My Therapeutic Writing Journey

One of my favourite writers, Monique Roffey said her writing career started from a very young age when she was writing diaries and journals. Everything else followed from that. I am in no way implying that I am at the level of Monique, but I am convinced there is a lot that is common between how she started writing and how I developed my writing career.
I have, all along, been unconscious of how I ended up being the writer I am today. Before embarking on this project, I never thought about my journey as a writer. What you are reading was constructed over time as I wondered how I travelled from being one of the ordinary local boys to what some people refer to as a writer.
I am not even sure if I deserve this title.
“You deny you are a writer?” said Sphe, my chicky eighteen you old, as he moved his head left and right in response to music coming from his mobile through earphones. “So, you’re at a state of denial, dad.”
“Somebody must confirm I’m a good writer.” I said in response, trying to be funny.
“I just have.” he said so quickly as if he had expected my answer.
Over time, I have accepted that writers write and that, writing is exactly what I do almost every day.
For me, it all started in 1978 at 16. Now I am giving away my age and you are already counting how old I am. It was not planned. My place of birth is somehow responsible for imposing writing on me at, not so tender age.
Imagine a dry, semi-desert plains covered with goats, donkeys, herds of cattle and many under nourished domesticated animals. That sounds like an area somewhere else in the desert, not in South Africa. Wrong this was in KwaZulu- Natal, the most traditional, but now fast transforming of provinces in the country.
The only entertainment available or should I say accessible to the young people like myself, then, especially in the afternoons after school, was stick fighting, soccer, bird trapping, herding the only four donkeys my dad owned and unbelievably, even organizing cattle mating session. I would engage in almost all the above, including following girls telling them all sorts of lies, but I always found myself with plenty more time and absolutely nothing else to do.
During the week, I would follow my routine lifestyle. It entailed going to church on Sundays on my aunt’s insistence. Weekdays were reserved for school. Fridays were fascinating. My domestic worker mum would come home after spending time in town, away from me. She brought home all sorts of old newspapers and magazines. I devoured them.
As part of preserving them, I would make cuttings of pictures and paste them into an exercise book. Next to each picture, I would write a paragraph or two explaining what the picture was all about. Little did I realise that I was sharpening my writing skills. Over time the exercise book would become a full book.
One day my mum also brought home an old diary. I made good use of it. I made random entries. It became so interesting. I kept all those documents or “books” until I got married to my beautiful wife. But please do not ask me where these books are today. If you are brave enough, you are welcome to ask my wife. She would gladly explain to you where my cuttings are.
It took me some time to realise what she was up to. She would wait for me to be out of the house and then start cleaning up. Cleaning for her, is about making sure that no papers are lying around the house. Then all my writings would find their way to the dustbin.
“Where’s my book?” I would ask whenever I found my study neat without papers scattered around the table.
“No idea. You know I don’t throw any paper away.” she would say with a straight round face, brightened up by disarming smile.
Honestly, I had no intention to be a writer. It was simply one way of keeping myself busy. Later, more mature types of my writings followed the earlier ones. I wrote poems. But the sad news is, like other earlier writings, my poems remained just that – my poems. I kept them stored away from the eyes of other people.
It was only in the 1990s that I entered some poetry competitions. No winnings, though. In hindsight, I now know that my writing skills were the winner because they became better whenever I finished a piece.
Not so long ago I made and effort to have my writings published. Nothing could stand on my way. And the publishing industry did not disappoint. In a single year, I published more pieces than I had ever published in three decades. They ranged from feature articles to poems. They were in different publications. But still, I was not sure whether to call myself a writer. Now with some material published, I do not think I am being ambitious if I describe myself as a writer. I can no longer avoid this title, the writer.
When and why do I write?
Unlike before, I now plan my writing. To me, writing is a healing exercise. I write because I find it so therapeutic for me. When I am sad I write, when I am angry, I write, when I am tired I still write. Whenever, I write, I am responding to an emotional state that I may be in at that time.
The relief I get after writing is amazing. It is like slipping into a deep sleep after being denied sleep for days.

 

Waiting for the inevitable

Like a seed in fertile soil

I germinated.

Like a plant, I grew strong and bore fruits

But now I know:

That like a flower in the autumn

I will fade.

Like dew on a sunny day

Melting is imminent.

As the sun rises

So, will it set.

After day

The night will follow

Yes, after birth

Death is inevitable.

 

Begging for her freedom

She had wide and broad shoulders

That carried us all

During the roaring and ferocious winds

Out in the cold all alone.

That was my mother.

 

She fought and won wars

That were too complex for her.

While all those she trusted

Turned their backs on her

And alone and lonely she conquered.

 

Today in her sleep

Those who never dared to face her

Still torment her name

As they cannot touch her soul

And in her slumber, she still fights back.

 

A woman is a rock indeed

That stands still in the face of challenges.

With her mouth permanently shut

I can still hear her war cry

And it pierces deep inside me.

 

Can you let her rest?

For she has very little energy left

After facing all the wars on her own.

Let her enjoy the eternal peace

And please, afford her time to prepare for our inevitable arrival.

 

 

You may be gone but…

Every time I go to sleep

I see your round wrinkled face

Covered in a smile,

Though you never had a reason to laugh.

 

Every time I listen

I hear your sweet soothing voice

Telling me to march on

Because the land of honey was near.

 

Every time I think of you

I see all your toiling

Meant to put a plate on our laps

Even if it meant scavenging like a stray dog.

 

Every Time I hear your name

I confirm that you were a brave woman

Who gave all her life

For the love and life of us all.

 

And though you are gone  

I feel you live among your grandchildren

Even though they are yet to meet you

And feel your ever present and endless love.

The last prayer

Take me back

To my mother’s womb

Where there is warmth,

Happiness and love.

 

What was once my home has been strafed.

Flying bullets have blinded my eyes and blocked my tiny ears.

I hear nothing but wailing children

Yelling for their mothers and father prostrated on the ground.

 

The powerful have spoken

All I can do is duck now and again

To save my only possession –

My innocent soul.

 

Mortars and smoke

Hide the sky from me,

But not me from You

For Your eyes, can see through the thickest darkness.

 

Come for me now

I see no light

It’s midnight darkness,

And hope is what I lack.

 

Song of the condemned

It’s been years waiting

For the huge brute.

To do his only job

Of demonstrating his prowess

Amid women’s ululation.

 

“On your knees & keep your neck straight,” he would say.

In his hand a razor- sharp sword shall turn and twist.

My heart shall dance against chest.

Though fallible like me he holds my life

Or lack thereof in his hands.

 

A pitch- black cloth shall descend over my head

Preventing me from seeing

His cruelty.

But still I will see my way to Him.

I will see what they cannot see.

 

The man or is he a real man?

Will swing his sword once above my head

And once against my neck.

Yes, the long-awaited moment will have finally come

Turning the ground blood red.

 

Freedom comes in many ways.

I will strut Home and free.

Leaving them guilty

For they know they are no God

But sinners like me.

 

 

Shine on

Twenty years ago

You shone like a star,

With limitless beauty spread all over you.

Sixty years later

Your glitter has faded.

Your beauty in now blurry.

Have you transformed

Or my eyes are giving in?

Whatever.

My vision keeps you alive.

Shine on.

SABC’S 90 percent local content policy is off tune

Imagine yourself stuck in a slow afternoon traffic and you are tuning from one SABC radio station to the next. All you hear is the same old kwaito song being played in all the stations you tune into. This is what the 90 percent local content SABC policy might do to you.

Imposed a few months ago, the policy stipulates that the national broadcaster must ensure 90 percent of the music it plays is local while the foreign content is limited to 10 percent.

The policy is laced with confusion or lack of clarity. It is not clear whether the policy means 90 percent of the programme or 90 percent of the songs played per programme should be local. What does local content mean? Is it music that must be local or the artist? Would a song sung by a Zimbabwean artist based in South Africa be considered local? Perhaps the clarity would come as the policy unfolds.

The view that has been taken by SABC stations suggests that out of ten songs played in any programme nine must be local. How this quota was arrived at remains a mystery.

According to the SABC, the policy will boost the local artists so that they earn a living from their work unlike what was happening before where international artists were prioritised over the local musicians.

Nothing has been said about the quality of the local content. And this does not imply that local music is of inferior quality, but the truth is that it is not the best in the world either. While SA artists are singing praises to those who propagate this policy, such as the former SABC Chief Operating Officer, Hlaudi Motsoeneng, listeners are already being bombarded with one and the same songs played in different radio stations over and over again.

Whether this policy will produce the intended results is still unclear. What is clear though, is that the policy will achieve some short-term benefits. The artists will get more air play and in the process they will earn more royalties for their music. Even the old songs will be recycled in order to meet the quota as the country does not have enough stock to meet the new demand of the local music quota?

In the long run, though the picture does not look good. The possibility is that even the beneficiaries of this arrangement might pay a heavy price.

“You do not become a champion in any area or sport by preventing your opponents from challenging you as SABC is doing,” says one of the local music legends.

To improve and compete, the stage must be open to all those who want to take part, local or international. Besides SA, as one of the countries in Africa and the world, has a responsibility to contribute to the development of the rest of the African continent. In return, this country also benefits from other nations of the world where its music is also played. Closing local borders to the artists of the world is likely to cause more harm than good.

Policies that encourage narrow nationalism are not adding value to the young democracy. This country cannot afford to be an enclave that is part of the world when it suits us and then turn around to be a standalone unit when we are driven by selfishness.

Elimination of competition will not make SA artists more competitive. But it will create a false sense of belief that they are the best. In reality, they will only be competitive among themselves.

One wonders if the local artists who support this policy would, one day, like to hear their music being played in other countries.

This policy comes at the time when SA is encouraging social cohesion and the integration of foreign nationals into the SA society which would benefit both SA and foreign nationals in the country. But this off tune policy flies in the face of integration attempts.

 #southafrica#communications#article#sabc#politics#news#review#music#southafricanmusic

Rastafarian village, Bikoland breathes new life into the community

A group of eight Rastafarians, under the leadership of Baba Lord, have dared the Newcastle freezing weather to start a tiny village called Bikoland. They are driven by the desire to have peace and freedom. And to them, their village will breathe life to the drug ravaged community of Osizweni township in Newcastle.

Bikoland, named after the Black Consciousness Movement leader who was murdered by the apartheid police in 1977, Steve Biko is located about 15 km outside Osizweni, Newcastle’s second biggest township. The residents of the village made a conscious decision to relocate to this village which was just an open veld so they could practice Rastafarianism, which according to them is the most practical religion.

Where the boundary of the village begins, you are welcome by a flag which marks the boundary of a holy land you are about to enter.  “Haile Selassie, Jah, Rastafari,” we were led in this way of greeting or showing appreciation as we were all holding hands with the residents of the village.

It was Saturday afternoon and the whole community was gathered in a shack for the afternoon church service. Seeing us approaching the place of worship, Sister Molebogeng rushed towards us. We only learnt later that she wanted to prevent us from entering the church without a doek for my wife and a jacket for me. She then lent my wife a doek.

Baba Lord stopped what he was doing and welcomed us to their holy land. And again we joined hands and greeted each other in the way Sister Molebogeng had showed us a few minutes earlier.

“Our belief, said Baba Lord is, “let the hungry be fed, the naked be clothed, the sick be nourished, the infants be cared for and the aged be protected.”

“For us we praise the living God,” Ras Culture added.

The residents want peaceful co-existence not only among Bikoland residents, but with the non-Rastafarians in areas surrounding “the holly village”. To achieve this Rastafarians of Bikoland have committed to serving God who sent them on a mission to start this village.

Sister Molebogeng, the wife of Baba Lord and the only female resident of the village explained that they live by the principle of sharing. “No one goes to bed hungry in our village.”

Bikoland residents also protect and rehabilitate their environment. They grow their own vegetables and trees which are also shared with everyone Rastafarians or not. The people in other villages do not only get food from Bikoland, they also acquire skills which the Rastafarians are more than willing to share freely.

“I sometimes come to Bikoland to help because I know that what my brothers and sisters are doing here will benefit me as well, said one of the community members.

“Because we protect birds in this village almost every day we see new bird species gracing our shores,” said Baba Lord. The village boasts of more than 23 bird species.

“People undermine us and think we are just a bunch of ganja addicts,” Ras Siya said puffing the zoll he was sharing with everyone except Sister Molebogeng’s two little daughters.

As we continue our discussion Sister Molebogeng was breast feeding her little daughter whom she claimed was, healthy because of the dagga fumes she was exposed to from the day she was born.

The villagers insist that though life is in the village is tough, they will never commit crime by selling dagga to the members of the public.

For them Bikoland, like Sister Molebogeng is giving life to her baby by breastfeeding her, is here to breathe new life into the environment and the surrounding areas.

7 THINGS TO DO IN SOWETO

If you have one day to spend in Soweto, South Africa’s largest township, consider the following iconic spots I recently visited: Sir Ernest Oppenheimer Tower, Credo Mutwa Cultural Village, Regina Mundi Church, Hector Peterson Memorial Museum, the Orlando Towers, the Chaf-Pozi Restaurant, Sakhumzi Restaurant and end with Vilakazi Street Precinct or take it from me you will have not toured Soweto. To enjoy the outdoor life of Soweto while at the same time contributing to the sustainability of the environment, simply park your car or your bus and join the bicycle guided tour around the township.

Grasp the origins of Soweto by visiting the Sir Ernest Oppenheimer Tower. Standing majestically over Soweto, the tower that was built using the black bricks that are still not plastered even today was built in the late 1950s as a symbol of appreciation to Sir Ernest Oppenheimer, a diamond mining magnate, who organized a loan to the Johannesburg Municipality for the construction of about 15 000 “match-box” houses in Soweto.

As the informal settlement huts were burnt down to make way for formal houses, the ashes from the burnt down structures was used to make blocks that were then used to build the tower. The walls of the tower are rough with sharp small stones protruding from each brick. To climb to the top of the tower, one has to negotiate a way among trees and flowers that surround it. As you enter the tower through a small gate, you begin a long upward winding journey of 49 steps which takes you to the top of the tower from inside. The 49 steps symbolize the 49 zones of Soweto.

Understand the African way of life at Credo Mutwa Cultural Village. Named after its founder Credo Mutwa, the prophet, the Cultural Village is a sleeping giant just a few steps from the Sir Ernest Oppenheimer Tower. The village has grass thatched hats and superhuman sculptures made of cement and painted in strange colors such as green and while others are snow white.

In the yard, are graves, one of which shows a sculpture of a human being buried head down with the legs exposed above the ground. “This grave shows how criminals and evil people used to be buried in Africa,” says Lebo the tour guide. The other grave displays a person buried in an upright position and facing the East, the burial style reserved for people who led a good life that respected other people.

Hanging on the wall in one of the huts that has a strong smell of burning herbs, is a 1979 painting which was Credo’s 9/11 prediction. The painting depicts what looks like the New York Twin Towers and some aeroplanes flying into these towers and flames engulfing the collapsing towers. However, it is difficult to rule out that this could have been any painting depicting any event and not necessarily the tragic 9/11 incident.

Invite the divine intervention at the Regina Mundi Church which is the symbol of resistance. During the times of the struggle against apartheid the church produced freedom fighters and it also became a refuge for students who were running away from the apartheid police during the 1976 Soweto uprisings. Though now very peaceful with tourists walking about as if they are attending a church service, the Church still has scars from those years. Bullet holes on the ceiling and windows, the broken pulpit and a broken ceramic top of the table are still visible.

Catch the glimpse of Soweto uprisings of 1976 while enjoying the art of African continent by strolling around the Hector Peterson Memorial Museum located in the heart of Soweto. The museum was built to pay tribute to the thirteen year old first police victim of the 1976 Soweto uprisings, Hector Peterson. Outside the museum, are brick walls that do not say much except a few that have some messages written on. Proceed into the maze of aisles of the museum where you will find television screens playing different episodes of the South African struggle history. Tourists torment your ears with different languages they speak which do not make sense to most locals or even to other tourists.

Take a few steps from the museum into the street, you will be overwhelmed by street vendors manning their open-air stalls and inviting tourists to buy. The stalls are neatly arranged in a row. They display items such as sculptures, crafts, garments and T-shirts which are hanging in trees that also provide extra shade to the scorching sun. The whole setup is tourist driven.

 But do not let the dust from the blowing wind blind you to the beautiful wooden sculptures on display. Many people seem to be interested in two pieces on display: a Khoisan woman whose body is covered in tattoos and a dead elephant trunk with lizards all over it.

Now it is time to play and distress at the Orlando Towers. Like Hector Peterson, the two colorful towers standing side by side were once bubbly with life. The giant Orlando Towers were cooling towers for what was once a power generating plant from around 1948 until 1998 when it was decommissioned. Amazingly, more than sixty years since they were constructed, the towers were given a second chance in life by the two friends who converted them into a unique entertainment area.

The towers are abuzz with deafening noise from screaming bungee jumpers flying head down with ropes tied around the legs from the top of the towers. The roaring sound of quad bikes buries the sharp noise from the underground soccer field and from the free falling area where some diehards hope that the net hanging inside the tower will embrace them. On the other side of the western tower are rock climbers crawling up to the top of the tower. From time to time paint balling fanatics are also vying for tourists’ attention.

Relax and enjoy some Soweto local cuisine served by Chaf-Pozi, a restaurant at the Orlando Towers. For the best local cuisine do not miss the Chaf-Pozi restaurant, which according to Zweli Mokgata, is a township lingo which means a “hidden spot” since the restaurant is hidden between the two towers. The fresh smell of food catches your nose as you enter the restaurant. Fresh vegetables are piled up at the entrance of the kitchen as though to guarantee you their freshness. At this restaurant you will get all popular traditional cuisines such as pap, chakalaka, samp chicken, beef, mutton boerewors and vegetables and some drinks to quench the scorching heat from the sun.

Pay tribute to Vilakazi Street Precinct which is the home of the two South African Peace Laureates, Archbishop Desmond Tutu and former South African President, Nelson Mandela. Nelson Mandela’s home has been turned into a museum. And not far from the homes of Archbishop Tutu and President Mandela is another busy popular restaurant, Sakhumzi with camping umbrellas and tables lining the already narrow pavements. The restaurant has become too small for its customers who are craving for some unique dishes of Soweto. The meals will include dumplings, mogodu, beef, chicken and more.

Heading home now could not be a bad idea after spending the day cycling throughout Soweto and bungee jumping.