Go robetse mogaka!

I believe that if anybody ever had any misgivings about how great Nelson Mandela was, that would have been wiped off completely this past week. 

As a young girl growing up in rural Driefontein, I never quite knew who this Nelson Mandela was and what he had done to deserve to perish in prison. You’d be sternly rebuked for even trying to find out why ‘they’ arrested him. I remember my cousin had a nickname ‘Professor Mandela’ and most adults used to say how that would land us in trouble. It never made sense, but as years went by, I got to get bits and pieces of information about him and ultimately understood. 

The past week has been an eye-opener in many ways. As many people would have observed, there were many history lessons dished out on different media platforms. While many may have been irked by these since it meant they had to forego  their favourite television programmes, they were welcome to most who for the first time got to know who Nelson Mandela really was and the sacrifices he made for what we call ‘our freedom’.  

One has read and listened to many commentators and for the first time ever, I think even his detractors had to pause and admit that he was indeed a great man. A great man who was still human and therefore fallible and mortal as any of us.  I don’t think as South Africans we had anticipated the reaction that we witnessed following the announcement that Ntate Nelson Mandela was no more. Not even the prior knowledge of Tata’s state of health could have prepared the nation. The shock, the disbelief and the pain was just immense. And the pain cut across the colour line. 

As the song ‘Nelson Mandela ha hona ya tshoanang le oena’ reverberated across the country,  one could only imagine the difficulty of being a Mandela at a moment such as this. It almost seemed like the family had to abandon their need to grief so as to allow everybody else to mourn one of their own.  But then I guess when one of your own lived for those he served, you are almost pre-conditioned for such moments. We are told to accept death as a meaningful new beginning, whatever that means.

The challenge for those of us he freed, we are told, is to ensure that his legacy lives on. Whether we will still remember this challenge beyond his burial remains to be seen.  But maybe we should, each one of us, strive to do at least one good thing in his memory, maybe not for him, but for us and for our children. 

I cannot reflect on the past week without mentioning how South Africans also demonstrated their creativity in the crassest of ways. Poor Mandoza! He was an object for many of these cruel jokes. And when another icon in the form of Baby Jake Matlala also threw in the towel, this also gave creative minds something to work on. It was a week of a mix of sadness and celebration. A nation and the world saddened by the passing of such a great man, and yet feeling the need to celebrate a life well lived. 

We will miss his unique voice. We will miss his Madiba Shirts. We will miss the Madiba dance. We will miss his selflessness, his dedication and commitment, his infinite love for children and his continued strive for a peaceful existence of humanity devoid of lack and strife. We owe it to him and everybody else who contributed to the freedom we now enjoy to ensure that their sacrifices were not in vain.

Re a leboga Morwa Mandela ka botho jwa gago le ditiro tsa gago tsa bonatla. Robala ka kagiso, tiro o e weditse. Go mo matlhogeleng a gago go agelela mo letlhakung la gago.

Are all men pigs?

Apparently all women problems have men in them. Talk about menstruation, dysmenorrhea or menopause. And we often hear phrases like ‘men are dogs’ and ‘men are pigs’. But are they? Well, I guess if you have been with a man who doesn’t know that any business you do in the bathroom has to be inside the toilet bowl without leaving any traces on or around the seat, assuming he even remembers to put it back after lifting it, you may be tempted to agree with those statements.

Some years back when I used to have a column in a government newspaper, I was often labelled as a man hater since I tended to question a number of so-called male privileges. And even when I said I had nothing against men since I had three in my life, I was still faulted. Anyway, this is not about my perceived hatred for men. In fact my writing today is about the admiration I have for men – some of them anyway.

I recently spent a night with a friend that I have not been with in a long time. She actually reminded me that the last time we spent so much time together (and I’m talking half a day here) was when we were on holiday sometime in 2007. My friend is a mother of two little boys aged three years and six months. But we spent a night together, only the two of us. She had left her toddler and baby with her husband. Her husband, who is a man, was home with a three year old and a six month old baby. I have to emphasize this. As you can imagine, it meant he had to play with these kids, feed them, bathe them, clothe them, and change nappies. Kudos bro! Wouldn’t you want to hook up with one of his type? Do they even still make them?

I know there are men who probably do not know that a kettle has a switch which you press to boil water. Men who probably think a microwave oven is an invention made only for women. Men who do not imagine laundry and men in one sentence. Yet here is a man who is equipped and able to take care of his off springs because he had been part of their lives even before they were born, attending antenatal classes. I could go on about what else he does but I will spare you. I know most girls are turning green with envy here.  

Yesterday morning as I was driving, I saw this young man who could be in his twenties carrying a little girl of about two or three. He was carrying a backpack which indicated that he was probably going to work, carrying the girl’s bag and holding her protectively on his chest. I admired the love displayed by this young man. He did not have his own transport but knew that he had to carry out the responsibility of making sure that his little girl got to crèche safely.

I know that soon we will be talking 16 days of activism against gender-based violence. All of a sudden all men would be painted as these horrible abusers who do nothing to protect their women and children. I am saying let’s give credit where it’s due. I know that at least, there is one young man out there who loves and protects his daughter. I know that at least there is one young man out there who maintains his little girl. And I hope that much the same as I was touched by this act of love, someone, maybe another young man or even older man, saw that and learnt something.

I have seen men, young and old, walking with their kids and wives or girlfriends at malls. I have seen men shopping with their kids. I have seen men hiking with their sons and/or daughters. They can’t be pigs or dogs hey.

While there are men who have no idea how and where their kids were born, there’s a man somewhere out there who still remembers the sneeze of his baby boy, minutes after his birth. He remembers because he was there when the boy was born. He is still there to guide the boy through his tempestuous teens. He is one of the men we should celebrate as we continue to wage war against those men who abuse women and children. 

While there are men who expect their spouses to warm food for them regardless of what time they arrive home, there are men who cook for their families. There are men who share household chores not because they were given ‘korobela’, but because they love their partners and understand that they too enjoy being served. While there are men who may feel emasculated by the success of their women, there are men out there who support their partners in their quest for success. Let us not forget. Let us avoid painting all of them with the same brush. There may be few who remember that first sneeze, few who know how to change a nappy, and few who know that bras come in different cup sizes, but they are there nonetheless, and they are not pigs. 

A bus ride home - synopsis

A bus ride home is a story of young romance that rekindles in maturity, thereby inspiring a long, reflective journey.  When Tlotlego encounters her childhood lover at a wedding, her life is thrown into disarray. She had spent the past few years, following her divorce trying to get her life back and flushing men out of her system. Now seeing Jabu - the boy whose kiss made her feel things she could not describe at 14 - reignited her feelings for him and his for her. They decide to give their love a chance until she sees a part of him that unnerves her. She makes an impulsive decision to be part of the annual three day 124 km walk from Menkhoaneng to Thaba-bosiu in Lesotho, hoping to be able to reflect on her life. Her journey takes us through her childhood, marriage and divorce. It also gives us a glimpse into the lives of her friends. There is Kgopolo, whose divorce forces her to downgrade her life style, Amantle who is nursing an ungrateful HIV positive husband and Pelontle, an eccentric and adventurous soul with a fear of marriage.

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