Vacant Nodding.

Jwara,Mtika,Mazaleni,Ntingana,Yibuko is who we are now. All along we were using my great grandmother’s clan name “Ngqosini,Gaba,Cihoshe,Msuthu,Mnt’omlambo....”

This is what I’m still trying to swallow. Growing up knowing only the people around as your core family, only to have that changed in what felt like over night. Going back to PE there were always certain people who were always around for the traditional ceremonies and I got used to those faces and the work they did. To change it all and have others swoop in and take charge is a bit of a mind boggler at first. And now i have to learn a whole new family line with which I will identify myself with, to whomever should query it. Of the youngest able bodied men (the others are still kids) in the house, it was the first time that we actually were included to do things and help out wherever we could in the ceremony. Previously we were always just expected to be working though we wouldn’t know what we would have to be doing, so we’d run away from the house stay at the ANC memorial and smoke cigarettes until we had to be in the house. From cleaning up the back yard which was a litter with old furniture and other things of waste, to the actual slaughtering of the ox, skinning and cooking of the beast, we were being watched and guided by the new great uncles and uncles, that we have just inherited.

There’s still a lot for me to take and learn, but for the first time, I have a sense of excitement for it and a somewhat alleviated anxiety. It felt good to be recognised when we worked and even better when I was questioned on my photo taking and unquenchable curiosity. With my dad spurring me on to ask the elders questions and telling me to take as many pictures as I can, This trip definitely did have a magic about it.

The thing that gets me every single time about going back though is the poverty. Because the house my father grew up in, is still in the township, it’s one of the times where I truly get to engage with people living in those conditions. From the unofficial dumping grounds you see children playing in, the domestic violence in the streets and stories of how the Ethiopian shop owners got jacked. It always kinda hurts to look that shit in the face and admittedly say you don’t recognise it. Why don’t you? Not because you weren’t exposed to enough of it growing up, but because you didn’t have to go through it and therefore can never really understand it. “This is not a place for kids to grow up in.” Says my kid cousin. “There’s so many gangsters chilling around, driving their sports star friends’ cars and doing nothing by day except having a good time. Kids see that and start by being those guys’ little run around boys next thing they’re their drivers. It’s just not cool.” My sister mentions how funny it is that the last four cars she saw driving by all had people either holding Hunters bottles or were busy pouring tonic into their cups. I watch a man stroll down the street with quart in hand and vacantly nod.