for procurement. No wonder two-thirds of government services, that which is procured sucks. Government should stick to supplying IDs, imagine what would happen if they were supplied by a dodgy company called UMXABULO IDENTITY SOLUTIONS?

OPINION

In The Word We Trust

Apart from being a dodgy rainbow nation with its daily changing dynamics South Afrika stands in enviable position of being one of a handful of countries that can claim to have invented a language and sustained it through scientific innovations and bastardisation of other languages. Afrikaans is our flagship language and we should equally feel appalled when some expatriate in France messes with its version of the national anthem.

I have been monitoring this phenomenon of inventing things since time immemorial. Up to this point almost every generation can claim to have had their own vocabulary and as it stands this looks like a trend we can sustain. The current generation are the ‘o kile wa bona’ bunch who punctuates everything with this ‘annoying’ noun. Or is it an adjective?

However what really interests me is not what one of my friends said that we should have been the first people to invent television for dogs if the comrades at the SABC did not mess up the public broadcaster but that we should have been the first people on the moon. Ja, I can see you dismissing me as a – for lack of a better sight- drunk dreamer. Ja, we all know that there are people who take to the skies almost every night and go far high up but they never want to do it under sunlight.

Maybe like the first people who tried to fly they might lose their spunk when the hot sunrays melt the wax that is supposed to hold the ‘feathers’ together. So, we should have been there but we blew our chances.

And now the Nature Channel has been designed to cater for dogs as well and we are still left behind begging parliament for R2 billion to resuscitate a ‘bank’ freshly looted by comrades.

My point behind this post is the ANC government and the vocabulary of comrades. In South Afrika the ANC has designed a whole language of passing the buck. Failure to provide water, ‘the legacy of the past which prioritised whites and not blacks’, failure to provide sanitation, ‘the infrastructure is there it just needs rehabilitation which we still need to ask the Treasure for funds’ – this they say at the time they jointly go out to buy cars worth R60 million while another fleet gathers dust.

When told that they can’t blame the legacy of the past for their failure to build quality houses since the old regime build stronger structures they accuse you of glorifying apartheid. Then there is the classic, ‘the former regime’ and ‘the Mbeki administration’. People are meant to believe that Mbeki came from the DA that’s why he messed up the social fibre of the country and to believe that Zuma is the second ANC president after Mandela.

Whenever AIDS stats are released talk is, ‘the Mbeki administration’s denialism’ instead of the ANC taking collective responsibility for messing with the AIDS prevention strategy. A leader is put in a position to push the collective’s position; that’s what we are told. But why does the ANC break ranks on Mbeki.

So given that there is a buzzword that ‘the former regime’ buried this country into a rubble of irresponsibility, in the event that the ANC is booted out of power as it happened in the Western Cape and they are occupying the opposition benches, who are they going to refer to as ‘the former regime’ since they will be such a regime.

Okay, people don’t get offended I’m just juggling words to make sense of the morass we have come to refer to as our democratic dispensation and our obsession with inventing things – actually reinventing as we see with the SABC, the Zuma ANC and recently ANC-Lite, better known as COPE.

OBITUARY

"Death Be Not Proud" - John Donne

Poet David wa Maahlamela laments the demise of yet another Azanian child. In this hear-warming and thoughtful eulogy he traces the spoor of a giant to its final resting place.
I will always remember him as a person who did not need a reason in order to laugh. In this age of literary deterioration in indigenous languages; losing a devoted writer such as him is a devastating loss indeed. Let’s bow our heads to the passing on of a Xitsonga linguistic fanatic Mkhomanzi Bruce Ngobeni who died on the 2nd November 2009.

This award-winning novelist, short story writer, playwright and poet dies at the age of 37, adding to the list of young brains this country lost. There’s nothing called better death though when elders such as Masizi Kunene, Ellen Kuzwayo, Alan Paton and Es’kia Mphahlale pass on, we easily yet unbearably accept that they completed their race. During the recent Timbila workshop on indigenous short story writing, a well-acclaimed Sepedi writer, Lerole Mamabolo said to young writers, “Established writers are chaining to eternal rest, we should start wearing their shoes.” Unfortunately, those who got potential to fill these shoes are as well departing. There’s is no doubt that our hopes were on the likes of Isabella Motadinyane, Phaswane Mpe, Sello Duiker and Mzwandile Matiwana. When we put one brick, the other one is falling.

Mkhomazi made his fame in 1996 when his radio drama, ‘Swa rivala a swi orhi ndzilo’ was aired on former Radio Tsonga (now Munghana Lonene fm). 1998 he obtained first prize for his serial radio drama, ‘Hakunene Tiko ri File’ on the same radio station. Among other awards, he received the 2007 South African Literary Award’s K.Sello Duiker Prize for an Outstanding Writer (Xigwitsirisi xa Malovisi). Responding to his death, the Deputy Director of Books and Publishing, national DAC, Siphiwo Mahala said, “This is sad news indeed. Bruce was one of the very few young writers who wrote consistently in his mother tongue, something that is sorely missed in our literary landscape at the moment. His passing leaves a gaping wound in the South African literary fraternity. May his soul rest in peace.”

I first met this prolific Tsonga writer from Nkambako (in the N’wamitwa village, Limpopo province) during the 2002 Timbila poetry workshop facilitated by Robert Berold in Eiland. Among others were the likes of Mbongeni Khumalo, Ike Muila, Myesha Jenkins, Phedi Tlhobolo, Siphiwe ka Ngwenya and Linda Ndlovu, and Mkhomazi was the only writer writing strictly in Xitsonga. He was a humble writer overflowing sense of humour. Within the same day he would greet me more than ten times. He believed in the African way that says “Madume ga a fele.” (Greetings know no end). Each time he sees me he would say, laughing: “Hee boMaahlamela!”. Listening to him reading his poems, I could feel another DC Marivate, EM Nkondo, TH Khosa, MJ Maluleka in the making. He was such a contemporary writer who would not dig hard for subject. He would write about the so-called exhausted themes and simple titles such as AIDS, Ellis Park disaster and RDP Houses; yet the content infested with a deep and fresh approach. I was thrilled by poems like ‘Magaiza’, ‘A swi ndzi khomi kahle’, ‘Ndhavezitha Richard N’wamitwa’ (which the editor of Timbila 2002 explained it as demonstration of his unmatched ability to write long sustained poems rich in old and invented working idiomatic expressions) and of course ‘Ndzi ku yini?’ which I quote below:

“Vutomi byi ndzi xinge hi voko ra nsimbhi
Mune wa makhumbi ya misava ya ndzi tseketsekela,
Hakunene ndzi ndzi bihe ngati
Milomu ya vanhu yi ndzi hlovisa xikatawa xa ntsalo
Hambi tinhongana ti puluvundza emirini wa mina ti ndzi hleka.”

Looking at the above quote one will realize that Mkhomazi was not a slave of fancy layout, he was writing his raw mind without worrying about the likes of layout and rhyming which at times unable some writers from fully expressing themselves.
His poetry is enriched with provocative metaphors. I remember during the poetry workshop which was held on the 28 – 30 August 2009 at Polokwane Eagle’s Nest lodge, there was a very tight debate agitated by a metaphor in one of his poems which reminded me of Seitlhamo Moitsapi. He was comparing Aids to Satan’s underwear. Different writers said their perspectives on this but what mattered to me was the fact that we had someone who is bold to try new though odd metaphors. Seitlhamo in one of his poems also wrote “love is like a river or fist with forty fingers.”

Like Timbila Poetry Project Director and also a Xitsonga writer Vonani Bila said, “We can choose life we want to live, cars we want to drive, woman we want to marry, but we will never choose when we want to die.” The only person who can console us better is William Shakespeare when he says, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once”. When some of us are seeking security in industries that we do not actually have passion for, just for the sake of daily bread, Mkhomazi was brave enough to devote his life as a fulltime writer, and a Xitsonga only for that matter. With all royalty mathematics involve and limitation of readership due to language accessibility, we can all imagine how risky this decision is. Unfortunately such sacrifice is only realized in times like this, when such person is no more.

This brings me to the concern artists such as Miriam Tlali and Noria Mabasa already clamoured during their award receiving speeches. Artists are tired of empty awards which are only meant to beautify their profiles. It’s even sad to realize that most of major arts and literature awards in this country do not have websites to assist in exposing and marketing the winners. I’m also asking myself what the role of media is in this regard. All these listed achievements of Mkhomazi do not appear in any website. The only result you will get browsing his name on the internet is that of Voices of Africa documentary line-up program.

National soccer team coach can be paid a million rand but when the same amount is paid as a Poet Laureate prize, the likes of Desiree van der Walt ask twenty one questions. Are we not ashamed laying our artist in pauper’s burial? How many Simon “Mahlathini” Nkabinde do we want to have? What is the government and arts structures doing about this? Themba ka Mathe is amongst South African writers who are touched by the death of Mkhomazi. “He shall forever be remembered for advancing Xitsonga literature and heritage through his writings.” He sympathized. South Africa, how can we thank such a proactive citizen?

One other interesting thing about Mkhomazi is that he was such a person who believed in team work though he had the potential as an individual. He wrote five of his books with Max Malungana which is unique in writing industry. Most writers stick to partnership before acquiring skills and when equipped they go solo, same in music industry. Furthermore he was one of the loyal Timbila Poetry Project member who was not money orientated though he needed it. He would travelled with other Tzaneen based writers to attend poetry sessions and workshops in Polokwane which of course is not an easy task more especially when one has no stable source of income. The Limpopo Province Department of Arts and Culture’s Malose Lekganyane also conveyed words of sympathy to the family. “We pass our deepest condolences to the Ngobeni family and the whole art fraternity.”

Looking at most writers who passed on before, there’s a rumour clouded above their heads that they were positive or died of HIV/Aids related disease. To name but a few Phaswana Mpye, Dambudzo Marechera, John Ruganda and Mzwandile Matiwana who wrote the poem below:

Suicide Blues in Prison
(The H.I.V. memories inside)

Still under a cloud of death
I thought as I lay
On my torn and lumpy mattress
Infested with vermin
And insects-
Enclosed in the icy tomb
7 x 11 width and breath

I lost all the shape
And found the rope –
But I could not do it
I wanted it to be a secret
For the warden kept on watching me

I wanted to write
My last chapter
And finish it smiling
But the watcher kept looking on

And the bomb in my blood ticked slowly.

This poem was published in Timbila 2005. Coincidentally Mkhomazi’s poems were followed by Mzwandile’s poems in this journal. Though cause of Mkhomazi’s death is not yet reveal, I just hope he’s not under the same cloud of rumour. Mkhomazi dies with seven published books under his name including novel entitled ‘Xigwitsirisi xa Malovisi’ (Kalahari Productions, 2004) and poetry collection ‘Ndzheko wa Rixaka’ (Timbila Publishing, 2006). He is featured in three anthologies. He won five literary awards. He also appeared in a TV poetry documentary, ‘Voices of Africa’ which was televised on SABC 1 in 2006.

During our last meeting at Eagle’s Nest, we even had an intense talk we discussed about some of his work. We even talked about his dirge for the late Neverdie Mushwana, a famous Dan village traditional healer. I questioned him about the significance of the name ‘never-die’ now that he died. He explained to me that the name never meant that this traditional healer will never perish. There were witchcraft threats of killing him while he was young and the parents were sarcastically confronting responsible people that they will not achieve their goal. I really wish I could rewind that session.

If I were Isaac Asimov I would say, “Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.” Let’s mourn and finish so to free this golden soul. Hence death terminates life not friendship, we will be with him in every poetry session, workshop and book launch. I send my condolences to Timbila poets, more especially those who attended poetry workshop which was Mkhomazi’s last workshop before he could be admitted in the hospital. Words of condolences also to Nhlalala Publishing Project and the entire Xitsonga writers family. Death took him but forgot to take legacy he engraved in books and on our hearts. To the Mkhomazi family: If God breaks your leg; He will teach you how to limp. Etlela hi ku rhula Mlambya!

OPINION

Drag

words by Uhuru waga Phalafala

When a good male friend of mine who, need I mention, would break a leg if he auditioned for Pricilla, Queen of the Desert, invited me to a drag race, I immediately imagined a rehearsal of the Pride March. I conceptualised overtly genderised men with blue eye shadow that matched their belts and shoes. This prejudice I attribute to a few reasons—the outfit he was parading the day he extended this warm invite shouted drag queen more than drag race; and although I did hear race, I concluded they would be parading at a rapid pace, and perhaps the biggest reason was that I was, and am still itching for my friend to storm out of the closet.

Arriving at the drag race was like advancing towards a burning Dunlop Tryes factory. The smoke from the burning tyres added to my clouded moment when I realised that this is the weekly drag racing that the coloured community of Bosmount, Westburry and Riverlea engaged in on Thursdays. I had never been to one or seen cars spinning out of control without needing a tow truck shortly after. I had heard that thugs spin cars at the graveside when one of their own gets buried, but I’ve obviously never been to thugs’ funerals.

All my prejudices were out in the open and I tried to conceal them with confident strides, ubiquitous smile and a neutral look even when I was completely wowed. And hell was there a lot to wow me. Two hundred or so coloured folks of all ages stood around an intersection in a circular formation, leaving a platform in the middle for those who are experienced and flamboyant to showcase their skill and elaborately embellished cars. My friend intercepts, “for most a car is just a tool to get from A to B, but for these guys cars are an extension of yourself. They form part of your outfit”. I responded with my fixed, controlled smile.

I continued to survey the area surreptitiously. All the cars there were marvellous to look at. They had their silver wheel rims, dropped suspension and blaring sounds. They reminded me of music videos for gangster rap representing the West versus East frontiers. Walking past these cars was an experience. Every five or so meters introduces a new song that had no disruption on the previous one. The sound system must be so good, I thought to myself. What was even more shocking was the kind of music that came out of these masterpieces of automobiles. Kwaito. The

Kwaito that ushered in the new dispensation in the nineties. The same Kwaito that gave this genre a bad name because of lack of depth and monotonous beats. It was truly shocking. Not nostalgic but shocking. There was nothing to be nostalgic about because when that kind of sound was made I was still playing with my Barbie dolls and harbouring aspirations of studying medicine.

When a car enters the platform in the middle of a crowd, clapping and shouting marijuana induced poetics, the man behind the wheel is evidently fuelled with adrenalin and status. This man, in his BMW 725, complete with a roofless top and a topless girlfriend, started revving a car incessantly until the cacophony made some block their ears and others jump in jubilation. This man was probably going at 140 km/h but the car was at stationery. He then advanced to release what I imagined is the handbrake, causing the car to leap forward, upon which he skilfully manoeuvred the platform in circular motions. The car was spinning in control and the rubber and tar friction caused sparks between the road and the car, which had me thinking something must be going wrong. The smoke that was being unnaturally emitted supported my logic. I betrayed my neutral look and feigned comfort by moving back for safety. My friend found this satisfying to his ego. A real man would stand right there in the middle of danger and wait for the collapse. I started to doubt my suspicions about his sexuality.

This carried on for a good part of the night; cars spinning, others driving back and forth to display their colours, mechanics, sound systems and the little extras that make all the difference. I was totally exhilarated and impressed by these ‘cars of the future’, but I couldn’t help thinking, boys and their toys, they will always compare the prizes of their sizes. My reverie was rudely interrupted by that two hundred or so spectators dispersing rapidly and running for cover from the police. It did not click at first but when my friend followed suit I realised that we were at an illegal gathering. Now all my pretensions of nonchalance departed unceremoniously. With them, my suspicions of homosexuality and most importantly, my prejudices. I ran as if to save my life. We got in the car and quickly jetted off in a similar fashion to our drag racers.

LETTER

The Whole Truth, and Nothing But the Truth

Two weeks ago City Press ran an article penned by talented and award-winning poetLebo Mashile (Live, Love and Belong) once again exposed the high levels ofintellectual bankruptcy in our society and our ongoing celebration ofmediocrity. For anyone to have opted for Mashile to deliver such a flawedspeech during such an august occasion insinuates that South Africa has runout of history scholars with a proper grasp of anthropology – I protestthat Mashile carries such a mantle lest I proclaim our collective appraisal of mediocre intellectualism.

First; there is no ‘small’ nation in the face of the earth calledBapulane. There is a ‘big’ nation called Mapulana rooted not inBushbuckridge (as a matter of fact Bushbuckridge is in Mpumalanga and notLimpopo) but Mapulaneng which covers a sizeable chunk of Mpumalanga.Mapulana are found in every corner of South Africa, largely in Gautengwhere they have a footprint. This is information so in the public domainthat a first year anthropology student could have delivered a betterpresentation on. That Mapulana did not have their own Bantustan and arecognized (official) language does not make them less of a nation thesame way Palestinians are not less human by virtue of being denied landand self-determination.

Mashile should also understand apartheid’s (especially Bantustans) role incrafting the modern South African identity. Tribes and languages weredeliberately suffocated under the homeland system. I know not of a singleMoPulana who is “very comfortable referring to themselves as both Pedi(sic) and Bapulane (sic)”. The biggest insult one can dish against aMoPulana is to call them a MoPedi.To position Mashile’s flawed analysis within a cultural context I wouldprofess that identity is inherited and never chosen to suit a populisthegemonic agenda. Contrary to her calculated definition of her ownidentity the Mashiles are not Basotho (from Lesotho) but one of the fiveoffspring of the lion (Bana ba Tau Sethlano). They are royalty inMapulaneng.

They are in the same league with Mashego, Malele, Chilwane andMogane.Given that Mashile’s diatribe was during the World Summit on Arts andCulture one can sadly conclude that the world now carries that distortednarrow interpretation of our cultural identity as fact. It will beencouraging next time for the organizers to offer such a privilege tosomeone more qualified on the subject like Professor Pitika Ntuli or DrMathole Motshega instead of a poet.

All Mashile had to do was to Google ‘Mapulaneng’ and she would have endedup with more academic references, websites and Facebook groups aboutMapulana to assist in her speech instead of perpetuating a dangerousfascist analysis of Mapulana, a victorious and proud nation.

REVIEW

etc, etc – a review of wordsetc

Imraan Coovadia is a South African author with a vision that defies the use of binoculars and magnifying glasses. A literary visionary with storytelling skills reminiscent of greats such as bi-lingual poet-author Breyten Breytenbach and award-winning JM Coetzee. Interesting enough, Coovadia is the primary subject of the latest installment of wordsetc, that literary journal that aspires to take over where Staffrider dropped the baton – with a touch of touché.

The latest issue of wordsetc is packed with enough information I just pity that I read it during an economic recession, which means I couldn’t afford to take leave and indulge it sipping daiquiris while lounging topless on a hammock at a Maputo beach café – or alternatively some few miles away in Bazaruto.

First; I’m inspired by the fact that advertisers are now coming aboard, which I think will at some stage mitigate the R49,95 cover price, which comes across as steep even for a niche publication targeting a higher LSM. Well, as a literary reviewer I get it for free and hope it stays that way.
While being the only (I stand to be corrected) such literary publication on South Africa’s shelves right now the publishers should understand that it is still competing with 500grams of Bokomo cornflakes, two NO NAME one-litre pints of Skim milk and a bag of oranges. Throw in tagless teabags and sweeteners and you have two weeks of organic breakfast.

It’s either or. However, bread and butter issues aside, publisher Phakama Mbonambi has managed to stick to the formula he chose many moons ago when he called me with the concept for the journal, very enthusiastic, driven like a Ferrari and not about to be told anything on the contrary. Not only that, he was also giving me space to advertise – for free nogal; I can see these days that my spot has been snapped by a wine-selling patron.

Few years later Mbonani has stuck to his guns regardless of wine sellers now pouring money into lucrative pages to entice the thirsty reader. At some stage it might start resembling heavily subsidized in-flight magazines, which will be brilliant because at the end of the day they get read. Tell me of a person who takes 16-hours of flying to Heathrow or JFK and still remains a passive soul and I’ll show you a semi-deaf traveler who spent those hours watching in-flight movies or listening to music. Maybe its future is to target SAA and get every issue in the cabin – both classes, thus selling our literature and culture to the traveler who matters – with a few wordsetc issues for us on the ground.

Okay, this issue sees notable contributions from men and women who are authority in their respective fields and who share their insides uninhibited with the rest of the world. I meant to say they stand naked infront of us to critique ‘their sizes’. And do they all impress!

Multi-talented poet and prolific writer Malika Ndlovu shares a painful story [Grief is a Teacher] of a child that never was and who has been her passive muse for the better part of recent memory – which while the reader feels that its taunts her, seems to be developing into a useful writer’s (un)block(er) as she throws statistics around like a SAPS Commissioner on ‘that’ special day. “I don’t choose to remember her that way. I am able to see her now, in my own way, everywhere and in everything. She is an inner compass for me, a reminder of what matters in everything” she writes.

Another interesting contribution, which I want to believe is the first time such a confession has graced pages has to be Zachie Achmat’s frank delivery about his relationship (though handicapped) with his conservative Muslim father [My Father’s Touch]. The narration takes the reader into the interrogation tactics of the Fascist Security Police and reminds one why every South Afrikan should stand up to nip similar tendencies (of a police state) at the bud, at the mere mentioning of revoking Sections of the Criminal Procedure Act and re-introducing military ranks to civilian institutions like the cops. COSATU’s Zwelinzima Vavi once said that ‘dictatorship does not come with drum majorettes’

Zachie writes about his 1977 incarceration with the benefit of hindsight , “Not all policemen were bad, either. South Africa had invaded Angola in 1976, and many white youth did not want to fight a clandestine and dubious war against their neighbours. They could get out of compulsory military service on condition that they served their time in the police force. Many chose this option, not realizing that troops would soon be deployed in the townships to wage war against unarmed civilians”. This is crucial given that police these days are told to shoot service delivery protesters in townships and informal settlements with ‘rubber’ bullets and teargas [has anybody ever asked what goes into the making of a teargas?] and are now about to be granted a license to kill. Will those with a conscience within the SAPS ranks quit in protest?

Actually I could dissect the whole journal in this post but I will leave that to the editors, publishers and contributors to this publication to do that for you. They include journalist Kevin Bloom [The Realist], Victor Dlamini [Capturing Creative Spirits], Lindiwe Nkutha [Sheila’s Journey], Angelina Sithebe [Quest to make sense of the Present], Karina Magdalena Szczrek [Writers’ other lives], Andrew Herold [Grace notes, with a twist], Joy Watson [Her Story], Penny Urquhart [A rough landing], Alistair King [The Collector], Seni Seneviratne [Language of My Heart], M.Neelika Jayawardane [ Master of Ambiguity], Tia Marie Beautement [Alles van die beste] and Dalhma Llanos-Figueroa [Impressions of Barcelona].

In The Collector, King explores the not-so-much-a-hobby of many bookworms, which is travelling the world and collecting first issues of books. After reading that piece I rushed into my library and discovered some few real classics, some dating back to 1952 and I realised that I might be up to something big. I would have loved it if my Animal Farm and A Tale of Two Cities were first issues, huh.

Like all those that came before it, this edition of wordsetc carries probing book reviews of quite inspirational literature such as Moeletsi Mbeki’s reviewed-to-the-bone Architects of Poverty [go find out why post-colonial Afrika fails to tick], Dawn Garisch’s trespass, Aher Arop Bol’s The Lost Boy, Angela Makholwa’s The 30th Candle, Jabulile Ngwenya’s I Ain’t Yo Bitch etc. If you are not like me but are the movie buffoon type who waits for Barry Ronge to brief you about the storyline before hitting Computicket then get wordsetc to discover what is said about the aforementioned books before you go out and buy them.

However one of my friends is of the opinion that this installment of wordsetc has gone bourgeois, that it is sliding towards liberalism that might suffocate Native talent as Natives can’t be liberals since liberals wear two jackets and two caps and only one hand-glove. Well I reserved my opinion and sent the jury out to deliberate.

But what is observed is that the once small literary journal has grown, it now has a quarter inch spine and approaches 100-pages. It is well laid-out and readable without needing assistance from lenses and page-markers.

Oops, in the opening I mentioned Coovadia, yeah, there are seven pages dedicated to this talented storyteller and prolific wordsmith provided by Neelika. I ain’t touching on that inspirational profile but leaving it to you to lick for yourself and discover why I would have the backbone to compare Coovadia to Breytenbach and Coetzee – not at the expense of Zakes Mda, Siphiwo Mahala, Fred Khumalo, Zukiswa Winner, Kgebetli Moele, Niq Mhlongo and others.

Go grasp a copy before the forth Summer issue hits the shelves since wordsetc might be your muse while lounging on a hammock this December.