Tag: Southern Africa

How language connects us

When asked what my first language is, I often pause because it is not an easy answer. My first language was Chewa. I spoke it like a native although I wasn’t one, but it has slowly faded away over time from non-use. I then learnt Bemba, English, Kaonde and Nyanja. At the time I didn’t realise that my experience as a child of foreign diplomats living in Malawi was quite unique. I had adopted the language spoken by my nanny, the cook, the driver and their children instead of English.

It was only at school where I came into contact with other children of diplomats that I was made aware of being different. Why didn’t I speak English? English came to me with time – I must’ve been 5 years old – and with it a whole new set of rules and airs. There were strict rules on enunciation and pronunciation, and it became very clear early on that this new language was considered superior to the languages I had spoken before.

I navigated my way through two worlds, speaking each language exclusively in different settings, but I always felt more at home with Chewa. This was likely because it was my first language but also because it connected me deeply to my family and earliest friends. The people I went home to allowed me to speak it without giving me stern looks or pinching their lips in distaste. Speaking it came without judgment.

The realities of the world we live in dictate that fluency in English and a handful of other European languages are required to be successful in our education systems and in the workplace. I can live with that, to a point, but it pains me to see indigenous languages falling by the wayside because they are not regarded as keys to success. I see evidence of this in Zambia where some parents explicitly tell their children that English is the only acceptable language in the home and then banish them from speaking anything else. This decision is made by parents whose own experiences taught them that “proper” English meant access to good jobs and advanced educational opportunities. The intent may be well-meaning but I’ve seen first-hand the alienation it brings when children are unable to communicate with peers or family members who are not fluent in English.

(Graphic: Cassandra Johnson)

By speaking our languages we are doing more than stringing words together; we also learn about the underlying culture and influences. Honorific speech systems that exist in many Bantu languages are reflective of social structure, traditions and respect accorded to elders. These are intrinsic and complementary elements of culture and language. Furthermore, each language carries with it the history of the people who speak it and the areas it is spoken in.

Some of my fondest memories as a child are of those spent at my grandmother’s feet, slowly reading from her KiKaonde Bible and hymn book. In those hours she augmented my reading lessons by teaching me about my maternal family and sharing wisdom through proverbs. Proverbs are cultural treasure troves in any language; they reflect accumulated knowledge and wisdom from past generations. I’m always in awe of these proverbs because they reinforce the fact that my people had a history before missionaries and colonisers landed on our shores.

This Kaonde proverb encapsulates so well the lessons from my granny: “Fukafuka uja twabakulu talalala wajamo kubulwa.” (Kneeling, you eat with elders; keep standing, you learn nothing.) It means: “You learn a lot from elders when you are humble but not when you’re rude.”

Wisdom is not exclusive to speakers of foreign languages which continue to enjoy unparalleled dominance. Much of our history remains unwritten and is stubbornly passed down orally, and there is so much to learn and safeguard.

There should be no shame assigned to those who speak indigenous languages. A break from the past is needed; rigid rules in schools that see children punished for speaking their mother tongues only reinforce negative messaging about the hierarchy of languages and assign value to what is considered perfect or acceptable – posh, lightly accented speech.

Language is a key component of our identity and through it we can express our unique worldviews. We should honour multiple language and cultural identities. If we lose our languages we lose a way of life, a way of thought and a means of expression.

Though I often take for granted my fluency in multiple languages, I have come to appreciate the inordinate gift I’ve been given. While language is only one marker of a person’s identity, I consider it to be my most important one. Language ties me to my people and my country, and most importantly allows me to communicate. I miss speaking Chewa. Whenever I can, I spend time practising it or listening to audio. I intend to recapture this language of my childhood and add it to my treasure trove.

Bwalya Chileya was born in the early 80s and raised in Malawi and Zambia. She holds a masters in business administration and works as a project manager. She reads and writes stories in her free time. Connect with her on Twitter.

12 years ago

Jozi taxi diaries

“God’s case, no appeal” is the name of a long-past-retirement-age taxi in Chinua Achebe’s novel, No Longer at Ease. This pithy aphorism is right up there with “We mend broken hearts” and “Don’t steal, the government hates competition”, as freely dispensed taxi-wisdom goes in many African cities. A fan of most things offside, I feel morally obliged to like “God’s case, no appeal”, which is also a pretty appropriate description of Johannesburg taxi drivers, who are second only to the Gupta family as a law unto themselves.

There are many sins that can be laid upon Johannesburg taxi drivers’ heads. Humour is not one of them. Except for this one driver my friend Vuyo told me about: his taxi had the usual sticker asking passengers to refrain from paying with large notes, but somehow one morning there were lots of R50 and R100 notes on board, which left the passenger seated next to the driver – the fare collector – stuck for change. The taxi driver quietly noted the problem.

A short drive on, he casually turned into a garage, parked, and walked into the express shop with the batch of notes. He emerged with a plastic bag filled with random groceries, which he proceeded to distribute along with the respective change to the passengers, deducting the taxi fare and the cost of whatever random item he had bought them. Exclamations flew around as non-smokers received packs of cigarettes and school children got dish-washing liquid. Two of the luckier passengers received a piece of New Lifebuoy Total and a nondescript packet of condoms, which promised total hygiene and total pleasure respectively. “You must read that sticker,” he said, easing out of the garage.

(Pic: Oupa Nkosi, M&G)

I suppose taxi commuting would be a lot less stressful if all taxi drivers had this dry sense of humour. Sadly, they don’t, as I once learnt across the road from Luthuli House in Jo’burg.

Its illustrious history as the headquarters of the African National Congress (ANC) aside, Luthuli House’s other claim to fame is that former ANC Youth League president Julius Malema once defended its revolutionary honour with choice expletives – including that classic Malemaism ‘tjatjarag’ – which sent the revolutionary house trending on cyberspace while klevas churned rib-cracking spoofs and soundtracks to Malema’s gallantry on YouTube.

For me though, Luthuli House brings back less-than-revolutionary memories of a taxi ride gone wrong in 2005, which ended with an irate taxi driver screeching to a sudden halt on a street curb near Luthuli House, jumping out and pacing near the taxi as he quarrelled about thieving passengers. I was one of the said thieving passengers. On this day, I learnt the value of one rand. And that a rand is not just a rand.

It was after 11am and I was on a taxi from Soweto to Braamfontein for a noon meeting. As usual, the taxi stopped at edge of the CBD, where Noord Street taxi rank-bound taxis part ways with Bree Street taxi rank-bound taxis. At this point, unless all passengers are going to one taxi rank, taxis generally swap passengers in a loose ‘division of labour’ arrangement to avoid driving to both taxi ranks. So, the Noord Street taxi rank passengers moved to another taxi, while two of us (myself and a middle-aged lady) were joined by several other Bree Street taxi rank passengers from the other taxi. A short ride on, the middle-aged lady asked the taxi driver for her change.

“How much?”

“One rand.”

“Didn’t everyone get back their change?”

“No, I haven’t received my change.”

After repeatedly asking who had the missing rand to no avail, the driver suddenly braked, jumped out and banged the door shut, too angry to drive on. Seemingly, this had happened before and he was simply fed up with this emerging sticky-fingers tendency in his taxi. Some commuters protested about being unfairly delayed, especially as they had switched taxis after the monies had been collected.This left me and the aggrieved passenger as the chief ‘suspects’. Except I was certain I hadn’t handled any change. And the lady was certain she had not received her change. And she wanted her rand back.

As 12pm drew closer, I contemplated getting off the taxi and walking the short distance to Bree Street taxi rank and over Nelson Mandela Bridge to Braamfontein for my meeting. A second thought crossed my mind as the driver ranted about our theft: maybe I should just offer to replace the damned rand. But something stopped me from making either of these faux pas. It occurred to me that, despite their annoyance, none of my fellow passengers was offering to replace the missing rand or take the short walk to Bree. So, I impatiently watched the spectacle of our ‘thieving selves’ packed outside Luthuli House, until the taxi driver – apparently deciding he’d rather be rid of us – got back in the taxi, gave the lady her rand, and drove on, covering the short distance to Bree with an angry rant about cheap passengers who stole one rand. What kind of fourth-rate thieves were we anyway? Serious thieves busied themselves blowing up ATMs and hijacking cash-in-transit vehicles for proper monies, not pinching one rand coins from underpaid taxi drivers.

It later dawned on me that my fellow passengers obviously realised – and respected – the fact that there was more than a rand at stake. This was not about a rand. There was a principle at stake, and the potential corrosion of the implicit trust between a taxi driver and his passengers. This explains why, unlike the Kenyan conductor or the Ghanaian driver’s mate who collects fares, Johannesburg commuters pass on their fares all the way to the passenger seated next to the driver, who in turn processes the change and gives the driver the total collection for the entire taxi load of people. It wasn’t just a rand at stake. This system and its implicit trust were at stake. To date, I still don’t believe it was a case of theft; it was more likely an inadvertent mix-up of change. But in such a well-oiled system, there is no room for inadvertent mistakes. Not even one-rand mistakes.

Naturally, I missed my meeting that day. But I learnt the value of a rand.

12 years ago

Zambia’s latest crackdown on gays

A gay couple in Zambia has been arrested after police were tipped off about their relationship by one of the men’s relatives, local media reported.

The crackdown comes weeks after a human rights activist was detained for publicly demanding that same sex relations be decriminalised.

James Mwape (20) and Philip Mubiana (21), from the northern town of Kapiri Mposhi, are understood to have been living together for some time, according to Zambia News and Information Services (Zanis).

Standwell Lungu, police chief in Zambia’s central province, was quoted as saying: “The two have been charged with the offence of sodomy or having sex against the order of nature contrary to the laws of Zambia.

“The relatives are the ones that reported the matter to the police.”

Police claimed that Mubiana played the role of “wife” in the relationship and had been seen dressed in women’s clothes. The case mirrors that of a gay couple in Malawi who in 2009 were jailed and ridiculed before receiving a presidential pardon.

On Tuesday, Zanis reported that the men had been rearrested and denied bail after “they were found in the act again” and would face further charges.

Lungu said medical tests proved that the men had sex. “We have revoked police bond and rearrested the two men for again engaging in the act which they were arrested on in the first place. They will remain in custody until they appear in court … We have given them more counts.”

The couple are due to appear in court on Wednesday.

Last month, activist Paul Kasonkomona was arrested minutes after a live TV appearance in which he said homosexuality should no longer be outlawed.

Paul Kasonkomona leaves the Lusaka magistrate court on April 11 2013, where he pleaded not guilty to charges of promoting homosexuality, after appearing live on television to argue for his cause. The 38-year-old activist was arrested in the capital on April 7, minutes after he appeared on a live TV show where he openly advocated for gay rights. (AFP)

In a recent interview with the Guardian, Zambian Vice-President Guy Scott defended the police action. “The problem with this guy going on television was that we had to do something because if we had done absolutely nothing we would have got a bollocking from all these evangelical churches plus damn idiots,” he said. “On the other hand, we didn’t want to give him a particularly hard ride.”

Scott made clear that gay rights is not a priority in Zambia. “I think you’ve got so much cleaning up to do of killings and defilements and this and that, it’s almost self indulgent to think, ‘Well, why don’t we sit here and talk about gay rights?'”

But Scott’s claim that Zambia has a policy of “live and let live” appears to have been challenged by the latest arrests. It was also contradicted by Chishimba Kambwili, the youth and sport minister, who recently told a radio programme: “We don’t want Zambia’s children to be taught any vice. We will not tolerate homosexuality. Those who want to promote homosexuality in Zambia are wasting their time. If anything, we are planning to stiffen laws against homosexuality.”

Homosexuality is illegal in 37 African countries. In Zambia 98% of the population disapprove of homosexual behaviour, according to a 2010 survey, and newspaper headlines such as “cage homos” are commonplace.

David Smith for the Guardian Africa Network.

12 years ago

Home: A place of memory

If I do the maths, I have, over the last five years, split my existence across nine permanent addresses in five countries on three continents, and travelled to several other places in between.

Just as soon as I was getting the hang of the guttural sounds of German and confidently engaging in general pleasantries, I was on my way back to Zimbabwe to reacquaint myself with the hustle of a nation rebuilding after the tempestuous times of 2008.

But barely months into my re-acclimatisation, I had switched borders for South Africa where a world of intricate hand signals for hailing taxis opened up to me. That and the bunny chow special my workmates and I indulged in on far too many of our lunch breaks.

But before getting too much into that comfort zone, I was learning the codes of gauche English etiquette employed aboard the London tube. “No matter what, do NOT make eye contact,” was the instruction that I tried to dutifully abide by.

My most recent expedition was to the US where I was to acquaint myself with yet another new set of rules. It’s a trunk, not a boot, and enunciated ‘t’s – as in asking for a glass of water – almost always lead to a repetition of the request to ensure that it is really English that you have just spoken.

Between all of my trips, however, I have always touched base with Zimbabwe, living here for a decent number of months at a time.

Thus the question has always been the same upon each return: For how long am I home before I leave again?

Home.

I was seven years old the first time I moved house. A traumatising development for my young mind, the news triggered endless episodes of weeping and fruitless dissuading.

And so it was that on a sunny April afternoon, a giant grey removal truck came through our yard to devour the contents of the only home I had ever known. A home which we proceeded to leave bare, our echoes frightening the lazy specks of dust floating on the spears of sunlight piercing the now-empty space.

Home, for me, was now a place of memory.

(Graphic: Kenny Leung)

Vines of granadilla fruit which twisted their way from our neighbours’ side of the durawall to ours, falling traitorously into our backyard, were no longer to be savoured. Anna, my daily companion and mate from across the fenced side of our property was not to be chatted to anymore, though we promised to start writing each other letters when we could read and write well enough. My mother’s Saturday ritual of cultivating her beds of of nasturtiums, marigolds and petunias was to cease for we moved to a first-storey town apartment with no garden, no granadillas, no Anna.

Home had taught my child’s mind a lot of things.

It was along our home’s long gravelly driveway that I first learnt pain when, aged about four, I pedalled my tricycle too fast down an incline, only to veer off course, overturn and fall into a mess of blood and tears.

Courage was learnt one afternoon, playing outside, when I encountered a snake coiled up between the veranda’s edge and the rain gutter. It was the maid who I would run to in a panic. And it was she who would expertly maneouvre herself around the veranda’s edge, finding the right position from which to smite the reptile’s head with a metal rod that she then used to carry its limp body to the compost heap with, fascinated little me in tow.

Home also taught me about life’s inequalities, particularly as I observed the old man from next door who doubled as maid and gardener for our white neighbours. While my family called him ‘Sekuru’, the madam whose voice always sounded shrilly and insistently from some inner room of the house, preferred to call him ‘Zaka’. I would later learn that this was not even his real name, but merely the name of the area from which he hailed.

I remember once watching him, through the lattice fence, as he meticulously clipped his madam’s lacey underwear onto the clothesline. Upon perceiving me, a look of emasculated shame coloured Sekuru’s features, followed by a command to me to go away and play elsewhere.

Home was the initiator of many lessons I continue to imperfectly assimilate into my being and even today, if I close my eyes, I see and feel it vividly.

With more movements and changes of house throughout my adolescence, I acclimatised to the impermanence of place, even once writing a poem that began with the lines:

“If you start bringing in the boxes

And wrapping and packing up the tea-sets and plates

I’ll know it’s true –

That this is no longer home…”

And perhaps, it is this acceptance that explains my fascination with travel and my frustration with people who fail to appreciate that life is never about fully arriving or leaving.

I left the one place I truly considered my home over 20 years ago. But not fully, for it is a place that still lives within, and a place I recreate, albeit imperfectly, with each new undeserved vine of good fortune that twists it way into my yard, each Anna I encounter whose friendship I accept as being potentially fleeting, even if we do exchange email addresses and promise to stay in touch across continents and time zones.

I am never fully home, but I furnish a semblance of such a dwelling place in every act of courage, in every wince of pain and shame, in every place that allows me to appropriate another room for the house that is my memory.

And with this realisation, the question that has plagued my conscience for far too long has lost its ability to frustrate me.

“How long are you here for?”

The truth is that I am always here; here in the place of memory.

Fungai Machirori is a blogger, editor, poet and researcher. She runs Zimbabwe’s first web-based platform for women, Her Zimbabwe, and is an advocate for using social media for consciousness-building among Zimbabweans. Connect with her on Twitter.

12 years ago

An explosive affair: Harare’s premier arts festival

The experienced traveller in all his passport-stamped and border-crossing glory would be ill-equipped for Zimbabwe, mostly because it is anything but the stereotypical African country some imagine it to be. Power cuts and politics aside, Harare is an ever-vibrant capital city with a nightlife so busy it reinforces the meaning of the city’s Shona name as a place that never rests. The capital remains ever-shifting under the temperate bright blue summer days or the chilly starry winter nights – more so every year in April when the Harare International Festival of the Arts (Hifa) kicks off in an explosive celebration of dance, theatre, music, art and culture. This festival transforms the city into an animal that breathes through drum beats, dancers’ flexed feet, brushstrokes of artists and the voices and footsteps of thousands of festival goers that religiously attend the shows every day.

The theme for this year’s festival – What’s Next: Looking Back / Looking Forward – echoes the sentiments of Zimbabweans: what next for the country and its future? One of the top-selling shows, 51%, may have an answer. This sold-out stand-up comedy show finds common humorous links between disparate or controversial issues like race and gender as well as topics ranging from troubled policemen, nuclear threats and crazy Australian wildlife presenters.

Featuring Michael Kudakwashe, Comrade Fatso and Clive Chigubu, 51% fosters a growing appreciation for stand-up comedy in Zimbabwe. According to Fatso, it allows people to “laugh out loud at our issues” in a controversial yet humorous performance that combines political satire, wit and clever observation. In true form the performance does have moments where, in addition to laughing, you do look around to see if the ever inconspicuous state secret police will single you out for laughing too hard.

Although shows like 51% may not be directly changing people’s lives, they do inspire people, and form part of a greater collective of cultural activism platforms headed by Fatso’s Magamba Network, the country’s leading hip-hop and spoken word organisation. Such projects range from Shoko, Harare’s first hip-hop and spoken word festival, to the highly popular Zambezi News, a satire comedy show along the lines of South Africa’s ZA News.

The explosive performance by Noisettes on Thursday evening seemed to be the one that most appropriately answered the festival’s question. The band, led by the London-born Shingai Shoniwa and Dan Smith, enthralled a crowd of over 1 500 people with their smash hits Never Forget You and Don’t Upset the Rhythm. The best part of the performance wasn’t even the inspiring, enigmatic Shingai, with her sensual allure, likeability and distinctive neo-soul vocals. It was the collaborations between Shingai and up-and-coming local artists like Hope Masike and the award-winning Chiwoniso Maraire.

Shingai Shoniwa in her element during the Noisettes’ performance on Thursday. (Pic: Jono Terry for Hifa)

The collaborations created a unique fusion of sound, mixing Zimbabwean musical instruments like the mbira with electric guitar sounds, creating an eclectic fusion that is so aptly Zimbabwean in nature and sound. Superb renditions of songs such as Miriam Makeba’s Kilimanjaro and Malaika and remixes of popular tracks such as D’banj’s Oliver Twist were included in the band’s repertoire. “This is a dream come true for me. Zimbabwe, I am home!” said Shingai to a roaring crowd.

We couldn’t have agreed more. If the band’s success is “what’s next” for a generation of Zimbabwean musicians then many more artists may now have the courage to pick up a guitar and play the first chords to what could be the next greatest song. Shingai, we want to be like you when we grow up.

Other Hifa music highlights

Daughters of Legends – Selmor Mtukudzi, daughter of superstar Oliver Mtukudzi, and Nkulee Dube, daughter of the late reggae icon Lucky Dube, will thrill audiences with their unique sounds of afro-jazz and reggae. Friday May 3, from 10pm to 11pm.

Baaba Maal – The legendary Senegalese musician and guitarist Baaba Maal will be performing with his band. Saturday May 4, from 8pm to 9pm.

Mi Casa – South Africa’s hottest house music band will collaborate with Zimbabwe’s hottest up-and-coming solo female vocalist, Ammara Brown. Saturday May 4, from 11pm to midnight.

Mokoomba – Award-winning Zimbabwean band Mokoomba will close the programme with their vibrant afro-fusion of Tonga traditional rhythms with modern influences. Sunday May 5, from 8.30pm to 9.30pm.

The 14th annual edition of the Harare International Festival of the Arts runs until May 5. For the full programme, see the official website: http://www.hifa.co.zw