3      The Journey to You, Baba

Devi Dee Mucina

You, Baba, and I are like the sun and moon. We do not occupy the same space at the same time, but even the sun and moon have a special moment—the eclipse. Our family eclipse in 2008 was such a phenomenon; it brought our individual fragmented lives together. After being married for two years, I started having intense dreams about your death, and it was then that I came to realize that I needed to conclude certain affairs with you and also end our colonially imposed family fragmentation. To do this, I needed to come to Zimbabwe and find you.

My partner, Mandeep, who is of Punjabi descent, understood the significance of this journey because I was regenerating our African traditions as a way to decolonize my fragmented family. She also just wanted to meet you, her father in-law. When Mandeep’s sister heard that we were going to Africa, she informed us that she was coming too. Fearing that Sanjit’s decision would only put pressure on an already strained relationship with my in-laws, I tried to dissuade her. I told her about the hardships we would encounter on the trip, but she was set on going even though she knew that coming to Africa with us would not endear her to her parents and other members of the family.

When Renee, my adopted Black sister, heard about our trip, she asked if she could also come along. I immediately agreed, since I saw this as a great opportunity for her to connect with the mother continent and our people. Our shared Black racial embodiment is a site for shared love, while my connection with Mandeep’s and Sanjit’s Brown embodiment creates a racial and cultural threat for some of their family members.

The mixing of Black and Brown embodiment is another story, which I will tell at another time, but for now, Baba, I am proud to let you know that I remember the stories you told me about our people and that, as a son of the Ngoni, I hold South Africa to be our natal home. So our journey to you started in our ancestral homelands and loosely followed the Ngoni migration routes during the time of the Mfecane, the great displacement, now almost two hundred years ago. As we travelled north to you, I had a chance to engage with our African families in a changing southern Africa. But before I describe this journey, I want to say something about the method I have chosen to use.

Oral Storytelling: A Methodology That Honours Ubuntu

The storytelling methodology that I use has been regenerated from remembered fragments of African knowledge and from our collective expression of our lived experience. The oral transmission of stories and knowledge from past generations to current generations allows us to reflect critically on the political and cultural environment that brought our personal stories into existence. Storytelling is always relational. As the Ngoni say, “The story of one cannot be told without unfolding the story of many.” So as more of us critically engage with our inherited philosophies and bodies of knowledge, we start to see that our fragmented individual efforts to decolonize are connected through our interdependence as human beings and our collective responsibility to care for one another—that is, our ubuntu.

The term ubuntu is related to the word bantu, which means “people.” In Bantu languages, ubuntu is “humanness,” that is, the quality of being human. But, in Ubuntu philosophy, it is more than just that. As Desmond Tutu (1999, 31) explains,

When we want to give high praise to someone we say, “Yu, u nobuntu”; “Hey, so-and-so has ubuntu.” Then you are generous, you are hospitable, you are friendly and caring and compassionate. You share what you have. It is to say, “My humanity is caught up, is inextricably bound up, in yours.” We belong in a bundle of life. We say, “A person is a person through other persons.” It is not “I think therefore I am.” It says rather: I am a human because I belong. I participate, I share.”

Ubuntu philosophy offers a philosophical and ethical system of thought that emphasizes the relational bonds and deep connectedness of all people and all things. Remembering that ideas and philosophies created in one language cannot always be adequately translated into another, let me offer some of the Ubuntu philosophical principles taught to me by my family and community:

I am a reflection of the existence of my ancestors. I exist because they exist or, as the Zulu saying goes, “Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu”—“A person is a person through other people.”

We come from the energy flux, and we are the energy flux. This is why the circle is important in Ubuntu spirituality. The circle shows that we are one.

We respect and give thanks for all of our relations because all elements are part of the energy flux that makes up life.

We try to live with the aim of finding integrity and wholeness in the balance of nature and to recognize the energy flux in everything.

To acknowledge the reciprocity fundamental to the web of life, we ask permission of each person, place, animal, or object before taking anything, and then we give thanks.

We honour, through ceremonies and rituals, the spirit of the land, water, and all other elements. The specific experiences we have with these elements teach us to understand and respect all our relational connections.

We honour the dead because they live in a world parallel to that of the living. (Mucina 2013, 24)

Much of the knowledge I have of Ubuntu teachings came to me in the interactive context of oral storytelling. Storytelling engages both the teller and the listener in specific performative functions, which promotes active, co-created learning rather than passive reception.

In oral cultures, storytelling is essential to the transmission of knowledge, and, even in the age of print, it continues to be a popular mode of instruction.1 Permit me to demonstrate the teaching power of oral storytelling among the Bantu-speaking peoples of southern Africa.2 If a storyteller utters the following priming words—in Shona “Paivapo,” in Ndebele “Kwakukhona,” in Zulu “Kwesukasukela” (“There once was” or “Many, many millet granaries ago”)—people, old and young, begin to draw nearer to the speaker. These idioms are very precise in that they let us know that the story to unfold is based on historical facts. In response to the storyteller’s prompting of “Paivapo” (“Many millet granaries ago”), in Shona, the audience replies, “Dzepfunde,” which is to say, “I am ready to absorb” or “I am ready to accept your lessons.” Each time the speaker introduces the audience to a new location, or different characters, or a new philosophical idea, she appeals to them by chanting “Paivapo.” The audience’s response of “Dzepfunde” is an active acknowledgement that they are attuned to the oral teaching methodology of the person speaking. So, at this point, I, as the speaker, say to you, the reader, “Paivapo,” and I invite you to respond in your own language or in a manner that communicates to you that we are synchronized for this storied engagement.

The ability of storytelling to teach through interactive performance, in which the speaker and the audience actively co-create the teachings that emerge from the story, is one of the distinctive qualities of an oral methodology. Another is the repetitive quality of the storytelling, which provides the audience with clues that enable them to identify important teachings. Yet, in the following pages, I will share our journey to my Baba in writing, through what might be called the “written oral” approach. I am aware that writing down my words undermines the interactive nature of oral storytelling. Through my use of writing, I lose the lived performativity and the reciprocity, but I gain the ability to talk globally to a broader and more diverse audience without compromising my highest obligation, which, for me, is engaging the global Black communities through a resurgence of the Ubuntu world view. This is the irony of writing about performative oral discourse as a form of reciprocal engagement in a global context dominated by neocolonial methodologies that encourage each of us to speak in monologues (Okri 1997, 46). The former honours ubuntu; the latter does not.

From the perspective of African oral storytelling, how I interpret these stories as I tell them—the meanings I take from them in the present moment—is not meant to imply that this is the only way in which to analyze these stories. I offer my analysis simply as a way of reflecting my learning in a specific context at a specific time in my life, while remembering that an analysis of the same story at a different time may produce a different meaning, because meaning is made in the context of the knowledge we have. For this reason, the most important interpretation is the one given by the audience, which in our case is you, the reader, because your understanding reflects your learning in your precise context. Oral storytelling affirms the value of all our critical analyses through open dialogue, making space for all our relational engagement.

All the same, as committed as I am to social and political truth in our quest to reintegrate our fragmented families and selves, the emotional impact of sharing stories may limit my engagement—there are some things I will not talk about because it hurts too much to remember and I would rather forget. Yet what I can give, I give freely. This decolonizing work I perform in much the same way that the “ritual age” stories were told to me by Baba Mukulo, a Ngoni elder. In his stories about coming of age, ritualism marked the time of individual self-discovery, away from community. In those moments of seclusion, one begins to reflect on one’s relational connections. I see my work on Ubuntu as a ritual that is directing me toward my embodied Black self-discovery as performed away from my African home and community.

Johannesburg

Dear Baba, each history that I have is a story that has been burnt into my memory bank among many silent stories at this particular time. It is possible that at another time, another story from these experiences would stand out more. But for now, here is what stands out for me.

A medium-sized African man in his early fifties comes up to us and asks in a South African accent, “Waiting for Diamond Digger Lodge?” In an unrehearsed reply, in unison, some of us say, “Yes,” and others say, “Right.” The man says, “Let’s get your stuff and go. By the way, I am Madiba.”

“Madiba is your name?” I ask.

The man: “Yes, like Nelson Mandela.”

As we start to talk about his name, he also begins to lead us to the vehicle. As we near the vehicle, Madiba switches into his tour guide/operator role and says in his official voice, “Welcome to South Africa. Is this your first visit?”

I say, pointing to the others: “For them, yes, but not for me.”

Madiba: “Where are you from?”

Me: “I was born in Zimbabwe.”

Madiba: “Mugabe, that old man is too much. So you are my brother. What about them?”

Sanjit says: “We are from Canada.”

And Renee adds: “But my parents are from Grenada.”

As if not to be outdone, Mandeep adds: “Our parents are from India.”

And, just like that, we have all marked our racial embodiments with specific geopolitical locations as a way of belonging and claiming space. For the rest of the drive, we talk easily with Madiba, who shifts from being informal in one conversational exchange to being very formal in the next. I wonder if it is always like this for him or if it is different today. I wonder how he views his brother travelling with three women, two Indian and one Black. Does he wonder which one of these three is with me or has he generously considered me a polygamist? My act of questioning the marking of our embodiment is embedded in the fact that South Africa is still a deeply racist and sexist society.

As I go to register for our lodgings, I cannot help but notice that all the domestic workers are Black and all the administrative staff are White. This is a colonial legacy that privileges White people over Black people and, in our case, make for some interesting engagements. For example, when the Black staff see us, they greet us very politely. This engagement changes with the first White staff we encounter, who is painting in front of the car park area where we left our bags. His nonverbal behaviour makes it very clear that he does not wish to engage us or demonstrate any politeness toward us. Yet when any White tourist walks by the same White painter, he demonstrates great interest in them by offering them greetings with a warm smile and showing clear verbal expressions of polite communication. At some point, the White painter becomes aware that we have noticed his racist behaviour and he turns toward his work with a sour-faced expression, which communicates to me: “There is no smile or anything for you here, darky.”

While walking toward the accommodation registration office, I see a Black sister working with tears running down her face. In this situation, the first thought that comes to me is that I am still in colour-conscious South Africa, where to embody Whiteness is to embody racial privilege while to embody Blackness is to embody the racial scorn of Whiteness. The trauma of our colonial experience has misguided some of our political leaders to mistakenly view our decolonization as the act of replacing white bodies with black bodies within colonial governance structures (Fanon 1963, 35). Yet the hearts and the minds of our people struggle with internalized oppression. This is why it seems to me that Desmond Tutu’s rainbow nation still operates on a colour-ranking system.

Cape Town

Dear Baba, we are in Cape Town, your favourite city. Our White cabdriver says: “Watch out for these buggers, they can steal you blind.” He is talking about a young Black man who is looking tired and hungry.

Our White cabdriver adds: “You can find accommodation that suits your needs within this one block. Just make sure that only one of you guys goes to look for a place while the others stay with the bags.”

The Black street brother says: “Don’t worry brother; I’ll take care of you. I know all the hotels around here. I will take you to a very good cheap place. Don’t worry brother, I’ve got you covered. But brother, I need something. I have not slept in two days. I’m hungry and tired. I don’t need much, just a little. Can you help?”

I say to my street brother: “I’ll see what we can do. But first help me. Just to be clear, I am not promising you anything. Are we clear about that?”

Street brother says: “Yes brother, I understand, whatever you can give me. It is all up to you.”

“Okay,” I say.

I do not know why I am tipping this cabdriver, because I am sure he is a racist. I have not yet quite figured out the currency exchange rate, and I give the cabdriver a tip of about seventy rand. I can tell from the smile on his face that it was not as low as he was expecting. To show his gratitude as he helps unpack our bags, he says, “Keep an eye on these Blacks. Sorry, I mean blocks.”

With a hint of sarcasm, I say to the cabdriver, “Don’t worry, I think my brother will take care of us.”

As the cabdriver gets back into his vehicle, he mumbles, “Your problem,” before driving away.

Street brother says to me, “Brother, come, everything is very close here. You don’t have to go very far.”

Mandeep says, “Go ahead, babe, and we will watch the baggage.”

Street brother says, “Let us start with this place across the road; all kinds of people like it and it is also called Ubuntu. I will wait for you here.”

I ask, “Why?”

Street brother replies by saying, “If they see me with you on the security camera, they won’t open the door for you. I am a street man; they don’t like us, better you go alone.” The clothes he wears, his cultural mannerisms, and most importantly, his Black embodiment mark him as a street man who threatens what, for the most part, is White business.

The man at reception says they are all booked up for the week, and I am sad because this place has a great feel to it and the guests sitting around are indeed a reflection of the South African rainbow nation. As a result, everyone wants to be here. Hence, there are no rooms left. Street brother takes me to three other places, all of which will not open their security gate and inform me through their intercom system that they have no rooms available. I wonder if there is no room because I am a Black African man. I am starting to get frustrated when my street brother says, “Try this place; it is very good but is a little more expensive than the other places I have shown you.” He leads me to a Daddy Long Legs Independent Travellers Hotel and I ring the security bell. I know that the receptionist on the other side can see me, so I am surprised when I hear a very pleasant-sounding woman say, “Please come in, sir. You will find me at reception if you walk up the stairs.”

As I am walking up the stairs, I tell myself that this pleasant-sounding woman must be a Black woman, but when I arrive at the reception desk, I see a tall, striking, slim brunette. She says, “Can I offer you a drink before I attend to your other needs?” I decline the offer of a drink because I want to settle my family, but I am impressed with how compassionately she engages with me. Does more money buy you a race-free engagement, or is this one human engaging another human? South Africa is a country full of contradictions; one minute you’re being despised for your racial embodiment and in the next engagement you are being treated like a king, yet you are still in the same Black body. The spirit of ubuntu among White people in South Africa is still a hit-and-miss affair. This being said, the hotel crew from Daddy Long Legs took such good care of us; we all became good friends and still keep in contact via Facebook.

Baba, as these are journal entries, I am only giving you the facts that stand out for me, which means that dates and times become compressed or flattened. Point in case—the rest of the story of the street brother has no time indicators to convey the passage of time, because we met when we did and it was never planned. We never knew when we would meet our street brother, but when we did meet, we tried to take care of each other. Our street brother was generous with his information and made sure we were safe. For example, the women were out one night on the streets and a group of guys blocked their path, making it hard for them to get back to the hotel. Being well known on the street, our street brother gently intervened by making it clear that these were his sisters, and the harassment stopped right away. For our part, we tried to give our street brother as much as we could, but sadly, after the women’s harassment, we saw him only one other time. To this day, I still hope that our street brother’s luck changed and that he found that job he was looking for. I want to be hopeful about the fact that our street brother was nowhere to be found during the last few days before we left Cape Town. We never got to say goodbye to him and I still find this sad, because he reflected a part of South Africa’s Black embodied challenge in a changing world.

To Durban on the Shosholoza Meyl Railway Train

Dear Baba, the train should have left fifteen minutes ago, but we haven’t started loading yet. I am a little anxious, as I am not sure if we are on the right platform. I have been assured that we are, but I have seen many people coming and going, and we are still here. The Congolese man who cut my hair yesterday when we came to buy our train tickets warned me that this is the place where thieves make their fortune. He told me not to allow anyone to take any of our bags out of our sight. When we left our hotel, the staff warned us about the high level of robbery that takes place here in the train station. After checking in, the desk clerk warned us to watch our baggage. She advised us to only get direction and assistance from official customer representatives, who were wearing uniforms and were situated strategically throughout the train station.

After such cautioning, Baba, I see myself scrutinizing every young Black man who comes to stand near us. Through my colonial lens, I see the distance between myself and what I perceive as the other young, poor Black males. As I stand there, I become the Black colonizer who fears his own reflection (Fanon 1963, 18). I notice two Black youths pushing the biggest load of luggage I have ever seen. I wonder where the luggage owners are. Whoever they are, they seem to be ignoring all the warnings we have been given about caring for our luggage. From the direction that the young men have come from, an elderly grandfather of mixed race (coloured), out of breath from trying to keep up, yells: “That is the right place, you can offload.” The elderly grandfather asks the official if the young men can help get the luggage on the train, and the official informs him that it will not be possible but offers to get some attendants to help.

Grandfather turns toward the direction he has come from and nine or ten coloured elderly grandmothers are descending upon him in the most jovial manner. They are laughing, giggling, and joking with each other. Their mischievous, girlish behaviour seems to contradict their elderly status. As I watch them, I see their inner child that has been oppressed by the many years of adult responsibility. Their joy and carefree behaviour is as fresh as morning dew on a blade of grass. Their smiles and joviality is beginning to infect my overly alert and anxious behaviour. They are all talking at the same time, and when they notice this, they begin to laugh at each other. I am quietly laughing at the drama that they are creating, and I see that my companions are doing the same. Some of the women notice us laughing at them, and they wave, smile, or say hello and then return to engaging each other in loud, friendly banter. This is ubuntu; this is love.

Baba, you will not believe that their mere presence has changed everything. These elders have taken the fear away and replaced it with love. I have no anxiety or worry about losing anything. These elders are helping me see all the other smiles on all the other people. Across from me on the furthest platform, I see a young man holding a newspaper. He is pretending to read it. Two other well-dressed young men approach him with two large bags, and one of them whispers something in his ear. Slowly, he closes his paper up and scans the area before getting up. For a brief moment, our eyes meet and he smiles at me, and I cannot help but smile back. I turn to see if anyone else in our group has seen him, but the women are engaged with watching the antics of the Gogos (grandmothers). When I look back again, the young men have vanished. I say nothing to anyone, but I keep wondering—did I just witness a robbery? Yet no one seems to be complaining about missing bags. Could it be that the young men were bootleggers selling something illegally on the train station premises? Whatever the case was, Baba, I am no longer scared of our embodied Black reflections, thanks to the jovial manner of those grandmothers. Regardless of race, poverty creates violence, and regardless of the racist fear tactics used in South Africa, a smile can win you over or it can distract you.

As White People Come Home, Black People Leave

Dear Baba, we see it—we feel it—yet I force my family to keep silent until the pain is too much; then we fight among each other. This, indeed, is a peculiar experience. Colonial history makes it possible; I am told it is over, but my experience and my feelings communicate otherwise. I am in my friend’s home en route to Swaziland. He lives in a beautiful neighbourhood with his beautiful White family. Like him, his neighbours are White. As we were driving up to his house in our rented car, an armed security truck passed us on patrol, and as we were parking the car, a police truck slowed down to check us out. It was just before 5:00 p.m. and we were observing a Black exodus.

Mandeep says, “Why are all the Black people leaving?”

I say, “Because they are the domestic workers.”

Renee asks, “Is it okay for us to be here?”

Sanjit does not say a word but I can see that she is very uncomfortable. I tell everyone that it will be okay because this is a very good friend. Our gracious hosts welcome us into their home. I am trying to get my family to relax in a colour-conscious South Africa, but it is not working. The next day, a Black maid arrives and, on seeing visitors, makes a request for a uniform; we are all shocked into silence. Although we are all familiar with families hiring people to help with domestic work, we wondered whether the maid’s demand for a uniform was meant to underscore her position of servitude and to distance herself from these White people, these people we called our friends. We questioned whether we were positioning ourselves on the wrong side of the colour conscious South Africa.

Sanjit makes her discomfort known by asking when we are leaving. I tell everyone that we will be leaving in three days. I tell everyone that our hosts are doing everything they can to make us comfortable and therefore, we need to make the best out of a bad situation. To some extent, I was reconnecting with the racial injustice and inequity of Southern Africa, which even among so-called friends, affected and directed our interactions. We spent the next few days at the beach, and in the evening, we hung out on the shore of the river, drinking and eating, conversing in very formal and limited ways with our White hosts. My friend and I reminisce about our youthful experiences, but even there, Baba, I see the race lines. I am now aware, Baba, that my friend’s memories are of a different Zimbabwe than mine. A colour-conscious South Africa reminds me that what we appreciated of our friendship was limited to small moments of shared humanity, but the White racism was always there. I guess if you experience racism all the time, you have to ignore it sometimes to give yourself some relief. Is this how we have survived, Baba?

On a Friday, two nights before we leave, our hosts want us to meet their friends at a costume party. Renee and Sanjit make it clear that they cannot handle any more of this White gated community and have no desire to meet another White racist. I think to myself that they are being a little melodramatic but agree that they should stay back if they are not up to it. Mandeep does not want to go but she feels obliged, as my partner, to come. I try to tell her that she does not need to go to the party, but she will not put this burden down, so we go together. The first thing we notice, as soon as we get to the party, is that there is no other visible race except for Whiteness. Most people are speaking English or Afrikaans. We are introduced to a few of our hosts’ friends, and it is painfully clear that we do not belong here. One of the guests comes up to us and says: “So how did you guys get into this party? You couldn’t have gate crashed. Are you the servers?” This is meant to be a joke, but it is only funny to them. We meet the host of the party and she introduces us to her parents.

The father settles down to speak to us as his wife and daughter leave. He starts by posing the following question: “So how do you like South Africa?”

I say, “It is a beautiful country.”

And he says, “But crime is destroying it.” I take his statement to mean that Black people are destroying the country.

To this, I say, “How would you know when you live in a fortified White community?”

For no reason, he switches subjects: “So you agree with the government, that I should sell forty percent of my farm to the Indigenous?”

I say, “If you accept the fact that the land was stolen from them in the first place, then this is a small price to pay.” Our heated discussion is starting to create a sour taste for other White guests, and our hosts intervene with the excuse that they would like to introduce us to some other people. As we are all walking away, my old White friend says, “It looked like you needed some saving.” He and his wife offer to drive us back to their house right away. As they are offering their farewells to their friends, Mandeep and I wait for them by ourselves. I look at Mandeep and I question myself. How have I got my family into this racial nightmare? Where is the rainbow love in this wealthy White haven of South Africa? After spending three nights in my friend’s White haven in our Black Africa, I felt grateful for having the resources that allow us the freedom to leave their White haven, but like you, Baba, there are brothers and sisters who cannot escape this neocolonial reality. For them, surviving neocolonialism means suppressing their Ubuntu knowledge so that they do not feel so acutely the pain of neocolonialism. As much as I may hate how these White racist communities exploit our people’s labour, we in southern Africa have not come up with better employment solutions or investments that help our people, who have little or no education.

You, Baba, were like many of these brothers and sisters who entered these unwelcoming White racist communities on a daily basis in order to sustain your family on the margins; I do not need to make you understand the value of choice denied to these brothers and sisters in South Africa. Let us, as Ubuntu Africans, develop and invest in our own sustainable economic structures so that we can offer our own people the choice to work in environments where their dignity and self-respect is honoured.

Swaziland

Dear Baba, we are at the border crossing between Swaziland and South Africa. The customs officer gives us a broad smile and says, “Welcome to Swaziland.” As he looks at my passport, he says, “Brother, you look Swazi and you have a Swazi name, so how did you end up being born in Zimbabwe?”

I chuckle and say, “This is why I have come here. I am hoping I can use my name to help me connect with my ancestral roots.”

The customs officer shakes my hand and says, “Welcome home, brother. If you go to the parking area, I will take my break now so I can give you directions to your people.” To my own research, the customs officer adds detailed maps and directions. I thank him and as I start to drive toward our ancestral home, my sister Renee says, “This is a real homecoming.”

Mandeep says, “I didn’t like the racial tension in South Africa. It made it impossible to relax.” We are all in agreement about feeling more relaxed in Swaziland. They tell us that apartheid is over in South Africa, but it did not feel like it for us.

We are staying at a guest house in Manzini, and our host is very excited to hear about my efforts to connect with my ancestral home and people. She gives us more detailed directions to Mdzimba, which is the ancestral home of many Maseko Ngoni. Being here in Swaziland feels so liberating. For the first time, no one is asking me where I am from. I feel genetically connected to everyone around me.

As we are driving into the Mdzimba Mountains, I see the stone-built munzis (villages) of Sotho peoples who belong to the Mnesi (or Mnisi) and Mncina mafukos (clans). I had read about the Mnesi and Mncina when I was doing research for my master’s thesis, so I knew about their tradition of collective self-governance (see Mucina 2006, 70). When, sometime around 1820, the Ngwane ruler Sobhuza set out to conquer the central part of Swaziland, the Mncina were among the few who resisted (Bonner 1983, 31). The name Mncina can also be rendered Macina or Mucina. Embedded in this name is a continuum of shared experience that joins past to present to future and that links me to Swaziland and to this Sotho community.

At the top of the mountain, I become aware of feeling relaxed and in no rush, and I say out loud, “I can feel that I belong here.” I remove my shoes and let my feet connect with the soil. I feel grounded for the first time. I only wish you were here, Baba, to experience this wonderful moment with us. I rub my hands and feet into the soil and say a prayer to our ancestors for both you and me, because I want our ancestors to know that I have touched the soil of the place I belong and that the soil and I are one. Knowing that we will return to Swaziland in the near future, we leave for Durban so that Renee can catch her flight back to Toronto and the rest of us can catch a bus to Botswana.

Botswana to Zimbabwe

Baba, we have been informed by our friends that there is no food in Zimbabwe and that even if we can find food, it will be too expensive. So they make us buy absolutely everything before leaving Swaziland, and we end up carrying two very large grocery bags. We go to the local bus station to catch a bus to Zimbabwe. We see a luxury bus going to Zimbabwe, but I am informed that all the seats have already been sold and that the bus will not be back for another two days. I do not want to wait for two days, since I am feeling a sense of urgency about getting to you. Thinking that it would be a good experience for Mandeep and Sanjit to get acquainted with the local African transportation system, I buy tickets for a local bus leaving that evening at six o’clock.

The bus conductor has anticipated our inexperience in travelling on local buses and so has kindly reserved a bench seat for the three of us in the middle of the bus. However, it is very difficult to get to our seats because all the floor space has been taken up. To get to our seats, we have to step on people’s luggage. I am aware that fire regulations in this situation do not apply, so we make ourselves as comfortable as possible. Six o’clock rolls around and the bus is still being loaded. At eight o’clock, we still have not moved and I ask the bus conductor when we are leaving. He replies, “Very soon my friend, don’t worry.” The family behind us communicates to me in Shona that this means we are now officially on African time. At ten o’clock, the bus starts to move but the conductor informs us that we are going to a gas station to fill up with diesel. This takes over an hour. When our bus starts to leave the gas station, some locals in their cars begin yelling, “Zimbabweans go back home.” As our bus bound for Zimbabwe passes local communities, people throw up the insulting middle finger and openly jeer us. They have forgotten the history of Ubuntu love that binds our people.

Since the bus is so overloaded, every time it goes over a bump, the frame rubs against the tires; soon we can smell them burning. Fearing a blowout, some passengers demand that the bus driver slow down, and, as a result, we do not get to the Zimbabwean border until seven o’clock in the morning. At the border crossing, the bus conductor informs us that we may need to put a little money together to placate the Botswana customs officials. After about an hour, the bus conductor returns to the bus and informs us that his efforts have not yielded positive results and we must unload the whole bus. With everyone helping, the process takes about two hours, and then everyone has to stand in a queue with all their belongings. The customs officials keep making everyone line up again because they claim the queues are disorderly. As I observe these tactics, I am reminded that we have replaced Whiteness with Blackness, but the White structure of control still dominates us as Black bodies.

An hour goes by while the customs officers switch from insulting us to ignoring us. After some time, three customs officers approach us and announce in military style that they are taking over our situation. They tell us that our cooperation will speed up our leaving. For some reason, the customs officer who is speaking notices me and comes over and asks for my passport. I give it to him and while he is looking at it, he asks whether Sanjit and Mandeep are with me. I respond in the affirmative and he says, “Why are you doing this to yourself? Why do you not fly to Zimbabwe or take the luxury bus system? You would save yourself all this hassle.”

I respond by stating that this is the cheapest and fastest way to Zimbabwe. The customs officer laughs and says, “In my opinion, this experience is not worth having because it is not a lot of fun. I will make sure you guys go in first.” He then yells to everyone else, “The queue starts behind this gentleman,” and everyone rushes over to be behind me. Everyone wants to be processed as quickly as possible so that their journey home can continue. A few people with very large loads are disgruntled with how badly they are being treated and refuse to move. On seeing this open challenge, one of the officers starts using violent tactics. He throws people’s belongings onto the road, which forces people to rush over and try to rescue them. One woman seems to be unwilling to be intimidated, or perhaps she is just overly exhausted and cannot move. The customs officer approaches her with great haste, but she cannot see him as he is in her blind spot. He slaps her violently across the face and the woman doubles over in pain, but no one moves to help her. Somehow, the woman manages to move toward us.

Sanjit, who is standing next to me, says, “I can’t believe that man has just hit that woman.” As she is saying these words, we both realize that Mandeep is standing in the area where the woman was attacked. The officer is heading toward Mandeep and the rest of us freeze. The officer raises his hand to slap Mandeep hard on her back, but when he realizes that she is not African, he turns his slap into a forceful pat on the back. He says, “Madam, you’ll have to move to where the others are. Do you understand?” I sigh in relief, and the man behind me puts his hand on my shoulder and says in Shona, “Do not worry, they can still see her humanity, but for some reason, they cannot see our humanity even though this black skin binds us as family.” The actual processing by customs takes less than five minutes, and I cannot understand why we went through hours of unnecessary suffering. I can only speculate that absolute power corrupts when it is being applied to the poor and vulnerable because the chances of consequential action by the poor and vulnerable is greatly diminished when they are focused on trying to survive.

The Zimbabwean customs officials inform us that we each need a visa for US$60, and the customs officer informs us jokingly that all this could have been avoided if Canada had not imposed a visa requirement on Zimbabweans. The easygoing nature of the Zimbabwean customs officials is relaxing everyone, but some of the bus passengers are trying to take advantage of this. Those who had bought large flat-screen TVs, refrigerators, car parts, bicycles, and other nonessential goods are refusing to identify themselves as the owners of these goods, so as to avoid having to pay duty on them, and this is wasting our time. The bus driver threatens to leave these unclaimed goods and simply drive away, but the bus conductor informs him that all will be resolved in good time. So we wait and quietly complain.

At three o’clock, we start loading the bus again, but three hours later one of the back tires explodes because the frame of the bus has been rubbing against it. There is no spare tire on the bus, as it had been removed to make more space for goods. Luckily, we are near the town of Gweru, where the bus was scheduled to stop at a gas station in the town centre. At this point, we have been on the bus for more than twenty-four hours, so when we get to the Wimpy outlet (a fast-food, hamburger outlet, which served local traditional cuisine at better prices than their hamburgers) in Gweru, we are so hungry that we pay a lot of money to treat ourselves to good local cuisine, thus distracting ourselves from our ongoing bus problems. By now, the bus passengers have all become quite familiar with one another. Political issues have been discussed; feminist ideas about power, equality, and sexism have been thoroughly debated, as have various forms of Christianity—although, in my view, traditional religion has been quietly left out. After an unbelievable thirty-eight hours, we unload from the bus, having travelled from Gaborone to Harare, a trip that should have taken only five to seven hours.

The Land of My Birth, Zimbabwe

Innocent, our Zimbabwean friend whom we had met in South Africa, came to pick us up at the bus station and took us to the apartment that Kevin, another friend from South Africa, was allowing us to use. At the apartment, we met two other young men who were also staying there—Oliver, from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Joe, the younger cousin of Innocent. Joe worked for a company as a computer technician, so we saw very little of him. Oliver, like most of our Zimbabwean friends, was trying to make his fortune in Zimbabwe, through trading in illegal diamonds. All were good people involved in shady business dealings in order to survive. The elder of this group of men was a man whom we had dubbed Uncle Munya. It was Uncle Munya and his business associates who took us in an open pickup truck to the township of Mbare for a barbecue feast. As we drank beer and ate meat and a thick cornmeal porridge called sadza, I became aware that many people had a link to what was termed the green market (that is, illegal business trading), garnering their main income from that activity. Failure to participate in the green market meant that you could not savour the wonderful barbecue we were enjoying. The truth is that many—like you, Baba—could not dream of taking pleasure in such luxuries.

Unbeknownst to me, a five-minute walk from where we were enjoying our barbecue, my maternal family members were trying to sell vegetables in order to survive. They were so poor that if the police raided them and took away their vegetables, they would struggle to replace them, and at times, this meant going without food. In contrast, the butcher store that operated the barbecue was the meeting place for high-end illegal traders, and it was situated right next to the police station. As good as the barbecue was, I could not fully enjoy it, because about sixty metres away from us, kids were feeding on our leftover bones on a rubbish heap. These beggars and food scavengers were intermittently kept at bay by other children who were hired to do so. The colonial strategy of divide and conquer, which had been applied to us using racial markers, we had now modified and were applying along class lines. The envious stares of the poor confirmed that we had escaped poverty—perhaps by being the inheritors of our families’ breakthrough into the new Black wealth. Yet I still remember how I used to forage for food in garbage heaps just like the kids I was watching. I was one of them, and now I am seated on the other side. I want to identify with their struggle so that I can help, but I do not want to be in their position because I remember how hard it is. It is this memory of hardship and the stories that I have heard from kids who have foraged for food in garbage heaps that motivates me to tell stories about why we need to make change.

The next day, I took Mandeep and Sanjit to see the orphanage where I grew up. The place looked rundown. There was mould on the walls, windows were broken, electrical wires were exposed, and there was no running water in the bathrooms. I recognized some of the boys in the orphanage from five years earlier, when I did some outreach work as part of my Child and Youth Care degree. Langara College had funded the development part of my work, the main aim of which was to offer the staff of the orphanage current resources and training materials on residential child care. I also offered workshops to the boys in the orphanage, in which I addressed their fears about leaving the orphanage and described the actions that had allowed me to be successful beyond the orphanage. In addition to providing funds so I could give professional and personal advice, Langara College’s student union body had also donated many computers for the boys and had given me money to purchase food for them.

So you can see how the boys in the orphanage were surprised to learn that I had come empty handed. As I was leaving, I heard one of the boys say, “Where is the money and computers?” I pretended not to hear, because if I had answered it truthfully, I would have said, “I am sorry, this trip is about connecting with my father; my focus is mainly on this and nothing else.”

To find you, Baba, I needed the help of Baba Colin (the orphanage cook), who had helped me track you down in 2003. Baba Colin had learned that you were not staying with the young family who had been caring for you when I left you. After a day of searching, he found an address for where you were staying. Again, our friend Innocent drove us there, but no one could track you down. However, everyone we talked to had a story to share about how poverty and homelessness threatened your life every single day. On hearing these reports, I felt guilty for not having taken better care of you as your firstborn son.

That night, I led our family in a discussion about how we could care for you. Our total savings at that moment was around five thousand dollars, and we also had an emergency fund of about two thousand dollars. To me, this meant that we could afford to buy some land in the townships or rural communities and still have enough money to build a very small house for you on that property. The problem was that you would not have your family or community around you. In the midst of my planning, Mandeep asked, “Do we know if this is what Baba wants?” Not wanting to impose anything on you, we decided to suspend everything until we met you the next day.

The next day, Joe kindly offered to drive us to the place you were staying, and when we found you, I was shocked with how emaciated you were. I remember you telling us that you were having stomach problems and were unable to digest certain foods. As you were speaking, I kept asking myself, How have I let this happen to you, my own Baba? How will I explain this to our ancestors? Oh, Baba, I felt great shame and you only made my shame even greater when you started to share the little we had given you. How is it that with so little to your name, Baba, you were so generous? I see now that your generosity was not limited to family members. You were the love that was ubuntu and this is why you were never a stranger in unfamiliar places.

Baba, through you, I have learned that ubuntu means that if I see a person next to me starving, then I must share that little piece of bread that I was saving for tomorrow. After I have saved the person next to me, then we, together, can worry about tomorrow. Your Ubuntu practice is hard to follow, Baba, and I still have a lot to learn. As we were talking, I watched you create a pile of things you wanted to give to my brothers and another pile of food that you wanted to share with your community. As you were making your sharing piles, you told me your stories about your struggles, your farming activities, planned future business adventures, and hopes for the family. As I listened, I felt that your stories had a common theme of finding final settlement, and so I asked you if you wanted to take us home to our family community of Lizulu. Thoughtfully, you informed us that you were ready to go home, but you were afraid that everyone you knew was dead and no one would know you. You were also afraid that you would not fit in with the community after being away for so long. You had been separated from your family for so long, you even suggested that we could go alone while you stayed in Zimbabwe. I assured you that we would not leave you in an environment in which you did not feel safe or happy. With this promise from us, you hesitantly and cautiously agreed to take us home to Lizulu. At the age of thirty-five, I was so excited to be going home with my Baba. I was a little kid again in your care, and at the same time, I was an adult who was caring for you.

My excitement about going home began to infect you too, and you suggested we leave right away. I reminded you that we needed travel visas for us and an emergency travel document for you. You laughed at this. “Who will stop me from travelling on our soil? These are all my people, my lands, and I have worked the soil from here to home. I know all the languages and the names of all the places,” you told me confidently. Philosophically and politically, I agreed with your position, but we were running out of time as we could not change our travel plans because of a lack of funds and our schooling commitments. Wanting to get you home for the first time with as little problem as possible, I told you that we were going to the Malawian Embassy to get you a travel document. I remember what you said in response to my authoritative direction, and the weight and responsibility of what you said still haunts me. You placed your right hand on my shoulder as if you were transferring the burden of family responsibility to me and then simply said: “Baba, the sun is rising to your authority; I support this and will not get in your way.” Until now, I have not shared with anyone the heaviness of these words that you gave me.

Zimbabwe to Malawi

As we went to the Malawian Embassy, you behaved like a little child who had new toys. You wanted to stop and show us off to your community of friends, and I behaved like a strict parent. I kept telling you, “Sorry, we need to leave; sorry, we do not have time to meet other people because we are late and we need to go now if we are to get your emergency travel document before the embassy closes for the day.” We arrived at the embassy during lunch, so we had to wait for an hour before they reopened. However, the security man informed us that the embassy on that day closed at three o’clock and there was a long line of people ahead of us. I can still remember hearing the security man speculate that we may have to come back another time. I told the security man that I did not want to wait another day because for the first time in my thirty-five years of being on this planet, I was going home. The security man asked why this was so and you gave him our family story about our fragmentation. When the other embassy workers heard our story, they made it clear that we would get your emergency travel document that day. And to help speed up the process, the security man offered his professional photography services for your identification photo. This service, he offered at a cost calculated in US dollars.

The next day, early in the morning, we caught the bus going to Malawi at the Mbare bus stop. I noticed that you were not talking with any of us, so I engaged you in light conversation until we neared Nyamapanda, which is just before the border with Mozambique. Nyamapanda is also the home of Lee and Simba, my two half-brothers from your last partner, to whom you were not traditionally married. If the bus had run this route more than once a week, I would have suggested we stop and see them, but we were running out of time. To ease my conscience, I asked you when you had last seen my brothers. I was expecting you to tell me that you had seen them about a month ago, but you replied, “In 2005, Lee came to see me for some money because he needed shoes, but his younger brother, Simba, will not talk to me because he feels I have abandoned him, which makes him very angry. How do I explain to him that I cannot present myself to his mother’s family when I have nothing to offer them? I am the hunger created by a lack of food in abundance and I am poverty beyond the comfort of measure. I am silent because I cannot find the words that stop my suffering.”

Your truth created an uncomfortable silence. I wanted to offer you some comfort, but blame kept making its way toward my lips, so I too kept silent because this was what I could offer as support without projecting my judgment. I am sorry now that I did not break the silence of our suffering when you were offering me the opportunity that day. I hope it is not too late to start following your lead of breaking the oppressive silence that continues to fragment our family.

The Malawi we took you to, Baba, was not the Malawi you left. The city of Blantye impressed you so much that you told us you were willing to live there if things did not work out at home in Lizulu. You were so proud of this new Malawi that had blossomed while you were away and you said, “I will stay here and die in my own country among my own people.” We spent two nights and two days in Blantye before going to Zomba, where a friend lent me his car. As we were driving to Lizulu, you started to get sick. You complained of abdominal pain and reported that your stomach felt sour. I had to stop the car a few time so you could throw up or so we could prevent you from throwing up. Travelling at a much slower speed, we got into Lizulu around three in the afternoon. As soon as we arrived in Lizulu, we presented ourselves to the chief, who informed us that our family lands and properties were in Mozambique, so we would need a letter of clearance from the police, which the chief assured us would take less than five minutes. The more important task was to find a family member who could take us home. Within half an hour, the chief’s staff had found one of your nephews, Fixon.

Fixon informed us that most of your family members had passed on from this life to the world of the ancestors. I could not help but watch the facial expressions you made as you heard about the death of each family member you inquired about. Just before we left for our motel, you asked Fixon very reluctantly, as if you did not want to hear the answer, “What of my sister, Janet?” Fixon flashed a huge smile and told you that your sister was doing very well in Lilongwe, the capital city of Malawi. She had built her own house there, had two living children, Moses and Regina, and from her children who had died, she had many grandchildren. Your eyes reddened with tears as you told us that you wanted to go to your sister right away; you made it clear that you had no interest in meeting any other family members.

At this point, we would have left if it had not been for the wise counsel of the chief and the persistence of Fixon. I remember the two of them making the point that you needed to take us to our home village so that our ancestors could connect with us. To this, you retorted by saying that our ancestors were always with me and that I did not need to go to a village full of the offspring of those who had caused you so much pain. The chief wisely told you that your retort was good but that if you took us to our home village, you would be showing respect for our ancestors. The chief added that your father had ensured that you had walked on the soil that held the remains of our ancestors, as a way of making sure you were connected to our lands and people. “Will you deny your son this connection?” he asked. Under such pressure, you agreed to go to our home village the next day.

About forty family members were at the home village to welcome us home, and they kept apologizing that they had not had time to inform other family members who were in schools or working in other parts of the country. I could not believe that so many people were related to me. Regardless of how poor they were, I felt wonderful belonging to them and they to me. I am not sure whether you felt the same connection that I felt to all these family members. I have learned that your smile and sweet words can hide your true feelings, so I wondered how you felt being welcomed by some family members whose parents may have had a hand in your leaving. Yet by the time we left, I could see a new level of strength and pride that l had never seen in you, and from that moment, your joy was mine and your problems were mine. Baba, I am still trying to find ways to connect with my brother Simba, who I am told is in South Africa. I am also very sorry that I never got to build a stronger relationship with my brother Lee before he passed on from this life to the world of the ancestors.

Fixon offered to take us to Baba’s sister, Dadakazi Janet, in Lilongwe. (The kinship term dadakazi literally means “female father”: in the context of our Ngoni culture, everyone from my paternal family is identified as masculine.) I was a little frustrated with Fixon’s directions because he was directing us by memory and could not give us reference points to help map our trip. His way required us to trust him, while our Western academic training required us to depend on evidential data. With no other choice, I was forced to trust and depend on Fixon totally, and my discomfort with that kept me questioning and challenging Fixon’s directions, which made him nervous and led to small directional errors. When I realized that I was subjecting Fixon to Western ways of knowing, I stopped and apologized. It was not easy for me to let him lead us, but needless to say, he got us to Dadakazi Janet as soon as I stopped my judgmental commentary about his navigational methods. Interestingly, I now only know directions to Dadakazi Janet’s home through memory and not through the conventional Western way of using street names. The lesson here for me is that if we want the outcome of a specific knowledge, we must honour its rightful process.

On arrival at Dadakazi Janet’s home, we were informed by the neighbours that she had gone to church. So we went to her son and daughter’s home nearby, but her son, Moses, was away on business and her daughter, Regina, was at church with her. Luckily, a niece informed us that she would send a message to Dadakazi Janet and cousin Regina to inform them that they had visitors at home. Regina and a nephew by the name of Joseph, were the first people to come back from church. After exchanging a formal greeting, Fixon informed Regina as to who you were. On hearing that you were Dadakazi’s brother, Regina started laughing so hard I thought she would start crying. While still laughing hard, she got up and gave you a big hug and then told us that she had seen many things but she had never believed or dreamt that she would see us. Regina informed us that Dadakazi had named one of her children after your memory, but unfortunately the child had died. Looking at me, Regina told me that Dadakazi had had a hard life, but even at her lowest point, she had never stopped wondering about her brother, Peter Dee. As Regina was talking, more family members were coming in. In all this excitement, I remember Regina hugging me while telling me that we were family. I can remember Sanjit saying to Regina and me, “Yes, you are of the same blood line. I see it in your face and body structure.” Within a few minutes, we were all talking over each other in a spirit of familial love. By the time Dadakazi Janet arrived, the room was full of family and communal laughter.

As soon as Dadakazi walked into the room, we all went quiet but our hearts’ excitement kept dancing in the room. Dadakazi was about to ask who the visitors were when she locked eyes with you, Baba. As she stared into your eyes, she seemed to lose her voice. Regina then asked, “Who is that?” And Dadakazi, after a moment of disbelief, said, “This is my brother who has been lost in some foreign lands. I have wondered for many years if he was dead, yet I could not explain why I felt that he was still alive. I have missed you, my king. My heart is full of love and pain at the same time, and I have no words to share. Now let me meet my family.” Lovingly, Dadakazi welcomed us home with hugs, but as soon as she was done, she raced over to you and locked her arm with yours. Looking at me, she said with deep, slow, emotional excitement, “Baba, thank you for bringing my brother back to me.” I was speechless. After some time, you, Baba, broke the silence by saying, “We should also thank my daughter in-law, because I believe she is the one who pushed your son to come find me.” Dadakazi gave Mandeep a quiet word of thanks before she focused back on you again, Baba. The two of you were inseparable from that moment on.

As news of your arrival spread, Dadakazi’s friends began arriving to witness this extraordinary happening. If Dadakazi was sugar then her friends were her salt, because they lamented how you had abandoned her in this lonely world. Dadakazi’s friends conveyed to you how much she had lost and how much she had worried about you. In all these discussions, you remained silent, and at times when things got heated beyond my comfort, I defended you by reminding people that you were now here and the important thing was for us to start building our family as a whole. I told the family and Dadakazi about how you were living in Zimbabwe and asked them if you could stay with them while we tried to find you a place near Dadakazi so that you would not be separated from your sister again. As we were looking for a place for you, Regina called us to a family meeting. At this meeting, Regina informed us that if we made you and Dadakazi live apart, we would embarrass ourselves before the community. People would ask why we were keeping two old relatives apart who had found each other in old age after being separated a long time ago by colonial and familial fragmentation. Regina then informed us that, instead of buying a place for you, the family wanted to use the money to upgrade Dadakazi’s house so that you could both live there. In the meanwhile, the two of you could live in her house.

On hearing the family’s decision to keep Dadakazi and you together, I felt comforted and relieved about your safety. The little savings that we had, we handed over to the family for building our home extension. Knowing you were in safe hands, we returned to school in Canada in late August 2008. One year later, in August 2009, Khumalo, your grandson, was born, and four months later, on 6 December 2009, you left this living world for the world of the living dead ancestors. Sister Regina, on 5 June 2010, also left this world to be with you among our ancestors. Baba, take care of Regina and help Dadakazi have some peace, because she has dealt with too much loss for one person. In 2011, we were given another child, Nandi. She and her brother, Khumalo, are loved very much and we are working on building a strong physical and spiritual ubuntu home. I want you to know that I have not forgotten my responsibility toward Dadakazi Janet; right now, our support is nothing because we are struggling, but I see the light coming by the end of 2014. In reference to your death, Baba, I am not sad in any way because you are with our ancestors and the healing of our family, broken from colonial fragmentation, has started. You have left me the thread to continue connecting our family beyond fragmentation, and for this and other lessons that you have given me, I thank you. I have said many things, Baba, but now I clap my hands as a way of welcoming and honouring your spirit. I am now listening, so please inscribe your ubuntu spiritual wisdom in these blank pages. But be warned that if your spiritual wisdom does not honour our Black Ubuntu embodiment, then I will reject it.

Respectfully, your son Khomba,

Dr. Devi Dee Mucina

References

Bonner, Philip. 1983. Kings, Commoners and Concessionaires: The Evolution and Dissolution of the Nineteenth-Century Swazi State. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Fanon, Frantz. 1963. The Wretched of the Earth. Translated by Constance Farrington. New York: Grove Press. Originally published as Les damnés de la terre (1961).

Finnegan, Ruth. 2007. The Oral and Beyond: Doing Things with Words in Africa. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Mucina, Devi Dee. 2006. “Revitalizing Memory in Honour of Maseko Ngoni’s Indigenous Bantu Governance.” Master’s thesis, University of Victoria.

———. 2011. “Story as Research Methodology.” AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples 7(1): 1–14.

Okri, Ben. 1997. A Way of Being Free. London: Phoenix House.

Tutu, Desmond. 1999. No Future Without Forgiveness. New York: Doubleday.

1  On the centrality of oral storytelling to everyday discourse in Africa, see Finnegan (2007). For more on the relationship between African storytelling and knowledge production, see Mucina (2011).

2  Bantu languages (of which there are hundreds) are widely spoken throughout southern Africa. Bantu-speaking peoples include the Zulu, Ndebele, and Swazi, who live primarily in the northeastern region of South Africa, as well as in Zimbabwe and Swaziland, and the Xhosa, whose traditional lands lie further south. The Sotho, who live in both South Africa and Lesotho, are also Bantu-speaking, as are the Shona, a major ethnic group in Zimbabwe and also in Mozambique. In addition, Swahili—the lingua franca in Kenya—is a Bantu language.