I am sitting on my bed, holding a cup of coffee. The creamy milk forms a thin layer on the top and each sip leaves me with a burning sensation on my tongue. My eyes are looking outside my window, beyond the pool and the white walls, carrying an overgrown berry tree on their shoulders. I am acutely aware of love. What it means to me as a 25-year-old, a month shy of 26. I try to make sense of what love means to me, the lessons that I have had to learn and the various ways in which love has been made manifest in my life. I will limit this essay to my romantic love, with kind permission from my partner to be as honest as possible in articulating my journey of love.

The first time I said, “I love you,” to my partner, rolls of sweat sat on either side of my temples, I felt my nose becoming oily, my mouth dried up and my body shivered uncontrollably. There was a minute’s pause that was disturbed by the words: “I love you too.” The pause was not really because my statement was out of place or even unwelcome but because my mouth had articulated what I felt in my heart louder than I had anticipated. I was overwhelmed by how gentle this love was, my heart beating intensely, without threatening to jump out of its cage. We hugged each other until our sweat became cold. We did not feel time going by. We held hands, our bodies against each other until the sun rose from the East. I remember the orange glow that gradually arose and then infused itself into the azure sky, so that the window reflected a misty hue, as though someone had blown warm breath directly onto the window. We slept briefly. I do not remember dreaming.  

It was not the first time that I fell in love. Each person and experience before this was unique and, in a way, special. But it was the first time that I fell in love with someone so intensely and that I felt the love reciprocated in the most spectacular way. For the first time in my life, I knew exactly what kind of love I wanted and how I wanted to be loved. Moreover, I was with someone who gave me the necessary liberty to express my love honestly and truthfully. The question that I perhaps ought to ask myself is why is this love different and what does this mean? Soon after meeting the one person that I love; it became natural to talk about our love within the context of the institution of marriage. This is where I would love to expand a little bit. For someone else, this is a small feat, but to me this was something extraordinary because of the dynamics of my life and the many epiphanies I have encountered in my life’s journey. My parents met in 1984. My father was a law student, who had just transferred from the University of Fort-Hare to UWC, and my mother was a young entrepreneur from Kwa-Langa township. They got married afterwards and I was the second-last child born of their union. So, as a child I watched their love blossom and imbuing itself into all that was done for us. I watched the loyalty, unconditional love, and mutual commitment to each other and how these qualities helped them overcome the various challenges of love, until my father took his last breath. So, from an early age I was aware of what love is and what being in love really meant. I was comfortable with the idea of love and the characteristics of it, but after my father’s death, I found that it was only the idea of commitment that I did not quite align with. After my dad’s death, when I started dating seriously – this feeling of anathema to commitment – worsened.  But meeting my partner made commitment something that was desirable and something that I agreed with. I was no longer fearful of it. We talk about getting married and dream about our children. We name them and then look into each other’s eyes and envision ourselves as parents that are full of love and healing. We sit in silence and bask in the serenity of the moment. Whether it happens or not, only time will tell. But our love is something that will bear fruit.

Loss changes people at a time and damages them – at another. After losing my father, I found that I started becoming fearful of losing people and things, especially those people or things that I loved. The one person that I loved so intensely and wholeheartedly (my father) had physically detached from my life by way of death and the love that remained I found to be no different to torture. His death felt like a betrayal. It left me blaming God for not giving me one more day to spend with my toppie (old man) and blaming myself for all the times that I did not try enough to show my father that I loved him. I found myself crying for the loss of strangers. Pain became familiar, though faces and names didn’t. Death made me scared of attaching love to people and things that would cause me to become attached to that love; the tenderness of it – only to lose it in the end. I found that my heart kept on producing gallons upon gallons of love, that had to wrestle with pain, betrayal, and grief; leaving me with scars for which there is no balm. So, detaching myself while the love blooms became a coping mechanism, as though to say: I love you, but I need to tame that love lest it become uncontrollable; for then, it can only burn me in the end. I had used this coping mechanism and remedy so often that it became a natural response to any prospect or experience of love. I comforted myself with the fact that this was an act of self-care that benefitted both the recipient and the giver, in this case – myself.

Pain gave me a sense of embarrassment. I became embarrassed to express my pain. Any pain – especially that of my father’s death made me feel embarrassed. I was not comfortable with sharing it because I had learnt to deal with the constant hurt that that hidden pain subjected me to. I feared that sharing my pain would make me a burden and that would mean that I was imputing the burden of my own pain on someone else and that was something that I was not willing to do. So, in a way, I subjected myself to singlehood within a romantic companionship, thus leaving distance between myself and the one that I was with. I hid my pain successfully, but within me I felt it in private moments, when I was alone, my eyes bloodshot and my pillow wet as though it had been drenched in a pool of water. Pain and all the memories that accompanied it, I kept to myself, and this resulted in me not being wholly present within the relationship, because there are things that I kept to myself that I needn’t have. But how embarrassing this pain felt. How quickly I would lose anyone to whom it was exposed, I thought. This morphed from a burdensome thought to an unnecessary mountain that I did not need to carry by myself, but nonetheless did. I was oblivious to the fact that love heals. The embarrassment shielded my eyes from the true healing that I needed. A healing I was unable to give to myself.  

People who have been through pain are not at liberty to inflict it on others, using the unfairness of life as an excuse. The experience of loss does not give one leeway to act recklessly and disrespectfully. But people who have been through loss, like those who haven’t will make mistakes. Mistakes that could either break the relationship or teach them invaluable lessons that can shape the relationship. I was once very late for a date that we had. I declined to communicate, because I was nowhere near ready to meet the set time for the date. I eventually arrived but the atmosphere was already negatively tarnished, rightfully so. After several minutes, we spoke about it and I was made to understand that even when the potential result could be negative, there is never a substitute for communication. I understood that this was an area that I lacked in. While I was naturally good at communication, but there was a lot that I needed to learn about communication within the relationship. It was a sign of respect, courtesy and commitment. From then onwards, I made it my mission to teach myself to communicate properly, so that my better half did not have to question my whereabouts or have to read between the lines. This was one time when I thought we wouldn’t make it, I saw the end of the relationship. We were both unhappy about the situation: the one, about what happened and the other about how it was handled. But, in the end we had to consider what was pivotal, which was working on our relationship, strengthening it, so that it can stand the test of time. We worked through it, and I had to humble myself enough to learn from my mistake, aided and abetted by the unconditional love of a supportive partner. I learnt that acting recklessly was hurtful to one’s partner, but also that where one has erred, it is necessary to humble oneself to learn from the mistakes one has made. Where this is paired with the support of a willing partner, a powerful combination to strengthen the relationship came into being. What I do want to emphasise though is that a partner that has been through loss, through constantly hiding their pain and burying their grief, may need patience. Love may allow them to open up, but it is a gradual process. It takes time and needs the partner that is trying to get him or her to open up to exercise patience. Before dating a partner that has experienced a loss that has altered their life, it is important to ask oneself whether one is ready to be patient and to help guide the partner to open up and to heal. The process is painful and at times tedious, but it if you love someone and above that, are willing to be patient with them through the process it gives him or her the liberty he or she needs to be freed from the often-humiliating pain and embarrassment that loss and the process of trying to survive it, may sometimes bring about. Love and patience may play a role in terms of one’s partner’s healing but there is no obligation on any one to offer support or love, where one is not willing to. The ultimate healing is from within and the partner who has been through the loss should demonstrate willingness to work through the pain, slowly – to heal so that his or her pain does not affect the relationship or what he or she is trying to build.

This relationship has been more than that. I met someone that I genuinely love. Someone who would tell me it is okay to feel the tears welling up in the odd moment of speaking about my father. I never feel guilty about random moments of sadness. Playing with my partner’s hair and laughing at the odd, unfunny-funny joke and taking in my partner’s affirming and loving words bring about healing, teach me what it means to be free. How cooling it is to one’s peroxide-blonde palms! I also learnt not to assume that my partner feels loved. I’ve learnt to articulate it loudly, in word and deed, although I am still learning to do so in more meaningful ways. I’ve learnt to pray to God often – for the love of my life. I’ve learnt to apologize when I am wrong and to be patient with the process of love. I do not fear commitment anymore, because what is there to fear when your heart, mind and soul is imbued in the love for a person who has shown you time and again that they love you; even when you thought that you did not deserve that love.  

The first time I spoke at an academic conference last year, I was overcome with fear, but it is my partner’s prayers and strong affirmations that held me up like the torch in the hands of the statue of Liberty, as I stood on that platform articulating my arguments. It is my partner’s motivational words that helped me perform well in my exams. I am not saying that I have no capacity to think or dream big or to achieve anything outside of my partner’s help. We both exercise autonomy and are well-versed on the agency of the individual. But when someone’s vision aligns with yours and contributes immensely to how much you achieve and how greatly you dream, due credit must be given. This is where I honour, thank and profess profound gratitude to God for this human being. My ancestors, amaCwerha, ooMahlahlana, ooSiyoyo who walked this earth before me and left their hopes and dreams on my shoulders can be assured that I will not lose my direction with this person’s love and the lessons that I have been taught and learnt.

I do not find the process of healing easy. There are things that I have to unlearn and things to learn. I still make mistakes, I still get many things wrong but being with someone who is willing to correct you and teach you how to do better the process of becoming the best (and healed) version of oneself is easier. One also finds that opening up starts becoming easy because you trust the person and feel the warmth of their love. Opening up is something that I have been improving at. It is not easy. The layers of hurt and pain have been still for too long and moving them is not easy, but it gets better as time progresses. Be patient with yourself and speak to your partner to learn to be more patient and sensitive to the fragility of the process. One of the most salient points of the process of healing is that you slowly lose the unhealthy fear of losing people. You become comfortable with the idea that it is okay for people to outgrow each other, that it is okay to part ways when it necessary to do so, that it is okay to move on from each other, without hating each other or perceiving each other in an ill manner. I love my partner, but if we had to part ways (God forbid), I will always be grateful for the opportunity to love and to be loved so intensely. It might hurt, but the gratitude will linger, and the remnants of this love will shape the trajectory of our respective realities for the better.

The beauty of this relationship is the fact that we constantly explore our toxicities and speak about them and devise ways of dealing with them. We speak often about how we handle things differently: the other by speaking about them and me, by bottling them up inside most of the time. We speak about how important it is to devise ways of dealing with things and each other in a language we both understand and in a way that is effective. Sometimes, the answer is simple, very simple; almost staring us in the face. The night was cold, we felt rude blows of cold air freezing our toes. We were curled up in a fleece blanket, when the tv was paused. Baby investigated my face, with a look as still and serene as the mountains of uKhahlamba and then whispered, softly, “you must go to therapy.”

It is important that couples speak to each other about what triggers them. What it is that causes them to panic, to feel uncomfortable; to deal with the awful feeling (worse than death) that comes with being triggered. I am triggered by silence. Most adults punished me with silence when I was younger and when my dad went silent, in the last stage of cancer, I came to an uncomfortable realisation of the power of words and the silence that threatens it : in the expression of love and the reception of it, in life and death, in words spoken and understood and words lost in translation. I am triggered by silence. It makes me feel awful when someone gives me the silent treatment. I panic and am left feeling uncomfortable and numb. This pertains to people that I love and care about.

I recently jotted down in my memoir that this experience of love has been the best thing to have happened to me romantically. It has stripped me naked, baptised me with fire and then clothed me with tenderness. The liminal space between giving love and receiving it, is the difference between the asking of a question and its answer. I have no words to describe all that I have given and the bounty that I have received in this beautiful and rare relationship. One morning, the dew of dawn still resting on the windowsill, baby asked me what the relationship means to me. I made reference to Ocean Vuong’s beautiful novel, “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” that I refer to as a ‘tour de force’. Trevor is asking a pertinent question to his lover, Little dog.

Trevor “What were you before you met me?”

Little dog: “I think I was drowning.”

Trevor: “What are you now?”

 Little dog: “Water.”

I am turning 26 next month. I am entering the new age feeling grateful for the gift of love. Love that I experience and memories that have crystallized in my heart. I am grateful for the love of my life. I am entering with the knowledge that you don’t have to perfect to fall in love. You can make mistakes if there is a willingness to learn from them. When you and your partner love each other and are willing to put in the patience and effort to make things work, and by constantly choosing each other – your love will stand the test of time. This is the love that has become light to any sight of darkness in my life. This is the love I wish for all those who are reading this essay. This is a love that you deserve. You. You. And YOU!

The corrugated iron shack swallows the thunderous clapping of hands so that the whole room seems to shake from the simultaneous sound of the singing and the clapping of hands. Each song has a melody that accomodates the three – clap sound and the pews sit neatly opposite each other,so that the men sit neatly in the front, facing the women,who sit with covered heads savouring the religious opium of the moment. As our visit to the Church came to an end,we lined up to have hands laid on our heads. The preacher laid hands on everyone in the line. A woman falls as she is prayed for. Her stomach moves in calculated rhythms,like the shoulders of a Nigerian man heaving up and down,while he bellows,”tufiakwa.”Her breathing is irregular. The line is halted and a man pulls me back by the neck,as I lean forward to carefully and curiously watch the scene. The preacher puts on a ferocious face as he shouts “phuma!” (out!) until the woman,regains consciousness. He declares that she is free from torment. That is my first encounter with exorcism. 

That scene took place at the Gospel Church of Power,also known as “Ibandla lika Tat’uDapula.” It was this scene that sparked my interest in African  Independent Churches and the impact that they have had on the psyche,theology and politics of black people over the years. This discussion aims to understand these complex concepts and will do so by looking carefully at: Schisms and Succession in the African Independent Churches,and will focus on two of these churches: the Gospel Church of Power and The Bantu Church of Christ,also known as “Ibandla lika Tata.” 

The growth of African Independent/Indigenous Churches (the terms will be used interchangeably), provides an alternative to the historical churches. The movement has its strongest base in South Africa and this comes as no surprise as South Africa’s racial policies,for one, left the black community,especially, in an identity crisis. Christianity was then used as a lens through which to find and then to view the self. There are thousands of such churches in South Africa,operating under different names.  

The Bantu Church of Christ was founded in or around 1914 by the Late Bishop James Limba. This was a difficult time within the country,specifically for black South Africans. Laws like the Mines and Works Act of 1911,were in place to legislate that black workers be prohibited from seeking skilled work. The political climate created by racist rule ensured that these black workers worked under devastating conditions. Land dispossession was also cementing itself as a tragedy within South African history. There is no justification for the massive scale of deprivation of the right of black South Africans to own land. Political unrest and opposition to white rule can be traced to the earliest periods of colonialism,when land was expropriated from its rightful owners and more often than not – without compensation. (SAHO). Land dispossession and the stripping of black South Africans of their dignity and right to participate in decisions pertaining to their governance and future,form an integral part of what our colonial past cost us and there can be no justification for this loss and deprivation. 

Bishop Limba’s church was established at this time,when black people found themselves in a position of having to constantly redefine themselves outside of the political mould,that sought to advance white interest to the disadvantage of black South Africans. He established the Church by inviting people to heed God’s call to return to Him,and to look to him as the Chosen servant of the Lord,by reciting an encounter he had had,wherein he had seen bearded old men leading a Church that was to prepare the called for the Lord’s coming. Bishop Limba sought to bring hope where people were fast becoming despondent under the political climate but there was also something traditional about the way the Church was to be structured: old men would lead the governance and processes and this was how many traditional communities were set up. This patriarchal ideology was the norm. The politics of disruption,at the time were not as prominent as they are now and patriarchal structures in institutions like the Church often went unscrutinized. Perhaps the belief was that older men were wiser and likely to make rational decisions, and this was not seen as having any sinister intentions. Bishop Limba did not wish to upset this (patriarchal) setup and instead sought to offer new hope and a new promise of a divine future,that was far greater than that which they sought to hold on to on earth,in their continuing struggle against the white oppressor. So,the church was both a haven of hope as well as a traditional home,that sought to introduce God as seeking to advance a divine interest by way of taking great interest in the immediate individual and collective difficulties of His people. This was an important part of theology,black people serving a God that seeks to make Himself accessible to them and a God that looks like them and offers them an assurance of their own strengths and abilities,so that their resistance to white oppression was not only a deliberate act,but also a subconscious one,embedded in their contentment in their own blackness. This black theology also served as a reminder that black people had greater potential to achieve great things and this directly pointed to the fact that resistance to white oppression is not what black people stand for. It was never supposed to be their burden,but in a way bears testament to their unbreakable spirit. So,this theology offered renewed hope and made Christianity practical and accessible. 

The immediate threat to this black church,that preaches a God who looks like the oppressed (black people) and is near to them,is twofold: schisms and the risk that is succession. It seems as though Bishop Limba foresaw this,as he ensured that it became a tradition in the Church that the incumbent Bishop chooses his successor who is to continue the leadership of the Church. Bishop Limba,chose Bishop Fibi and Bishop Fibi chose Bishop Pitana,who in turn chose Bishop Monki who followed suit and chose the current Bishop Bolani. This has ensured that there were no ambiguities when it comes to succession within the Church and had limited the threat of schisms so that the Church remains united to the vision of its founder and alert to contemporary issues,which has resulted in the church being one of the biggest churches in the Eastern Cape Province and one that has been unwavering in its appeal to black people. They are set apart by their unique singing, with a repertoire of songs like: “Abayi kulamba,abayi kubethwa sisanga nalilanga. Ndingowokuqala Ndingowokugqibela.” (I am the First and the Last.) As well as songs like, “Sizakumnyhasha ngaphantsi kweenyawo zethu. uSatane kamsinyane …” (We will trample satan). Not forgetting, “UloThixo omkhulu oseZulwini.”

 The Gospel Church of Power came much later. Once again,the founder based his religious conviction to establish the church on a vision he had had at the brink of death at Somerset Hospital. He had received instant healing and had been commanded by God to extend this healing to those who sought it. This church was founded in or around 1972,by the late,Bishop Samuel Dapula. The Bishop passed away in 1997 and this marked an interesting turn in the Church,as will be discussed later in this essay. 

Bishop Dapula’s Church came at a time when apartheid in South Africa was fully fledged and the conditions of black people had greatly deteriorated and it was also at this time when there were developments within South African politics: The tragic Sharpeville Massacre,the Black Consciousness Movement was gaining momentum and trade unions were playing an active role even though there was a strong resistance from the government of the day,which meant that their political effectiveness was limited. This period was marked by a significant growth in illegal boycotts which meant that black resistance as a notable feature of this period. 

Bishop Dapula’s message appealled to many black people,especially those in the working class and in particilar, the older generation. This was in part because they bore witness to what apartheid had cost them and their children and what it threatened to cost their future descendants,if there was no divine intervention.  Personally, two of my grandmother’s elder sisters: Boniswa and Nomvula were staunch members of the church and were loyal defenders of the principles that the church stood for,before and long after Bishop Dapula’s death and despite the fact that our family is predominantly Anglican,with a sizeable number enjoying membership in the Methodist Church, – they broke away and did not seem to wish to look back,like Lot’s wife. The Church gave the hope of a living Christ who promised to be active through the medium of the Holy Ghost to fulfil what He had spoken through Prophet Dapula: to set His people free and to grant them the healing,serenity and peace that they so fervently desired. Looking at them clapping resolutely,singing: “Iyaduma,iyabaleka,inqwelo ka Tat’uDapula,clapping hands with their eyes mostly closed;one gets a sense of the desperation and a strong conviction that the people have in the hope brought about by the Bishop’s prophecy and their faith in the accessibility that accompanies it. 

There are two events that became a turning point for the Church,the first being the death of Bishop Sam Dapula in 1997. A “new dispensation” had found ground in South Africa in 1994 and a democratically-elected,black President had taken over and black people had seemingly gained more political power,so much so that important questions on the economic power that they had lacked for many years remained unasked in the excitement and euphoria of the moment . While the efforts of black freedom fighters were rewarded by this event of power having changed hands,but those in power did not forget the role played by churches in mobilizing people for the liberation of South Africa. President Mandela met with both Bishop Dapula and Bishop Monki of the Bantu Church of Christ,respectively. This was to recognise the importance of the African Independent Churches in the struggle for freedom and to further recognize the potential that they had to facilitate harmony and order for the future. Bishop Dapula dies in this liminal space and unfortunately,it was to seem that the Gospel Church of Power had no clear plan of succession in place. 

After his death,the governance of the church rested with Mama Dapula,who was to take over as the Interim Bishop,while a successor was being chosen. After it became evident that the leadership of the church and the congregants could not agree on a successor,Madam Bishop Dapula left to start her own congregation. This was the second turning point for the Church. It was also the first major schism. At the time,especially in African Indigenous churches it was not common practice for a woman to lead a congregation,but this is something that Mama Dapula did and in so doing,broke away from the norm to perpetuate the vision of her late husband. A vision that she had been supporting for many years in the shadows as it were and now, she was at the forefront of continuing where her husband had left off. She was not only disrupting the patriarchal norms and standards but she was manifesting a new idea within theology: that of God being able to use women in institutions like the church to do with equal passion and dedication what men could do,because both were only vessels used by God to fulfil his purpose. The Church was to experience other schisms and Mama Dapula’s death in 2018,marked the end of an important era within the Church she had broken away from and the Church that she had founded – the Gospel Church of Power in the Republic of South Africa and it’s history.  The Gospel Church of Power in Africa, the Church that she had left, was led by six priests and experienced a schism when the Bishop who led the Church,after a court battle was ordered to step down. He subsequently established a new congregation and there was another major schism within the Church. Mama Dapula’s schism will always be a reminder of how the position of women within the Church or women clergy should never be underestimated. It represents the need for the Church to move with contemporary times,that demand for a liberated society inside and outside of institutions like the church. Ancient practices,especially those that oppress women (both subtly and overtly) or exclude them from the processes or governance of the church should be closely examined and where necessary – repealed.

African Indigenous Churches have played a major role in the shaping of society and in the faith and politics of black people by offering an alternative to churches with a Western origin by way of offering “the other side” to theology,another view of God and another way of looking at and playing a role in contemporary politics and matters in general that relate directly to day-to-day interactions. Similarly,they have demanded a closer look at the idea of “rest” which Christ promises to those who follow Him. The concept of rest is one that is of importance in the Christian community and one that perhaps sums up their greatest and most intimate hopes and aspirations.  

The idea of “rest” is both a political and a religious philosophy. One is forced to deal with the fact that black people have always been oppressed by the social, political and economic system, that has always favoured white people. While I celebrate the tenacity of black people,who constantly resist deliberate efforts that seek to discourage them,I am cognizant of the fact that since before colonialism and apartheid,there has never been a time for black people to rest. The Church has therefore offered the hope for this rest,either in this life or in the afterlife; since time immemorial. God rested on the Sabbath day and Jesus offered rest to His followers. Rest is thus a recurring motif. This is thus a dream that most black people,especially devout black Christians of the working class,die – hoping to attain. 

This is a place of return. Time has turned memory into the foreign pleasure of distant things. We have been here before. This place smells like the smoke leaving a braai of brimstone. “Brand daai pas” is a trigger – PTSD reveals the madness hiding in our unstitched scars. There is something paralyzing about lockdown. A weakness of the soft lining of the thighs as though we await blood and water to announce the imminence of a child. But some children are born dead. With no sign of stillness in the stomach,no warning! They are just born breathless. That is us in our state of helplessness. Stillborn children depending on the State to give us our freedom. To relieve us of the weight of confined geography. Solitary confinement. It is for our sake: to save our lives; a woman stirring goat soup adds as my attention focuses on the dry cracks on her feet more than the heaviness of the sentiment. The cracks: a widening of the gap of inequality,that our radical fire in the form of Molotov cocktails could not burn wholly. In every era there is a burning of the dompas. Confronting a crisis that lulls us and then leaves us powerless in the face of lightning: telling us to cover the mirrors and jewellery but stopping us from asking “why?” Because why is difficult. “Why” is the reason we find ourselves in this place. Asking it is to sacrifice your life and freedom. A reckless act that costs you everything. But what do you stand to lose… when fear has stripped you of everything?

Midnight Blue is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of South African Jazz. Not war,not healing,not entertainment – but colour. Perhaps it is the calming effect of this specific colour that I feel is most closely linked to South African Jazz; the many memories it has brought about in our collective memory and the precious place it occupies in the lives of South Africans,in the backdrop of South Africa’s tragic past, that colours every molecule of the present.

Moses Taiwa Molelekwa was gruesomely murdered – or committed suicide. These are but two possibilities that brought about the death of one of the most talented Jazz artists of our time; who was found dead – next to his wife in 2001. This is by far one of the most tragic deaths in our country and this is exacerbated by the questions around it that remain unanswered – to this day. Whatever the cause of death,perhaps the message of tragedy lies in Molelekwa’s music itself. A distinct sound,described by many as being ‘way beyond his years.’ Moses’ place within South African Jazz music is unique: he represents the intersection of Jazz music, in the ‘Apartheid’ era, the transitioning period and the post – democratic period. He represents changes in time and changes in place. His Jazz is not only a cry for change,but a place where different periods meet. A place where people make an attempt at understanding themselves, inhaling the change and asserting their presence. His sound was a spiritual one, that sought to archive an intersection between places,times and perceptions. His albums and interviews represent a man on a constant move, whose navel was connected to the spiritual. A man who sought to understand himself first and then the spiritual realm whose cloud he found himself under. His death was not an easy one. The unsolved mystery it has become is evidence of this. But the tragedy surrounding his name is not new. It was interwoven in both, his sound and life.

This idea of tragedy is a motif in South African Jazz. It is first as a vehement desire to be liberated from something. Then it is manifested as a resigned state. It is vital to understand that the tragedy in Jazz music is not a place to be shunned but a complex and integral space within Jazz music. It is a ‘wailing’ whose tears are made up of blossoming flowers. A wailing whose sound is not only heard, but smelled. A scent of perfumed petals,that the artist spends his life trying to comprehend.

This idea of tragedy I sense acutely as I listen to the music of Bra Zim Ngqawana. It always feels like a contention. The physical at war with the spiritual and hopes and dreams against despondency. His tragedy is different: it is a confrontation. The ultimate tragedy being that of confronting our “ochred” selves,through the prism offered to us by the likes of Bra Zim Ngqawana. The ‘spiritual’travel in time in songs like,”Unamaqhinga Na,” allows one to move within different spaces,as though to romanticize this tragedy,that the artist bewails in his songs;pleading with God,the Ancestors or Time to permit those of us who listen to travel with him. He gives this tragedy depth – so that it does not unfold in the palms of the artist alone,but so that we too can travel, to understand for ourselves the relevance,importance and perhaps,”curse” of the ‘tragedy.’ So,Ngqawana leaves us with an ellipsis in his music as though to beckon us to continue along the terrain of his musings,to define for ourselves perceptions of “being,” and “beauty” in the tragic rhythm of South African Jazz music.

While it seems to me that the complexity and strength of this tragedy is dominant and flexes great muscle in South African Jazz, but I still want to understand its function in the greater scheme of things. An analogy forms in my head into the figure of Nontsizi Mgqwetho. A Xhosa woman poet,who wrote until the late 1920’s with great courage against patriarchal norms that sought to diplace her. By the late 1920’s, she had disappeared into obscurity. It seems to me then,that rather than choosing the easier route of saying that she disappeared into insignificance, it fits the context of her vocation and methodology to say that that she understood the tragedy within her own writing as being a voice. A voice that allowed her to speak when it was unfashionable to do so,to question when it was not deemed her place to do so and to touch lives with her art – in ways that were not necessarily healing,but ways that interpreted the tragedy in ways in which it could be shared – so that each could squeeze the beauty out of it in the scent or gallon size of his or her choice and vocation. Furthermore, she showed this tragedy to be a place of intersection that invites everyone to provide his or her own perception of it – so that its beauty may abound.

Perhaps this is what Bheki Mseleku,Hugh Masekela,Winston Mankuku Ngozi and the contemporary Jazz greats including: Thandi Ntuli,Mandisi Dyantyis,Judith Sephuma and Nomfundo Xaluva,each want to give us. A tragedy passed down as an heirloom in South African Jazz Music, so that each of us can extract beauty in his or her way. A strange way of using this spiritual rhythm as a pestle,to extract unique forms of beauty,that have sustained South Africa for years: through a difficult history and a present that is fragile like the branch of a tree to the intensity of the wind,through the imagination. The tragedy is like a mustard seed in our palms as lovers of Jazz, as though to say to whoever wills: ” Take this tragedy, shape it into a sight of beauty. When you have witnessed its sight – pass on the seed, that remains.”

I remember entering the house and greeting my father who sat conversing with a friend of his that I immediately recognised and noticing another, who sat perched on the edge of the three – seater,black couch. I don’t remember him returning the greeting,but I remember his face: open and warm,so that one could not tell whether that was his natural look or if he had a grin on his face. They left a few minutes later and I remember my parents mentioning that the unfamiliar man was Sandile Dikeni,who had studied Law with my father at UWC in the 80’s and a sombre,yet brief mention is made of the tragic accident that had stirred my hometown, Beaufort – West, years before and had claimed the life of a dear family friend and had almost claimed Sandile’s own life. They referred to it as: “the accident.” I was uncomfortable in the silence that followed: heavy and blank.

The month of November is clad in bittersweet memories for me. I celebrate the birth of my mother and mourn the death of my father. The flickering light in my room,turned most objects into silhouttes and the piercing pain of loss demanded my attention as I kept myself busy,deliberately avoiding the reminder that the ninth of November whispers and avoiding the temptation of counting how many years it had been since … I distracted myself by checking social media,so that “the event” like the “accident” disappeared into the shadows. There it was: in the haunting deluge of tributes,in the overt expressions of disbelief and in the silent comfort of sad poems. Sandile Dikeni had died. The vehemence with which those words landed on my eyes, sent a shiver down my spine. I could not remember who he was nor could I make the connection between the name, the greeting or the accident.” But there was a feeling that I couldn’t shake off,as I curiously read every piece of work of his that I could get my hands on;in the days that followed. A missing link loomed in the jigsaw puzzle,but one thing was certain – there was something about this man’s soul that I found to be necessary and unique.

It is only when my mother reminded me who he was – over a week later,that I finally made the connection. I remembered the man with dreadlocks perched on the edge of the couch. I couldn’t help but think about his poem,”Guava Juice.” Of course,the guava juice,had now fallen to the ground. I smelled its odour, cutting through the umbilical cord of our existence that was suspended between the past and present.

Entering the Presbyterian funeral in Khayelitsha,my Methodist roots were awakened by the soothing isiXhosa hymns that left polka dots in the air. My eyes scanned the venue,the obituary and the whispered conversations around me,but could get no real sense of anyone remembering a poet. I wondered as the dignified reverend prayed,whether he (Sandile) was a religious person and whether he wished to be remembered as such? A short while later, I stood as the casket passed my aisle seat. I bowed to a revolutionary,who now rested in silence. Ah!Xhamela. I couldn’t help but feel like a misfit in a space where people remembered Sandile for the relationships that they had with him. I only had a relationship with him in my soul,as my soul connected to this weaver of words for the collective healing and memory of his people. Everyone knew him better that I did,but my soul insisted on knowing him through the texture of his language and it was this tension that made me feel uneasy as we stepped out of the small church on our way to the cemetery.

The entire journey to the cemetery,I wondered if my connection to Sandile’s soul still made me a stranger,in comparison to those who knew him personally,especially since I could not remember him greeting back,besides the memory of an enthusiastic laugh that he shared with my father,that made him throw his head back,in a dramatic gesture. Remembering Sandile the poet,while everybody seemed to remember the man,made me feel as though I knew him too. I bore the archived memory of his work and that made me feel as though I could lay some claim to him. As though he could read my thoughts, someone asked me “which of the Dikenis’are you supporting?” “I just know Bhut Sandile,” I answered. He nodded but the perplexed look on his face suggested otherwise. Perhaps it was the uncertainty in my voice,as I wrestled with my own thoughts? It suddenly dawned on me: I was a stranger to Sandile only as I placed our relationship on the views of other people. But when I relied on the intersection of our thirst for truth,I found that there was a mutual undestanding between us. This sense of “knowing,”transcended death,distance and doubt.

I stood adjacent to the grave,opposite the family dais,as the clergy said the last funeral rites. I participated more resolutely now,with the pain of losing a familiar person,as the sounds of the Presbyterian hymn,”Ewe sohlangana kulo mzi omhle,” sounded in lieu of the “last post,”as the coffin was lowered.

A preacher mentioned “Guava Juice.” I smiled and exhaled calmly. A woman looked at me with an approving smile.

I thanked him in my heart for the role that he had played in our liberation struggle and in the growth of poetry. I asked him to pass a greeting to my father,in the familiar tone of friends. I wondered if he was chuckling? “Die man is rerig weg jong,” a man bellows looking at me. “Not really,”I wish to say. Poets do not die. Their poetic melodies remain with us. The People.

Sandile Dikeni

I remember your gray corpse being

Lowered

Dressed in a mahogany blanket

Carrying on top of it a wreath of

Colourful flowers,

Resting as an eagle

Atop the Iroko tree.

As though to say,

“Here lies a flower

Of OUR

Revolution. “

When I finished the last page of this novel, I felt my heart sink – painfully. The story seemed so personal that each page is akin to a travel into the lives of the characters. It is a serene story that follows the life of Zwelinzima, son of the late king, Zanemvula, who moves from being a “commoner” to being a king in a short, yet calculated space of time. His crowning liberates a nation from the tyranny imposed by Zanemvula’s brother – Dingindawo, who succeeded the former as king – when the young Zwelinzima was sent away, as a means of preserving his life from the sinister hand of his uncle, Dingindawo.

Zwelinzima entered the palace determined to lead the people according to the wishes of his father.He ensured that there was peace and unity as much as he was able to. However, in the course of so doing, he soon realized that the burden, as it were, of his father’s wishes was too difficult for him to carry out. He was then confronted with the true meaning of service – that which entailed sacrificing your own will for the greater will of the people. It soon became apparent that his sacrifice was placed away from the direction of his desires. He maintained the kingship, but neglected the price that came with it.

Moreover, a prevalent theme within the book was the confrontation of the “ochred – people” and the “enlightened ones.” The book explores the silent tension that existed between these two groups of people. These tensions are exacerbated by the fact that the “enlightened ones” think very little of the customs of the “ochred people” and in the same light the “ochred people” view the “enlightened ones” as “captured” as it were, because they have accepted the ways of the white man and forgotten their own. It is inevitable then, that the identity of these people is what they jealously harbour and a vast majority of them thinks of Christianity as a way of oppressing their identities and wiping away their history.

In light of all this, my favourite aspect of the book is how Jordan gives the power back to the native. He deviates from Achebe who gave the perspective of the white missionary, introducing his religion to the detriment of the native’s customs and traditions. In the end he forgets himself and is completely seized by the religion and the ways of the white man. Jordan paints the picture of the white missionary introducing his religion. However, his stay in the land is only as pleasant as his relations with the native. In a way, the native determines the direction and not the other way round. There is also a scene where a missionary’s life is saved by a native man. This further asserts the aforementioned point. Jordan thus leaves “power” as putty in the hands of the black man. This to show that “power” as sweet and lulling as it is – can either build one or break one.

This is a story that has stood the test of time. Precisely because the tension between the “ochred” and the “enlightened” black people is ongoing. The legacy of Western education is still evaluated because it is argued that it has negated the rich history, language and ways of the native. As we examine ways of reconciling the two, Jordan advises that we should perhaps be progressive in our thinking, but we should never forget where we come from or who we are!

This has to be one of the best, yet difficult books that I have ever read. I say the latter, primarily because it speaks to a diversity of issues that we face, especially as Africans, in modern – day society.

The story follows the protagonist, who once knew what it was to have everything that is deemed necessary. She had the stability of a career and of a family. In a way there was both security and comfort. All seemed well, until she had to confront the reality of life: how time complicates everything. Her husband was no longer satisfied with her, nor the twelve children that she bore him. He married a younger woman and remained as far away from his family as was possible. This estrangement between them, the rejection and hurt that she felt, she articulates in the letter that she writes to her friend, who herself knows what it means to be rejected because you are deemed unworthy of the prestige of marriage, owing to your poor background. The protagonist addresses this letter to her, because she too, knows what it means to lose what you once treasured.

This is a story that not only shares the pain that these women felt, in different, yet similar ways, but also shows their very different, yet equally as powerful responses to the issues that they faced. The protagonist allows herself to feel the pain, tries to learn the vital lessons, as her faith and pleasantness of character beckon her too, in order to find the healing that she so desparately seeks. The death of her estranged husband does not make it easy. She constantly fumbles in the dark of her own sorrows, perhaps wondering why time had to be so hostile, why her husband went back on the promise of loyalty that she held so closely – so jealously.

Her friend on the other hand, had learnt to strengthen her inner self – so as to move on from hurtful situations as swiftly as possible and with as little brokenness as was possible. When her husband betrayed their vows by agreeing to marry another woman, chosen from his aristocratic family by his mother, he did not protest. His wife was not willing to settle for second position and thus distanced herself and established herself elsewhere – choosing herself over the hurt, unlike her friend who wallowed in the trauma of being disappointed, having to move on and then never being able to sort out the hurt that she harboured because he – Moudou Fall – her estranged husband – is dead! This was a powerful lesson in how we delay the process of healing our inner hurt until we are forced to confront it – in the presence of circumstances that trigger all that we had feared feeling. Moreover, it was a process of her finding her strength within the reach of her own agony and mental peril.

This can be described as a feminist story, as it often has, as the author, Mariama Ba, has taken it upon herself to advocate for womxn’s rights, but I would further extend it, even if that means rejecting the aforementioned feminist stance. To me it is the author trying to position and question the regard given to the rights of womxn within the broader scope of human rights, at a time when womxn were not given priority or a voice to effect change to their realities. This to me was her greatest feat: that of asserting the rights of womxn as not as a separate entity that sought to be placed next to men’s rights – but as a necessary component that made up the holistic scope of human rights and thus, as a necessity for progress and development of any nation or society.

This is a book that will continue to enjoy a legacy of beautiful writing that depicts the reality of many African families today: that of hardship,grief, abuse and difficulty.It continues to serve as a manifesto of courage, that not only motivates but also canvasses for more and more people that will search within themselves to find the necessary strength to fall and then to rise again, over and over again.

Stop falling in love with people that do not know how to love you …

Stop fitting your head into the cracks of a wall that is dead to the sun’s difussion of emotion. A wall that is impermeable. It has always been that way .. you are not skilled enough to fix it. You do not know when it will fall – unprovoked.

Your heart is a bonfire that carries a pot of unsteady water. If you move too close do not be surprised when it tumbles over you. The steam released a warning that You willingly ignored.

You love being a casualty. But, the emergency ward does not have beds for people like you.

You will carry the scars alone. Never forget that: the bandage does not only take the puss … it also leaves with parts of your flesh that may never heal again.

The rope hangs loosely over the ceiling.

Why do you have to turn the bench like that if you are truly serious about wanting to die?

Why do you look down at all the things that you are leaving behind?

Do you have to cry so loud,as though you wish someone could stop you?

It is not your first attempt … you once jumped off a highway .. the hem of your Jersey stuck to a nail .. you did not die.

You once set yourself alight … but a bucket of water relinquished your death wish before it was fulfilled. You did not die.

This is your third attempt.

You left open your Bible on the verse:”thou shall not kill.” What it does not mention is that you died while you were still alive.

You cooked dinner for your love and children and then disappeared to the room when they fell asleep on the couch. You did not say good bye.

The rope is fastened by your hands. The bench is not shaken before your jump. No one stops you from your death. Depression is a backstabber. it kissed you before your fall … betrayal does not remind you about the things you leave behind.

No one has ever told you how baggage is packed up into a neat bundle that does not cost you your dear life. No one has ever told you how to clean yourself up when you smell like death.

No one tells you how to make it out of the cemetery alive … when you are dead.

Colour my name in all the colours of the rainbow.

Red for the bloody ocean we have stood before, running from unnamed things that chased us from behind.

Orange is the scent that oozes from our love,it reminds us that we should not be deceived by the bitterness of the outside,things are in fact sweeter from within..

Yellow is the colour of things that have stood the test of time .. when we hold hands in cold wind,it is the colour of our palms .

Green is the colour of things that spring to life after death,how many times have we ressurected to each other after catching death at the parting of our lips?

Blue is what we see after the clouds have cleared over the mountains;what we see,so long as we do not lose our eyes.

Indigo and violet flowers bloom from the laurel above our heads. The sun above it,is My love for you. It knows how to nourish people and things without burning them!it knows how to be gentle,how to stretch just enough to allow you to do the same.

Maybe then you shall remember that after every rainstorm is calm; you shall remember that rainbows are a promise that comes after calamity.

Understand this: “My name means “rainbow” in the language of our love.

Now you know that even “Rainbows” have names and that mine is one of them.