Opening thoughts

Firstly and most importantly, if you're reading this then you thought it worth your while to take time out to and read my writing. My deepest thanks!

I should say from the outset that the first post of 2014 'The Sight of Vitality' was not originally meant to be shared publicly. In fact it was written as an extended 'note' on my phone over a few days and just refined itself into what it is here. I mention this so as to account for the rather abstract and philosophical nature of the piece. I usually prefer blog entries to be more conversational in nature so as to stimulate conversation between myself and you the reader.

Be that as it may, I had to start somewhere, and was finally convinced by a close friend and my sister to share this. I hope it is a blessing of some sort.

Lastly, leaving comments/questions/thoughts on the actual blog is ideal but can be tricky (I've tried fiddling with the settings though) so should you want to give such feedback but are unable to for whatever technical reason, do email me at zamamoyo@yahoo.com. That you should share in my passion (writing) is an honour; that you should respond to it the sweetest of pleasures and a real privilege.

Stay Blest!

-Zama, 02 Feb 2014

The Sight of Vitality

I regard seeing as the fundamental characteristic of vitality. To see is to know you're alive and to recognize the life around you simultaneously. The tendency, I suppose, is to add emphasis on seeing things 'as they are'. But I find this needless. For it seems to me that, by definition, to see is to apprehend the realness and reality of things, that is, to be sure of the immediacy of what one is seeing and to be reasonably certain of the object's empirical stability -there is no perpetual threat of its annihilation. Therefore, if I 'see' what is not there I am not really seeing but I am in fact hallucinating, or projecting, or the like.

This seeing-as-awareness notion is evidenced by how, since times biblical, human beings associate knowledge with light, so that to have something revealed to you is to be 'enlightened'. Perhaps it is best demonstrated at the scientific level. Seeing, in the strict sense of visual perception, is contingent upon three things: light, an observer, and that which is observed. Take away any of the three and the possibility of seeing is gone. For if we take away the object being observed, it stands to reason that there is nothing to see. In scientific terms, there will be no object off of which the light can bounce back to the observer. Secondly if we take away the light itself, there will be no signal for the observer's brain to process, and therefore no sight (even though the object does indeed exist). Finally, if we take away the observer, then there will be no reception of the light bouncing off the object, and therefore no seer. 

I would further conjecture that the latter (absence of the observer) is the principle behind the clinical condition known as depression. At a psycho-emotional level, one is not able to see his surroundings when in the depths of a seemingly chronic state of melancholy. Though there is a visceral knowledge (light) of one's immediate environment (object), it seems that one's sense of appreciation is lulled by the constant hum of pathos. Some years ago, a relationship ended, and having been attached to the person to an unhealthy degree, it triggered a 6 month period of depression. I remember very vividly a visit to the nursery with my mother, after which I intimated- perhaps in writing- that the flowers seemed to have lost their colour, and that my world, everywhere I looked, was just grey. Hence I was not seeing at all; to simply say that I did not see the flowers 'as they were' is to say that I beheld a version of the flowers that was non existent. And this is true. If indeed it is the case, I was not seeing but imagining/conjuring a world in which all was grey. Seeing is absolute. Clarity is another matter altogether.

But aside with technicalities. The gist  of the above, loosely, is to say that depression blinds one so that all the vision one has is merely a composite of the brokenness (grey) and a vague memory of one's surroundings (flowers). Thus on that day at the nursery with my mother, all I "saw" were dull flowers in a grey world, when in fact there lay in numerous rows in front of me beautiful petals exuding all sorts of hues in a world of possibility- good, bad, but infinite nonetheless.

"The opposite of depression, notes author-psychologist Andrew Solomon, "isn't happiness. It is vitality". For it's quite possible to be happy and be unaware of it; it is possible to lose touch with who, where and why one is in the ecstasy of elation. Feel the wind. Don't be lifted by it.

The inspiration for this elaborative piece came when I saw a group of children singing Katy Perry's 'Roar' in tandem. I chuckled quietly to myself. Having not grasped the exact words to the song, they simply fabricated intonations to the tune so that it sounded like the popular anthem. That was good enough for them.

As you can gather, what I saw was not by any means profound. What is significant is that I did see it; I observed those carefree souls giving expression to their childhood innocence and it evoked a response from me. That, surely, is to be alive. It is to see, and in recognition (or bewilderment, or amusement etc) to respond to what I see. To see is to be aware. To be aware is to be vital.

The intuitive reader will pick up that there is a sense in which the seeing being elaborated upon here has to do with more than just ocular perception, but includes, as awareness necessarily does, a general consciousness involving any and all senses. We are alive to sight, sound, taste, touch and smell (some would extend that list). Indeed I physically watched the little ones scuttle up the street in melodious unity, but I obviously had to have heard it too.

And so I write in celebration of vitality, and though I don't possess the eye of a tiger, am scarce louder than a lion, nor will you hear me roar, I hear another song, the last line of which oscillates in my head like a welcome refrain:
      'Was blind but now I see.
- January 2014

Put Your Forgiveness Caps On

Forgiveness is an endemically difficult topic because it invariably involves deep scars and hurt. As a nation, and in fact as the world, there are many things that have hurt and/or angered us or the people we love, so collective forgiveness is something we not only have to be talking about, it’s something we have to begin practising, for our sakes (lest we be trapped in a prison of resentment) and for those we are forgiving. As such I’ve decided to put together a little collage of contemporary instances in which collective forgiveness is needed, but with a touch of humour (I hope). I suspect it’s one of those topics that are so dense and emotive that laughing at and about it will make it easier to deal with.

Here we go.

LANCE ARMSTRONG

Lancey boy has been naughty for the past decade or so, but it is only now that we realise that we must bring out our whips. For goodness sake, the guy was the driving force behind the ‘LIVESTRONG’ campaign. Now what are supposed to put on all those yellow wristbands? How inconsiderate of him!  By now we all know that Lance Armstrong’s moral arm was not strong enough to give us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. While we were cheering for the seven-time champion, little did we know that we were being taken for a ride on an epic Tour de Lies. Now even his courageous battle against Cancer  looks ordinary- did he fight it because of a strong will to live or because of a desperate addiction to being celebrated? Don’t excuse the pun, but it looks like Lance staged everything.

It took a black billionaire in Oprah to get you admit to the doping allegations. Would you have done the same on 3 Talk with Noeleen Maholwana Sangqu? Hai suka Lance! (Loose translation for my friends overseas: ‘Argh, get outa here Lance!’). Tsk tsk tsk Mr Armstrong, you should be ashamed of yourself, giving your family a bad name like that. Now we’ll be secretly wondering if Neil really did make it to the moon.

That being said, we realise you’re only a human being and that we’re less than perfect. We need to forgive you.

MOLEMO “JUB JUB” MAAROHANYE

The Italian Job made Mini Coopers fashionable- a little too fashionable. There goes our rapping marshmallow (‘jub jub’ is a township term for marshmallow) acting a fool with his friends by drag-racing illegally while under the influence. And of course, he was in his Mini.

All this, mind you, was preceded by allegations of abuse by then girlfriend Kelly Khumalo. Beating is what Jub Jub does best: beat the girlfriend, beat the speed-trap, have the car panel-beaten. It’s ironic, then, that when Marshmallow suddenly had a change of heart, saying he wanted to start a foundation and urging the courts to let him walk, the judge told him to beat it. Heck, the man was even known for making beats. His version of ‘Ngikhokhele bawo’ (Guide me Father) seems to have been prophetic considering his current mess.

That being said, we are certain that it was not your mission to go out and prematurely end the lives of four innocent young people. It is something you will live with for the rest of yours, and what a heavy burden it must be. We need to forgive you.

THE MATRIC FIASCO (The humour takes a back seat here; try as I may have, I could not laugh much about this).

Look, the education in this country is essentially rubbish at the foundational level and needs major overhauling. We know, acknowledge, and admit to that. It is so, full stop.

However, what you really need to take note of, oh you doomsayers, is that the system and the young matriculates within the system are not the same thing! When we nonchalantly dismiss the 3% improvement in the national matric pass rate as being “not enough” and as being “a joke”, how do you think it makes the Grade 12 Learner, distinctions and all, feel? Are we implying that his/her hard work came to naught because the education system of which he/she is a part is primitive?

You see, what has happened is that the Matriculants themselves and the department of education have been lumped together so that we refer to both as ‘the education system’. This is detrimental. It means that we are ultimately so preoccupied with the government’s failure to effectively provide quality education at grades 1-3 that we forget to congratulate those who went through the private schooling system, and/or those who weathered the storm, completing their schooling against these odds.

Yes, it’s not ideal that Seven Twenty Four (Basic Education Minister Angie Motshekga once delivered a talk to us in High School in which she mistakenly said ‘7/24’ instead of the more conventional ‘24/7’. I’ve referred to her as Seven Twenty Four ever since) defends the 30% pass mark. It’s not ideal that textbooks were not delivered for months under her watch. The Matriculants, though, had nothing to do with this. So asseblief parents, stop calling in on the radio and saying how much more difficult it was for you to pass matric. Firstly, that was very long ago, just after Jan van Riebeeck set foot at the Cape of Good Hope. Secondly, your children are dealing with a different set of challenges altogether. So for sanity’s sake, congratulate them for passing! Follow Seven Twenty Four’s lead! As for those who scraped through with the 30% criteria, alert them to the stark reality of having such marks and take it from there. Rather that than “education system” this and “education system” that. It doesn’t work. It hasn’t worked in the last 18 years, and it won’t work now.

So, Matrics, with that being said, will you forgive them?

THE REPUBLIC OF NKANDLA

I’m pretty sure that when President Jacob Zuma hears the name Debora Patta, he will say very seriously, without singing it, “letha umshini wam’” (bring my machine gun). Debora and friends on 3^rd Degree suggested a whole of ways in which R250 Million can be spent constructively, since the President is said to have spent that amount via Public Wex (as we would pronounce it) on his private homestead. Spend constructively? Come on Debora. JZ is spending all this taxpayers’ money on constructing a bunker, constructing a private clinic for his family, constructing tuck shops for his security guards. How much more constructive can a man get? *sighs*. White people.

I dare not say much more about the country’s highest citizen, and neither should you. You who live in a house, was it said that you could have spent all those hundreds of thousands of Rands feeding the homeless instead of spending so carelessly on a decent ‘faze brick’ house? Exactly! How dare you insinuate the same about the President’s beloved Nkandla homestead! How dare you insinuate that the money could have gone to Seven Twenty Four for investment in education, or that it could have subsidized the perfectly logical e-tolling system, or even used to give South African Airways ANOTHER set of wings! Who are you?

That being said, you loyal voters across the country, do you forgive yourselves?

[Evil laugh].

Why Religion is Christianity's Biggest Weakness

   There’s a very heavy sense in which the concept of religion equals rituals. When someone asks another, ‘what is your religion?’ it can almost surely be rephrased ‘what rituals does the god you believe in require you to participate in?’. It’s not so much about the god; it’s about what you have to do stay in his/her/its good books. This seems to be the gist of my generations understanding of religion. That being the case, it comes as no real surprise that the majority of the youth shuns all things ‘religious’; they are seen as strenuous constraints.

Nonetheless, it seems that previous generations had a different understanding of religion. To them it seems to be an infinitely good thing. C.S Lewis, for instance, sees religion as a source of comfort in his Mere Christianity[1].  This is emblematic of the old guard’s conception of religion: if you were Christian, then Christianity and religion were inseparable. Likewise if you were Muslim, or whatever religious movement one belonged to. And that’s just it. Your religion was something you belonged to, not, as it seems to be the case today, something that belonged to you, along with your career and social preferences. To be sure, religion was the context in which rituals were carried out, not the rituals themselves.

I felt it important to discuss this dichotomy after a conversation I had with a certain Aliya Daniels at a camp recently. She asked me whether or not I am a religious person, to which I replied (something to this effect), “No. I’m not religious, but I am a Christian. And I think religion is Christianity’s biggest weakness”. She looked understandably perplexed but I then went on to explain how my faith in God is based not on rituals, but on a relationship with Him. The latter is alive and dynamic, while the former can be switched on and off, like a bulb. My faith, I said, wasn’t a set of prescribed practises. It is a conviction resulting in certain practises. To continue with the bulb metaphor, Christianity is the electricity behind the light, yet it is still up to me to flick the switch. And why else would I flick it unless I was certain of the existence of the electricity behind it? Subsequently, why in the world would I switch it off and continue to stumble in darkness when I have felt the joy of living in the light? Ditto baptism, and fasting, and consistent Church going, and observing lent etc. Surely these are the practises, the switching on which one chooses because of a prior conviction that God is alive, wants nothing but the best for me, and above all, wants me to experience Him and all that He is. If the practise itself is the religion, then what is its point?

Thus if religion has been made tantamount to rituals, then it makes Christianity undesirable, and this is perfectly understandable. No one in their right minds wants to simply be doing stuff, in a certain strict way, on certain days for the sake of it. It just does not make sense.

Here’s what I perceive is the crux: the synonymy of religion and faith is a myth, and it is a myth that is now more than ever deteriorating perceptions of Christianity, even in the church. Deifying rituals is not biblical. That is a misconception. I quote two scriptures, one from the old and the other from the New Testament, and will not further expound because I think they speak sufficiently for themselves:

 Psalm 40:6 “sacrifice and offering you [God] have not desired, but you have given me an open ear. Burnt offering and sin offering you have not required” (ESV)

James 1:26-27 “if anyone thinks he is religious and does not bridle his tongue but deceives his heart, this person’s religion is worthless. Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world” (ESV)

And so it is with a sting that I read Chinua Achebe’s assertion in Things Fall Apart that “the church had come and led many astray”. It is a damning apprehension of the fact that, even if they meant the world of good, the early missionaries brought with them a set of rituals, ways of doing things, instead of bringing a faith. Hence, contrary to their mission, they indeed led many astray. It is a legacy which modern Christians are duty-bound to address. Failure to do so will, I suspect, create a generation of Christians enslaved by their own ‘religion’.

How ironic.

 

---

[1] See 1969 edition, p. 38

Space, Place, and why Blacks need to know the difference

  The Internet is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. If you were to ask someone to point to the Internet, he or she would fail. Yet there can be no doubt that the Internet is in every big business, every academic institution, and many millions of households across the globe. I only point to this example because it begins to illustrate the dynamic relationship between space and place. If the Internet can occupy so much of our space and yet be in no particular place, then clearly the two homophones do not mean the same thing.

Let’s get into it. I’ve always had a fascination with the concept of space. I’m not talking here about the massive expanse of darkness and rocks that fills the gaps between the planets and the stars (although I was indeed a fan of astronomy in my early school days). I’m talking about the idea itself, the construct, and the thing(s) we’re supposed to think of when we hear the word ‘space’. I noticed that, for many people, of all races, it was used interchangeably with ‘place’. In other words, the two terms were generally seen to mean the same thing. But my keen sense of detail, coupled with a heightened awareness of words (a God-given gift I’ve treasured since grade 3), caused me to suspect from very early on that the connection was not so simple. I could not, however, find the words (ironic, right?) to express this. I could not explain to anyone why I thought the words ‘space’ and ‘place’ meant different things, let alone what the difference was, or why it even matters. All I knew for sure is that there was a difference and that, though small, it was significant.

During the course of recent months I’ve had the privilege of reading the intellectual musings of both Steve Biko and Mamphela Ramphele. In that same time period I was also afforded the opportunity of hearing a lecture by a certain fiery and highly controversial Andile Mngxitama (good luck with that surname my white friends). In essence, Biko and Mngxitama are advocates for the necessity for black people to redefine their blackness, to own it, and in so doing break the inferiority complex that continues to characterize black-white relations to this very day. What Ramphele does so simply but with striking clarity in her her autobiographical A Life is talk briefly about the idea of space. She points to the different aspects in which can begin to understand space; poverty, for example, is a clear lack economic space, while the expectation in the Apartheid era of every black graduate to be either a teacher or nurse points to a lack of intellectual space.

How do Blackness and space relate? Quite simply, I think that black people will only be truly free once they begin to (re)claim their space. What I am saying is that the end of Apartheid was essentially a giving back to black people their place. Prisoners were released from prison, and blacks no longer had to stick to certain parts of the country. “Place, place, place; hooray hooray hooray! We’re free!”, we must have thought. However, the second part of our transition must see us taking back space, economic, spiritual, and psychological space. I’m afraid this second part is yet to begin in earnest. Let me give you an example: recently I purchased a new phone and I soon had to take it back because of a defect on the screen. Instead of being promptly given a new one, I was given what eventually became a four-week excuse marathon before the phone was finally replaced. On one of the many occasions on which I went to check on the phone, one of the sales assistants quipped, “if you were white, they’d have given you a new phone immediately!”. When I thought about her comment later, it discouraged me to conclude that she was probably right.

You see, the black man is all over the place but occupies very little societal space: in the imagination of many a sales clerk, a white person is more significant than a black person, and therefore a white person is more likely to get better and quicker service. ‘Yes, the shop itself is full of black people (place), but the white person will probably pay more and be more polite (economic and psychological space)’. Can you see what I’m getting at? Can you see how, in the above scenario, the white person is afforded much more space, despite the occupation by the black person of the majority of the place? Suddenly, it makes sense that my white best friend with a matric certificate could get to a company and not only earn more than, but be given a senior position over his black colleagues, most of which had worked there for years. Though they have occupied that place as employees for a long time, they are no match for my best friend because his whiteness affords him psychological and economic space: he is seen as being more, and therefore earns more. It is not, as some people have wrongfully diagnosed, the other way around.

Sadly us black people perpetuate this limiting of space for each other. We have bought so much into the idea of Blackness as a limitation of social, economic, educational space that we believe it without realizing it. Hence many a South African wants to one day “travel to Africa”, not realizing of course that he/she was born in Africa. Do you see the disjuncture between space and place? Do you see that, although Africa is one place, it occupies a different cognitive space  in some people’s psyche as some remote patch of barren land that coincidentally has people with the same dark pigment? It begins to make sense, then, that the new Randela “looks like African money” (my gosh, how horrible are the new notes?). Surely it’s going to take more than a Forbes African rich list to address this.

Space, therefore, has to mean the capacity to exercise one’s freedom. We were given the right to claim freedom in this place, yet as we are being rudely awakened to decades after attaining democracy, the right to freedom and the capacity to exercise it are two different things. We have taken our place as the majority in our country. But Black man, it’s time to take your Space.

One for the 'Old' Man

This is a story of a peculiar man that’s still a bit too young to be a grandpa but too old to be my gym buddy.

Once upon a time, he was born. Fair enough. However, that’s just about the only normal thing about his life.

Craving an adventure one day after caddying at the Johannesburg golf course in his early years, he thought, “Hmm. I wonder what it would be like to go and work for some abusive, middle-aged Indian man who would keep me as a slave under the guise of employment. Let me give it a go!” So, off went he went into the sunset, telling his mom that he had found a job. Sending him off with a gentle motherly smile, little did she know that his son was about to tempt fate, as he would do for much of his early adult life.

Lo and behold, the peculiar young man got the slave treatment. The Indian man wouldn’t even let him go back home to his family. His mom, of course, was not worried: peculiar man would bring home an income, after all. Anyway, to cut a long story short, peculiar man ended up having to escape in the dark of night when he realised that being enslaved under the guise of employment was no fun.

Was this enough adventure for him? ‘Course not! One sunny day, when peculiar man was older and could choose a career, he chose electricity of all things. Shocking decision. Be that as it may, he went ahead with it. While he was in training, he was put in a group with a much bigger, scary white man who could probably break peculiar man’s bones just by thinking about it (he had quite a small frame). Logic would now dictate that he stay as far away from big, scary man as possible.

Not peculiar man. He went right ahead and picked fights with big, scary man, not just once, or twice, or three times, but all the time. Did big, scary man end up squashing peculiar man’s body into a pile of beef? No. Should peculiar man thank his lucky stars that this was the case? Absolutely.

As he got older, peculiar man’s taste for danger showed no signs of diminishing. He would come home in the dark of night from work during the violent days of Apartheid’s twilight, gunshots all around him, and furthermore, he’d shout a few nice words to the hostile Boer policemen who were salivating for an excuse to give a black stubborn black man some nightmares, euphemistically speaking. He’d run through  “police dog”-infested fields, being chased halfway to death, and still lived to tell the tale

Peculiar man’s craziest exploit was still to come, though. At a friend’s wedding, he met hurricane Suzan. Did he run for cover? ‘Course not! Instead, he proceeded to court hurricane Suzan. Furthermore, when hurricane Suzan’s father basically pointed a shot-gun to his head (in not so many words), did he give up? Negative. He went on to marry hurricane Sue. HE MARRIED HURRICANE SUE!!

From this crazy act, however, came me (and two other atomic bombs). This essentially means that I owe my existence to peculiar man’s insanity. For this reason, as you can imagine, I quite like peculiar man.

 And if you haven’t figured it out already, peculiar man is my dad Norman Moyo, who celebrates his 49^th Birthday today. This is a tribute to him. Dad, thanks for all the craziness you have gone through, for and with us. Looking back at it now, there is method to your madness.

Happy Birthday

Teach Me How to Pray in Zulu

The title statement is normal if you're a missionary serving in the picturesque hills of KZN. However, if you're a 20 year old black male that checks the 'isiZulu' box under the 'Home Language' section of those yellow forms, it reads and sounds completely different. Almost controversial. I can almost hear the older generation muttering, "Tsk tsk tsk. Ulahle isiko lomfana!" (This boy has lost his heritage/ lost touch with his culture).

Actually, this entry has little to do with how well I can or cannot pray in or even speak isiZulu. Yes, the phrase 'teach me how to pray in zulu' popped into my head as I was listening to my dad pray in the language, and yes, he probably masters the phonetic intricacies of the language far better than I ever have. The crux, however, is this issue of creating and discovering identity. This identity thing just won't leave the youth of today, and in particular, the young black 'privileged' youth. It's like swag when you're Steve Harvey, it just won't go away!

Ethnic identity is becoming obsolete among us. Whether or not it's a good thing, and whether or not one even cares are beside the point. I'm finding that more and more, if I don't ask my fellow black peers at varsity what their language-group is, and if I don't know his/her surname, I can scarcely tell Zulu from Pedi. We seem to be increasingly content with leaving the blackness at the racial level, and the rest of our cultural commonality shall be made up of universal colloquialisms and what common interests we have. I'm not advocating for either side here. I'm not about to launch a campaign for all Zulu men to walk around campus in amaBheshu (covering made of animal skin), waving spears in the air and singing the Praises of uShaka. Neither am I going to encourage the bleaching of black skin and the tightening of nostrils so that the pronounciation of my people sets Buckingham Palace alight with delight.
No, all I'm doing is noting my observations.

So what am I getting at? Well, that perhaps either side is so obsessed with proving the other wrong that neither are learning lessons from each other. My father's fluent Zulu is beautiful to listen to, and is full of rich and profound insights that are embedded within the imagery and heavy metaphoric nature of the language itself. To see Zulu, Tswana, Pedi, and Xhosa youth all forgetting about how many clicks there are in their respective languages (and thereby forging a unity that the seperatist Apartheid regime rendered dead even among blacks) is equally as beautiful. And perhaps neither the dogmatic purists of ethnic vernac AND the neo-liberal 'coconuts' who have no care in the world about their ethnicity have a place in our society today.

Perhaps it's time all of us black people participate in the culture of learning from one another, Gucci jeans, amaBheshu and all.
And yes, I will pray that it happens, in isiZulu.