In the early seventies I was just an ordinary township being. I had a few ambitions, one of which was to drive a bus. I was fascinated by the deft skills of bus drivers. Who wouldn’t after watching those lunatics, dicing with lives of old folks. Who were given to releasing oxygen, whenever the bus swerves left right before negotiating a sharp curve at 120 km. I was a baby then; in my street alone there were several bus - drivers. In my assessment the transport sector then seems an attractive option. Remember, those old men made a fortune, they use to recycle tickets. The closer I came to being a bus driver, was when I collected wire hangers and constructed cars in my backyard. In the process I emulated those silly fellows, as I played with my sibling in the dusty streets of the townships.
In later years, the love for medicine consumed me. (Un)fortunately the gray matter stored in my cynic mind could not filter and process Math’s, Physical Science and Biology to the satisfaction of my teachers. On the one hand my brethren were blessed in the area of IQ. Here’s one of my history that’s as sumptuous as any favourite dish of your choice. During my school days I was like a yoyo. On entering primary school, I couldn’t catch – up with anything. As a result I failed my grade. School became a turbulent exercise. Essentially you may wonder why I tell you this. This completes the picture of Zanele Mashinini who woke – up and wanted to publish a book. Still on that score, I saw many a kids pensioning in one class more like a drunk who uses a lamppost to gain support. Quite interesting they were no quitters. They were exceptional being who gave generously to all of us. They shared their lunch boxes with all and sundry. I learned one crucial lesson from them, that the hand that gives is planted everywhere in our lives like a river that flows non – stop. The hand that gives is of ordinary folks, with power that flows from sweet percolated heart.
I was a wimp and a down right lackadaisical scholar. Wait for this: The moment I learned of Leonard Da Vinci remarkable human anatomy drawings, which were used extensively in medicine. The least I did was jump with excitement and saw an opening for my lazy mind. In my stupor I reasoned that entering an art school was not a bad idea. After all, I was an exceptional artist in my formative years as a knee-high lad of five. I drifted in and out of love life. I learned my lessons, burned myself in the process. To this day I still savoured every bit of being jilted. Well, delusion of love is nothing else but the best art. It teaches you, to be patience, preserve and be tolerant to issues of romance. Outside of romance, I witness many a people reaching out. These were ordinary people like you and me; they had no impeccable financial resources. Their philanthropically attitude influenced me immensely. I though, I must also grow – up and make a difference. I was touched by their unconditional love. They gave jinglingly with no string attached. I admired their tenacity in the face of biting inflation and scarcity of resources.
My home was a three – roomed dwelling, if you could imagine this scenario. A kitchen that comes alive with thick billowing smoke, in both summer and winter. Come five o’clock everyday, the cloud of smoke would feed all the rooms with carbon dioxide like a choky train. In fact this was the common sight, because elsewhere in the streets, thick columns of smoke would engulf the whole township. You would be excused for thinking the place was on fire. I have forgiven my parents for exposing me to passive smoking whilst growing - up. Who wouldn’t? Anyway life goes on, there are a whole lot of other people who are chocking courtesy of my abject poverty. Our so-called bed – room is maybe 4metre by 4metre. I have purposely used “is” because this structure, which I call home, is still the same it hasn’t undergone any facelift. That room in particularly was stuffed with blankets smelling of children urine, some of these blankets belonged to my folks. At the end of the day it was common, for one to flatly refuse he has watered the bed. After all we slept in sets of four or five depending on who comes to pack – up at our residence.
Another room was used as a dinning cum - sitting room. It was well furnished, but on the one hand it resembled a store – rooms the ones that are always hit by a rocket in movies. I am glad we did not have rodents, partly because this was a clean chaos. I would have long died of bubonic plague. Inside the room in question there was everything, from a hi – fi set which was always out of tune – you needed to kick it hard to bring it to its senses. Our schoolbooks a collection of bibles and horses bet forms competed for space in our makeshift bookshelf. On rainy days my granny would send us to bet faffie – a game operated by Chinese nationals, its molded more on the lotto line, you throw you money on a number, and wait for the evitable. Completing the design in our dining room was damn cheap wooden furnisher, which was bought by my parents. They were made to pay a fortune for years for this piece of furnisher. The furnisher shop kept on sending my parents those hostile letters with windows every month. They paid for the suit for years on end. What was funny though, everybody in our lineage thought the furnisher was exquisite. I remember vividly my relatives’ pouring appellations when my parents bought that piece of furnisher. They came from far-flung areas; I cannot up to this day comprehend, what was the big deal. Come nighttime, the room will come alive with snores of dozen people. Our home offered sanctuary to uncle and extended family members from both mom and dad’s kin. Everybody was used to drop – by unannounced like torrential rains, and demanded to be accommodated.
No single individual was charged any fees for food, electricity, water and ablution. There was no system put in place to deter people from taking advantage of our hospitality. On Sundays one of my uncles bought his folks for praise and worship sessions. The prayer session would go for such a long time, it was common to hear someone stomach literally rumbling after eating the word for hours on end. Uncle and his disciples used to wear snow-white or blue dustcoats. This church uniform was at all times drenched on starch. Each time the followers of God chanted, you would literally see sprinkles of white powder flying all over. Most congregates looked like caricatures straight from comic strips. Those coats had a huge white cross-sawn on the back; fashioned on the one carried by Jesus Christ. The favourite colours used on crosses were normally sky blue. I never summoned enough courage to ask why, were people expected to wear these crosses? Not all the disciples were expected to carry a cross on his or her shoulder. At times dependent on a prophecy, you were either told to have a star. Whatever the star symbolizes is still a matter of curiosity. There was this one minister, who was amazing – he called himself Messiah. One of his traits was to smack you with pooh and sting the whole place with unholy communion from his big bum. Whenever, Messiah opened his mouth, what was noticeable was his extraordinary long set of teeth which were eaten by ganglion like a terrestrial creature. Some stale blood was at all times parked on his off white teeth. Messiah was hectic and full of zeal for life; his preaching was punctuated by gallons of spit flying in all directions. He couldn’t read a word in the bible and to compensate, he would talk in tongues. I laugh myself silly, because at the end, it was fashionable for him to say he was instructed to read the verse in parables. He was good when it comes to faking flying like an angel and landing straight on his face on the ground.
The toilet was outside some 100 metres away. It was no fun going to the toilet especially at night. Anyway, it was easier to bank your faeces and suppress any call of nature. Then, the activists in the stomach would take over and offload unpleasant smell, depending on what was served the previous night. My fathers lean figure, still tenders to our barren soil as he did some fifty years ago. The soil still swivel like a whirlwinds, my father has not stop tilting it and watering it for the past years. I had to fend for myself at any early age, I did shoe shine at Orlando Station (Soweto). Each time, it was prudence for you to mind your teeth. At any given moment some scumbag would kick your mouth and make a soccer ball out of your lips provided you touch their expensive designer shoes. I graduated from that ritual and began to guarded cars during big soccer spectaculars. It was common to come back at your point after collecting some of your daily takings and realize the car was missing. In such circumstances, the best you did was to dash home. Otherwise the owner of the car would have beaten you, until the angels welcomes you yonder. I sold chewing gums, peanuts and hold a temp in the township grocery shops Sometimes I would pass sweets and some grocery to good-looking girls. I hope my aunt and uncle wouldn’t blame me for running their business down. My parents should not be accused of child abuse. I did this out of my own cognizance, I was a street wise activist, schooled in the university of the streets.
This was a ritual that was awaiting any youngster growing up in the sprawling township of Johannesburg. My lot was no different from that of other youngsters my age. I was bulldozed, ran errands, for thugs, who would spit on the ground and send you to some 3 kilometres grocery shop to buy a match. They would whack you in the event of you arriving after the saliva had dried – up in the soil.
I survived all the buckets of hardship and better my circumstances. This statement does not purport to say I am now an established phenomenon. My background has not changed an inch. Well, obviously we are dealing here with a legacy of more than three hundred years. We are only nine years since Democracy. Unlike some of my contemporarily I work, I earn a salary and my credentials are not that bad. Somehow, age is catching up with me. For all I know, all my wisdom acquired in years may count for nothing. So, let me not deceive anybody, I have no credentials. Save to say I am a grumpy fellow, with a great heart. Hearts don’t count for nothing; they are items that take you straight to heaven. I don’t know whether I am ready to traverse that path. My creations are used extensively on AIDS campaigns. Immediately after graduating from an art school, I vow to use my skills for the betterment of the people. Before then, I had the misfortune of experiencing first hand the smell of teargas. Anyway, there’s no one in the township, who can say they were never exposed to tear gas fumes. At times, I dabble into creative writing. I cooked some suspect lines, recite them, and then conned some unsuspecting audience. I earned a nickname “Touch and Touch” because of my multi- talented antics. I knew all along I had duped all my gullible compatriots who got damn intoxicated by my shouting sweet nothing. Surprise, surprise I continued to wrote a lot of unpalatable poetry – given some platform during protest march to vent my anger. The crippling thoughts of doing something constructive to advance the cause of my people poisoned my system. I settled for a job in the development sector. I worked with unionists, educationalists, pseudo politicians, and half-baked revolution lists. I interfaced with bible punches the ones who conduct witch-hunts and examine your standing before condemning you to the web of Satan hands. Truly speaking I was open and didn’t care whether I burn in stake. In the process I acquired an inane enterprising talents, to fraternize with time tested leaders and backyard wordsmiths. Unfortunately not a single one of them made it to the higher echelon of business, government and what not. Most of them visit me at night, to complain about poverty, wives, girlfriends and the fact that they want to leave. Frankly, for me I can stay anywhere and everywhere. Unbeknown to them is the fact that I am also contemplating emigrating because of my circumstances. Unfortunately my academic records cannot be accommodated outside of my native country. I may as well kiss the thought of emigrating for I am unmarketable.
It was not easy, we got raided, someone was arrested; call it-mistaken identity or shabby intelligent work. One of us skipped the country two remained in the country. Anyway, we were up to some mischief, we did produced some stuff, which was then referred to as subversive material. Well, there were dozen of legislation then, newspapers were gagged. Excuse my pun; it was no sexed - up intelligence work. Now, I continue working in the education sector. I witnessed many a students changing their circumstances; I like a fundamentalist, continued treading on the same plain. People graduated, moved on, spoke impeccable English, changed their ways of life. Moved to leafy suburbs, walk the talks, and became marketable anywhere in the world. But, of course I remained on the periphery – to serve agendas of my nation. My first love to serve people remains a burning passion. It is sincere genuine manifestation acquired in kindness, harness by the love I witnessed as a child. Some of the people I witness climbing the ladder snare at me. They were obviously intolerable of my financial situation. To them, I was just a talent waiting in the doldrums, for doomsday. To tell the honest fact, there were a dozen or so other cadres like myself planted in the breath and length of my country. I collaborated with musicians, artists and the civil society. Out of the turmoil, mishap and what not I weave my tapestry. Then, began a journey that takes you through my creation. I remember vividly how some of my close friends, acquaintances and colleagues would scream at me. My sin was to do illustrations in meetings, during romantic escapades and at worst inside the church. Well, I am no atheist, I do from time to time pray. And play gospel music loud to connect with my Maker, mom and all those finest people in my family, who decided to leave me. I continued to stockpile illustrations it never became a routine. A lot of people told me their stories; through my pen I endeavour to capture their fears, happiness, joy and aspiration. It was not easy; my canvass became a mixed bag of stories. There were individuals, who in spite of the exponential statistics continued to harbour the conquest of chauvinists.
The face of AIDS wangled and intertwined itself in my family. There were no mitigation factors – life was on top gear. Dreams of youngsters I know evaporated as HIV\AIDS took its toll. Politicians, Religious leaders and virtually everybody took the lead. We worked in the background, churning out materials. An upheaval took shape in my mind. I saw myself continuing to engage in constructive dialogue through my work. The minute kind of identified with my work. I thought I am also contributing to destigmatise HIV\AIDS in my communities. I listen to crazy anecdotes of people who care little about people affected and infected with HIV\AIDS. Others were as extremist, as they come the seam of their garments flowed with discrimination. You came across the lot that hoists the cultural flag. I swear this crowd, told you on your face that they were untouchable. At the end of the day, they pretended they were immune to the epidemic. Each some related their experiences; I would sketch their story. I captured everything I was told. There were numerous individuals who were completely out of depth. Whatever they taught they were beyond reproach. I learned a lot in the process, there was variety of issues. I was and still is humbled by the resilient spirits of ordinary people. People organized street campaigns, these were ordinary folks.
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