Enkosi Tata Madiba

As a little Amakwerere* girl who grew up in post-apartheid South Africa I owe a lot to Nelson Mandela and the other freedom fighters. I was raised in Umtata (still lovingly spell it that way not Mthatha) a few kilometres away from Qunu, Nelson Mandela’s ancestral home. 

Let me start with my education: I was fortunate enough to attend the best schools South Africa had to offer and not barred from them because I was black. This enabled me to have a good head start in life: it shaped my thinking and who I am today. It is a privilege I would have been denied had I been born a few generations earlier but thanks to Nelson Mandela’s struggle to end apartheid I was accorded this privilege.

In 1994, the year Nelson Mandela took power I was in grade four at Transkei Primary School. The best primary school in Umtata which had been previously reserved for white children but with the end of apartheid had to accept black children. I felt very special to be admitted to such a prestigious school and be taught by the best teachers in the town. It was a heartwarming feeling to know that I could belong to such an elite and exclusive class.

Through my exceptional performance at Transkei Primary School I was able to go to one of the best girl schools in South Africa: Clarendon Girls High School based In East London. I recall the drives from Umtata to East London that my family would undertake as an outing. Every time we passed the sign post that bore the Clarendon name and emblem I would say to my Daddy: “That’s my dream school. I want to go there for high school”

You can imagine my joy when in 2002 I was granted a position at the prestigious Clarendon Girls High School.  This granted me the chance to interact with children from different walks of life and colours, which enriched my life and taught me acceptance of all people.

Even the chance to study in English not Afrikaans as the apartheid government had wished is a blessing. This I have to thank not just Nelson Mandela but the freedom fighters too who died for my right to study in English.  Although I studied Afrikaans as a second language, it was a choice not a command.

I owe not just my sound education and the opportunities it has brought me to Madiba but my identity too.  I am Amakwerere. Nelson Mandela fought for a rainbow nation that accepts all peoples. He fought against white domination as well as black domination.

It is so painful that as an Amakwerere girl I experienced black on black racism. Some people resented me because I worked hard to get good grades and went to the finest schools. Others disliked me because I did not know the playground games well or speak Xhosa fluently or just because I had an English first name. It would puzzle me as a child and I hated to be called Amakwerere on the playground.  

Then I grew up and learnt to let it go.  When I was young I could not fully comprehend why Nelson Mandela was revered by the whole world then I experienced xenophobia and it took an enormous amount of strength to forgive and let go. Then I understood why it is amazing to forgive people who took away 27 years of your life.

One of my most profound moments came just before I left South Africa for Uganda, during a life orientation class, the teacher was filling in a survey on the diverse backgrounds of the class. She was also handing out ‘Proudly South African’ badges at the same time. I declined the badge but my Xhosa friend understanding only too well why I refused the badge told me that in the rainbow nation there’s a stripe for me too. She said I belonged to South Africa as much as she did. My world changed suddenly the burden of being Amakwerere was lifted and the sting was lost.

That’s  the South Africa Nelson Mandela fought for so that an Amakwerere girl like me can be afforded the opportunities that I have and for that I am grateful. Thank you Tata Madiba.

*Amakwerere is a derogatory Xhosa term for a black foreign national from Africa.

The Big Chop

In a bid to save money I decided to skip salon visits and wash my treated hair myself. So after my shower I settled into the task of washing the threads I call hair. You know how the ritual goes, wet hair and lather shampoo, rinse and rinse. In the midst of the ritual, I hear a sound that is not water slopping about my wet hair. It’s the sound of giggling: a child’s laughter to be precise.

I brushed it off as a passerby walking past my bathroom window. My house’s back wall was so low with a high verandah that a person could stand on it and merrily peer into my bathroom. I toyed with the idea of getting a curtain but I thought no one would be so crass to peep. Little did I know that is exactly what one cheeky little boy had on his mind.

To my dismay the giggling continued and grew more raucous drawing my attention. With soapy water streaming down my face I glanced up to see snot faced brat staring deep into my eyes and amused by nakedness. In my horror I screamed.

 ‘’Go away’’ I scream as I try to wash the shampoo out of my stinging eyes in a useless effort because my damp straggly  hair keeps a stream of water droplets flowing onto my face and into my eyes. My blood is boiling and I want to strangle the little peeping Tom who is frantically giggling at my misfortune.  

With an enormous effort not to slip on the wet floor I grab a towel from where it hangs and rub my face aggressively till it stings a little. My eyes burn from the assault of the soap and tear a little but that does not thwart me from pursuing my little tormentor.

Towel firmly wrapped around me, I dash out of the house to where the peeping Tom stood.

 To my disgust and sheer anger, he had vanished into the dusty rubbish strewn street.  Upon closer inspection I noticed the stone my Peeping Tom stood on. I flung it into the gutter overflowing with refuse in different stages of decomposition. Then with a shrug I proceeded to the house to get ready for work.  

After a long hard look at my straggly hair then at the row of my hair products I’d accumulated to make it grow properly. The thought struck me,’ Why not just cut it all off.’ After all, my hair had been reduced to auburn threads.

That evening with my love holding my hand, I embraced the scissor and cut off all my relaxed tresses. Thus began my dreadlock journey.

Chasing the ghost of my father

Recently I read an article ‘The parent who is left behind’ by Mildred Apenyo. It was a moving piece that reminded me of my loss and sorrow. What about the children that are left behind? How does the grief process affect them? I can only tell you mine.

There I sat in the still of the night, waiting for him to come to me. Praying that he’ll scoop me in his arms one last time then maybe I’d be ready to say goodbye. But I sat and sat. And the only thing that was surrounding me was darkness and the engulfing loneliness that accompanies it.

The realization that I was alone and the world as I knew it had turned upside down. The moon outside was blood red bleeding out as my aching heart did. Then in that moment for the first time I stared grief in the face.

He was gone.

My dearest Daddy was not going to come fetch me again. There would be no more kind words egging me to go on with my life or congratulating me on my shiny report card. The silent figure that sat still in the big old armchair was gone, gone forever.

A knot formed in my tummy slowly rising from my bowels into my throat and choking me till lurched forward. A part of me died that night. The twinkle in my eye extinguished forever as his flame was snuffed out leaving a burning hole where my passion used to be.

Eight years later, I loom in the darkness wandering about in search of him, longing for the part of me that died that night. I cannot sleep; I cannot go on because I am trapped there: a 19 year old Daddy’s girl waiting for him to come to me, to pick me up like he did when I was little.

Once I was accidentally locked out of the house at night. I banged my little fists furiously against the door and cried till Daddy came to fetch me. Within seconds he was there, scooped me in his arms and wiped my tears. Immediately I felt snug, warm and protected. He was going to be my hero forever.

Then when I was a little older he would shuffle his feet, putting his one good leg forward and dragging the bad one with a grimace. He was my shuffling hero who hobbled and gingerly maneuvered himself into a seat to clap for me at a school award assembly. With one leg stretched out and his crutch gently resting on his good knee, he would smile at me from across the school hall.

I remember the card he gave me when I was awarded first position in my class “I am proud of you” it read.  A beautiful peacock with a magnificent display of feathered glory stared back at me. An image I’d carry for the rest of my life. My father was proud of me! My insignificant little bit of work in the third grade: being first in class made him the happiest man. My little heart was bursting with pride.

That was when I knew that I was special. I had value in a man’s eyes.

But the bubble burst then the moon turned red and the rivers turned poisonous. Reality pierced the daydreamer’s heart.  There was no more protection. No more love. No more patience. No more sustenance.

I tried to search for him in the arms of men but failed miserably. In a mangled heap at the edge of sanity, bleeding out, I conceded: I was left behind. Alone.