Beneath the Shiny Surface

I was applying for a certain Master’s degree scholarship online and all was proceeding fairly well, until I got to this question in the form that really got my mind cogitating. I can’t really recall the exact way in which it was phrased but it was something of this sort: “Have you done any voluntary r charity work? Name the organisations you’ve volunteered for and what your role/position was.” In parentheses was that, voluntary or charity work you have done reflects that you care about the community and that you’re not too academically oriented.

   I reckon at face-value there seems to be nothing wrong or the matter with this question and its assertion that acts of charity show concern for humanity on the part of the applicant. But as you probe deeper, you open sort of a Pandora’s Box. The first question I asked myself was that why my voluntary work should be judged within the purview of a formal organisation and position? This led to other follow-up questions: What about that student with excellent grades in his undergraduate degree with academic awards to go with it, who dedicated his or her time to studying and with the little spare time that they had, squeezed in a part-time job to feed their poverty-stricken family? Or, for that matter, that student who, during his studies, worked part time, to pay for his or her younger siblings’ school fees? Do these foregoing selfless acts count within confines of the question quoted in the opening paragraph? Probably not. In any case, they’d think you are making it up. Perchance, to one not exposed to poverty, these questions I’ve raised are quite far-fetched, yet hypothetical as they may be; I personally knew people in almost similar circumstances during my university days.

   On another note, I asked myself how far does this criterion serve to sidetrack the scholarship board from its main aim of funding excelling students from disadvantaged communities/countries. In all candour, it is visible that to serve the disadvantaged has never been a priority. What this criterion translates to is that the scholarship is open to the so-called “burgeoning middle-class”, where charity and voluntary work is something to be quantified and recorded meticulously under the aegis of philanthro-capitalism.

My gripe is that this only serves to institutionalise bourgeois values, while turning a blind eye to the real poor folks. It would’ve been better if some of these scholarships never claim to be for the disadvantaged because they are not. They are for a middle-class who haven’t just enough quid to further post-graduate education. There you are ladies and gentlemen; it is something of a travesty. Once again, poor man, you are own your own.

Down Memory Lane

Down Memory Lane

The fact that I grew up being thrashed hard by both of my parents is indisputable. Perhaps, more to the point, all of the children in my family know what it is to be beaten by a belt, wooden spoon, or any other object deemed fit for discipline. I am not complaining though. Some of my friends had it worse. And, in retrospect, I was quite a stiff-necked and naughty little boy.

   I was about eight years old, if my memory serves me correctly, and the past week had been particularly bad: I am referring to the beatings. There had been many reasons for these, but I can’t remember each and every one of them (there were quite a lot). But I do remember that in a particular instance, in the week in question, I had come home way after the five o’clock in the evening curfew my mother had imposed during the winter season.

   In my defense, I hadn’t quite noticed that it was running late because we’d been playing inside my friend’s house with the curtains drawn closed. It was the purpose of the game: to get the room dark and play hide and seek. It was after a couple of hours of that monotonous game, when I had gone to the kitchen to drink some water, that I noticed the wall clock showing a quarter past five and ticking. I couldn’t believe it! I was almost convinced that something was wrong with the clock because it did look old and worn out. How come the rest of the house was still so bright, I had asked myself? Then I realised that the lights were on. To confirm that it was indeed a quarter past five, I dragged a stool to the kitchen window, climbed on it and drew the curtain open. I was satisfied: a reflection of myself on the window pane in the pitch black night.

   As you might have already guessed, my mother would hear none of this story. It was all a beautifully made up lie, she had concluded. She threw my tiny body on to the bed and stripped off my corduroy trousers and my red undies. Then the pinching of my equally tiny and black buttocks began. The period had seemed unending, but now when I think about it, it was not more than one-and-a-half minutes. I cried like a baby and hated my mother for it, for about an hour or so.

   Later, on the Saturday of that same week, my sister and I were supposed to go to church for our catechism classes, but we never got there on that particular day. Believe me; we hadn’t any intention to abscond these lessons. What happened was that we had walked from home to church; the Roman Catholic Church of the Mater Dolorosa Parish. It was a walk able distance, if one was really prepared; and we were. We’d set off earlier than usual, and had pocketed the money our father had given for transport. We now had other plans for the money.

   As we got to town, my sister (who was five years older than me) had made a suggestion that we buy boiled groundnuts from the street vendors that sat along Johnson Street who also sold a variety of fruits and vegetables. I readily agreed. There was nothing that I enjoyed than steaming groundnuts in a cold morning. We bought two packets, at two Emalangeni each, and had sat on the steps leading to the Mbabane National Library munching on our favourite snack. I honestly cannot recall how long we had sat there, but it was over an hour because when I ran to peek through the library glass door for time, the big clock hanging on the wall just above the wooden counter showed that it was twenty-five minutes to ten in the morning. The catechism classes had begun at nine o’clock.

   My sister had considered the situation for a few moments and came up with what seemed like a brilliant plan at the time. It was not. She’d said that it was no use going to church because the lessons would be over in just below twenty minutes. Knowing exactly that that was not the main reason for my panic (and hers too), she said we’d simply tell our father that we had attended those lessons, and how informative and inspiring they’d been! In case of an interrogation from my father, she would do the talking, and all I had to do was to show a solemn face as best as I could to whatever story she would spin. I agreed and trusted her. She had got away with it a few times, and I hoped we would put this one among the successful ones. But it was not to be.

   When we got home later that day, my father had enquired on how the classes had been. My sister did the talking. I tried to act calmly, but the more my father figured the questions, the more I became a nervous wreck. I thought I was sweating, but I wasn’t. I placed my palm on my forehead, in a bid to remove the sweat but it was dry as fallen autumn leaves. Then suddenly, my father forcefully bumped our heads together and a loud sharp sound, like that of the bell at school, ran through my big head. Still in that confused state, I heard my father call us “pathological” liars. I too, did not know what that meant at that time, but it did sound dreadfully terrible.

   He had told us that he had phoned the nun in charge of the catechism lessons, Sister Berletelli, and she’d told him that we that we never showed our faces that day. Our plan had failed, and we were dumbfounded. We got the hiding of our lives, administered with a whip, which is locally called “insilane”. I had vowed that day not to ever try and outsmart my father again. That too, was just wishful thinking. I probably broke my vow a couple of months after that incident.

   Now, after I had had the terrible experience the other week, I tried to behave. I tried to stay at home on this particular day, even though the weather was a fine one, except for the cold breeze that blew now and again, as if to remind one that it was the middle of the winter season. My mother called me, and told me to run to the shops, as fast as my short legs could carry me, to buy a few things that she needed to use that evening. The shop was about two kilometres away.

Not willing to disappoint, I took a short cut to the grocery store, to try and save time and impress my mother. Indeed, in a short while, I got to the grocery shop, bought my mother’s things, and a half-a-loaf of bread that belonged to a security guard who had stopped me on my way and asked me to buy him this item.

Now, because I was early, I decided to relax my pace. I tucked the security guard’s bread under my arm and held the plastic bag with the house’s shopping with my other hand. As I turned the corner at the end of Small Street, to join Crescent Street, at the end of which my house was located, a gate on one side of the street swung open. I was immediately worried and uneasy.

   The residents on this side of the street were notorious for the big and terrifying dogs they kept behind those tall “stop-nonsense” wall fences. Most of them were white people, very much concerned with safety. Nevertheless, I continued to walk, now at a quicker and panicky pace. Just when I was opposite the gate, trying by all means not to look at what was in the yard, there was a loud and ferocious bark from that house. My head and eyes (the latter now as big as two golf balls) involuntarily moved to that direction. I saw a white lady, heading for a navy-blue Opel Astra station-wagon, presumably to drive out of the yard. But I couldn’t have cared less, if she’d been headed to a chocolate and sweets factory, and wanted to offer me a ride. My eyes were focused on the two Alsatian dogs that were almost my height, which were now growling at me. The dark-red gums in their salivating mouths contrasted well with their white and sharp canine teeth; and made me all the more frightened.

   Now that I seriously think about it, I reckon the white woman did say something along the lines of: “Don’t run, these dogs are harmless”, but at that time I was at full speed, homebound. The darn things, or to be more precise, these terrible creatures were in pursuit. Worthy of mention is that, at some point in the ensuing chaos of flight and pursuit, I tripped and fell prostrate on the ground. I got up as quickly as I had fallen, looked back to find that the two dogs were covering ground, then ran like one whose life really depended on it. I did not want to die! But, I must give credit to myself in this life-threatening situation: I never dropped my mother’s plastic bag, or the security guard’s bread. Talk about loyalty.

   When I shot past the house where the security guard was stationed, I simply tossed the brown bread sideways to the direction of the gate, not stopping one minute. The guard shouted something—presumably thinking that I was up to some shenanigans—and fiddled with the padlock but, upon seeing the dogs come, he returned his keys to his pocket. The dogs, perhaps upon realising that they had no chance in having me for dinner, settled for the half-a-loaf that lay derelict on the lawn, next to the road. As for me, I did not rest until I got near our house’s main gate.

   I went in, still breathing heavily and my heart still pounding. As I eased into the kitchen my mother shouted from the other room: ‘Luzuko, is that you? You naughty boy! Your teacher just called me and said that you were in a fight last week.’ And there, on top of the table that stood at the centre of the room, lay a brown leather belt. I couldn’t say anything. My heart just sank.

Poor Man You Are On Your Own

‘Black man you are on your own.’ These are the words of the late founder of the Black Consciousness Movement (BCM), Steve Bantu Biko. He was contemplating the socio-political and economic conditions of his time (the late 60s and 70s), and therefore came up with the foregoing opening statement. Blacks were a disenfranchised people who had been shoved to the fringe of South African society (that is the so-called homelands or Bantustans) and, had no business in “whites only” areas unless their passes suggested otherwise.

   But, the gist of this article is not necessarily about the marginalisation of the black community, than it is about the marginalisation of the poor in society. The latter are seldom included in decision making processes that affect their lives, and if consulted, the tendency by governments and other well-meaning non-governmental organisations is to adopt a paternalistic role vis-à-vis their dealings with them. The relationship is often a filial one, where the less privileged are treated as little children, with whom it is important to take decisions for, lest they make the “wrong” ones. The fact that most of the people—for whom the help by these benevolent institutions is meant for—have lived in their communities for all their lives, and therefore, by extension, understand their environment better than anyone, counts for nothing.

   It is therefore not surprising that we have seen a litany of development failures than successes in Africa. My home country Swaziland is no exception. Her development plans since independence have yielded little or no edible fruits at all. At the heart of these development failures in Swaziland is the question of land and its use. There has been no attempt to deal with the issues of land security in areas under Swazi Nation Land, that is, land administered by the King, held in trust for the Swazi nation. Such land cannot be admitted as collateral by most banking institutions should a peasant farmer seek for a loan. Therefore as a result, the peasant continues to engage in subsistence agriculture as a means of survival, as opposed to commercial agriculture, which could result in progress. And, our government, as many in Africa, is no exception; there is a bias towards funding industrial projects as opposed to funding agricultural pursuits in the rural areas that form the heartbeat of our society.

   Currently, the Rural Development Fund (RDF) is struggling to produce the desired impact. For one, the money allocated to this fund is simply paltry vis-à-vis the need in rural communities, and the lack of stringent controls in the manner the fund is disbursed does not make things any better. According to media reports in the country, the RDF has been the target of corrupt activities from many quarters of our society and has been grossly misappropriated. Hence there are no prizes for guessing why we are still confronted by a staggering number of the population scrapping around for consumables below the poverty line.

Related to the development failures of Africa in general is the correlation between the politics of the continent and the growing inequalities between the rich and the poor. Analysts have, in the recent past forecasted economic growth in double digits, yet there hasn’t been fundamental improvement in the lives of the majority of the rural peasantry. Governments continue to focus in the politics of appeasement and co-optation, which is really the game of the elite. Consequently, state security takes the front seat, while the most important kind of securities; food and human securities perch on the rather uncomfortable back seat of the development automobile.

   Indeed, the aforementioned arguments point to a key point: the complacency among the political and bureaucratic elite of many an African state in retaining the reactive state apparatus inherited from colonial governments. At least with colonial governments, the poor knew what to expect: nothing. Yet in the present dispensation, the yearnings of the masses have been a cry in the wilderness, in spite of independence.  Any changes that have been implemented since then, have been superficial and have not served to transform what was essentially a weak and partial state.

   Many African countries, including Swaziland, still need to engage in a deliberate process of transformational politics, where the state: its legislative, executive and judicial arms, serve the majority of its citizens. The disadvantaged must have faith in these arms of government, that is, they must be perceived to be serving a common good, and not only seen as instruments of the elite and those in power. But, as things stand, one gets the feeling that leaders are still content as they were when they first had the sweet taste of power at independence. One therefore, can only hope that with the steady development of civil society and interest groups in African countries—who are more often at loggerheads with the authorities—state configuration and its relation with the governed will be questioned, and by extension the problem of increasing inequality addressed at its fundamental base.

   I reckon Steve Biko would have agreed with me that, as the case stands, the poor man is on his own.

Planned Coincidence

            Planned Coincidence

Her full lips glistened with lip gloss, and all this gentleman could think of was removing it with his own mouth later that night. This lady had noticed this man’s stolen glances at her. She too had her own plans. It was a Friday night—end of the month Friday—and as usual “STONE PHOLA” was packed to its full capacity. This pub-cum-club was very popular here in Mbabane, more especially with the working class, who now felt that the bars and pubs in the townships and ghettos, where they lived, were too grimy for them, and also dens for hobos and tsotsis. That notwithstanding, they still couldn’t afford the posh and ridiculously expensive places up-town like “Rockers”.

   So, a clever and business-minded chap had built something somewhere in-between, just to cater for them, the in-betweeners. Indeed, STONE PHOLA was a modest place situated in down-town Mbabane. At the entrance, overused neon lights flashed around the dust covered club’s name, as a thick tall man, who looked like he didn’t have a neck, stood officiously at the door. He always assumed his current position every last Friday of the month. He checked patron’s tickets, with a lot of zeal, to ensure that the entrance fee had been paid and the patrons got into the club legally. He was flexing his muscles, ready to whirl off the melee at the door, anyone who would try to sneak in unnoticed, especially the guys.

Muzi “Fixer” Shabangu took a gulp of his Hansa Pilsner and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He placed the can on the counter and, stretched a lazy hand to scoop some peanuts and raisins that were in a glass bowl on the counter and began to chew. Then he turned to his friend, Thapelo also known as “Thux”. ‘I’m telling you man, she’s been staring at me the whole time, and I’ll have to make a move very soon, before she thinks I’m a bhari (fool).’ Fixer loosened his neck-tie and took another sip from the can.

Thux waved his left arm carelessly, dismissing the idea his friend had just shared. ‘Which one?’ he asked. ‘You mean her…the one sitting over there, near the V.I.P section? Mf’ethu(brother), can’t you see that she is the kind of woman that can milk you dry? As for you, she can take every cent because you got half-pay.’ He laughed at his friend, as he concomitantly dipped a hand into one of his corduroy blazer side-pockets, and took out a loose Dunhill cigarette. He lit it up and took a long pull of the cigarette, proceeding to blow the smoke into the already stuffy and saturated air in the bar with a good deal of nonchalance. He watched it waft into the air, to add to the already unpleasant odour that filled the place: an acid odour of cigarettes and perfumes and colognes, plus a whole range of other smells.

   ‘Chief, I don’t want people reminding me about what happened at work—half-pay and kaak. If I wanted all of that nagging and whining, I would have gone straight home, and my wife would have done a great job of it,’ returned Fixer, a bit annoyed. The oily dark skin of his face shone in the dim-lit place, the white set of teeth contrasting it noticeably. He barked at the barman on the other side of the counter for another can of beer. It was quickly put in front of him. ‘All I wwant to do is to enjoy myself. I’ll deal with the talking when I get home.’

   Oh, ok…whatever man,’ Thux said. Do what you have to do, but let me tell you one thing; I’m giving no advances this month. No!’

   ‘Ja,ja,’ mocked Fixer, slightly angered by his friend’s lecture. ‘Now this is what I want you to do,’ he continued. ‘Just walk with me to them. I want you to distract her friend, chat with her, whatever, and I’ll do my thing. Look at those lips bra yam’, tjo!’

   ‘Man you’re really serious about this woman, eh?’ In spite of the fact that you don’t know her and, have never seen her here before.’ Fixer gave him a stern look. And Thux said he was in. ‘Ok, ok, I’ll help you!’ he said. His friend smiled.

   Several tables with chairs were arranged around the walls of the hall. These sat a minimum of four people, which could sit to six or above, with demand for space, in peak hours. At the bar were lined up leather-padded bar stools, preferred mostly by the men. The sat and ogled and flirted with the female bartenders, as the latter shuffled behind the counter, serving orders. At the centre was a dance floor where lights of different colours flashed hypnotically in the dim room, as the revelers danced the night away to the selection of the resident disc-jockey (DJ), DJ Wheeler. The speakers blared a song from a popular South African group, and more people surged to the dance floor. The women were screaming in the process; the men just there, hoping to get lucky that night.

   There was a cacophony of sounds. A mad din. The only way one could sustain a conversation now was to literally shout to the person was talking to. Although such a state of affairs may seem odd to those who are not used to such places, for the regulars, the switching to shouting, to communicate, comes naturally.

   ‘Zinhle,’ said Nos’milo to her friend, ‘I think that guy who was checking me out for the past half an hour or so, is coming here.’ Nos’milo stole a peek at him through the dancing crowd.

   ‘Ha! ha!’ Zinhle laughed out loud. ‘What does he want? I’m pretty sure he thinks you’re interested in him. Oh my God, he’s bringing his friend. I’m just not in the mood for small talk with a guy I don’t know.’

   ‘What am I going to do?’ asked Nos’milo. ‘Perhaps I gave him the wrong idea.’

‘I don’t know, you’ll have to sort him out. I’ve his friend to worry about.’

   Presently the two gentlemen greeted the two ladies who sat opposite each other. Thux sat next Zinhle, and Fixer next to the lady with full shining lips. He couldn’t look at anything else but them. Nos’milo was a very attractive woman and, she wore a hugging top that slightly revealed the cleavage of her big breasts. Her jet-black dreadlocks with streaks of blonde were neatly tied behind the back of her head, ponytail style, and she donned silver studs on her ears. She had full eyebrows that almost met in the middle of her forehead, and her eyes were clear, with a lazy stare. Zinhle, her friend, was not at all an unattractive woman, neither could it be said authoritatively that she was beautiful, and Thux found that consoling. There was nothing that he hated more than making small talk with an unattractive woman, especially in such an arrangement, where it is part of the plan and obligatory—a favour to a friend.

   ‘So what are you ladies doing here all by yourselves?’ asked Fixer self-importantly. The alcohl was now swimming in his veins and wafting in his mind. His tongue had loosened.

‘We’re just hanging out, you know,’ replied Nos’milo. ‘But we were just about to live, to go back home now, ‘cause it’s getting late.’

‘Really?’Thux added helpfully, for his friend, ‘but it’s so early!’

   ‘It’s not, for us, you know,’ said Zinhle. ‘We’ve other responsibilities.’ Thux nodded assent and Fixer let out a short dry laugh.

   ‘The party is just getting started!’ shouted Fixer. ‘What are you ladies drinking? Savannah? Storm? Name it.’ Zinhle glared at Fixer with a sort of disdainful eye, and Nos’milo slightly smiled.

   ‘We don’t drink alcohol,’ Nos’milo said politely. And, there’s no need for you to buy us anything. We’re sorted.’

   ‘Oh, okay, fine! We’ve got ourselves Miss Independents,’ he said in a sing-song voice.

   Fixer was not a patient man. The fact that these women had declined his offer for drinks, and that they didn’t even drink alcohol, was reason enough for him to now leave. He made eye contact with Thux, and gave him the “look”, which was their signal for leaving or aborting a plan because it was not working out.

No’smilo saw Fixer’s restlessness and suddenly said: ‘We can hang out with you guys for another ten minutes, if you want.’

   ‘Listen here,’ Fixer replied, ‘I didn’t come all the way here to hang out. I just thought you were a hot babe and just wanted to explore my chances of sucking away at those lips, and perhaps getting more!’ He then downed his sixth can of Hansa Pilsner and wiped off the beer froth from his lowly-cut moustache with the back of his hand. Thux let out an uncomfortable laugh, and tried to downplay his friend’s outburst, saying that he was quite a joker. Fixer told them that it was no joke: that is was the whole truth. Thux sat there with a plastered smile, waiting for the ladies’ reaction.

Zinhle shook her head, visibly annoyed, and pulled hard at her fruit juice with a straw, as Thux tried to ask her something inconsequential and irrelevant, which she ignored.

   ‘Ha, you haven’t even asked for my name, and I don’t know you, and now this,’ said Nos’milo. ‘Do you always do this to women you meet in pubs?’

   ‘Eh, I don’t like the sound of that,’ answered Fixer. ‘Thux let’s go man, we’re wasting our time here.’

A while previously, Nos’milo had excuse herself from  the company, on account of an important call she had had to make to someone. Presently, her phone rang again, and again she left the table. Fixer looked at her disappear into the crowd, towards the door, or perhaps the ladies’ room—he was not sure. He lamented that he wouldn’t have a piece of her. He sat meditatively, looking up at the ceiling with the flickering tiny bulbs, and opened a can he’d just ordered. Tonight had turned out bad, he concluded inwardly. It was time to go home. Thux himself was now tired of the useless small talk, and he too felt it was time to leave.

Nos’milo reemerged from the crowd with another, rather statuesque woman.

‘Hi again, Fixer,’ she said, emphasizing his name. ‘I just brought your wife here, to join us. By the way, she happens to be my cousin.’ Fixer and Thux sat transfixed, mouths agape, and their eyes fixed on the bustling and breezy Nos’milo and her demure companion in train. The two girls exchanged knowing smiles.

You Want To See More?

The kombi drivers and the conductors caused a mad racket as Fikile strode across the crowded bus rank of the capital city, Mbabane. These men, standing in haphazard groups around the within the rank, shouted snide comments at her. Each one of them felt they had something to say concerning the way Fikile was dressed. Most of their rantings were insulting and unpalatable, yet, notwithstanding that, the latter seemed to swallow them up without the slightest problem.

   On-lookers and passers-by stared at her too. Others looked at her absent-mindedly, as they rushed to wherever they were headed and some, mostly the idlers, too keen interest in the unfolding events. Part of the latter mumbled their disapproval in what these men were doing, although a majority of seemed to share the same view with the raucous drivers and their counterparts.

   ‘She ought to be castigated and discouraged for such unwomanly behaviour,’ said one of the women   vendors who sold fruits and vegetables in the bus rank. There were a growing number of these vendors who sat around the fringes of the terminus, selling their goods. In fact, they now seemed to outnumber the public transport for which the structure had been constructed. The city council rangers had tried in the past years to forcefully remove the former from the terminus, but in vain. They would only disappear for a few hours, and one-by-one—like vultures on a dead carcass—they would come back. The local authorities must have grown weary, so they now let them be. Although the influx of people selling various articles in the terminus meant bad news for those who did business in the legitimate market built by the authorities, the general public silently approved. Now one could easily purchase the items that were short at home without going to the expensive market a few streets away, without risking being left behind by the bus or kombi. Now who wouldn’t want that? This was the musing of most of the people who used the bus rank.

   ‘How dare she dresses up like that? With everything showing like that!’ said another one of the women. She proceeded to scoop ligushawith a rusted tin and filled it into a black plastic bag and, gave it to her customer. ‘That will be three emalangeni, thank you,’ she said as she received the coins. The two speakers and those that had heard her former comment broke out in a loud cackle.

‘These young ones have the nerve, I tell you,’ the first woman speaker replied her friend. ‘And to make matters worse, she doesn’t care a single bit! Look at how she is walking, tall and proud.’

Indeed, Fikile hadn’t the slightest shame by the looks of things. She strolled proudly amidst the hullaballoo her dress style had supposedly caused. She sported a white boob-tube top that clung—as if for dear life itself—to her plump body, and exposed slightly the cleavage of her breasts. The skirt she donned was held her tightly on the buttocks and hips and, was a few inches above her knees. Her slightly hairy thighs rubbed against each other as she continued walking. She also wore make-up, and it made her look a bit older than she was—nineteen.

   Although the fear of imminent danger crossed her mind, seeing the place filled with a bunch of perverts, she didn’t think there was anything wrong in the manner she was dressed.

   ‘It is summer for crying out loud!’ she mused. ‘What must I be wearing? An all-weather coat and an ankle-length dress?’ she continued her musing. ‘This is not the Stone Age for Heaven’s sake!’

   She now came near the kombis that ferried passengers to Eveni, her place of abode, and other areas in the vicinity. She got in. There were a few spaces that were unoccupied when she got in, and these were filled quickly after that. Seeing the kombi full to its capacity, the driver rushed in, ignited the old Toyota engine and drove out. No sooner did the kombi start to move than a man clad in blue overalls and a leather flat cap resumed the discussion on Fikile’s sense of style. He had shot an eye laden with disdain when she had got in.

The man went on a tirade regarding how today’s children had lost respect for adults and themselves too. As he developed his discourse, he proceeded to lick his calloused index fingers and cross-locked them as a sign of solemn vow to his great-grandfather Matamatisi, that if his daughter would ever dress like Fikile; he would be jailed for homicide. The driver joined in the discussion. He gawked gleefully at the overall-clad man on the rear view mirror and would occasionally steal a quick glance at Fikile.

   Some of the passengers let out incomprehensible grumbles and, the women shook their heads slowly in disapproval of the image the young girl was portraying. Most of these women were clad in pink or powdered blue tunics and worked in the suburbs as domestic servants. Fikile sat two rows from the driver’s seat and as the “lecture” continued, she kept her eyes glued on a novel. She had raised her eyes from it only once, when the man had sworn that none of his children would be seen dressed like her, so long as he breathed oxygen. To that comment, she had partially grinned much to the vexation of the man.

   The kombi swerved to and fro as it attempted to dodge the innumerable pot holes, as deep as rubbish pits, along the road to Eveni, a plush suburb undoubtedly exclusive for the well-to-do. The much respected residents of the place had complained—some even going to the extent of threatening to default on their rate taxes—about the deteriorating condition of the roads, and the city council had responded with the unconvincing measure of filling up the holes. This was ineffectual because every time the rainy season came, new holes, deeper than the previous ones would develop again. Presently the holes were very much a nuisance to the road users and the local authority was yet to respond.

   Fezile looked up and signaled the driver that she was to get off at the Eveni bus stop.

   ‘Good riddance!’ yelled the driver. He changed down the gears and the engine let out dark choking cloud of smoke from its exhaust pipe. Through the rear view mirror he looked at his collaborator for support. And, this was not the type of chap to disappoint.

   'Yes! You must tell your parents to teach you how to dress little girl, you hear?’ he howled and wagged an accusing finger at Fikile.

   Fikile disembarked quietly and stood at the threshold as she handed the four emalangeni fare to the driver. Then abruptly, she said to the driver and the man: ‘Hhey’ nine, do you want to see more?’’ As they were still stunned by her sudden outburst, she pulled down her skimpy top and exposed her dark-nippled breasts for them to see. They bellowed and tried to cover their eyes. But it was too little too late.

Imagining a 'New' Swaziland

                                                       Imagining a 'New' Swaziland

The ultimate yardstick for democracy and multi-party politics in Swaziland, once ushered in, will not be the fact that an undemocratic government would have been ousted. Rather, it will be the strides taken by those who will be holding the reins of government at that time, to liberate the majority of the people from grinding poverty and deprivation. Take a casual glance at the rest of the African continent, and you will see that the foregoing is easier said than done—many promises have been made, but actions fall short.

   To extricate a people of a country from such social vices as deprivation and hunger, does not involve the paternalistic policies that most African governments have adopted in pursuance of this goal. Rather, an open political system, where all individuals and groups can participate freely in governmental processes becomes imperative. I must emphasise, though, that this does not happen with the wave of a magical wand. Such requires the existence of class-conscious politics within a country. The people and the leaders must understand that, as Mukoma wa Ngugi aptly noted, ‘that there is an inherent contradiction in a wealthy elite subsisting on the majority poor…’. This state of affairs—though prevalent in Africa, and obtaining in present day Swaziland—endangers the stability of a society, and further accents socio-economic inequality.

   I think that nearly everyone understands that there isn’t, necessarily, a direct correlation between multi-party politics and an improvement in the lives of people. But, I hasten to add that, a pluralistic society gives a better chance to people to impact on policies that affect their lives, and in the process, bettering their lives. Succinctly put, the aforementioned social system affords a greater chance to the elusive principle of democracy in our society. Therefore, what is needed in a “new” Swaziland is not only the people’s right to elect different political parties into government every after a fixed period. That will not be enough.

   A desirable new dispensation of politics in this country will be one where both government and its people will understand that, the democracy needed is not only of the ballot box, but, where conscious moves are made at alleviating poverty among the masses, encouraging creativity, and fostering debate on all issues that affect the people, without fear of intimidation. We have had enough of unique democracies, and those that serve certain cliques. As Mahmoud Mamdani asserts, ‘So long as democratisation drives are dominated by urban lawyers and churchmen and do not engage with the rural patrimonial structures that remain intact, they are unlikely to alter the political basis of the African state significantly.’ This quote begs an important question applicable almost throughout the continent: Is the lack of development in Africa a failure of democracy, or the failure of the state? I digress.

   Any politics—regardless of its hue and proffered ideas---that will still have people cast in chains of deprivation (of various freedoms) will not be acceptable.

Haunting Memoirs

I looked myself in the mirror, but I couldn’t see myself because the kerosene lamp burnt dimly in the huge room. I could only see my silhouette—or I thought it was mine. Then I said to myself: This is what poverty does to people; it makes you lose your identity and character, because to most of those who “have”, you are nothing but a shadow passing by—something of absolutely no consequence.

Suddenly the kettle started rattling on the gas stove as the water rapidly boiled in it. I was thus roused from my musing. I hurried and switched off the stove. Then I made myself a cup of coffee, in my favourite mug, the one I had just bought a few days ago. It was its super-size that attracted me to it; it could carry just enough coffee to warm me up every freezing morning in this dreadful winter season.

It was about 0530hours and it was still dark. Mist still enveloped the mountains near our house. Rocks protruded on some parts of the mountains and their haziness in the dark and misty morning made them look like a scary monster ready to devour anyone that dared walked in that direction. I slowly sipped the coffee in deep thought. Here I was, before the crack of dawn, getting ready to go to work, work that I didn’t enjoy, being matter-of-fact. Why was I even doing it? These numbers and numbers, and numbers that I punched all day at Corporate Services International (CSI) were not my thing. Everybody knew that I was an artist. A writer. And that was what I believed I was born to do.

Ah, anyway, I told myself that it was just a ‘passing gig’. Eventually I’ll get my work published and become a professional writer, I nursed my hopes. ‘Oh! Look at the time,’ I exclaimed, as I rose to my feet hurriedly. I was running late. My musing had taken all the time and I had hardly drunk half of my coffee. Oh my God, that nagging pain-in-the-arse supervisor of mine will skin me alive today. If he had it his way, he would do that literally. That bugger. I had worked there for only two weeks but he had already lambasted me innumerable times, for something I don’t really recall. It was probably nothing.

The repulsive part about these attacks was that he always spits on you when he speaks, because most of his front teeth, as my colleagues and I would say, needed to be called into order. They were just a careless cluster that overcrowded his mouth, and affected his fluency and diction. Notwithstanding that, he boasted a British accent that he made sure to flaunt to everyone that cared to listen to him as he churned out the trash that he mostly did.

After brushing my teeth, I grabbed my laptop backpack and headed for the bus stop. I dreaded every minute I spent at that place, but you know what they say “A man’s got to do what he has to do”.

To be continued....