“Are you all right?” A man’s voice came over the partition wall from the adjoining cubicle.
I hadn’t stopped to think about whether I was alone. I caught my breath and strangled a sob before it could come out of my throat. I didn’t dare say a thing. There was a silence, too, from the neighbouring cubicle, but I could feel a listening presence. I feared even to breathe, lest my breath made a snuffle that could be heard.
“Are you all right?” Softer now, some uncertainty had edged into it.
I was still silent. I wished the owner of the voice would think he had been mistaken. That he had imagined hearing someone crying. I couldn’t leave, I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t go back to my friends. I had no room of my own. In the two cubicles, there was a listening silence that lasted many minutes. Then I heard a swishing and splashing noise, bathwater sloshing against the sides of the bath, followed by a loud whoosh and the noise of water falling from a height. I could work out that the person had stood up in the bath and the noise was the water falling off him. The plug was pulled, water gurgled away. Listening hard I picked up noises like a body being rubbed dry and the slap of slippers on the tiled floor. I heard the click of a bolt being pulled and felt relief; I was certain that my neighbour would just mind his own business and go away. The rap at my cubicle door was soft, but I was startled and didn’t answer.
“You’re not going to do anything you will regret, are you?”
Such worry was in the voice that I had to say something.
“No. I’m not.”
“Would you like to talk?”
When I opened the door, did I stare at you? You didn’t stare at me even though my face was red, eyes red, nose runny, cheeks wet. But could you sense what I was thinking? I think now that you sensed even then that I could love you, a perfect stranger for ever, for you came into the cubicle, closed the door and sat next to me on the edge of the bath. You leaned back, turned on the tap and wet a corner of the towel that you slipped from over your shoulder. You wiped my face with the damp corner and dried it. You sat next to me and asked me nothing. We sat in a long silence. I breathed in a new fragrance from your skin—sandalwood soap, I learned later. I looked down at my hands folded in my lap, at your hands also folded in your lap—long slim fingers, dark hair springing from the backs of your wrists. I looked at your feet, slim and pale in soft, beige felt-looking slippers and at mine, bare and brown, stirrup straps of the chocolate-coloured stretch pants hooked under the insteps. The way you were gave off a sense of security, of completeness, of knowing how to do things the right way, of understanding your world, the one into which I had stumbled, blindfold, picking my way around in error and confusion. I was embarrassed that I had made a fool of myself and had to be rescued. I didn’t dare look at you for shame. After a while, you took my hand and said, “Whatever it is, it’s not that bad.” You were wearing your fawn dressing gown—it served you well for at least a decade more—and from a pocket you took out a black and gold tin of cigarettes. You shook out two. You lit both and passed me one. We sat and smoked. The sweet molasses-flavoured Balkan Sobranie calmed and relaxed me. You crushed the glowing gold tips in the lid of the tin, put the blackened stubs in your pocket and closed the tin. You looked into my eyes. I looked into yours for the first time. Green, flecked with gold.
“Are you going to be all right now?”
“Yes.”
NomaVenda Mathiane
A South African writer, she has had a long career as a journalist. She covered the June 1976 Soweto student uprising for The World newspaper, a white-owned but black-run publication dealing in township events and some national politics. When, in 1977, 19 black organisations including The World were banned, she briefly worked for the Rand Daily Mail as a freelancer and later joined The Star. In 1984 she joined Frontline magazine, part of the alternative press, and brought to the publication a Black perspective, writing a column called “Asiwona amaphixiphixi” that dealt mainly with day-to-day township activities at a time when the political situation was volatile. Some of her work was published in the US as South Africa: Diary of Troubled Times (1989), and a similar collection, Beyond the Headlines: Truths of Soweto Life (1990) was published in South Africa. Her book Eyes in the Night: An Untold Zulu Story was published in 2016. She is now retired and writing fiction.
Passing on the Baton
In January 1879, the British army attacked the AmaZulu people on the slopes of the Isandlwana mountains in Natal, north of Zululand. A young mother accompanied by her two daughters aged ten and three fled their home and hid in the mountains for the duration of the war, which lasted about eight months. When they came out of hiding at the end of the war, their home and land had been usurped by the invaders and her husband had died. For months, the woman and her children wandered aimlessly in the valleys and gorges of Zululand, searching for kith and kin, eking a living from roots and rats, braving the harsh environment, the scorching Natal sun and the torrential Benguela rainstorms. They slept in treetops during the day, hiding from wild animals, and journeying at night time.
A miraculous encounter with another clan led to their ultimate reunion with members of their family. However, the coming-together would be short-lived, as culture and tradition stepped in to alienate the young woman and her daughters from the family and render them unwelcome in the fold. Once more, mother and daughters would be homeless, up until she relented and agreed to a marriage of convenience with a farm labourer who worked and lived on a farm owned by a cruel Hollander.
At this point, the ten-year-old was now a well-developed girl; the farmer, who was master of all that inhabited his grounds, thought he had the right to the ripe young woman. But she would have none of it, and literally fought off the advances of the farmer, physically hurting him. She was forced to abscond from the farm, leaving her mother and sister behind, never to see them again.
However, in her quest for freedom and belonging, somehow, the universe and her ancestors led her to a wonderful woman living in a village in Dundee, in Zululand. The woman took my grandmother in, loved her and treated her like her daughter.
Later, Grandma was betrothed to a Christian gentleman and sired nine healthy children—five boys and four girls—one of whom was my mother.
Like my grandmother, Mother also married a Christian gentleman and they too were blessed with nine children. Our mother, who was deeply rooted in African values of respect for human beings and anything that walks on the earth, sang us songs that told the stories of the brave AmaZulu kings and warriors. She taught us the importance of love for family, close and distant. She believed that the most important words in life were “Hello” and “Thank you”, and that holding grudges against those who had wronged you was a useless emotion. She taught us to appreciate the beauty of languages, particularly IsiZulu, through which she was able to communicate our culture and traditions, while telling us about the power of prayer. She prayed every night and mentioned each and every one of us. Later when we had children of our own, their names were added to her list of people to pray for.
When Mother died, the first thing that came to my mind was the realisation that her passing on meant that the glue that had held the family together was gone. I also realised that there would be nobody to pray for me and my children. But more than that, I was made aware of the fact that the hour had come when my generation had to take on the mantle of being the shepherd of the fold.
The reality of what lay ahead brought about an inexplicable panic to me. Where would I begin? So much had happened in my country. Our lives had changed in ways that even we could not understand.
While all sorts of questions went through my mind, I was suddenly transported to the year 1990, a time in my life when as a journalist I had been part of a group of writers who had travelled to El Salvador in South America at the height of the war, to witness the elections in that country.
One morning, as we drove to a polling-station, we were ambushed by the rebels and taken to their headquarters in t
he bush. As we sat, black and white journalists, veterans and young writers, waiting to be interrogated by the rebel leader, I thought I would not come out of that place alive. At that significant moment when my mind was in torment about the situation I was in, my gaze fell on the ground. I scooped a handful of sand and toyed with it. The soil looked and felt different from what I was used to. Even though we were kept in the most verdant part of the country, surrounded by trees, big and small, that soil looked different. It appeared to be grey and dry. It was not dark and damp like the soil back home. Maybe, that was only in my head. I let the sand run through my fingers and thought: “So this is the soil that will cover my remains!” I could feel my heart beating loud and fast, yet my fear was not of death. As a journalist practising in South Africa, death was part of the package. My fear was of the aftermath of death—how would my soul travel back to Africa? What kind of ancestor would I be, interred in a grave so far away from home?
Coming out of my reverie of El Salvador to the realisation that I was now responsible for imparting values to my offspring and the many youngsters I would meet in the course of my journey through life was daunting. South Africa today was different from yesterday when we knew what we were striving for. The bond that held us together as Africans seemed to have snapped as we grappled with the here-and-now and tried to make sense of the new world.
Yet I had to steer the ship of the family in murky waters. The sea was rough and I was without a compass. How was I to navigate the waters when the language we had used for generations was becoming obsolete? Overnight, young people had become strangers whose values we could not fathom; we simply could not get through to them. They were in another world—the world of technology. And in between, they were chasing after their Eldorado and plastic dreams.
It took me some time to realise that I was not alone in this dilemma, that many of my peers, who like me, are proud of their children and their grandchildren, were also concerned about their offspring, who seem not to care to bask in the sunshine of our love. Our grandchildren are up and about, texting on their mobiles even at the dinner table. As for the girls, they have denied us the pleasure of passing over to them our skill of knitting cornrows in their hair. We have to contend with the long artificial hair they wear. When travelling in their cars, one must persevere, and risk a heart attack, as one listens to the incomprehensive recitals of weird so-called poetry that they regard as music coming out of the stereo. I am not expecting them to play Handel’s Messiah or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Barry White, Miles Davis, Miriam Makeba or Hugh Masekela; I know that is yesterday’s music to them. But, for crying out loud! Is there no artist in this world who can save our grandchildren from the death of the art of good music?
As if that is not enough, what happened to a good family get-together, where a tasty and sumptuous home-cooked meal would be served and we would reminisce about the good old days? Restaurants don’t quite cut it. The worst moments are when there is to be a family wedding. Gone is the fanfare of aunts and uncles getting together to prepare for the great day of the uniting of two families. Old ladies are no longer given the opportunity to impart advice to the bride-to-be on how to be a good wife. Old people have to take a back seat and listen to the wedding planners’ directives. Oh, cry the beloved country!
However, in spite of everything, I am determined not to give up. I will continue to try to impart the values that my grandmother, mother and the many others before them instilled in us. We must teach the young to know that one has to make time for old people, to be gentle with children, to love animals, and above all, to respect the ground they walk on.
Somehow, I have to find a way of getting through to them, to tell them of the trials and triumphs of my grandmother. I have to tell them of the great African kings who fought hard to save their kingdoms. I will tell them of how the British abducted Cetshwayo, the Zulu king and took him to England to parade him before their Queen Victoria, because Cetshwayo’s spear-wielding regiments had lynched the gun-toting British army at Isandlwana. I have to tell them about Robben Island, about Nelson Mandela, Robert Sobukwe and the many men who languished on that island and suffered because of their quest for freedom. I have to tell them about the great African women who kept the homefires burning while their men were jailed and killed. Women such as Albertina Sisulu, whose husband Walter was with Mandela on the island and whose son Max and daughter Lindiwe were somewhere in exile. Two sons remained behind with her: Lungi, and Zwelakhe who was banned along with their mother. I will tell them of a woman in Mzimhlophe township who lost three sons on the one night when hostel inmates clashed with township residents.
And, more than that, I have to devise a means to make them realise that soon they will have to take on the baton and lead the family and the country forward. I owe it to them.
Broadacres, Johannesburg.
Elizabeth Nunez
Originally from Trinidad, she migrated to the US after high school. Her memoir Not for Everyday Use won the 2015 Hurston-Wright Legacy Award and her 2016 novel Even in Paradise, a contemporary take on Shakespeare’s King Lear set in the Caribbean, was called “A dazzling epic triumph” in Kirkus. Her other novels are Boundaries (NAACP Image Award nominee); Anna In-Between (PEN Oakland Award and longlisted for IMPAC International Dublin Literary Award); Prospero’s Daughter (2010 Trinidad & Tobago One Book selection); Bruised Hibiscus (American Book Award); Beyond the Limbo Silence (Independent Publishers Book Award); Grace; Discretion (shortlisted for Hurston/ Wright Legacy Award); and When Rocks Dance. She co-edited Blue Latitudes: Caribbean Women Writers at Home and Abroad, co-founded the National Black Writers Conference, and was executive producer of the Emmy-nominated CUNY-TV series Black Writers in America. She is a Distinguished Professor at Hunter College, CUNY, teaching Caribbean Women Writers and Creative Writing.
Discovering My Mother
From Not for Everyday Use
Quite accidentally I discovered that my mother read books. I didn’t think she did. I thought her only interests were domestic, all related to her children, her home, and her social circles. It turned out, however, that she had read my first novel, When Rocks Dance. I hadn’t expected her to. Years ago, I had left the novel for my father. He never read it. As far as I know, he never read a single one of my eight books. When I found out my mother had read When Rocks Dance, I gave her my next two novels, Beyond the Limbo Silence and Bruised Hibiscus. She read them too and was full of praise for me. I was her favorite author, she said.
As the past and the present became more and more indistinguishable to my father, my mother continued to blossom. Soon I was sending her the manuscripts of novels I was working on. She became my most enthusiastic fan, offering me observations that ultimately found their way into my final drafts.
My older sister Yolande was not surprised when I told her that our mother read my novels. “Mummy used to be a voracious reader,” she said. She told me that Mummy would have her running back and forth to the library to get books for her. Within days after she borrowed one book for her, my mother would want another. “Eventually, I’d bring her stacks of books,” Yolande told me.
How had I missed this? How had I never seen my mother reading a book? What had happened? Had I simply taken for granted that men were intellectually superior to women and so it would not be surprising that my mother’s interests did not extend beyond the domestic affairs of her home and the activities of her circle of friends? And yet I had ambitions for myself. I wanted to be more than a mother and a wife; I wanted to be a writer. I had read Virginia Woolf. I wanted a room of my own and the means to be independent.
The women’s movement had not yet reached our shores when I was young, before I left for college in America, but I had a grandmother who entertained artists and intellectuals in her home. She was good friends with Beryl McBurnie, who would later be awarded the Order of the British Empire (the OBE) for the playhouse she founded, the Little Carib Theatre, which survives today as a showcase for local playwrights, act
ors, visual artists, dancers, and musicians.
I must have been ten years old when I first met Ms McBurnie. She strode into my grandmother’s drawing room wearing a shockingly bright multicolored cotton dress, shocking because I was accustomed to seeing women of Ms McBurnie’s social class in the more muted colors of the English dresses we imitated. But splashed across Ms McBurnie’s dress were the vivid colors of our tropical flora and fauna: reds, oranges, yellows, greens, purples, blues. Soon Ms McBurnie began expostulating on the bold plans she had to form her own dance group and theater company. She was tired of all those English jigs and Scottish reels she had been taught at school, she declared. She wanted us to sing and play our own music and perform our own dances; she wanted to validate what she heard in the country from the people who were largely untouched by the British influence: the Africans, Caribs, French, Spaniards, Portuguese, many of them speaking a sort of patois, African words and rhythms laced with English. She talked about one of her concerts where her dancers performed a market scene shouting out the names of our local fruit: sapodilla, mango, pommerac, pomme cythère, chenet.
At nine years old my reading had been largely confined to the books of the English writer Enid Blyton. I was consumed with the adventures of English boys and girls my age who picnicked on beaches without coconut trees, eating cucumber sandwiches and all sorts of exotic fruit—apples, peaches, pears, grapes—as they solved mysteries that eluded adult detectives. I used to do my best to emulate them, but try as I might, I never seemed able to develop a taste for cucumber sandwiches and always found the beaches where I had my picnics too hot to wear a cardigan. After I heard Ms McBurnie, my imagination expanded. Cucumber sandwiches, apples, peaches, pears, and grapes didn’t seem so special anymore, and I found myself being given permission to dream up picnics at the beach with pelau, coconut water, tamarind balls, pomme cythère, and mangoes.
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