Thanks to the history of this area of the country, I guess I should also begin by locating myself. If I were writing this to the Blacks of Zululand I probably would have said ‘let me introduce myself’. I’m not a native to this city. I was born in the Eastern Cape and came here as an adult. I started teaching here the same year Helen Zille introduced the concept of education refugees into public conversation which has left an imprint on my experience (Mzamo captures this very well).

I left after three years, moved to Joburg, then came back here via a short stint eBhayi during lockdown. When I came back I was surprised by how much had changed and how little had changed. People were still asking “where are you from?” with an edge one only finds in Cape Town. People were still asking where I stay with the curiosity that killed the cat. Always layered with subtext.

Since coming back five years ago I’ve decided I want to linger here and make it home. The fact that I need to declare this should signal something to you. As an experiment I’ve stopped telling people I’m from the Eastern Cape when they ask me the dreaded question of origination. Mostly because I’m tired of the mental gymnastics of figuring out if I should say Queenstown or East London. I think often of one of my favourite quotes in Bongani Madondo’s book on Brenda Fassie:

Every black African everywhere is rightly or wrongly perceived to originate—a contentious concept in itself—from somewhere. Almost overwhelmingly, that somewhere is consensually assumed, indeed believed, to be an idyllic village perched somewhere far away in rural crevices. Even today, when someone asks you in the city…where you come from, your heart beats a millisecond faster than before…Does he want to know where I pay my taxes and my children go to school, or where my folks, mainly my grandparents, come from?

So I answer by saying the name of the suburb I live in. I’ve come to enjoy playing this game because it is so revealing. I love seeing the confusion in people’s faces, no matter the race. When I first moved here all those years ago I lived in Rosebank for a spell. That’s when I learned how loaded place is in this city in a way I hadn’t noticed in other cities I’ve lived in or visited. I learned about the boerewors curtain and the lentil curtain. I’m sure there are other curtains I am yet to peak through. A few years ago I found myself in a conversation with someone who was new to Cape Town and they asked a question at the heart of this letter: how long does one need to be in Cape Town in order to be a Capetonian? I have never heard this concern expressed about what it means to belong in Joburg or Durban or Gqeberha as a Black person.

I have a feeling I can’t say everything I want to say in this letter so I may have to return with a series of letters to say what it is I feel the need to say. So for now I’m just here to introduce myself and say something is off. Something has beeeeeen off if you’re a Black person in Cape Town and I’m curious to see what happens if we name it more and more the way Mzamo did in his blog. Of course the issues he was writing about are ongoing and people talk about them all the time in their various pockets. But actually, I wonder, outside of the activist spaces, where else are people having generative conversations about this city and province? There’s a resignation I sense, that’s just how Cape Town is. It’s that resignation that has led me to this letter. And it’s that resignation that has turned us (no need to pretend I’m not part of this collective) into the good blacks because we don’t ruffle feathers. Aren’t you concerned that the joke about the “Republic of Cape Town” might grow legs? How are people even contemplating the prospect of a Cape independence on our watch? They should be biting their tongues for at least 300 years.

I worry about us a lot. I worry what psychic violence, structural violence, physical violence, historical and present violence is doing to us. I worry that we don’t really know how to talk to each other behind the veils and the caricatures we’ve been given or we’ve picked up along the way in order to survive here. I worry that we live in a city that has been wholesaled to Europe right before our eyes. I worry that we joke about the slogan “the city that works for a few”. I worry that we are not okay and yet we keep the cogs moving for this city that hates everything we represent. I worry about us. And maybe by writing these letters I can change that worry into something that is a little less heavy than worry. For my own peace of mind.

I suspect this letter also has a lot to do with reading Lulama Mali’s memoir Held: Portrait of the Black Family. She captures a lot about the experience of Cape Town having grown up in this city. Sharing her experience of moving to the southern suburbs she writes:

Mama’s childhood home had been taken from her under the Group Areas Act, her father’s grave lost to the greed of bulldozers and land theft. She had walked past these very streets for years, invisible in her domestic worker’s uniform, cleaning the homes of people who had inherited what she had been denied. So, when I unpacked my life into our little apartment on Elma Road, I felt the presence of her younger self standing supportively beside me. Situating myself there was a private act of rebellion, a way of saying, ‘We belong wherever we choose.’ It was my small contribution to the unfinished work of reclaiming space. It was a living echo of the PAC’s old rallying cry: Izwe lethu! The land is ours. Africa is ours.

I’ve been telling everyone about her book. Read it too.

You’re welcome to write back. What am I missing?

Lots of love

A

p.s. by fictive kin I am referring to Melissa Harris-Perry’s concept in Sister-Citizen: Shame, Stereotypes, and Black Women in America.

While I kept the practice of noticing, noting and sharing delights I decided to experiment with other words. Since the year of delights I have had the year of beauty, joy, honour (which got hijacked by the word ease). This year the word is soft with the hope that I will get better acquainted with my name. When I found Amiri Baraka’s question “What will be the sacred words?” this practice made sense. As a poet I know words matter and they create meaning; in isiXhosa we say umlomo uyadala, what you say can create. So finding a sacred word and using it as a lighthouse for the year or a season has helped me be inside my life.

It was during the year of joy that I experimented with writing my first children’s book. I named the character Vuyo because it means joy and I wanted to remember the year of joy through this story. I sat with the story for a while until I plucked up the courage to share it with a publisher.

As an academic I have somehow absorbed the unwritten rule that all my writing ought to be towards my academic work. While I’ve written children’s books with my friend Xolisa Guzula, all four books are history books for children which feels like an alignment with my other academic work. Writing a picture book for children felt like breaking the rules and being a little indulgent and risking not being taken seriously as an academic. Someone once told me I write about soft things and it came across as code for unserious. But I wrote the book anyway.

And now it exists in the world.

There are a few things that the story did for me before it existed in the world. Firstly I was reminded of the joy of editing. I worked with a new publisher who helped me find the right rhythm for a children’s book. One day I will write about the seriousness of writing with children in mind. Secondly I didn’t have a brief for the illustrator other than a few pointers. And yet when the illustrations came back I noticed something. There’s a part in the story with Vuyo sitting on the floor writing.

This immediately took me back to my childhood with my sister and I colouring in. My sister had sent me a picture of the moment.

It was an ordinary moment and yet whoever took the picture deemed it worthy of a photograph. I’ve been looking back on my childhood lately and this is one of the few moments captured before our lives were eviscerated in ways I am still making sense of. In this picture the world is captured before the future dissolved “like salt in a weakened broth.” as Naomi Shihab Nye writes in her poem “Kindness”. And now it re-appears in a children’s book to remind adult me about the importance of creativity in my childhood which has shaped me as a writer. When I saw the picture I said to my sister “I think I’m going to write children’s books about the good parts of our childhood.”

And finally, the book taught me about the surprises of creativity. I had asked my niece to help me write a poem for the book (when you read the book you’ll understand). She wrote something so that the poem would have the innocence of a child and I edited it because even children’s poems need editing. Collaborating with my niece was fun even though I could tell how daunted she was. Perhaps that is the gift of creativity: sometimes we have to push through to get to the other side.

“Dancing Words” captures the joy of a little girl discovering she’s written a poem. It is an ode to creativity. It is marking a moment of the inexplicable joy I still get from writing. It is an homage to parents and teachers who know the importance of encouraging creativity in the children in their care. This book is a memory for me and anyone who needs to be reminded of what the dreamscape can do in our everyday lives. Not all of us will write a poem like Vuyo but hopefully all of us can enter our dream worlds with curiosity

Get some sleep.

Don’t give advice.

Take care of your teeth and gums.

Don’t be afraid of adding some colour to your hair. Or cut it off completely. It will do wonders for the tone of your laughter.

Be loyal to your dreams. Even the nightmares have something to show you anew.

Make eye contact with a beetle.

Understand your desire to be perfect. Know the anatomy and the nature of perfection. The shadow of it might be connected with worthiness or the desire to disappear.

Wear some red lipstick, your favourite shoes on a random Saturday and bake some brownies. In that order.

Don’t stay angry about anything for too long. But get angry. Allow anger to be a friend who teaches you often.

Plan your days so you never have to rush.

Plan your outfits asking simple questions: ‘What haven’t I worn in a long time?…What have I been saving for a special occasion?’

Buy a tutu. Wear it on a Tuesday.

Find a tailor not because you need an outfit for a wedding but because you can replicate the patterns of your favourite clothes as your body changes. Because it will change.

Invest in a heat resistant spatula. It can be very satisfying if you dislike cooking.

Look at that bird over there. Listen to its song. Stop to watch it fly. Even if its a pigeon.

Don’t be afraid of leaving the kitchen messy. If you must, stack the dirty dishes and return to them when you’re ready.

Nothing bad happens while drinking a cup of rooibos tea. Drink it often. Think of it as a companion. Know the shade of colour you like your cup of tea.

Sing, with your full voice, every once in a while. A hum is a good place to start.

Walk upstairs. Sit on stairs. Have conversations on stairs. Stairs were made for pausing.

Switch your phone off from time to time. Or keep it on silent as long as you can. You will quickly realise nothing will fall apart without you. Learn to be unavailable.

Forgive your parents every once in a while. If that is not possible learn to reparent yourself.

If you feel tired, rest.

If you feel tired, rest.

If you feel tired, rest.

Count amongst your true friends people of various stations in life. A five year old bestie who is not a niece or nephew can be very essential.

Appreciate simple pleasures. The pleasure of a quiet elevator with no awkward strangers. The pleasure of walking. The pleasure of water filling the kettle. The pleasure of beautiful taps in beautiful bathrooms.

Learn to shout across the road so your friend running on the other side can hear you. Wait for them as they cross the busy road to come greet you.

If you’re struck with the fear that you’ve taken an unfamiliar path in the forest, turn around, find another path which might lead you to a garden with a bench. Sit on the bench for a while.

Walk down different streets except if you live in a country where your danger is guaranteed. In that case, walk as a group. But walk the streets at strange hours.

Buy yourself stationery from time to time. Especially when visiting another country. Pens, papers, cards, envelopes, notebooks. Use these often and don’t wait for special occasions.

Cry every once in a while. Become familiar with the feeling of tears on your fingers.

Drive a different route home. You might find a street lined with trees that will make your heart sing or a house painted in a colour that reminds you of bubblegum

I had to teach that morning and I arrived to my class telling them I’m not okay. Maria McCloy has passed away I said. “If you don’t know her look her up!”: shem, most of them were American exchange students and a few 20-somethings who know nothing of this country’s heydays in the 90s. And yet somehow I had to teach even though I wanted to pause. The next day I had a reading in town. I wore a fugu and had red lips in honour of you. I was reading the essay I wrote in memory of Diana Ferrus who had passed away shortly after you had celebrated your 50th!

As I said, you don’t know me. Not enough for me to write you a letter posthumously. But here I am. When a friend and I spoke about your passing we coined the idea of correlation grief (or maybe it was collateral grief?). The thing is, collective grief is very real. Which means collective love is also a true thing. We met once in Rosebank when I bought a leather jacket from you. The leather jacket which everyone always notices in SA, and abroad, people have stopped me in the street telling me how amazing it looks. I had coveted it from a friend who said I should just send you a message on instagram. And you responded! I thought you would use uber connect because why on earth would you want to meet in person because you are MARIA MCCLOY! And yet it was no big deal for you. I had been following you on Instagram for a while and when we chatted on whatsapp about the jacket I noticed you were into whatsapp stories too. I loved everything you posted. It felt lived in and real.

But back to our brief encounter. I am seldom star struck. You wore gold sneakers and your usual look only you can pull off. We exchanged a few words. I kept babbling as I do when I’m starstruck. I fitted on the jacket and we chatted briefly. I was worried it didn’t sit well, you said I needn’t worry about zipping it up, “no one really does, you look great”. And I believed you. I’m sure you’ve done this for thousands of people. But because clothes aren’t just clothes, they mean something. I grew up in a home where people made clothes which means they created people’s sense of self and dignity. It felt like you were reminding me of something akin to what I saw mama and my gran do for many other women (it was almost always women). You also gave me the bag you were carrying it in. I use it as my beach bag sometimes. There was something simply human in the encounter. Wandenza umntu because you are such a somebody. I was just confused why you had come all the way. I wore the jacket that night or the day after at my book launch. I had never felt so cool in my life!

Soon after I met you, I noticed you posted amakhukho from Durban on whatsapp stories. We chatted again briefly as you showed me what you still had in stock. Before long you had posted it and that mat is now the first thing I see when I get out of bed. When I went to Italy for a month I took the mat with me because when I travel for long periods I like to set up an altar. That mat was the only thing I took for an altar and it became the spot where I sat when I needed to ground myself while far from home. I now keep the mat in my bedroom and it’s taken on a new meaning every time I see it in the morning: how shall I live fully today? it seems to ask me.

After these brief interactions you became someone whom I admired from afar. Hence, lighthouse. I stopped keeping my Basotho blanket in the cupboard like a precious thing for special occasions after I saw a picture you posted using it in the everyday, as it should be. You helped me figure out a feeling for the home I now have. I have trinkets everywhere! I have too much jewellry which I no longer feel weird about after I caught a glimpse of yours in yet another post of yours. People think I’m stylish but I’ve mostly copied you and a few of my favourite people. (My nails are almond shaped as I type this and I’m going to keep them this long for as long as I can!)

You let us into your world through images you shared so generously. I never commented because I didn’t want to phaphela you. The beautiful and the kitsch you adorned yourself with made sense to me. I have watched you from afar and learned so much from you. You remind me of something a 90 something year old makhulu said to me a few months ago. We weren’t talking about you but we might as well had been. She’s old enough to know that “people need inspiration” she said. It was such a simple statement and I may have missed it by rolling my eyes but it’s been rolling around in my head since you passed away. Because you seem to have understood that too. The word inspire finds its roots in Latin: “inspirare means "to breathe or blow into." (according the Mirriam Webster dictionary). It has spiritual connotations of course but it is apt for you. You breathed life into everyone you came into contact with. You breathed life into this country and it will never be the same again.

Side note: it was only after watching the 702 interview that I learned you went to Rhodes and that’s where you and your friends hatched the idea of Black Rage Productions. I love that we have that in common: Rhodes! And we have friends in common which tickles me endlessly! And I heard you mention pussy party in one of your interviews which took me back to an event at Kitchners where you may have been the dj! And you were an intern at the Mail and Guardian when Friday began; I wrote for Friday thanks to our mutual friend! Now I’m just fishing for proximity!

I could kick myself for not texting you when the assignment landed on my lap. I knew immediately that I would need to speak to you then maybe our mutual friends. I asked for an extension on the assignment so I could go through your instagram in order to find what I was looking for (I was also hoping you’d shared whether you thought the idea was good or not but now I’ll never know). Thankfully, your instagram profile is an archive, a treasure trove and I found some of what I was looking for. But now I know never to hesitate on an idea which involves texting someone (or texting them in general when I think of them) because tomorrow is not promised. Literally.

Perhaps that’s why I’m writing this. Believing that in the ether you will catch the sentiment. And know that there’s yet one more stranger who has loved you from afar. Lately the quote on my wall about beauty makes more sense to me since reading the tributes and watching your memorial service: “Beauty was not simply something to behold; it was something one could do”, from Toni Morrison. If consistency was a person, nguwe.

Someone at your memorial said you were most likely going to be the publicist in heaven. I hope you do, after you’ve rested. Tell God too many people are sad about your departure. They know and understand death is part of the design but yours has left a hole in the hearts of many. Grief is of course the ultimate teacher and gift but much like Maya Angelou writes in her poem “When Great Trees Fall”:

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

It feels strange to be writing a letter to you posthumously. I should be writing an email or a whatsapp message. But here we are, living in a world where you are now a spirit and a memory. When I heard the news yesterday I remembered the beautiful message you’d sent me after mama passed away. I am doing what you said I should do: take comfort in words that I can cobble together in order to mend myself again.

The thing about death is that we know it’s coming and yet it always comes with a wave of disbelief. It demands something of a pause and reflection. I took a walk after chatting to a few people about your passing. During the walk I remembered how alive you were in my life before I even met you. When Sara Baartman’s remains came home in 1998 mama was enthralled and insisted we follow the story with her as it unfolded on our screens. Sara Baartman’s return was a foundational moment for me. Much like Chris Hani’s assassination, the 1994 elections, the TRC. Sara Baartman is central to how we understand this country. We paused at home to take in the moment. Something important was happening and the only way we could witness was through our screens. But we were a part of it. And to think, it was your poem that made that moment possible.

Imagine my joy when I would not only meet you as an adult but bump into from time to time, share the stage with you and work alongside you in celebrating your first collection Ons Komvandaan thanks to BB’s invitation. At each encounter you always seemed to be ready for our excitement because we showered you with hugs and praise and you always seemed to laugh at our fangirling. Your smile and hugs came easily, always reminding us that you are just you, Diana.

You gave us so much of yourself. Your poetry. Your voice. Your stories. Your presence. I already miss your smile and chuckles. And the lilt with which you said my name.

Just last week I was revisiting your poems for the translation project. I am still moved by every line. I am reminded of the last line to the poem “Vir Basil February”: “Nou’s ek vry/en jou tyd is verby. /Hoe sê ek dankie?” (Now I am free. And your time has passed. How do I say thank you?). Your poetry has freed us in so many ways. Your historical consciousness in much of your poetry reminds us that history is in the everyday and not simply the purview of experts. Hoe sê ek dankie? You gave us the poem “Bloedbande” which I obsessed over for months after I read it in Imbiza. I wanted to interview you but life just kept getting in the way. Now I have to finish the paper without you. I am still captured by the line “ons onthou is ons vergeet/dat ons behoort aan mekaar”. How you weave so many stories together in such a short poem is masterful. You bring the names of “Krotoa Eva van Meerhof, Sarah Baartman/Ansela van de Caab/en Winnie Mandela” together inviting us to see them in relation to each other. Hoe sê ek dankie?

I’m so happy that the last time I saw you was at Ncesh Nonxishi’s show last year. I recorded your rendition and listened to it yesterday and went back to the videos. We sang happy birthday to you and Ncesh gave you your flowers. Literally. It was beautiful and another example of how monumental your life and work has been. How freely you gave of yourself. I was also reminded of your show “Die Skep van Saartjie” which was on last May. We gave you a standing ovation. Hoe sê ek dankie?

This is not goodbye because you have left us with so much of yourself. The beauty about poetry is that it has a life of its own and it will continue for generations to come. You will be with us for generations to come. Imagine that!

What began as a quiet year became a rewiring of my inner world. In September my mother passed away and at the end of November as I was getting ready to return to work after a few weeks off, a dear friend, A, passed away. Mama’s passing was bewildering in the kind of ways I am yet to comprehend or even write about. A month after her passing I wrote a letter to my friends trying to express the difficulty in answering the question “how are you?” no matter how heartfelt it was. In the letter I tried to explain the physical sensation of a cold breeze on a day where everyone seems to be wearing a t-shirt and all I want is a scarf to shield my neck from nakedness. When A passed away the ache in my chest returned with a vengeance and I was surprised by the amount of tears this body can produce. Even though I know the tears are necessary, there is an exhaustion induced by crying and sadness which should have a monthly quota!

Mama and A’s passing came with two different textures. Mama’s passing came with a complicated grief I will spend the rest of my life grappling with. A’s passing came with a purity and clarity about love and friendship and it gave me a language to face the complications with Mama’s life as well as passing. A’s passing also took me back to the memory of the passing of another friend a few years ago. I also remembered that I hadn’t lost a friend to death since my 20s which was a different kind of grief then and now.

The gift of grief is that it is a threshold. It has been a gateway and I am yet to fully walk through the door (others might be thinking it is too soon for me to even be writing; everything has felt too soon). I find myself at an interregnum where I know my life anew. Death has given me a different rhythm to my life. I have been able to recognise my own difficulties in accepting the slowness grief demands (I went back to work quite soon after mama’s passing only to be booked off by a new therapist who insisted I stop everything; story for another day). I began searching for words to explain this new experience and while I have been drawn to poetry, I returned to Kevin Quashie’s The Sovereignty of Quiet.

I had read this book previously and used it for academic writing but in rereading it during a season of grief I read it as though it were for this season. It became a manual for understanding the gift of quiet in a moment such as losing loved ones, an experience which is deeply personal and universal. I was drawn to the concept of quiet anew, something I could hold onto in this moment. Quashie’s use of quiet needs more space but in a sense, the book is an exploration of quiet in black cultural and political life. In a world where blackness and its representation is based on expressiveness and resistance, however important this might be, Quashie makes a case for an interiority as another way of reading black life. I became drawn to this idea anew because I found myself not only in a self-inflicted quiet year but also in the kind of quiet grief, sadness, despair and hurt demand in order to morph into something that I can live with. While Quashie uses quiet for an intellectual argument it resonated and gave me language to work through my resentments about the kind of quiet I found myself in on account of being secluded from normal life in order to attend to myself in ways I had never been able to.

I am rereading Quashie slowly and I find I have to take breaks in between the reading. During the breaks I return to poetry and the latest poem which has been keeping me company is Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Kindness”. While I’m exhausted and sceptical about the wellness rhetoric that is too often aimed at black women as though we are the problem, I find that this quiet season has led me to what I like to think of as a curriculum. The Nap Ministry refers to this as a practice against grind culture (a friend gifted me the deck of cards which have also become part of the curriculum).

Even as the year winds down and this season is teaching me about a new rhythm for my life, next year feels like it is looming and I worry how I will sustain this quiet and slowness. Grief has given me some hallowed time to re-organise my head and heart but the requests and demands seem endless. I wonder if it is sustainable if the environment around me is not responding with the same slowness and quiet in order to support this new way of being. It cannot be that if I am to be in this world I constantly have to remove myself in order to function at my pace. No matter the tensions, I still have a few weeks left of the year to build this new muscle and practice.

You might be a little confused by this letter considering I’ve been back to visit you a few times since I matriculated and never felt the need to write to you but rather about you. I’ve been back for the All Girls Festival in 2018, I was invited to be a guest speaker at a prize giving many years ago, I came for a poetry writing workshop a few years ago and I attended the regional gathering of old girls a few months ago. You may also wonder why I have such big feelings when it comes to you. Something happened this weekend and I just want to sit with the warm and fuzzies for a little while and let the moment simmer.

I decided to come with my sister for this reunion. Ten years ago when I came back for my first reunion I felt a strange kind of loneliness I had not anticipated. Since then I have not quite resolved my relationship with you nor East London even as mama is now back in the city albeit living in an old age home. As a result of this discomfort, you Clarendon, seem to be the everlasting permanent address together with my grandmother’s house and a few friends I still visit when I come to East London. 

Most people leave school and either come back for nostalgia’s sake and others may never return again not because they had a bad experience but because that’s just life. And others never return because they hated school because of bad experiences. I occupy a strange position because I think of myself as part of a strange group where for some (many who would never admit publicly) school was a refuge and an oasis despite the many betrayals we faced in the form of racism and sometimes blatant carelessness we encountered as children.

That’s why I blasted you on national tv five years ago and I figured you wouldn’t mind an open letter five years later. It felt crazy to me five years ago that systemically you were participating in a harmful culture and children had to take to social media in order for their voices to be heard. To be fair, you were not alone in what happened then as that moment was not just about you as a school but an education system of a collective of privileged schools which have struggled to reckon with their history. And yet, I still keep coming back to you.

These past few days had me thinking about Sumantra Ghoshal’s idea of “the smell of the place”. I won’t go into his analogy as you can watch the clip but in short he talks about institutions as places that have a ‘smell of the place’. You smelt different this year. You felt different this year. Of course I have also changed and I see you differently. Quite literally you are different because the infrastructure of the place is different with a new swimming pool (pardon me, the Harrison Aquatics Centre) and the new Mary Laurie Memorial Hall, the astroturf, the shelter where the girls wait to be picked up, and computer labs and the classrooms where the prefabs used to be. You have grown and expanded in ways that are quite astounding. You have branded yourself as a centre of academic excellence. And no doubt you are when we look for the markers of quality education in not only South Africa but the world as Manka Situma (aka ‘Loza’ Situma, my girl from the class of 2005), the guest speaker reflected in her speech. 

My sister and I could not help but notice the range in hairstyles the Black girls had. Hairstyles that would never have been possible when we were in school. There were blonde braids! And dreadlocks! I hope you don’t think hair is a fickle marker of identity. It is so much more and policing it is not only weird (I’m being euphemistic) it is to deny creativity. We even saw some girls wearing grey pants! And yet we were still searching for the sameness we left behind so we could see ourselves in you despite the time that has passed. There were so many moments of seeing you anew.

We decided to go to the music concert on Friday night. We remembered this event from our time in school. We were spellbound! Every musical item was edifying. De Novo Serenata was my highlight. Their long green skirts and black tops seemed so stylish compared to the black and white we had (my sister’s year had a green paisley dress!). Their rendition was a medley of what sounded like an African American spiritual that also included Ntsikana’s ‘Ulo Thixo omkhulu’ and a remake of folk songs in isiXhosa. The harmony was breathtaking. We could not help but fangirl two of the girls during the interval. We told them how elevating their song selection had been. And that each segment of the song felt like time travel. There was also a Grade 11 pupil who sang in soprano as though she could be the next Pretty Yende! We also gushed all over her telling her how amazing she was. Because she is. In one weekend you also gave me a chance to reconnect with my nieces who are now walking the same grounds I used to walk and singing the same hymns I used to sing.

This weekend celebrating 122 years of your existence also left me thinking about the 200 year present: Elise Boulding’s idea of marking the past, present, and the future. Perhaps that’s the point of returning to Founder’s Day; it is one of the few rituals I have in my life to mark long stretches of time. Other than my family’s history, I have very few opportunities to think of myself in relation to a century long story. When we were there as children, you celebrated your centenary of existence. We understood then that it is important for institutions to stay alive but also to reinvent themselves. I remember a joke said behind muffled voices that the founders of the school and the curator of the Founder’s Day service could have never imagined the inclusion of Bawo Wethu Osezulwini (code for diversity). Let alone the choir’s song this year, ‘Hlonolofatsha’ (which was glorious!). I forget which former principal is responsible for the tradition but Ms Winkelmann would share the history of founder’s day when we began preparations and had to learn ‘Dank God, Dank hom alom’ so we could sing it from memory on the day. Imagine our shock when the words appeared on the screen! 

Marking time is an ancient coding humans need. We do it with our names. We do it with marking places. We do it when we get married. We do it when children are born. We do it when we get divorced. We do it when marking death with the stones we chisel with names and dates. And nothing says marking time like the many rituals you have which signal not just a year but the desire to exist into the future. Because that’s what you are fundamentally, a belief in the future through the children who are nurtured while in your care for 12 or so years. Much like governments which ought to have the future in mind (ought being the critical word), you are a mini-world invested in the making of future worlds for as long as humans are still around. Even with the threats and opportunities of AI, I’d like to think you believe you have the ability to exist well into the future. This past, present and future concern you have is so tangible in the expansion I described earlier. The investment in facilities is as much about the current children as it is about their futures. I know first hand the effects of having had an arts and culture curriculum when I was there as a child. It refuses to leave me as an adult! In case you didn’t know, you are the reason I insisted on becoming a teacher before I joined higher education.

I began this letter wanting to simply say thank you for maintaining this ritual of marking time. It seems I can never talk to you or even about you without any disclaimers because I refuse to simplify you and our relationship. You have been the biggest lesson in institutional complexity and institutional love. It’s difficult to admit I love who/what you have become because I feel weird about loving institutions because I don’t trust institutions. But it would be wrong of me not to simply acknowledge this weekend felt good. I even bought you a smallanyana birthday present for the library! I’m sure I’ll see you again before the next ten years pass.

Happy Birthday Clarendon!

Mama's expression did three things for me as a child: mama was able to teach me something about history, she taught me about the nature of freedom (that others died in pursuit of it) and she gave me a moral code about doing something and fulfilling the task. I was a child under the age of 10 when mama was laying the foundation of these narratives. Lately I have been thinking about both uNxele and mama as both their lessons have been converging in my life this year in particular.

Let me begin with Nxele. Yesterday I participated in the Robben Island-Palestine Relay Swim; a fundraiser and campaign for the humanitarian relief for the people of Palestine. This was a collaboration between Gift of the Givers (to whom the proceeds have been channeled) and Palestine Solidarity Campaign. The swim was akin to the International Swim for Gaza which took place in other parts of the world in 2024. Yesterday was also Freedom Day in South Africa and the convergence of marking South Africa's freedom with the Palestinian plight needs little explanation here.

The swim was a vision which began as a conversation between two friends: Karen Daniels and Marion Stevens. When I met Marion in 2021, she was training for the Robben Island Crossing (an endurance swim from Robben Island to Blouberg Strand) which she completed in May 2022. The two friends conspired to merge the story of Robben Island as a symbol of incarceration and colonial violence with the fight for freedom by the Palestinian people. Their conversations, meetings, strategising and many hours of labour culminated in yesterday's Robben Island Relay taking place on Freedom Day. When Marion asked me to join the team of swimmers it was a no brainer despite my anxieties. My mind immediately took me back to mama's stories about Nxele escaping Robben Island in pursuit of freedom. 

For most of my life I only knew about Nxele and the political prisoners of the liberation movement such as Neville Alexander, Robert Sobukwe and the more famous prisoners Nelson Mandela, Ahmad Kathrada and Walter Sisulu amongst many others. In the past five years I learned about Katye and Nonesi: two black women who spent time on Robben Island while their husbands, Maqoma and Siyolo (respectively) were imprisoned on the island. I came to this story thanks to Stephanie Victor's research on the women in her paper "‘Women in Captivity: Nonesi and Katye, the Wives of Xhosa Chiefs" published in 2014. When I decided to add their story to my teaching I came up against the reality that my students had not known about them either.

When an opportunity came about to write about epistemic justice in the the higher education curriculum my mind latched onto onto Katye, Nonesi and Emma Sandile. I wanted to reflect on three women who had walked the streets of Cape Town in the 19th century. I used the writing project to reflect on the experience of teaching their stories but also confronting epistemic injustice of historical narratives being sidelined and erased. What the consequences of half stories and erasures in relation to the grand narrative of Robben Island? 

While writing the paper (titled Invoking names: finding black women's narratives in the classroom) I decided to visit Zonnebloem College where Emma Sandile had been a student. There was no plaque with her name nor the names of the early students who were the children of chiefs and kings embroiled  in the Cape Colony's drama and collusion with the Anglican church. Zonnebloem College was created with the purpose of inculcating a British identity amongst the young African royals while their parents were fighting and strategising against colonial conquest in the 19th century. While I could rely on Janet Hodgeson's writing on Emma Sandile, I wondered about the everyday remnants of her story in the institution where she had been a historic presence. There were none I noticed on the day I visited the school.

I visited Robben Island with the same curiosity in relation to Katye and Nonesi even though I already had a sense of what I would find. While on the ferry to the island there was a video playing erratically which told a longer story about political prisoners who had been on the island; a story which did not begin with the liberation movement. I learned that the first political prisoners were indigenous people: Autshumato, Jan Cou and Boubo as far back as 1658. I learned about Tuan Guru who was imprisoned on the island with Callie Abdol Rauf, Badroedin [Badr al Dinj] and Noro Iman in 1780. While the video was static, I saw some of the images of the Xhosa chiefs and kings on the island as well as the women I was searching for. By the time I arrived on the island for the tour I was deeply disturbed by the gaps in my own knowledge about the island even though it had occupied a central theme in the story of South Africa's liberation. By the time the tour took us past the Kramat on the island and I learned about Sheik Madura who had died on the island in 1754, I was hollowed out. The rest of the tour was mournful and I haven’t returned to the island since. It felt as though I had walked through time and my world had expanded into more questions than answers.

I finished writing the chapter and left behind the story of Robben Island which felt too complex me to fathom. Until Marion asked me to join the Robben Island Relay Swim for Palestine. Even though I only swam about a mile in the relay, the experience of the cold water the fleeing political prisoners would have had to face when they attempted an escape was visceral. A week before the relay we had trained in Blouberg and we found ourselves in a washing machine in the ocean. Thankfully, yesterday was calmer with predictable swells even though the temperature was icy!

There are many stories which are being uncovered about political prisoners on the island. Recently I listened to a podcast produced by Catherine Boulle about the choir on the island which sang Handel’s Hallelujah. While we know about the book culture on the island, we know very little about “the incongruous beauty of the choir’s performance – and the rich history of the Messiah in South Africa – is brought to life by former political prisoners, by musicians and academics who reveal the power of music as it was experienced on the Island – music as escape, protest, refuge and salvation.”.

After the swim I shared with a swimming friend (she’s the reason I swam my first Midmar Mile earlier this year) that I’m ready for my solo Robben Island Crossing. I have been contemplating it since Marion told me about it. When Portia Mokoena became the first black woman to swim the Robben Island crossing, followed by Banele Lukhele, the historical weight of the swim eased for me (the historical and political implications of this need their own post). Open Water Swimming has enough historical, economic and political burdens as it is. Swimming the short distance yesterday while part of a team for a cause lifted some of that burden. Knowing that I am in community with many swimmers who understand the political and historical significance of freedom and swimming has changed my relationship with even the idea of training for an endurance swim.

There are many threads to hold in this reflection but I want to return where I began: ukuza kukaNxele and mama’s history lessons. Mama also taught me about Tiyo Soga’s life story and the hymns he penned which we sang at church. She told me about the prophet Ntsikana when I asked her why we never sang his hymn even though there was a version of it in the hymn book. She taught me about Nongqawuse and many stories captured in the idioms she used (my favourite remains: inkomo yenqoma yintsengibheka!). All these stories were never part of my curriculum at school.

It is no wonder then that I find myself in a position where I write and teach histories. I credit my interest in history to mama’s foundational curriculum. Lately I have been in conversations about the ways in which children’s historical consciousness can be developed beyond the school curriculum. Xolisa Guzula and I have written our fourth history book for young readers titled Together Apart: The story of living in apartheid. Yesterday before setting off to Blouberg for the swim, Xolisa and I had an interview with Sara-Jayne Makwala King on Cape Talk. One of the questions she asked which has been coming up in the launches we’ve had thus far: how do we explain a gruesome past to young children? While I have been mostly telling the story about my niece asking questions about inequality which can be explained through history, I should be telling people about how mama managed to raise me with a historical consciousness that was age appropriate throughout my childhood.

To be fair mama was a primary school teacher once upon a time and I imagine she used that sensibility in how she raised us together with experiences from her own childhood which was influenced by her grandfather's stories: everything and anything could be a teachable moment. If I asked her why she wore make up she would respond with a lesson about imbola/ochre and its significance amongst amaXhosa. This later turned into a lesson about amaqaba namagqobhoka and the saga of African modernity in the 19th century which I read about anew in Noni Jabavu’s The Ochre People. When I look back on my childhood, it seems mama couldn’t wait to talk about history, she was just waiting for a captive audience.

The experience of writing histories in this moment, as well as my involvement in campaigns such as a campaign raising money for people in Gaza feels like time and place travel. Writing about the past in the present is imaginative, creative and an archival challenge which continues to enthrall me. Through swimming I am able to space travel and yesterday I travelled to Gaza through the stories I have held in my heart: stories of heartbreak and of hope. This is what freedom means to me in this moment: space and time travel and the ability to connect multiple narratives in order to make better sense of myself and the world.