SA - POST COLONIAL TRENDS

AFRICAN CULTURE ON THE RETREAT by Tswagare Namane

The fact that the European derived cultures of South Africa remain as strong as they are in post Apartheid South Africa is not just an accident of history. English continues to enjoy the prima donnastatus in the constellation of languages, with even some among the indigenous population abandoning their own for it. There are those who say Afrikaans is now on a free fall due to deliberate policies to kill it off. Some on the other hand say Afrikaans is actually finally finding its rightful place with the removal of the artificial enhancements of the past. And yet relative to African languages die taal continues to thrive and prosper.

The languages are where they are today because of continuing heavy investment in them in the form of newspaper and other media advertisement, grants and bursaries to universities and educational institutions, sponsorships to activities and events, etc. Their creators of culture, in the form of artists and practitioners, relative to those in the indigenous domain, cannot be said to be atrophying at all. In fact, English has never been on such a roller coaster before, as the new black elite increasingly becomes proselytized to it. Among African middle-class children it is now the language of choice in cross-cultural situations, much to the detriment of the previously naturally evolving indigenous-basedlingua franca, the so-called tsotsi taal of Gauteng, with its numerous variants across the country. Perhaps the relative wane of Kwaito in relation to Hip Hop amongst youngsters is a worthwhile indicator. English is of course also the global imperial language of the day.

The policies of the new government have done very little in reality to buttress the situation of African cultures and in their promotion into a unified sustainable front. The widespread dip in moral decency and ethics is indicative of the extent of damage to our cultural identity under the might of global forces that some have termed cultural imperialism. Through its continuing tilt towards the traditionally privileged sectors of our society – in the form of theatres, museums and other institutions and events – current government practice is failing to afford noticeable relief to the most vulnerable . The fact, for instance, that under the Cultural Institutions Act, institutions that are benefitting predominantly as declared institutions are based in formerly whites-only areas, is a telling example. These favoured institutions, in spite of the claim that they are now transformed – which in ideological terms means very little – continue to do little in rendering themselves relevant to the recovery and development of local cultures. This is pretty much the trend in general funding practice.

The leading Senegalese thinker, late Cheikh Anta Diop, said in his The African Origin of Civilization, “The history of Africa will remain suspended in air and cannot be written correctly until African historians connect it with the history of Egypt.” This highlights the fact that Africa has an authentic history and a civilization worth its own. What this means in the end is that Africans, if they are to move forward, must borrow from the West according to their own terms and not those imposed on them by a history forced on them. This, of course, involves their excavating of their authentic identity and in accordance with its dictates moving forward to their true destiny. The “new” South Africa seems to be moving in any direction but this.

SABC Television provides a vantage viewpoint into the direction of events. Looking at programmes on a typical Sunday, for instance, you would think this country is anything but African. Only a total of 15minutes is dedicated to looking at spirituality from an African perspective – this would be on the programme, Imani, which on certain days somehow even fails to air. Programmes like Roots, reserved for indigenous music, look more like a zoo parade; which inevitably forces one to ask – is African music not complete by itself, without the distracting dancing; just where does one draw the line as far as African music is concerned? Why is it that the work of such serious folk musicians like Madala Kunene and even Phillip Tabane, whose style you could term Afro-Blues, does not qualify as African music? Who decides the boundaries here? There is no music in the world which is as segmented as African music on the SABC; in the process borderline artists who cannot be pigeonholed become sacrificial lambs. On this particular programme, it seems the underlying intention is always to lend the music a tribal spin. Many other programmes on the “public broadcaster” do more harm than good to the African sensibility.

Africans in this country, before they start to even think of themselves as South African, must first endeavour to find their true self. This involves far more than the habitual hollow claims to ubuntu and the attendant mechanical ritualizing; it means a fundamental effort to reconnect with our ancestral source in East Africa, and an opening up to a far reaching invigoration of our sense of self. The revivalism in their African identity among African-Americans has to a large extent been lent impetus by the development of Black Studies at universities and colleges around the USA, where in intense research projects mountains in myths and falsities continue to be lifted from the subject of African History; boosting Afro-American culture and lifting the esteem and confidence of its members to participate freely and competently in the first world economy. In other words Baraka Obama is not just an anomaly of history; he is a manifestation of the struggle of a long oppressed minority to find its true self and lift itself from the yoke of subjugation.

In Memoriam (One-Man-Act, An Excerpt)

Now he comes into the bedroom. He is clad in completely different attire – t-shirt and shorts. He throws himself onto the bed and lies there with his face buried for some time. Then without changing his position he extends his arm to switch on the radio:

Good morning. This is a news flash. In another family murder, an off-duty policeman has gunned down four people and then turned the gun on himself in the Cape Flats. Among those confirmed dead are the man, his wife of ten years and their three children. The reason for the killings is not yet established, but similar crimes, which have been on the rise among police personnel lately, have been blamed on work-related stress. More on this report in later bulletins.

He moves to another station where a sad horn is wailing plaintively. When the song eventually fades out he rises up, in a reminiscing mood:

Laikas…Laikas was one of those heroic characters that you find in tragedies. A being selfless to a fault. The son of a builder, his physique bore testimony to a childhood spent in apprentice to the father. Statuesque in built, some of us said of him in jest, his sinewy body resembled the male figure upon the orgasmic moment. He possessed, over and above, the boundless energy of ten African drummers put together. He could go on foot for mile upon mile, without in the least hinting at any fatigue – all in the baking heat of the tropics. Fit as a madman, some likened him to the ancient American Fargo - symbol of indefatigable endurance.

And yet he at the same time was gifted with an almost peasant-like humility, flashing a sheepishly friendly grin to all he encountered. Certainly, the wajirani liked him most among us. He learnt their luga quicker than all; observing the ritual salama without fail; always stopping for a small chat and even picking up their little watoto for a little teasing. The kids definitely liked him more – blurting out his adopted name upon sight. Malaika, he was indeed an angel.

I first met him at a camp around the time when I was completely burnt out. Propaganda work and its sloganeering had totally lost sting for me; and I was seeking to carve out a new meaning for life. We had long lost the initiative and dream of victory a la Mozambique and Angola was no longer in question. Talks had become inevitable. I was rediscovering my inner voice after a long time, and seeking conduit for it.

He was introduced to me as a poet and I was greatly excited; for I too was already one, though still of a closet nature. I soon discovered that in actual fact he was an actor, rather. He was passionate about the written word, quoting long passages without a wince. Hearing with his soul, he was capable of regurgitating verbatim any tract that had as much as touched his heart. I daresay, his memory was of the magnitude of genius. All day long he went about as if in delirium – throwing about lines by the likes of Don Mattera. It was as if in this way he was communing with the very Gods. He really could tickle my fascination with anecdotes from the world of the writer inside the country – the world whose byways I so yearned to walk.

Soon we were close and at his insistence, he began to read my work at political events around Dar.

LatestOfferings

JOY AT REDISCOVERY

Yesterday I got lost
Blatantly ignoring instruction
from the ‘marshal’
I went into the wrong taxi
Perhaps out of the silly urge to improvise
A junkie fix of some sort
Now I found myself shiftless at the seat-edge
Wondering what’s got into the driver
Maybe he’s being creative
and we’ll soon be on common ground
I told myself at one time
But when it became clear
all else were not as restless
calmly going about their business
of alighting at the usual stops
I retracted into my chosen fate
All without any panic
yelling or causing of a scene
Something inside kept on
telling me to exercise my wits
Making the best out of the worst
And as the battered vehicle veered
towards the vaguely familiar
I kept hoping for a happier turn
In the long end I was disgorged
with the last bit of passengers
themselves looking somehow lost
at the far end of civilization

I serenely took all in my stride
Choosing the only road open to me
Seeking as much as possible
to dispel any semblance of being lost
Labouring up a steep climb
that culminated in a dead-end


Sharp decline into ominous forest
I stood there briefly thinking
about knaves and serial killers
Then decided to head back
Upon which moment I came across
an African man walking upwards
He was pitch dark and diffident of eye
Yet self-assured on his two feet
Seeming certain where he was going

After eliciting assurances on safety
I now set out behind his swift foot
Along winding paths in tall grasses
that disappeared under dense shadows
To ward off worrisome thoughts
I kept steady talk about his self
Not an efficient speaker of local dialects
Yes he was all the way from Maputo
Had come this way in search of work
Local women are certainly not for him
“All they want is your money, not you”
We managed even a chuckle or two

And when we reached the other side
Rigel Avenue stood starkly hissing
with usual traffic all the way beyond N1
Home was now a walkable distance off
Drunk with a sense of achievement
we stood there looking in the eye
shaking hands vigorously in quiet jubilation
Montsamaisa bosigo ke mo leboga bosele
All the way home I floated happily

Was it at the brush with the power
to reverse misfortune absolutely
Placing one’s life in hands of another
to be delivered out the quandary
Rediscovering humanity deep within

We often objectify those unlike us
Conveniently forget their humanity
Call them names and paint them black
And yet when crunch comes to crunch
they will be our saviours poor people

Literary Endeavours

ECHOES OF FRAGMENTATION, is an autobiographical account of my life(as yet unpublished); the unembellished confessions of a simple man with all mortal failings bared. It is the story of the non-hero The following excerpt is from The Milk Years (already complete), the first book in the trilogy.

MY BIRTH


It was exactly 8.30 when she ultimately decided to rise up. By now the husband had long had his ritual soft porridge and tea, bid her farewell, and left for work. From his stint in the military he went about his morning tasks as if by numbers and at a particular time was already out and on the way to work. So passionate was he about his work he could not even be paid to stay away.

Getting off bed was not an easy affair for her - she was about six months pregnant. Nevertheless, being a tough woman, she deftly erased all thoughts of self-pity from her mind and set about her mission for the day. It was that day that she always looked towards with anticipation and exhilaration. It was her day of release, a day when she forgot all her troubles and pains and headed towards her domain of dreams: eMshishi, eMjiba, Johannesburg maboneng - City of Lights.

They had married over seven years before in Johannesburg. How she wished they had stayed on in Alexandra where they had met and lived for a while before he got this cursed job in the City Council of Benoni and they had to move. It was nice that they now had their own little cosy place with electricity and water unlike in Dark City where there are many families to a single house. But the people here were much coarser and somewhat rural; hardly urbane or debonair like joburgers. She did not like it here and she felt out of place with the women neighbours - they were all out to backbite and say nasty things about each other. And so for her any visit to Johannesburg was the ultimate release and a good opportunity to again breathe her native air.

She took a bus to Benoni Station which was about thirty minutes away: across the bridge over the railway line; through First Street where the Town Council stood and next to it the local clinic; then the industrial complex and on to the station on the border of town.

All in all it took the train about an hour to reach Park Station in Johannesburg. At Boksburg she looked out of the window at the majestic Boksburg - Benoni Hospital building and vowed never to let her children be born there. All the way through Germiston where the train waited for a while and on until Jeppe Station where she alighted; heaved and puffed up and down the steep flight of stairs; then down Betram Street and on to the clinic of our birth, somewhere on the border with Hillbrow.

For all four of us, my father's children, she took this trouble to ensure we were born right. And once I was old enough to comprehend she would say, "You are not like them - you are from Joburg!" Ma does not now remember the name of the clinic of our birth; only that it was a Roman Catholic project with the whole name ending in Sanctuary. She had known the place perchance when one day out on some errand in the city centre and pregnant with her first, her water unexpectedly broke and she was rushed by ambulance there. For the rest of us she put up upon the critical stage of the pregnancies with the Katanes, who acting as the in-laws pampered her to death through the four deliveries.


It is said that I was born on the 17th of April nineteen hundred and fifty eight. Of all my parent's children I was the biggest at birth, which is probably why my father named me Tswagare - by which he may have meant exceptional. The literal meaning is, he-who-stands-out or who-comes-from-within. My mother, as was customary, gave me the other name Crispin, which I somehow misspelled Chrispin throughout high school and has come to be written Crispian in my official documents through some bureaucratic oversight, or perhaps as originally written in the birth certificate. Mother gave us all except one English names; an indication perhaps of her wish for our smooth prosperity in the white world upon that moment of the tightening grip of Apartheid rule over black life especially in the urban areas.


"Hallo piccaninny".
"Haaaa, ptah pteh!" These were my first memorable words, uttered in response to a white shopkeeper's rather condescending salutation. I was still on mother's back. It is said that as an infant I was quite a charmer and everywhere I went elders proffered gifts in appreciation. I have totally no recollection of those times.

My first memories are those of being moved from the warmth of my parents' bedroom, to make way for our last born, the daughter my father named after his beloved mother, Mosedi. It was unbridled trauma, tragedy unmitigated. I cried and cried into the black night without deliverance. My importunate cries did not an inch move Father's resolute heart. Before then I had been the conjuror, undoubted favourite - able at will to manipulate him into bringing any thing I desired. Having now to share a room with my brother was like being thrown into a dungeon. He must have felt the same way upon his relegation at my coming. I can never come to forget the terror of those nights as monsters of all type lurked in all corners, bent on causing me untold harm and getting even with my uncaring father.

One day as my mother was going about her daily chores within earshot of the sleeping infant; she was suddenly jolted into action by the desperate shrieks of the poor thing. The soles of her little feet were all covered in blood and next to her cot, there I stood, red-handed. I had decided only blood could repay her debts and used my fangs to exact revenge.

My other memories of those early days are of terrible illness. I was floating in and out of delirium with all kinds of weird and grisly shapes threatening my fragile existence. My head throbbed constantly with pain and my wet bedding reeked with the sour smell of sweat. Everything was pain - it was pain just to keep my eyes open. My dry mouth tasted foul with the bitter coat of pills. Sleep was the haunt of horrific nightmares. I swayed between life and death.

I also remember upon that time having for the first time to spend the night by myself, away from home. I had been admitted at Boksburg - Benoni Hospital and had to stay over for observation. Forlorn in the gleam of the sanitised and disinfected atmosphere, I cried and cried like a creature given up for adoption. The up-right nurses in their starched white uniforms failed dismally in their compassionate attempt to lift me out of my dark sorrows. It was the longest night of my life.

On the following day I was finally released with the grim diagnosis - German measles. I remember travelling back home long distances on Mother' sturdy back. Then it was the horrid spell in the darkened room where I had to sweat the disease out.

I particularly recall the silhouette of my mother hovering across the doorway and her anxious voice asking a little girl by my side,
"How is he?" It was an angel come to nurse me back to health: Twatwa - first daughter of ous' Naggie and Boet Ben, friends of my mothers.