Soweto Diaries

Once again for the benefit of the great majority of the 3 people who are regular visitors to this blog, the title roughly translated is: Aahh my brother, I am asking you please. This particular phrase irritates me to no end; and considering how often it is directed at me, I am seriously considering therapy of some sorts to help me deal effectively with this statement whenever (and that is often) it is directed at me.

This statement though, is not without foundation and context. You see, the earlier residents of the townships such as msawawa will tell you that it were literally built and continue to survive on the back of the co-operation of its residents. You have all heard the famous “Ubuntu” statement – you know the one “umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu“. Allow me to digress a little: I have recently learned, from my 6 year old girl no less that there is another version of this statement and this I believe is generally used by the residents of the suburbs. According to the little missus (did I tell you that she goes to some pre-school in town/suburbs somewhere- what do you mean where? - the taxi guy drops her off and fetches her and her mother knows where it is – I know what it costs) they were taught at this school (she does not like it when I call it pre-school) that “sharing is caring“. The point of this little detour is to show that not even children are spared the blackmail, wherever they are. Apparently the adults in the burbs don’t care if they are labelled as not caring.

Now in the township people help each other – well, mostly – this happens generally without asking and for the most part all goes well. But then there is the other side of this shiny coin - people expect to be helped just because they ask. I am spineless when it comes to these situations. It honestly makes me feel really bad to have to say no. I really wish people would consider my situation and assess on my behalf whether what they are about to ask me to do is reasonable. But noooo, they just go ahead and happily put you on the spot, ask you for the one favour you would rather not do.

I am at home, watching Pirates klap Chiefs and Vuyo not only invites himself into my home but proceeds to ask me to drive him to Bara (that is the Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital) so that he can drop off some toiletries and pyjamas and stuff for his wife whom I drove to the hospital at 3am this morning after – well he says she slipped and hurt her back. That did not explain the swollen face on the woman but hey, what do I know. He says we have to go now because visiting hours are almost over and if we miss this window then we will have to wait for the evening visiting hours. I am watching the game – a huuuuge game for ubuntu’s sake!

This man makes it like it’s my fault that I have a car – that I am his neighbour! S’true I wish I could move – you know, move to some suburb where you don’t know your neighbours, they don’t know you, they don’t want to know you, you don’t care, you don’t share and all is well.

I live here though where people invite themselves into your house, drink your beer and ask you to drive them places. How can I say no though? In this neighbourhood you don’t want to get a reputation for being stuck up or unhelpful to others. Just now you have to slaughter a beast for some traditional do; and then? Who is going to help you; who is going to eat the beast; who is going to help you clean up afterwards? How will you get help to put up the tent – to close off the street? This is not some decision you make without careful consideration of your position.

Besides, I really feel bad about the poor woman lying in hospital without a change of nickers; but hell I really don’t want to leave this game, on my TV and listend to it on the car radio like the last time I had to drive that other woman to the Protea police station to go see what her son had done, when she knows well what the rascal gets up to all the time. So I tell Vuyo: look bra I don’t mind giving you the lift to Bara (lying through my teeth) but I can’t do it right now (meaning I don’t want to do it ever and I wish you would go back to where you came from) I mean you can see I am watching the game and you know how I feel about this – this is a big game, bra.

Vuyo says: aahh mfowethu ngiyakucela tuu . . . and I remember my grandmother saying: “kungathi ngikayikakela” (I felt like I could crap on myself) yes, believe it or not I was that livid!

I hope you remember that wherever you read “Soweto” you may substitute “township”. Now that you are armed with that vital “how to read this blog” info, help me understand my latest situation. You have guessed it – I have once again been to the other side and have come back to msawawa all confused and bothered.

A friend invited me to his church. Technically, it is not his church, it is my church too because it is the same denomination, the only difference being the location. I kid you not, location has turned out to be more than what I have up to now cared to accept – especially where churches are concerned. The first thing I noticed with people at this suburban church is how casual people are – with everything. The clothes that they wear, the way that they talk to God (read pray) and even the way that they talk to God’s proxy – the priest. So, as you may have figured it out, I was grossly over-dressed. These people come to God’s house wearing shorts and sandals! This cannot be right, or can it? Do they have some kind of special dispensation that allows them not to dress to the nines when going to church? No wonder so few people pitch up for the church service. You see, back home in msawawa, in addition to the good word, the bread and the wine, there are the ladies all dressed up all smelling good and of course the brothers who are not be outdone. So the brothers come for the sisters and the sisters better be there if they are to catch any of the brothers. That is besides the good word, the wine and the bread, that is. Where else, other than the funeral and the wedding do you get to pick your prospective wife or husband but the big man’s house? Considering that the former two don’t come every weekend – well, the funeral maybe does – but you get my thinking, right?

Anyways, there I was in my Sunday’s best (there is a reason they are called Sunday’s best) among the under-dressed and the under-tanned, except my host and two others of course. I am no spring chicken myself but boy the folks in this church are old. I tell you the honest truth (yeah there is another kind) the church was full of old people – no young people! How does it work with white people? Only the kindergarten and the octagenarians go to church? The rest of the family? Excuse my obsession with this but you have to understand where I’m coming from. Long, long, long time ago, before the days of the missionaries and fibre optics, black folks were apparently minding their own business with no idea of the Sunday kind of God until the white folks with the smoke-coughing sticks and good book showed up. That’s how David Bullard would put it anyways.

Now come Sunday, Soweto is hussle and bussle with families (ok largely women and children) going to the various churches in the township. Here, you should arrive early or you do not find a seat and the services is long, anything up to 3 hours. The church is full; young people, old people – women and men in their Sunday best. These folks some 300 years or so ago would be elsewhere now they are crammed in a church. The people who introduced the whole church on Sunday thing hardly fill the pews of their magnificent churches.

How’s that?

My wife and I have just had the absolute pleasure of watching a very informative programme on Soweto TV dealing with cervical cancer. I am the first to complain about the poor programming at the TV station but this morning I was pleasantly surprised.

Apparently the virus that is ultimately responsible for cervical cancer, is transmitted sexually. So, virginity is not to be laughed at. Anyways, men carry this particular virus and pass it on to the woman during sex. This virus or its onset does not show any symptoms an all and can only detected through a laboratory test. I did not know any of this before watching the programme.

To the credit of Soweto TV, the programme was predominantly in isiXhosa. The programme addressed the vulnerability of women who are HIV positive women to cervical cancer.

Programming like this is useful and is the kind I hope Soweto TV will do more of.

My grandmother is 94 years old, cantenkerous and sharp as a pin. A few people in the family and in the township have paid dearly for thinking that she is not switched on and aware of what’s going on. Like my cousin who was sucking face with some woman in the other room, obviously thinking that grandma would be none the wiser – well, was he wrong as we all got to know later. Thanks to grandma’s blow by blow account of the illicit bodily fluid exchange. This however is not the point of this short post. I hereby wish to celebrate my grandmother’s succinct and incisive commentary on life, love and other matters. I do so by referring to one comment she made when yours truly was barely out of his primary school shorts.

But first some background. We of a darker hew, the residents of the township and other substandard habitat (as a general proposition) have these wonderful family or clan gatherings at which matters of importance are discussed or this or the other tradition celebrated. From thanksgiving ceremony to lobola negotiations to some cleansing or another. These gatherings are always a hive of activity where women and the youth are concerned. The men only ever get busy when there is an animal to kill, skin and cut up or some heavy three-legged pots to move or food to eat.

It is in the context of one of those big clan gatherings that my grandmother, in her usual soft-spoken and almost disinterested tone of voice and turn of phrase said: ha e le tiro e fe basadi, puo o e fe banna. I paraphrase as I translate for the benefit of the great majority of the 3 people who read this blog: if it is work give it to the women, if it is speech/talk/discussion give it to the men. I have always marvelled at the power of this short and sharp statement. I have often seen its meaning in practice in all manner of contexts but never have I seen it more powerfully portrayed than as it were by the recent elections.

Everyone I believe agrees that the recent elections were the most hotly contested. Not even the 1994 elections were as hotly contested. Some will even remember that Judge Kriegler declared the 1994 elections substantially free and fair – that is as far as he was willing to go. It is the best the good judge could do. The 2009 were unqualifiedly free and fair, not to mention peaceful, not to mention well-run.

The 2009 elections were run and precided over by two women: Advocate Tlakula and Ms Brigalia Bam. These two women, in the tradition of my grandmother and millions of women throughout the country, just got on with the job, with very little talking. In fact when they did talk, it was to reassure the country that its democracy were in good and well moisturised hands.

Of course this is not new. The townships, the place intended to kill anything that is human in their residents bear unquestionable testimony to my grandmother’s statement. Without women, the townships would have been nothing but wastelands.

With this I celebrate my grandmother and womanhood the world over.

Think of it, anything and Soweto has it. A guy I know refers to Soweto as “that overrated township”. There was a time when I would have agreed with him. I have now thought about it and I agree with him with a lot of disagreement. I agree with him that when you have lived in Soweto for as long as he has, then the township is just overrated. What with inconsiderate neighbours with their shebeen business disturbing your peace and all else that goes with having a shebeen for a neighbour.

Apart from all that though, Soweto is having it. You name it, you think it, Soweto is having it. It has the only street in the whole world that boasts 2 nobel peace laureates. For those who may not be aware of this piece of history: Vilakazi Street, found in the Orlando West section of Soweto, was once the home of Nelson Mandela and of Archbishop emeritus Desmond Tutu. Well to be exact, the Arch’s home, has remained his home while the Nelson Mandela home has now become a national museum. If you were to treat yourself to a “Soweto Tour” (recommended for Sowetans too), you would be sure to walk this famous street. There are Sowetans who have never been to Vilakazi street, they are not planning to go there anytime soon and they don’t care. But still, they are having it – the street with the 2 nobel peace laureates. The only street of its kind.

Soweto is a peer of such big cities as New York and London – Soweto is having its own marathon. The Soweto marathon is now part of the elite South African running calendar. Very few Sowetans actually take part in the marathon and even fewer get involved with all that goes with hosting a marathon but hey – they are having it. To some, running this marathon and finishing it, is a feat of bravery only rivalled by the antics of one Chuck Norris. Every year since this marathon’s humble beginnings, Sowetans endure the traffic inconveniences as they try to bury their loved ones and neighbours or go about their regular weekend business. It is an international marathon and they are having it.

And then there is the golf course. Soweto Country Club, an 18 hole golf course (did I mention chanllenging?) carved out of a wasteland tract that was meant to be the buffer and dividing line, a no-man’s land between the blacks living in Pimville and the coloureds living in Kliptown and Eldorado Park. If you were to treat yourself to a round of golf (for less than fifty rand) and you were to take too much club for your approach shot on the first hole, then your ball would be found somewhere in Eldos (as Eldorado Park is affectionately known. Similarly, a hook (for right handers) or a slice (for lefties) from the 9th hole tee, would leave you having to talk very nicely to one of the Pimville property owners. With all of its beauty (mainly during summer) and its challenges (like the bull that ran onto the course away from the sharp knives of its assailants), it is a potential championship course and the Sowetans are having it. Most of the members of this country club are current and ex-caddies and others who were not allowed into or could not afford the “town” golf courses. The others are the newly empowered who want to fix their game before going to play the town courses. Some Sowetans don’t care much for the course, sometimes they use it as a short-cut to Eldos and some use it as a jogging terrain. There are times when some boys set up make shif goal posts (a pair of bricks each) down the fairway. Whatever the case, it is an experience to play this course and the Sowetans are having it.

Until recently the Sowetans flocked to South Gate mall for their month-end shopping. Now, there is the Maponya Mall right there in the heart of Soweto and for the Sowetans to patronise, which they do. I read somewhere that the country’s highest grossing “News Cafe” is right there in Maponya Mall. Sowetans no longer need to go to town for their shopping, they can do it right here at their own Mall. Previously Sowetans claimed “High Gate” near Putcotin but everyone knows it is way out of Soweto and closer to Riverlea. Maponya mall has been known to get flooded if it rained hard but it is a shoppoing mall to rival those in “town” and the Sowetans are having it.

Just this week, the Soweto Open, an ATP sanctioned international-standard tennis tournament, was announced. Allow me to let you into the secret behind this tournament. Years ago, the late Arthur Ashe, a negro who beat caucasians at their game, made the dream possible. Through his kindness, a complex of tennis courts, change rooms and a library were built for the people of Soweto. Out of this, the Soweto Open came to be. An international tennis tournament and the Sowetans are having it. I remember fondly the lengthy days during school holidays, spent at the Phefeni tennis courts. The new tennis complex is lightyears ahead of that and the Sowetans are having it. Can you imagine the Williams sisters slugging it out amidst the smoke and taxis of Soweto? Somewhere in Michigan is a man who played tennis as a boy in Soweto and earned a scholarship to the US where he now lives. It looks like when it comes to tennis and comrades, Soweto has been having it.

If you were to prowl the streets of Soweto properly, you would find that Sowetans have their own white residents too.

You name it, think it – they are having it.

Love is the one thing that one can write volumes and volumes on – when one lives in the sprawling South Western Townships. There is the emotional interaction between parents and their children; the children they see for less than 2 hours each working day and probably for 4 hours during the weekend; depending on how old the children are. For the purporse of this post, let us talk about teenagers and older. This is the parent-child love.

There are a variety of theories as to how this kind of love ought to go down. Some believe that parents who love their children, spent time with them and talk to them and engage them on a host of issues. The parents must also hug and cuddle the children and tell them that they love them. Failure to this will result in some issues where the children are concerned. Issues that may lead to some social complications or something like that at a later stage.

Now, anybody who has any experience of child-rearing in msawawa will give the majority of the parents there an F for parenting. For starters, the msawawa parents are notorious for not bothering to pitch for any of their children’s school meetings. Does this mean they don’t care? I don’t know but I believe to this day that my parents cared about my school stuff even though they missed all the meetings except for the end of year price-giving ones. I do however believe that they had absolutely no clue as to what I was busy with in my high school syllabus – except for the English and Setswana setworks.  My mother enjoyed these, especially the Shakespeare stuff. I do not remember a lot of hugs and kisses and “I love yous” neither. The majority of the times that my parents spoke to me were generally meant to give me an opportunity to convince them (granted mostly my mother) why she should not give me a beating. Other than that, the operating procedure was to be occassionally seen and sometimes heard. Except for being denied some or other trinket, I do not recall thinking of my parents as being loveless towards me; each time I am asked whether I believe my parents love me, the answer is always in the affirmative. This is so even when their parenting did not meet the textbook standard.

Then there is the interaction between boys and girls and the unmarried men and women of msawawa. Theories of what is love abound and everyone is an expert, that is as far as they can quote Oprah or Dr Phil or this or other women’s magazine. In the meantime, I am at some public but secluded place with my girlfriend of the time, trying to reach into her teenage knickers clumsily. She is denying me access and so our dance of connection continues. I tell her I love her so she must let me in there. Truth is, most of those times I would not have known what to do once I got in there in any case. Over time the dance takes different forms and sometimes my teenage hands are in there all slipping and sliding all proud that I am there and she likes it. This interaction has as many outcomes as there are teenage couples. Some fall pregnant, some get the clap, some have their knickers torn during the dance, some experience their first come all over themselves right there under the street light – and yet others hold hands and dream about going to university and getting married some day. “There is all kind of love” –  I hear somebody singing. Some parents get involved with the teenage-love dancers, other have no clue, others ignore the whole damn dance hoping their children come out of it ok. Meanwhile, love persist whatever the form and shape. This is teenage love.

Then there are the grown up young people wishing to take their love to another level. They want to pay lobolo (this is not bride price) they want to get married. Truth be told, the young woman wants to get married, the young man could not be rushed into such – remember, invariably there is Jennifer, Phillipa, Annabel and Sue – all vying for his love. This always confuses me. The games the machinations which all supposedly end in love forever. Love regardless of all else persists, children are born and raised and the circle of love an life carries on. This brings me to my theory about life and love, of whatever kind.

You see, I have been whatching a lot of Discovery, Animal Planet and National Geographic. I believe this whole love thing is nothing but a con and the root of all manner of conflict and financial difficulties. You see, in the animal kingdom which we are supposedly in charge of; love is nothing more than the lion saying to the lioness “hey there, how about we hunt together?”  The lioness says yes and the two, together with other lionesses hunt and live together happily ever after while death does them part in varying combinations. The strongest guy gets all the women and their benefits. Everybody knows their place. We don’t have to kill each other of sex. Mind you we have been doing that for ages. We could work out the hunting partners and patterns and all get along knowing nobody belongs to nobody and that everybody belongs to this or other hunting team.

So, let’s get together for the purposes of hunting for food, shelter and provident fund and stop all the fuss about love and all else.

Don’t get me wrong, I really, really enjoy living in Soweto. It is an exciting place to live and for some to work. Granted, it is somewhat of a challenge to raise children but then in other instances, it is just what the children need growing up. Yesterday however, living in Soweto lost some if not all of its appeal.

The children did not have their regular transport to the schools in “town”. Their usual transport being the taxi, was otherwise occupied, being part of a march/demonstration/intimidation. Some of the children woke up an hour or so earlier than usual in order to catch the train and then walk the last however long distance to school. No issues there. Others had lifts organised for them with those of the Soweto residents who have use of a car. There were challenges with this lot. As the “private” car reached the famous Maponya intersection (the one in Dube and not the fancy new mall)a scary group of men carrying weapons of various traditional origins stopped the car and ordered everyone out of the Cressida. Mr Sibanda did his best pleading for his life and for the scary guys to understand that these two are children of his cousin that he takes to school every morning. That was a close call but all ended well as everyone got back into the car (including the woman who for that morning was Mrs Sibanda).

I generally do not give lifts in the morning, people may be on an exodus from Soweto to “town” but they could be headed in a million directions so it does not make sense. In any event, not many people ask for lifts anyways. Yesterday morning was different, a lot of people tried to get lifts to work. I kept my eyes right ahead of me, trying not to see the desperation in their eyes. I may not be as lucky as Sibanda you see. Even being the sole person in my car had its own challenges. There are not many roads that serve as exits out of Soweto. You will remember that the apartheid design strategy was containment of the wretched. Now, yesterday morning the traffic flow was exceptionally slow. The taxis were moving at a walking pace and they occupied both lanes (regardless of the direction of the lane) but this occupying of both lanes happen everyday, but then the traffic is moving and there is less animosity in the air. Besides, not many cars need to enter Soweto in the mornings so there is no oncoming traffic. This is important to know in case you need to come into Soweto on a working day and before 8am. That though, is besides the point. The point is it took forever to get out of Soweto and onto the highway.

Spending 3 hours in the traffic is just not good for one’s morale. I didn’t and wouldn’t work much. My surburban colleagues were of course in their usual chirpy and chatty mood – all eager to know whether the family and I are ok, how did I make it to work, was I not scared, have I heard about the guys whose cars were shot/stoned/hijacked. I needed help from these well-meaning but desperately irritating souls. So, the taxi drivers and not owners are upset about some transportation strategy that the government launched in preparation for the forthcoming soccer world cup. Just one question, how do the owners feel about the loss of income for yesterday as a result of the strike/march? Which part is the tail and which the dog and who should do the wagging. A quick reminder: this is township stuff, the “if – then” sequence don’t necessarily apply. Yes, the logic is a lot more complicated – the variables a lot more varied.

So, how come the custodians of peace were not there to protect Sibanda and those 2 kids and the pretend Mrs Sibanda? So, when these scary men threaten to stop the world cup, not only do they mean it, they know they can and they know they will get away with it. Those who got shot at, pulled out of alternative transport, had their cars shot at or stoned/bricked – sorry, no help/protection and probably no insurance for you.

Later that afternoon, as I sat in my cubicle contemplating my existence and feeling sorry for myself, I could not help but think how nice life would have been if my family and I lived in the surburbs. If I lived in the surburbs: I would have opened my garage and if my car was still there from the previous night, I would have pulled out of the driveway and 30 minutes later would have arrived at work, cheerful and ready to take on the world.

How I wish . . .

Life is surely more than a series of in and out breaths that one takes and which are often the most accessible evidence of life. Ok, a woman is lying on the road, a busy road like Koma, you know the one that runs all the way down to the old Potch road and may, if you like, branch off to the famous watering hole, The Rock; that is just before Moroka Police Station, which will be on the left if you have been following my directions. Oh sorry, let’s go back to the woman lying on this road. The first thing people would do will be to see if she is breathing – if she is breathing, she is alive.

But of course life is more than that. And just a few days ago I experienced just how much more life is and has been for a long time. I attended a high school open-day in the surburbs. Well, it is of course in the surburbs, loxion schools don’t have designated open days – they have open days all the time. People come and go, mostly go, all the time. Sometimes they are just scared to open the schools because they get flooded by children . . .

Anyways, I was first of all blown away by what I saw. Granted, the school is a hundred some years old and it shows in the character of the building. I could not believe how well organised and even more, how well resourced the school was. Then I remembered that this, by the way, is a public school, funded by the taxes of hard-working/hard-ripping off South Africans like you and I. That was when I go pissed off! So, this is the good stuff that the white people kept us darkies from experiencing. A good school, good teachers, good equipment, good classrooms – the kind of things that make it nice to be a kid in a school. Then I began to smile as I remembered the fun (and some education too) that I got at my school with its stinking toilets and a lab that only had taps and nothing else. It was not as posh, but was great, most importantly and fortunately for me – it had a principal who cared and who tried hard – ok, he was scary too.

There were some black parents in the group, all hoping to have their children attend this school next year. Parents do that – they try to give the children the best possible opportunities. The little brats have a different idea – at least most of the time they do. To them, this is just another school with annoying teachers and cool friends – oh, and too much work. No wonder parents try to re-live their lives through their children. Hey, if you went to my high school you would beg for reincarnation as a high school kid in post FW South Africa. After my amazement, followed by anger followed by appreciation and envy, I got into the combi back to Soweto, wondering – with great impatience – how my child will turn out at that wonderful institution of learning. Did I mention that we arrived at the school after 5:30pm and the teachers were still at work? No, not the teachers who were taking part in the open day, there were others just carrying on with work and stuff, genuine, s’true.

Well, this is how it has been for those living in the surburbs for a long time – and it will continue to be like that for a long time to come. that is why it is called the surburbs.

So I phoned old geezer like me to brag about my child and the new school. Then we started with the “when I was in school, we used to walk bare-foot to school, in the snow, uphill – bothways”. Before we knew it we were laughing from our bellies as we remembered our high school years. That high school still stands – barely – it is not the school that we went to, it is but a shadow of what it used to be.

Here is an amazing thing: as we were being shown around the posh school, we were referred to bronze plaques above the doors of certain classrooms. These plaques had names on them. These names we were told, were of the students who having moved on to bigger and better things, donated money to the school for class maintenance or upgrading. Monies up to and over ten thousand rand were donated by individuals but mostly by groups of friends who were in the same class – clubbing together and giving those who come after them a better chance . . . I am getting angry again. This time I am thinking how if my standard 5 class donated R50 rand each, we could . . . I remember that we were a big class. Ok, not everyone is still alive or have R50, but . . .

We could go back to our old bantu schools and do something, like they do on the other side. No?

The most senior black executive at Standard Bank was born and raised in Soweto. Ok, not so sure about born but definitely raised in Soweto. I wonder what it is that his father said to him that led to him turning out to be what he is today – if anything at all. I don’t have any recollection of some inspiring conversation I had with my father growing up. I remember him being very disappointed at the state of my books. This was back in primary school. I mean what did he expect? Boys run, books fall out of the OK Bazaars plastic and red soil make them dirty and unsightly. Anyway, I am working through my issues in therapy but this is not about me.

Do fathers, as a general proposition ever or actually talk to their sons? I am not referring to the “hey monna (guy), did you or did you not knock that girl up? answer me!” type of conversation, I mean really and actually converse. My sense is that the fathers reserve their conversation skills for those moments when the boys have done something they were not supposed to do. “You are being naughty? wait until your father gets home”. We all have had that experience right? I concede not everyone has a father that comes home and that is a whole new blog on its own. Some will remember “if only your father was here”.

Generally speaking, the trip undertaken by boy children (don’t laugh, that’s what they are called) from childhood to manhood is an interesting one. Varied yes but also very similar and interesting, at least as far as the township boys are concerned. The baby boy is born to much ado and fanfare; the father (if he is around for the occassion) gets a lot of backslapping validation of his manhood – as if he had anything to do with it. Maybe this overstated importance of the male species in procreation is a subject we should attack next. As I was saying, the man gets applauded and the woman starts mothering.

As soon as the boy gets home from the hospital, the elder sisters, cousins, etc. cannot wait their turn at the mothering business. Once the mother goes back to work, some other woman in the family or neighbourhood takes over – another bosom for the baby boy to lay his head on. As the boy child gets older the sisters and the cousins carry on the mothering – cooking for, washing for, cleaning after, wiping ass, etc. The boy grows into a teenager, gets to high school, gets a girlfriend who promptly takes over the mothering from the family.

There will with the passage of time be various girls performing various levels of mothering. I remember when I was at boarding school, an older girl from my township who was at the same school offered to do my laundry “until I learn to do it properly for myself”. At my boarding school we washed our clothes by hadn and ironed them. That was very nice of her and I will forever remember her kind gesture with gratitude. The point is, she mothered me too. So the boy goes through life mothered by all sorts of women. Some will carry him on their back and others on their front. Front is nicer.

No wonder there is so much confusion among boys and men. Afterall, the fathers will at some stage been the very boys who had various women at their back and call – I think. So, maybe we should take some time to re-engineer the way we build boys – as a start. The things that the boys get up to in our townships, things that are made worse by their fathers must be, at least to me, incentive enough to do something. The violence that our townships are subjected to must inspire the fathers, I would have hoped, to make things right.

I accept that many boys become good men inspite of all this lack of fathering. We all agree that the great surgeons, academics and lawyers of the 70′s do not validate apartheid education. Bad parenting should not be validated either. There is of course the truth that most of the children of the previous few decades were raised by the village and not the home – there is less if not nothing of that left. It takes more than talking where boys are concerned. They are not the most cerebral of animals as we all would appreciate. For the little monkey to do, the little monkey must see. So, hug mommy, be around, do the dishes once in a while (as a start) help around the house. Most importantly, laugh a lot. The fight against all manner of abuse that boys and men inflict upon others, must be led by men. There is a lot of confusing things in a boy’s life. Think about this: boys are more likely to see a woman’s breast cut off by a sword on TV, than they are to see a woman’s breast lovingly massaged. It is said that the latter would lead to sex and other anti-social behaviour. What is said about the former, I wonder . . . the poor sods must be confused.

We need to talk to our boys and in the process learn ourselves. We need to teach as we learn that sexuality is not a source of power – it is one of our many attributes. Respect, we should teach them, is a very different concept from fear. We need to learn as we teach them that they are very different from dogs – that they do not have to be smacked to teach them. Maybe that way, they won’t smack either when they are big.

Making men is a tough job – one that must not be left to mothers alone.