The Psychology Of Our Oppression – Part 1

We have not interrogated the psychology of our oppression – And until we do….things fall apart. We continue making monuments out of the mud to a covenant that just widens the emptiness inside. Praising 3 steps forward while ignoring the 10 steps back.

Beyond the apparent, what is it about our oppression that we cannot explain? What did it do to us that is intangible and forgettable? Black people have been analyzed a lot. I believe we have begun to resent it. We resent the likes of Debra Patta, always having their microscopic eye on us. Whether or not this eye sees our truth. We resent their invasiveness in sensitive matters that we are still grappling with ourselves and have no firm grasp of as yet. Everywhere we turn we are confronted with our blackness. Our dirty laundry is always being aired in public. We are not given privacy, time, and space to interrogate our own feelings regarding our state of mind. I would say since 1994 we have had to be very careful of what we say and our actions. We have had to toe a line we do not understand. We are closely monitored and we pay severely for our mistakes. And our mistakes are huge – because power excites us beyond the confines of decency. Our decency that we seem to have no concept of. I am now not talking about individuals but black people as a collective. We are still trying to reach a level of humanness that is ‘socially’ acceptable. What to do when we find out this circumstance we find ourselves enchained by is a product of our deceit!

I once decried to a professor friend of mine the fact that there is hardly any black South African literature in our bookstores. She told me a sad tale of how she once sat on the board of a publishing house and most of the black literature she chose was turned down by the other members. She said hardly any black literature made the cut. She resigned from the board. How else do we interrogate our feelings if not through our own story?

There is a systemic problem in the make up of black society in South Africa, and in Afrika as a whole. That there are a lot of other factors at play is clear to all but the ignorant. The levels of disunity, violence, powerlessness, helplessness are epic.

It seems that we left something along the journey to our emancipation. Something that no money can buy. The interrogation that must happen here cannot be under the scrutiny of a hackling public. It is deeply personal and opens unhealed scars. I always say Afrika needs one big shrink. Afrika is a people in shock, a people feeling withdrawals from the violence that was visited, as if a normality, on their bodies, implanted in their collective memory. It is a shock that some think they have managed to escape. It still haunts them though…because the window is a mirror. No amount of money will get you out. No shopping sprees in Paris, no accolades, will help you maneuver your way out. The only way out, is in. Even God is impatiently waiting for us, whispering through our ancestors, loud voices…words that get stolen from lips by the whirlwinds of our forgetfulness. We have travelled for so long with our heads to the ground we have forgotten the beauty of our path.

I cannot quite put my finger on it…how we so quickly fell apart at a moment that should have been our triumph. I can try but I feel it is not my place to do so.

It is time to interrogate what we are now, what we were before, and what happened in between. We should not fall into the trap of glorifying our pre-colonial existence, or of underplaying its relevance. Rather, we should be analytical without judgment so we can find sight of our true selves and value.
This is why this is a private undertaking. Because your pain, your shame, your prejudice are yours to own and own up to. And this is also why it is difficult to quantify the outcome of this interrogation. This is why it is difficult to brand package it for the masses. It is a personal journey. No two experiences are the same, but the outcome of the interrogation will be.

Could we, perhaps, find a catalyst to trigger this inner revolution? The ideas evoked by this question might be key.

Article first published in Sowetan, 28 March, 2013

Dr Ramphele and The bridge from Black Consciousness to South African Consciousness

Dr Ramphele said something very interesting during her interviews on the launch of her new party that is yet to be defined. When asked if she would adopt BC ideals in her new party, she said, it was time for SA consciousness rather.
I can imagine a jolt of protest in many BC advocates’ hearts at these words. In mine there surely was. Understand that we abandoned BC in 1994 in search of a supposedly more inclusive program of action for the country. I say supposedly because there is nothing exclusive about a people’s fight for self determination in a country that prospered on the back of oppressing them. In a world where we could take words at face value, reconciliation would mean a coming together based on undoing the wrongs that broke the relationship. And an honest apology. Not the denialism we live with everyday. You could swear the denialists only moved to South Africa in 1992. But I digress.

It was a very liberal idea of equality that we adopted in 1994. It has brought us a welfare state because we cannot force equality where there is none. We also cannot expect the human psyche to be ok after centuries of dehumanization. BC addressed these two obstacles to a free South Africa. It was not about exclusivity, but about uplifting the downpressed and dispossessed majority to be on par with everyone else. What we have had instead is that those who have access to knowledge have used it selfishly and to the detriment of nation building under the guise of democracy and equal rights. And therefore there has been no true reconciliation. This suggests a lack of care and a disingenuity on their part.

As a result we are seeing the country struggling under the weight of the majority’s expectations. Their expectations are valid. But privilege sees their dehumanization as a perpetual state of being that is self-inflicted.

It could be that Dr Ramphele recognizes all this but still feels SA consciousness can encompass BC comfortably under the right leadership. After all SA consciousness would be disingenuous if it did not, as top of its agenda, address the needs of the majority. The past 19 years have proven otherwise unfortunately. The empathy is not strong enough. Or as some strongly believe, the current government has wasted opportunities in their quest for self enrichment.
I believe that black people allowed others to speak for them in the spirit of reconciliation. Not because they did not know what was required to help them out of the quagmire. They softened the urgency of their pain so we could all walk hand in hand into the sunset clauses. It has not worked out so well for them and frankly they are tired of the threat of investors. As to the condition of the black psyche, I am yet to see anyone break down what the solution is, instead of evoking the same sentiments that got us into this violent mess that is South Africa today. As the black psyche was initiated into violence and self-destruction, it will have to be initiated out of it. How?

What are the tools of self determination that should have been employed by South Africa in the spirit of reconciliation? I hope that Dr Ramphele will be asking this question as she visits homes of South Africans.

A bridge from BC to SA consciousness. South Africa portrays itself, and is indeed viewed, as somewhat not all the way third world. We continue living this lie because we have conditioned ourselves to look through the poverty and see the glorious monuments we are to build, the poverty is near invisible to us. Truly, Walala Wasala is not a good look for us to adopt at the moment.
So what will it take to deliver the majority into this almost-first-world that SA consciousness resides in? What of education? What type of education will deliver the majority? And living conditions, how do we bring a semblance of dignity to the spaces the poor majority resides in without creating a dependency on state welfare? Before the corruption set in, these are the questions that went unanswered, swallowed by the euphoric din of freedom celebrations and the farce of reconciliation. This is how rainbow politics played out then. This is the SA consciousness that was adopted. That those who know will eat, alas those who do not. Now Dr Ramphele says she wants to go back to the drawing board and recapture the dream that brought us 1994. I say she needs to go deeper. 1994 was problematic. We cannot abandon BC yet. BC has not even begun its work. We will need BC to rehumanize the dehumanized majority. We will need BC to honestly chart the path to the dehumanized majority’s self-determination.
I wish her all the best. Competition makes all work harder.

Article first published in Sowetan, March 8, 2013

Jozi Maboneng

This place fits so well with music.
My melody glides over the days of our lives.
Your life is music….a symphony
I know, I know
So is mine
Everything is music here
Discordant or not
There’s a music to our lives
That holds us in its grasp
And once it has a hold on us
It will never let us go
Nor must it…

But I have to go
This place takes as much as it gives

Find me in the music
- Jozi Maboneng

The bass is king

The bass is king
Holding a delicate balance between melody and rhythm
That’s the beat!
The bass is the beat

Strings tugging at your heart’s wilderness
Bringing it home
Where you at?…, it asks
Feel….
In the middle of this here hurricane
Lies a beautyful black pearl
Just for you
In here is the thread that will swing you right
Papa Bass has everything
Tell me what you need
Comb through my threads and swing right, swing left
….Whatever you want
I will protect you within this beat
My blues will house you
You are safe with me

Ebb and flow
Don’t be afraid to release
Don’t be afraid to absorb
Don’t. Be. Afraid. Anymore

I have this truth tucked in my sleeve
The last card I will play before making my exist
This card stands for defeat for all
This card lays bare the nonsense that our ‘perceived’ importance is. More like impotence
This card is our salvation
For we must die so we can wake

This card stands for the many who squabble over nothing because we owe them
….Says Papa Bass to the orphans of the world
Who grow up fatherless
And must shape their fathers out of the mud

Yeah…
The bass is the only king that can possess me
Mould me into sadness or bliss
The only king that can make me beg
From the bowels of my understanding
For a moment
When I can perceive what connects everything
For I have no king….no father
The bass is my king

The Lonmin Massacre of 16 August 2012

And they mowed them down with automatic guns. Just like in the movies…except, there were no sound effects. No slow motion for emphasis. Just dust. It sounded like fireworks going off. A thunder of explosions that could excite or terrify. Fast and gritty. A memory snatched by time amid the recollection of a dream. It was a dream. So quickly was it over. I blinked and it never happened.

Except for their colourfully draped bodies sprawled in the lingering dust. Silver and red shacks and a mournful sky witness – not only to their death but to their living. Blood dripping and nourishing the parched earth. Pangas laid down in reverence to the occasion, glistening with the blood of betrayed forgiveness, hopes and dreams.

The police brotha turned with an apologetic smile to the camera.

“Look what they made me do”, the smile said. There was a boyish fear in those eyes groomed to shrug off discomfort. A fear looking for approval.

This is the scene you will meet when you find my heart. I grieve for the miner and the police brotha who continues to do the master’s bidding. I grieve for his soul. I grieve more if he takes pleasure from it. I grieve for the woman who must raise a family on her own on a meager salary if any. I grieve for the dream that gets dimmer with every welfare grant. I grieve for those who have become desensitized to our struggle.

The gloves are off. It has been a long time coming. Those who have tried to quell the tide have failed because they are one dimensional, and black is the only dimension they can manipulate.

Fana Mokoena said something interesting on twitter the other day. We have now a people called The Poor and their struggle is not ours. Yes they are black but the other black. We have othered ourselves. Distanced ourselves from ourselves.

We have really crossed the line. And found that we are after all not out of the woods of apartheid. Those in the know have known all along.

The debates on social networks are heated. For, and against the workers, police, unions and Lonmin.

Are we asking the right questions?

On the 18th of July someone going by the name Youngster, penned a letter to Madiba. It was brutal and touched a lot of people on their studios. Youngster was accusing Madiba of selling out black people. Blasphemy! Youngster asked a lot of uncomfortable questions backed by facts. Youngster was angry and calling for an apology. Out of all the noise that followed the only answer that made sense was that Madiba and his generation had done what they could. That each generation has its struggle. What boggles my mind is why the patronage. If it is our struggle allow us the fight. Our generation is babysat by freedom fighters who only know how to fight in trenches not in boardrooms. Our generation’s struggle is economic apartheid. There’s no guidebook for that in the trenches. In the trenches we know we must fight and destabilize the system. We are led by people who only know to destroy. Not to build. The era for that is over and we are grateful for their contribution. They earned us a milestone. This next part of the struggle needs a different consciousness however.

We need planners to chart an economy that works for all. We need Bikos from all sectors of industry to chart the way to a better life for all. It is becoming glaringly obvious that the ordinary black person has been short changed. Yes black. The struggle has been black for the past few centuries and the past 18 years have just been a band aid on a festering wound.

That approximately 16 million people are on welfare should set off alarm bells. That is almost a third of our society.

Down with cadre deployment. The ANC, as the ruling party, needs to head hunt thought leaders from different sectors of industry to lead us. We cannot go on like this.

“Sikhathele”, the miner said, we are tired. James Baldwin said a man with nothing to lose is a dangerous man. We have done this to our own people. There is something about the comfort of money that gives one amnesia. All black people used to march to the same beat as The Poor. They fought, died, for their freedom. A pity that this freedom was for some not for all.
I can imagine The Poor feel a great sense of betrayal. If I could relive 1992 I would be that person who got shot for charging at Madiba screaming “stick to your guns” over and over again.

I was alarmed a few weeks back when we sent the army to the Cape Flats because the police could not control the violence. I was alarmed that the violence had escalated that badly to warrant a call for the army. Imagine a country at war with its people/itself. I was alarmed to hear that during the Khayelitsha protests people had thrown petrol bombs at police and police had responded with live ammunition.
“Sikhathele”, these words must sink in. Let them marinate in the bowels of your fear.
People do not want welfare. They want education and jobs so they can be just like you. Have a house in Sandton if they so choose. They will take the welfare rather than starve still. And people are tired of being mules for the rich.

Now that the rainbow nation bubble has burst perhaps we can get back to the real work of freeing blacks.

The same business our people are killing each other for is the same business that traded in our pain during apartheid. It is unacceptable.

“It is not AMCU or NUM that said we shouldn’t go to work – it’s us, the workers”.
It seems we have found the man with nothing to lose. The miner risks his life everyday in his job. He has gone beyond fearing death and he is gatvol of economic apartheid.
It seems the only language South Africa understands is violence because the people have begged and pleaded to no avail.
This was an uprising of the poor. A declaration of war.
Us in our comfortable homes and offices can speculate and debate till we are grey. It will not change the fact that The Poor have lost faith in leadership and are taking matters into their own hands. The Poor are willing to die so their children can have a better future.

We need a renegotiation of the terms of our freedom because seemingly it is not working for the blacks. We need leaders who will be pro people not pro business and investors. The people are the engine that runs business. The people are not happy. The people say it is enough. They have written this declaration with their blood.
Let us not raise our security walls and call in the police in response. Introspection is needed here. Let us open our hearts to the plight of The Poor. Imagine ourselves in their shoes and then do the right thing.

How To Get Out Of Life Alive

I want to tell you how I really feel.
Firstly, know that I love you, for your beauty and your ugliness. You’re the manifestation of the divine within all of us.
I love you for your bravery. To dare to live.
The world is scary. Our fears are not imagined.
And how our fears twist and turn us!? It is easy to end up not recognizing the beauty that is inherent….the beauty that is wired in our genetic makeup. The yang to our yin is gaining prominence, precedence over our everyday living, over the yin that allows us to let go and let be. It has been for a few millennia now. We are baying for blood because we need someone to blame. Little do we realize the lesson to be learned. That, as Ms Hill said, everything is everything.
The yang has always been strong because it is the epitome of the survival of the fittest for us, the part that is our animal nature…
Aren’t we blessed with the understanding that surpasses all comprehension?

The answer to the question: are we animalistic or do we exercise the consciousness that has been gracefully bestowed upon us by the forgotten divine that we are? – will be our salvation or our demise. This is a question for the abuser and the abused. The one who thinks he is most clever is usually the most shortsighted.

See. Our dreams are not imagined either. This is our moment to be the best we can be, and change the world for the better.
Our fears get in the way, and they make us selfish. Turn us into the worst that evolution can ever imagine into being.
You are the light charting the way forward. Don’t you see? You imagine the times and they happen. Nothing is out of your grasp. You are the driver of this ship. Whatever happens is because you deem it so.

When did this unraveling start?

You are the macrocosm of the whole world, of the zodiac. The world is falling apart because you’re falling apart. Stuck in old ideologies that don’t reflect your present and have never reflected your heart but your greed for more life. Power is a dangerous strength to house.

When did this start? How come you are twisted so?
Child! Lay down your fears. Your beauty is mirrored in everything around you. You are blessed. To see a rose, smell and touch a rose and understand its heartbeat (surely a rose has a heart). Truly blessed to feel you’re one with the rose…even if fleetingly.
Some people have flying dreams but you have metal dreams.
Hopping in the hope of flying away on a bed of intentions.
God laughs in the face of intentions. Preserve your innocence, protect it, stand up for it.
It is the only way you’ll get out of life alive.
We are the manifestation of God.
Like the sand particles that make the beach, unique in shape, but the same in form and fitting like a puzzle to show the whole picture.
Do you see the bigger picture?
It is beautyful!
We are graced with the consciousness of the divine that we are. We have forgotten our origins. And so the world is in turmoil. Our self induced amnesia can be cured. God has put children on earth to remind us of our origins.
Be innocent like a 3 year old child. Giving lots of hugs, jumping into a lot of fires, needy…very needy, and, seeing an opportunity for a roaring great experience in every moment you encounter. See that every moment is new and can never be relived again except in memory. And memory is a poor substitute, but we treasure it more because we don’t respect the intensity of a moment in our existence except in retrospect. You are not special if we are not all special. Stop the madness. I love you. Love me. I am you. Look at your reflection. My heart is bleeding for us, for me. I am all of us, you are all of us. Be love. This is the sole reason you exist. Learn to understand what love is and you’ll never see another desolate day. And we, the collective, won’t then either. Life is so beautyful. Listen to the beat of your passion and you will understand. You are so much bigger than your fears….and you will live forever.

You have become most ugly, child of the universe. You are betraying your origins beautyful morning star, bringer of a new day. What is bothering you? Why do you want it all? You can’t have the moon and the sun, you will be incinerated, diminished into an empty, ashy, husk of your greatness. And you won’t win or lose. Hell is limbo in human lingo.

I bring this dream to life through the strength of my convictions. But who am I to dare to speak with such authority?
Embrace justice and you will know empathy, love. This life we’re dreaming into being is bigger than us, but is a soft cushion for the dreams that our progeny will be initiated into. Not through any intention of their own or ours.

Will we pepper our children’s dreams with ours, which; though filled with uncertainty and pain; will be firm in their resolve to leave the world a better place? We are at cross roads. Let love reign. And there can be no love without justice. Selah

Mama

The purest form of love must be that between mother and child. Though that is not always the case. A bond formed in the deepest recesses of our consciousness, that we can only feel it, never understand it, reacting instinctively to love, protect and nurture.

It is this bond that makes it harder for a mother to leave. It is this love that sacrifices itself for itself. And that is why they say you educate a woman, you educate a nation. It is not out of strength that mothers hold together families – it is out of love. The more we attribute it to their strength, the more we exhaust their already heavily taxed reserves.

My mother is my hero. She has never seemed strong to me. In fact throughout my childhood I felt an overwhelming urge to protect her. To make everything right and bright in her world. She always seemed overwhelmed by life, seeking solace and a quiet strength in her God, so she can see her children through another day. I watched her day in and day out. Because children see the real you, not the face you show the world or what you say, I saw all her vulnerabilities. I saw how the responsibility of her love weighed heavily on her. In her panic she would sometimes lash out at us if we asked for new things like the other kids had, or if we came home later than normal. How would she make sure we were provided for? How would she protect us from being damaged by life?

By watching her I learned what love can do. How love makes a hero of us. This is the kind of love I know. It is the only kind of love I can give. And now I have seen myself being engulfed by the same wave of helpless love towards my own children. The fierce need to love and protect.

For most mothers it seems this love is not a choice, it is way deeper than that. A mother’s capacity to love is the cornerstone upon which a society is built. Only because a mother’s love will weather any storm.

Does this love naturally mean it is okay for a woman to raise children on her own? I see a growing phenomenon of single motherhood. Where the father is not too preoccupied with how his children are doing. It seems, for an increasing number of fathers, loving their children and how much loving they do is a choice. And it is a choice that they take lightly. Love and sacrifice go hand in hand.

For my mother, I wish I could give her back so many of her years she spent breaking her back for us. So much of her life became us. So many of her years flashed by in a blur as she struggled to pay loan after loan so we could have a life. Not once has she ever wished her life were different. To her we are the pearls in her battered smile. Unconditionally, I wish her life had been different. But then where would I be?
Everyday I treasure the lesson she is. In keeping the flame alive. Never giving up on there being sunshine just over the next mountaintop. In being humble to God’s process in our lives. In fighting to the bone for love.

I am blessed to have been born of her. I am my mother’s daughter. And I know that despite my unhappiness about her hard life, we are a blessing to her. We have kept her alive, given deeper meaning to her life. I know this because this is how I feel about my own children. I see the same look in their eyes, the look I used to give my mother when I could see through her efforts to act as if her world was not shaken. I would try to hide my understanding to keep up pretenses because I knew it meant the world to her for us to believe everything was just fine. Our happiness meant the world to her. That is unconditional love.

I cannot give her what I wish her. I cannot give her a life without misfortune. What I can do is continue being the reason she smiles through her misfortunes. Through our mothers’ smiles God smiles at us.
Happy Mother’s Day.

Article first published in Sowetan, 9 May, 2013

Art and Culture. Our Lived Experiences

Culture is how you define an era. It is the pulse, the beat of the times. The tapestry that holds everything together, good and, or, bad. A tapestry constantly morphing and straining against the confines of its boundaries.
It is the everyday consciousness of the people. Their reactions that create what becomes norms in society. Streams of thinking that become the pool from which everyone drinks.
Culture is described as a system of learned behavioral patterns that cannot be attributed to genetic inheritance. Further, that it emanates from individual expression that is then adopted by many. I would say genetic memory also plays a role in informing individual expression.

So culture is what binds a group of people into a unit, a society. It is out of their deepest wishes that laws are created.
Art is not culture. Art is an individual expression of culture. It is the deepest expression of culture. It takes its influences from the dirt paths of the village, through the dusty streets of the township, via zinc iron and garbage bin plastic shacks, winding seamlessly up the high rise buildings, down deep into the ground, through the park where kids play oblivious to the ensuing storm of a gang shootout, past the protest marchers, through politicians, past the trill voice of the woman shouting ‘milies’ in this neighbourhood with wide streets and big trees and neatly trimmed flowerbeds, shaking up the club, dodging bills, selling souls, that-house-on-the-hill-won’t-buy-itself hustling, tumbling onto the red carpet of our dreams. Culture. Spilling out of your radio, television and into your living spaces to further keep you on the grind.

Art imitates life, they say. It mirrors our every day lives. Art is where we store our culture. Our memories of how experiences made us feel. Our memories of our existence. We unwind to music, and let the memories of all of our emotions wash over us. It gives us a feeling of being really here, and of our experiences being mirrored in others. It lends credence to our existence. We are part of something more. You will hear them say “iyandigodusa ke le ingoma”. You know it has hit home.

Music is not all of art, though I would of course, be biased enough to say it is the epitome of all that is art. In the way it moves its audience. Its popularity also speaks for itself. Closely followed by fashion. Music and fashion, the firstborn twin exhibitors of culture.

So we give reverence to music because it gives reverence to our lives. It is written in the ink of our heartbreak, on rose scented pages of our first love’s wonderment. After all, love, in its many forms, is our main reason for living. Love is the passion that fuels our engines.

Lately there has been a lot of unhappiness from artists. Saying that the art we are being sold is largely not the culture on the ground. It is not the experience of the people. Thus artists are not getting support.
I was recently part of a public debate where artists expressed a lot of frustration. Definitely the music quotas of big radio stations in this country give the impression of outside cultures, especially American culture, being the music through which we live our experiences. The social engineering that has brought this about is understandable in the context of misguided capitalism. I say misguided because a country is enriched by exporting its product. America is very good at selling itself. Americans create giants out of their own. That is one thing you cannot fault them on. Their music, and thus their culture, has become popular globally because they have always held themselves in high regard. And we celebrate and cheer them on for it, it is good. This adoration of America, especially in the financial climate we find ourselves in, has had a huge negative impact on local music. The impact has been felt heavily by the record labels. Who have been the repository for the wealth of this country’s creative musical intellect, some for close to a century. The record labels then have had to put a squeeze on artist budgets. Resulting in so many people never even knowing that artists have albums out. And the saga continues. We are now facing the risk of not having a structured recording industry. In that recording labels can no longer afford to invest in recordings that will not give them quick returns. The question is, can we afford not to have art that mirrors our everyday experiences?
What then becomes of us? I say the artist’s appeal should be to the public. The public has the power to expect more of itself and to demand more of others.

Article first published in Sowetan, 25 April, 2013

Mantra

For every memory
A song
For every regret
A charm
For every rebellion
A kiss
For every decay
A dream

Lobola and the Objectification of Women

We have seen such violence against women that we have to rethink our social contracts. I will try to express the patriarchal culture that results in the belittling and ownership of women in our society. I believe this culture has contributed a great deal to the traumas prevalent in our society today. With the not so recent events in India, we have seen how our issues are mirrored in other societies.
We have been objectifying women for the longest time and dressing it up as respect…culture.
I will focus on lobola to make my point. The issue of centralizing lobola negotiations around the worth of a woman has become a problem no matter how good the original intentions were.

If you can quantify a woman’s worth you can disqualify it.

I have written of the dangers of emasculated patriarchy and how it victimizes what it can control.

Speaking to some friends of mine, both, men and women. Their views are varied on the subject of patriarchy and lobola. Lobola, they all agree is a way of creating a bond between families, ubuhlobo. What is required is that a man has cows to show he can provide for his added family. What is required is that a woman be of virtue.
What quantifies a woman’s virtue? This is what my friends disagree on. And some start to contradict themselves.

The woman’s virtue becomes central in lobola negotiations.
Another friend, whose man treated her as an equal, went through the process of lobola when they got married. She did not like that her qualities were reduced to only reproducing, obeying her husband, cooking and cleaning, and caring for family when she had a successful business mind. She said it created a shift in power relations soon after. Luckily for them, they worked it out.

We are very sensitive about what we see as attacks of ridicule on our culture that we refuse to question ourselves. It is a throwback to colonial times. We still see this ridicule in how our ways are still frowned upon. I grew up with a chicken coop in my backyard. Whenever we needed to, we slaughtered a chicken. No neighbor complained. Once we had to slaughter a goat for the new makoti. No neighbor complained, because they understood our ways, they were one of us. Now imagine I having to tell my granny that she needs permission every time she wants to slaughter a chicken. I certainly do not expect my granny to have a farm in her suburban backyard, but it concerns me how alienating our ‘cosmopolitan’ environment is to the ways of the majority of South Africans.

So with this fear of ridicule, we fiercely defend our ways, and refuse to question them. We hold on because we fear losing the only part that we know for sure is truly ourselves.
As a result our culture has stagnated causing so much strife amongst us. The truth is our world has changed and we have changed. We now realize it is not culture to objectify a woman. It is a form of oppression called patriarchy. This oppression is a form of governance that, at some point, has been adopted by peoples across the globe, till this day. And it works as long as everyone plays their roles – As long as nothing disrupts the hierarchy. When something like, say colonialism, comes and smashes through the hierarchy, we can never be the same again. Now the women have to work alongside the men and the family structure is changed forever. This fact alone has awoken women up to the realization that they have so many more life choices.

We need to be afforded the space to meditate on who we are, without judgment – So that we may not be complicit in committing atrocities under the guise of culture. Culture is complex. This complexity is compounded when we cannot evolve tradition. The stagnation of cultures is interestingly enough linked to the oppression of said cultures. The trauma of it all may result in society making a holy text out of a transitional and unflattering phase of its evolution.

So I am not against Lobola as the idea of creating friendship between two families. I am against how it is done and the resultant issues it creates in society.

As we walk side by side on this journey, this dream that our children shall inherit. It is good to continuously interrogate our core beliefs. We learn, and when we learn… we live better.
First published in Sowetan, March 15, 2013

Talking about a revolution

Since the tag, “apartheid is over”, people have been fearful of unpacking what 1994 really meant beyond the celebrated rainbowism and assumed equality. It is true that those who do are ostracized and labeled as resisting transformation… not getting with the program of our newfound unity. So we have seen a lot of policing and shaming – it has rendered some voices silent.

Of late, many unexpected voices have been risking their street cred and speaking out.

I was 14 in 1994 when people voted in, the new South Africa. My tiny town village was abuzz with excitement. People voted and went home to wait for change. Most are still waiting.
Why are they waiting? I asked myself. But I was young, my mind could not make sense of it all. I remember this because I also went home along with everyone else and waited for that magical moment of change. Nothing much changed. My mother’s struggles were as real and unrelenting as they had been before. The oppression of poverty choked most of our dreams. I started asking why we wait, again.
The opportunities were slim, but they were there. Sadly, hardly anyone would have access to them. This lack of access has created a lot of unhappiness, because we want our magical moment. We feel we were robbed, our moment of glory swindled. We thought the struggle was over, we could lay down our arms and get on with the business of living. In the trenches, we waited for a better life.

What have we done with our political power to create an environment conducive to the second phase of the revolution? Waking up to the realization that 1994 did not achieve all our goals has us in a tizz, because we over committed ourselves to the idea of rainbowism and neglected and negated the path to true equality. Now it is coming back to haunt us as poverty and helplessness runs amok in our communities.

Does the middle and upper class realize its role in the economic revolution that still must happen in South Africa? Could it be that it does not, because it believes that 1994 meant that we could all disengage from the struggle, and focus on our individual lives? Maybe we do not see that every opportunity is a struggle won for the collective until we all get free.

I do not think the middle and upper classes realize that the power the past 18 years has bestowed on them is not just for personal use. This power is a weapon for the revolution. They speak with frustrated powerlessness on issues they are equipped to change.

When people moan about the state of the country, I always ask, “so what will you do about it?” It throws them off without fail, and some feel patronized – because they feel it is not their place to do anything beyond charity. They work hard and pay their taxes so that someone can do something. Under normal circumstances this is understandable and it is how it should be. Except we are not a normal society. We are a society still in the throes of a revolution, we are just in denial about it. That is why our problems are so huge – and why we should apply a revolutionary mindset to the solutions we propose and implement.
This is a part of the 1994 legacy that is killing us. The belief that the few freedoms we have are the extent of what the revolution could deliver. The belief that the revolution is over – We hand our power to effect change over to governments.

If we could realize that, for every one of us that succeeded, thousands fell by the wayside of cheap labour, we would understand how political our lives are. The othering has us exploiting each other using oppressive systems that we fought against. The call for unity has to ring throughout the land. It is not time to disband yet. The task at hand is enormous and overwhelming. Where do we start? Easier to just build high walls and shut out the clamour of misery. Were we to understand we are in the middle of a revolution, our perspectives would change. The whole energy of the country would change. There would be a militancy to our actions and a sense of brotherhood.

Some of us thought 1994 was to build foot soldiers for the economic revolution. Some of us still hang on to this hope.

Article first published in Sowetan, 31 January 2013