Welcome!

Join us here on the Amazwi Writer's PNN page where we'll share our personal stories, something we (as journalists) don't get to include in our community newspaper, the Amazwi Villager.  We--Constance Rahlane, Linky Matsie, Lydia Ngomane, Bongekile Mhlanga, and Thandi Mkhatshwa--are sharing this space.  We'll be trading off weeks to bring you behind the scenes and into our lives in the rural South African village where we were born and raised (and are currently raising our own children or siblings!).

Enjoy!

[LM] My Pride and Joy!

When I was finished my final year of high school, I was devastated! I would pass out of high school but end up staying at home because I could not afford to go to the tertiary level. I passed grade 12 in 2002, and my mom managed to send me to a computer course and a driving school. She was trying her best to make something of me. In 2007 a family friend gave me a pamphlet for the Amazwi School of Media Arts, a journalism school for girls in South Africa. I had never wanted to be a journalist, but I was tired of sitting at home doing nothing. I thought, let me try. And, because I tried, I was one of the fifteen ladies who passed the interview.

Some months after being accepted as one of the journalist in training, I received more good news. I found out that I was four months pregnant. I was happy and shocked that I didn’t know all along that I was expecting. In the last two months of my pregnancy, I was struggling to cope with it all, and I could not go to school any more. I did eventually finish, though.

Now as a full-time writer and a mother I sometimes feel guilty that I don’t spent much time with my son. I love my son, but I also love writing, which sometimes is surprising to me because I never thought I wanted to be a journalist, but now I enjoy being a writer.

In 2008, after I finished the year-long program, Maggie Messit, founder of Amazwi, invited me to come and be one of the five intern journalists for the Amazwi Villager newspaper, my local community newspaper. I have been writing since February for the Amazwi Villager. Sometimes it is simple and sometimes it is very hard because people don’t allow me to interview them. I never thought other people would recognize my work, but I was wrong. Mrs. Messitt, Maggie’s mom, sent me an email in April after reading my article about taverns that are next to schools. She said that even in America they are having the same problem and that my article is great. I was happy to hear that.

One day we all applied for the Vodacom Journalist of the Year competition. Winners were scheduled to be announced on 13 October. The morning after, I deleted the message that Vodacom sent to me to confirm that they received my application. Only a few minutes later, my colleague screamed, telling me that I have won the competition. I could not believe it. I had to go and see the announcement myself on the internet, only to find that indeed I had won. I was very happy. I have made my family proud.

I entered the competition just because I wanted the people who judge to know my name, to maybe recognize it later when I have more experience. I thought, because I was still learning and because I was technically still an intern, I didn’t have a chance. But I was wrong! I won being new on this job of journalism, which makes me proud.

[LM] A bad dream comes true

Many people go to bed worrying about food, money, and what they are going to do the next day. Most could never imagine waking up in the middle night to the sound of a car crashing into their house. This nightmare happened to the Moele family in the early morning of Saturday, 23 August.

The Moele family is well known in Acornhoek. They are the business owners of supermarkets in Township community. They went to sleep on Friday, 22 August happy. Around 3 a.m., Beatrice Moele, mother of the family, heard a terrible scary noise. “I thought it was a boom. Maybe thieves want to steal,” she said. Through her daughter’s open door, she saw a hole in the wall and in the hole, a white bakkie. Three men were still inside the bakkie.

She said that her mind was only thinking of her daughter, Katlego, who is in her 20’s and was sleeping in that room. “I was relived to see my daughter walking in the passage of the house,” she said.

Katlego thought that she was dreaming when she heard the loud noise. “I was surprised to see a bakkie in my room when I uncovered my blanket,” Katlego explained. According to her, the driver was sleeping and going fast. She checked the car inside and the speedometer was stuck at 120 km per hour. There was no sign, she said, ing that he tried to stop the car. “I think he woke up when he heard the noise.”

Before the car crashed into Katlego’s room, it drove through the homestead’s brick wall fence and iron poles. The bakkie managed to break the window and the wall of the house. Luckily no one was injured.

Soon after, neighbours and relatives arrived at the Moele house to witness the aftermath of the accident. Everyone was very surprised and scared. “We are grateful that no one was injured. Your house will be fixed by the person who nearly killed your child,” said one woman who was looking at the house with fear. One young boy said that the river drove the bakkie into the house on purpose. “They are just jealous. They wish they can have as beautiful a house as the Moele house,” said the boy.

The car had a Great North Transport sticker on it. When the Villager contacyed Great North they did not want to comment.

Director Mashego of Acornhoek Police Station said that in a case where cars crash into a house, the police don’t arrest that person. The driver would have to pay the damage that he caused on the property because he was negligent and reckless.

The family is grateful that no one was injured. On most nights, Katlego’s two younger sisters usually sleep with her in the room where the vehicle crashed. They themselves don’t even know why they decided to sleep their own rooms that night.

[LN] Advertising Photos

Are you wondering who advertises in the Amazwi Villager?

Here are a few business: Mmanapo, Sibonile Creche Day Care, Mkhomolo Transport, and JeJay Music Bar.

[TM] A Man's Duty?

The strangest thing took place at my house last night around 7 p.m. I was sitting on one of the sofas eating my dinner while watching the news on e.tv. My twin eight-year-old brother and sister sat on a grass mat, breaking the chicken bones like there was no tomorrow. They way they love meat, it’s no wonder chickens run in the opposite direction whenever they come across these two; they can probably smell the scent. Anyhow, I started to hear loud voices of a man and a woman outside on my street corner arguing. I pressed mute on the TV and I looked out the window to see what the fuss was all about, but I couldn’t see anything because it was really dark. The arguments grew louder and stronger up to a point where my dogs started to bark. Then all of a sudden I heard something that sounded like lightning; it came from the woman’s face as the guy slapped her really hard.

Women getting beaten up by men is something that is very common around here in my community of Tintswalo, South Africa. Men feel that it is their duty to discipline women by beating them up if they feel women are doing them wrong. These men are so proud of it and brag about in public. Once a woman gets involved with a man, the guy thinks she is his property to do whatever he wishes with. I have asked a number of women why they allow men to do this to them, but they all just give me the same crazy answers: it is not abuse, when your man beats you up he shows he is just showing that he cares. It is his duty to punish you when you do something wrong. I find their answers to be very disturbing because abuse is taking place all over the world and many women are getting killed by their so-called lovers.

I could hear the girl screaming for forgiveness, asking if they could go the guy’s house and talk things through, but the man was not having any of that. He was accusing her of cheating on him with another man, and he wanted her to admit to this, but she denied it of course. Her scream went straight to my heart and I felt sorry for her. After feeling more of the heat coming from her boyfriend, the girl somehow managed to set herself free from his grip and ran away, straight into my yard, but he caught up with her. I watched from the window as the guy kicked her to the ground and punched her like he was fighting with another man. I could hear her pleading with him to let her go, but the boyfriend just kept punching her and pulling her braids out of her hair. I just froze in my living room and couldn’t do anything to help her since I was the only grownup in my house. I quickly lost my appetite and went quiet.

A few minutes later, the girl managed to escape again, but this time she came running straight into my house and she locked herself in, and leaned again the door with all her strength to make sure that it was two times locked. Her whole body was covered with dust, and she was also bleeding. I didn’t know her name. But I sure knew her boyfriend. He is my neighbours’ nephew, Patrick. My siblings and I were so shocked that we didn’t know what to do, all we could do was stare.

Her crazy boyfriend came and knocked on the door. She pushed the door against it. Patrick threatened to break the door down if she didn’t come out at that instant, but she refused. Finally I tried to beg him to stop because she was badly hurt, but he kept on insisting that she had done him wrong and she was going to pay for making a fool of him. Eventually she went out, and Patrick grabbed her and pulled her straight to his house.

This morning I saw her walking hand in hand with him to her house like a couple in love. It was as if nothing had happened, and I was the only one who seemed to be startled by their fight last night. One thing is for sure; I will never understand how people’s minds work, no matter how hard I may want to.

[CR] photos of the week

On 26 October, Cottondale's soccer field was abuzz! The women's league, consisting of ladies 21-60 years old, played the 12-and-under boys youth team. The winners? The boys: 3-0!

[BM] Managing

Getting nominated to attend the “Essentials for People’s Management” course in Grahamstown was exciting, but not nearly as much as actually attending! I had to apply, and write supporting letters, giving reasons as to why I think I was good to be chosen to attend with all expense paid.

I had been to a conference before, only a month earlier. This time I was going alone, and I was very anxious because the first time I went with my editor, Briget. I was counting on her for support, should I need it. I was like a child who has just started to learn how to walk. I didn’t say this, but it was only my second time flying. The first time I flew, I thought it was going to be a daunting experience, but it turned out to be nothing. I loved it when the plane picked up speed. I love speed! When it lifted to the air, I felt my intestines leaving their original place in my stomach. I have become a jetsetter in a space of a month.
    
I had gotten used to being up on air, and it was fine, even though I was sitting next to this guy who drank the whole of the previous night. I know because he was bragging about it the entire way to Port Elizabeth. He was also drinking on the plane. And it turns out that he was also going to attend the same workshop I was going to. I remember thinking: this is going to be the longest week of my life. On the shuttle to Grahamstown, I met the others attending the conference. I started to dislike one woman in particular, Patricia. She came across as someone who thought she knew everything, but the others were okay. She had answers for everything, and sometimes gave her unwanted opinion. But I guess the most reason that made me hate her was we’re more alike than not in most aspects.

Monday came. The lectures were eye openers. The whole week we were taught how to manage people, the role of a manager, how to motivate your subordinates, how a good manager should behave, and how to set up Humans Resources. Classes lasted from 08:30 to 17:00, with lunch, and two tea breaks in between.
    
After hours was up to us on how we utilize the time. Going out was out of question, as it was cold and wet the whole week. The only thing that we were most looking forward to was dinner because that was the only time we got to socialize with each other. Talking about work was a no, no at the dinner table. What dominated the conversations was girl talk because I always sat with the guys in one table. It started at 18:00 and didn’t end until 21:00.

We entertained ourselves by experimenting with different kinds of food. One guy ordered something foreign to him, and he could not stomach it. He went to bed hungry that night. I felt very sorry for him. The others would tease him about it all the time. Well, for me eating prawns was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tried in my life. We would order alcoholic drinks to go with the food, and the guys would come to class the following day with major hangovers. I drank the first two days, but only moderately because I’m a true lady.

The end of the week came. We were happy that everything was over and going home, but also sad that we were saying goodbye to each other. Patricia and I had become good friends during the week. I learnt to ignore her when she was saying something irrelevant, and took the good advice she was giving me. She even offered me a job. But for now, I’m happy with where I’m at, for the moment.

[LM] Lights for all

It was a very windy, cold day. Every person walking on the street was wearing warm clothes. Half of the people of Morekeng community in Acornhoek were gathered at the soccer ground. Irene Maatjie, a ward councilor, and Chikane, an Eskom employee, were present. The meeting started with a prayer by one of the residents.

The councilor greeted everyone and explained why they were there. She said that many houses in Morekeng have no electricity and have been using solar power for years. “You have been living in the dark for years now, but from 19 August 2008, many houses will have lights,” Maatjie said. All the people clapped their hands. She continued that the solar panels would have to be returned as they were on loan from the municipality. “We must take them back, so that we can lend them to other people who need them,” she said.

The Morekeng community has remained undeveloped while other communities were supplied with electricity. It has been on a waiting list to get electricity for years. Eskom is worried that thieves will steal the cables used to install electricity. Chikane is asking the community to work together with Eskom by looking after the supplies. He said that the cables will be installed under the ground, so every house that needs lights must dig the line where Eskom will work.

Many people think it is a good idea that the cables will be underground and have agreed to dig the hole with pleasure. Elphas Tsebogo, a resident of Morekeng and a “civic” (community leader), praises the fact that the cables will be underground. “It is going to reduce the problem that we have been facing as leaders. Boys have been cutting the cables around Brooklyn and its nearby communities,” he said.

Aron Mohlolo, a resident of Morekeng, expresses how excited he is. “We have been living in the dark for years, and I thought we were never going to have electricity,” he exclaimed. He said that life is difficult without electricity. “Before I came to Morekeng, I was living with my parents in Boelang, where electricity was supplied a long time ago, but I had to build my own house in Morekeng,” Mohlolo said.

Mohlolo is not the only person who is happy about getting electricity. Lesedi Dilebo, a mother of three working on a farm in Hoedspruit, said that her life will be easier when they have electricity. “I struggled everyday when I woke up because it was dark outside, and I didn’t have a choice but to go out and make a fire,” explained Dilebo. She added that when it was raining, it was very hard because the firewood was wet and she didn’t have anything to use to cook.

At the conclusion of the meeting, the community of Morekeng walked back to their houses with happy faces. One woman shouted at her neigbour telling her the good news that they had received. “Where were you? We are going to be supplied with electricity, and we won’t have to go to fetch firewood anymore!”

[LM] The thunderstorms of life

Who really knows how the weather works? I always ask myself who is behind the changes around us. One day, the sky is blue, bright, and very beautiful. Then, after only a few hours, it starts to get dark as if it were nighttime. Some days are hot, while others are cold.

Years ago, I was with my friend walking to a nearby shop on a windy day. To my surprise, out of the blue, she stopped talking, fell and fainted. Like the weather, in life, a beautiful, bright day can change at any minute to darkness and even rain without warning. Sometimes, illness and death comes to people unexpectedly, leaving those who remain behind to cry, with tears running down their faces like heavy rains falling from the sky. One Sunday morning, I had such an experience. As I was preparing to go to church, a feeling of bad news came over me, telling me that my friend had passed away. Suddenly, I felt as if I had a thunderstorm in my stomach. I did not want my friend to die. 

The following day, I went to her house. When I reached her gate and was about to enter, suddenly I could not feel my legs—a sign that something was wrong. I was scared. I felt like I was walking on air, asking myself, “Could she really be dead?” I wished that it was not true. She was too young to die. Her children need her, and I need her.

When her mother saw me, her mouth started trembling like the leaves of a tree being blown by the wind. Tears flooded her face. I couldn’t control myself. A second later, grief’s heavy rain also attacked me. As I was sitting with my friend’s family, I kept on looking at the passage to her room, thinking that she would come through her door; but she never came. I still don’t know why she had died.

In the sunny moments of my dreams, I find myself, again, with my friend. She is helping me to climb back down from the top of a mountain. She is reaching out to me, giving me her hands. She makes it seem like going down the mountain is as easy as the sun rising. I have tried to understand what the dream meant. Does she want me to die, so I can be with her where she is? But I don’t want to die; I am still young. I want her to come back to life so we could do what we used to do together.   

Many people around my community get sick and die. Sometimes is very hard to understand what was wrong with that person. It’s something people don’t talk about. In many cases, people often believe that the cause of the person’s death was because they had been bewitched; that is why the illness is unexplainable. I pray that my friend gets a dignified service, that she goes straight to heaven, and is with God, not with the witches.

Who can really tell what the weather thinks? Why the sudden changes? You can wake up happy without any problem but during the day anything can happen, just like the perfect day starts without wind. Later, strong wind blows. It would be better if every person knew the languages of all the things in the world. So that when weather wants to change, it could warn people first. So that when death is coming near, it can warn us and explain to us first.  Then again, maybe it is better that no one knows what the future holds; otherwise we would all live in fear.

[CR] When love dies

It is almost every woman’s dream to be paid lobola. Some women think lobola gives them respect and dignity. Others think it strengthens love and proves that their man is serious about their relationship. But what happens if a marriage fails and the man demands his lobola money back? This is not any woman’s dream at all. Precious Nziyani, 37, is living this nightmare after her eight-year marriage to her husband, Duma, failed.

Precious never thought her marriage would end in disaster, after Duma paid her family R3000 and three cows for her lobola in 1990. At first, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. “I never thought we could break up,” said Precious, taking a deep breath. “Everything was very beautiful; everyone was jealous of us.” The love started to die when another woman got inside their love circle. “He began to hit me and to come home in the early hours of the morning,” she said. However, the beating and cheating didn’t stop Precious from loving Duma. Even when he came home in the morning and hit her, she didn’t ask where he had been. “As a woman, I was taught not to be jealous of my husband’s behaviour, and it made him angry when I didn’t question his movement. He thought I didn’t care because [he thought] I was cheating,” she said. Duma soon impregnated another woman and took the mistress to live with his mother.

Precious’s silence didn’t stop the abuse. It continued until one horrible day when Duma crossed the line, and she said enough was enough. Precious remembers that day like yesterday although it has now been ten years since it happened. “I was busy cooking in the kitchen when I saw him come in with a young woman,” she recalled. Duma told Precious to move out of their room with their two year-old-son and sleep in the other room. He wanted to sleep with his new sweetheart. But Precious refused. She told them to go and sleep at his mother’s house like he used to. They did leave the house, and Duma came back later to apologize. She forgave him, not knowing the devil he had become. Later that evening, he asked her to walk with him to the bush, where he wanted to relieve himself. “When we arrived there, he changed. He pulled me into the big bushes. He started to kick me and hit me with thorny sticks, saying I don’t respect him,” she said.

Precious said Duma hit her until the early hours of the morning, when he took her back to their home and locked her inside with their son before going to work. Precious said she was rescued by her neighbour who heard the screaming of a baby, and knocked to discover the cause of the crying. Precious then screamed for help, and the neighbour broke down the door and took her to the hospital, where she was admitted for four days. Nevertheless, Precious refused to lay charges against Duma.

When she was released from the hospital, she went to live with her parents. Duma then sent people to beg her to come back to his home, although when she was in the hospital he never came to see her. Precious refused, remembering the beating and feeling her bruises.

With the marriage destroyed, Duma sent people to get a refund for his lobola, claiming he wanted to use it for another woman. But Precious’s parents refused, saying that they are not a bank, which saves money for eight years. Precious said Duma’s family got involved: they reported Precious to the induna (advisor to the chief). “When love dies, it’s very hard. It’s not like when it starts with two people. Lots of family members get involved,” said Precious. She won the battle at the induna because Duma was the person who caused the break-up. But that didn’t satisfy Duma. He went to Precious’s home, took their son, and ran away with him. However, a police order forced him to return the child. Precious said Duma also quit his government job, saying he does not want to pay maintenance for their son.

Now Precious is married to another man and has two children from the new marriage. Meanwhile she wishes that her parents had returned Duma’s money because every time he sees her, he reminds her that she is still his wife as his lobola has not been returned.

Even though many men like Duma think it is necessary to demand their lobola back after a marriage fails, Piet Nguma, 33, from Casteel disagrees, although his former wife and mother of his two kids left him for another man. “I didn’t ask her parents to bank the money for me. I paid it because I wanted their blessing for our marriage,” he said. Piet paid R5000, and spent eight years with his ex-wife. He never expected the marriage to end, but it did after he went to work in Johannesburg. When he came back home, his house was empty, no wife and children. “I was furious. I used to call her, but she never told me that she had moved in with another man. When I went to his home, I didn’t find her. I only found my kids,” he recalls. His parents told him she went to work at a lodge and lives there. But he heard through rumours that she was living with another man there. She confirmed the rumours by ending the marriage over the phone.

Piet said he never thought of demanding his lobola money back. Although it has been fourteen months since he separated from his wife, he is still hurting and has decided not to go back to Johannesburg. He wants to be close to his kids. Because she made him a proud father of two, he does not want his lobola money back. “She gave me two heads. I will always be grateful for that. Because of the that she dumped me, I won’t forgive her and wish her all the worst in her new relationship,” he admitted.

While some couples split up, others are just happy as ever, and they can’t think of anything that will come in their way. John and Lily Mathebula, 35 and 34, have been married for eleven years and have three kids. John paid lobola in 2002. He did it because he wanted to tighten his relationship with his in-laws and prove his love for his wife. However, if his wife left him to be with another man, he wouldn’t hesitate to demand his money back the same day. “If she went to live with another man, that guy would have to return my money or else there would be a big fire, and no one would be able to extinguish it,” said John in a deep voice. John said he wouldn’t demand it if they separated for other reasons.

Lobola is a well-known tradition of African culture, uniting and strengthening a relationship between two people who love each other and their families. But it does not always guarantee that marriage will last forever.

[CR] A lifetime of difficulties with water

The argument I had with my mother last night made me wonder if we will ever stop fighting about this question: “Why didn’t you fetch water? Are you not going to bathe today?”

We have had this quarrel since I was old enough to carry a tin of water on top of my head. But the fight never stops, because I am too lazy to go to the tap and wait for three hours for water that flows out like urine. I also hate observing the other women fighting with one another about who came first.

For as long as I can remember, I have woken up every day before sunrise and walked four kilometers with my two older sisters and empty 25-liter tins to fetch water. When I was young, I would carry a 10-liter tin. We would stay at the tap for three or four hours, waiting for our turn to come. Most often, we didn’t notice the time passing because everyone was occupied. I would play rocks, the goal of which was to stack stones before somebody hit you with a ball, or jump rope with the other children. My sisters would be busy gossiping about the latest scoop in the village. Men would be playing cards or chart, a traditional game, similar to checkers. Other women would be busy washing laundry, while the teenage boys ran after the girls. Our grumbling stomachs were always the reminder that we were ready to go home. We would then sit down because we had no more energy to play. When our tins were finally filled, we would climb back over hills and valleys towards home. On the way back, there would be no more talking; we were too tired from our hunger. Sometimes I sat and rested while walking back. Sometimes, the tin would fall, and I would have to return back to the tap or face my mother’s quarreling at home.

When I was in school, the thought of going home made me sad, knowing I would have go to the tap, on an empty stomach, where I would be pushed by the elders, who never wanted to queue. I hated my life.

Sometimes, when I saw birds singing in the sky, I wished that I was one of them because, then, I would be able to fly away from my dilemmas. I wouldn’t have to be awake in the earliest hours during the winter months, to queue in the tap line. I wouldn’t have to walk the long distance, barefoot, to school. I would just fly around the sky, watching people, like my sisters, on the ground. I still, today, look up at the birds with a heavy heart.

I keep hoping that my situation will improve. Our ward counselors – the people in our community that we elect to stand up for us – and the South African government keep on promising a better life for all of us. They have been making promises since I was one-year-old, but they are always empty promises. Once they get voted into office, they sit back in their squeezing office chairs, while we queue for water.

As a teenager, I was too shy to carry a tin on my head or push a wheelbarrow, fearing what my boyfriend and friends would say, but my mother insisted that I go to fetch water.

Now, as a 25-year-old, I still have to push my wheelbarrow and wait for hours before I can bathe or cook. I still have to go to the tap and listen to the gossip and watch other kids play rope and rocks. I still have to go to the tap after a long day at work, sometimes winding under starlight on my way home. I still can only use half of the water in a five-liter tin when I bathe. I still wash my dishes with only a little water. I still have to take my laundry to wash at the tap. I still have to go to the dry river and dig a well when the water at the tap runs out for weeks on end. I still love the rainy season because I can use well water to bathe and to wash my laundry. The well is close to my home. Water is plentiful, there, and I don’t have to queue. I still hate it that the tap is so far away, that I feel exhausted like the donkeys some people hire to carry their water, paying R1, 50c per 25-liter tin. I still hate to hire the donkeys, because I feel uneasy when I see them being beaten up by a xiyepu, a sharp stick with a whip, when they walk slowly. I still love to visit my sister, where I don’t have to push the wheelbarrow, and I get a chance to bathe in a big bathtub, and I don’t have to boil warm water over firewood or a stove. I just had to turn on either the warm or the cold tap. It makes me feel like princess.  But I always know, at the end of the day, I will have to go home and queue in the line again.

I guess I have to get used to the argument that I have with my mother, because it looks like it’s going to be a lifetime quarrel.

[TM] Peace Corps volunteer starts library project

A shortage of books and libraries in Acornhoek schools is a big problem. Teachers use a single copy to teach overcrowded classes. But the Books for Peace Library Project has changed the situation. “I run a girl’s club at Ndabeni primary school, and I have gotten to know the school over this past year, “ said Rose Zulliger, a United States Peace Corps volunteer and the founder of the Books for Peace Library Project. “I noticed that they didn’t have many books and they were using photocopied pages from academic books. This made it very difficult for the teachers to instill a love of reading within the learners. I wanted to help the teachers to have the resources to help their learners.”

With the help of 24 Peace Corps volunteers, The Books for Peace Library Project has delivered 30,000 books to 30 schools throughout South Africa, eight of which are here in Acornhoek. The schools who each received 1000 books are Chayiwe, Funjwa, Mugidi, Ndabeni, Maotole, Motlamogale, Phatsedi primary schools and Shobiyani Secondary School. “Growing up, I went to the library all the time. That is how I began to love to read and to learn,” Rose explained. “For me, it is very important that children here in Acornhoek have that same experience. I want them to enjoy the process of learning. It’s not fun to read academic books, but if they can find a good storybook, it can help them to begin to love to read. But also, it can help them to feel comfortable with English.”

The schools can’t help but express their gratitude. “We are so grateful to have received the books,” explained Thembi Ngwenya, a school principal at Mugidi Primary School. “Children were reading books provided for lessons only, but now they will be able to pick and choose their own favourites from the library. Who knows, maybe one day some of the learners might get inspired and become authors themselves.”

“The only way children can learn to do something properly is if they practice doing it everyday,” said Ms. Mkhonto, a schoolteacher who runs a reading club at Ndabeni Primary School. “Reading these books everyday will turn them into better readers.”

Even the learners are very excited. One student said, “I’ve always loved to read stories, but I have never had the opportunity. The books will help a great deal.”

The Books for Peace Library Project has provided the schools with a basic foundation that will benefit teachers and learners. Of course, challenges still exist, but now at least the children have the chance to access good books in their school libraries.

[TM] Squeeze it in PLEASE

It used to be disrespectful and unnatural for a woman to wear pants, but times have changed and so have women’s choice of clothing. Women can now wear what they want, including bell-bottoms, hipsters, leggings, capris and even skinny and low-cut jeans. Hell, I am into jeans myself, but lately I feel that things are getting very tight. Everywhere I turn, I see more and more sisters wearing the ready-to-bust kind of jeans. Even worse is when I get too clear a view of their behinds. 

Just last week, I got in a taxi from Tintswalo, my home community, to go to the nearest shopping complex about two kilometers away. Five people sat in the back seat meant for only four passengers, in front of them sat another group of four ladies. I squeezed behind the taxi driver’s seat with three other people who gossiped endlessly about their neighbors. The window next to me was jammed and didn’t open. It was already a hot day, and I was feeling like a stuffed turkey in an oven on a Thanksgiving day. There was no music to cool me down; only a hole in the dashboard kept winking at me.  

The taxi picked up a girl on the way. And guess what she was wearing, low-cut jeans! Since there was no space in the taxi for her to sit, she had to stand, placing her squeezed-out-cleavage-behind directly in front of my face, torturing me all the to town.  

I felt like screaming at her, saying, “Get your nasty squeezed-out-bum out of my face!” But it was out of my control. I feel that people who wear clothes like that should be charged with a crime for suffocating their poor behinds and for degrading other women by putting them in the spotlight.  I believe a woman need to wear ifull panty (IFP) rather than no underwear or a g-string, which doesn’t cover anything anyway. But people want to look cool in the eyes of others and don’t consider the consequences of their actions. I counted every second until the squeaky taxi arrived at my destination. 

According to the law of God, women’s valuable assets should be kept secret. In case you don’t know what women’s valuable assets are, let me tell you: the boobs, booty and the baby-making machine. Not all of us want to admire whatever beauty you think your pumpkins possess. You don’t have to follow what other people are wearing in order to stay in style.  A woman can still look good without looking like a hooker.  

When men stare at your skimpy jeans and make nasty comments, or worse even drool at the sight, it’s a violation of all women. One rotten tomato makes all of them look bad. One woman’s actions reflect on the rest of us. Treat your booties with respect and dignity. Keep them tucked away. 

All along that taxi journey into town, I couldn’t help but think of how today’s women are degrading themselves for the sake of fashion. They might as well be walking around naked for everyone to see. It’s just nasty, nasty, nasty! 

In fact, many women already get rapped in South Africa everyday, and men blame the skimpy clothes. Just recently women wearing miniskirts in Johannesburg had their clothes stripped off by taxi drivers in public and raped. Shouldn’t you be taking this in to consideration and leave some things to the imagination? You don’t want to be the next victim.  

I think the people who design these kinds of clothes for women should go back to their drawing boards and rethink things through. Gone are those days when Adam and Eve use to walk around au naturel. Ladies, it’s time to put some clothes on.

[BM] Murder for muthi

On the 15th August, in the Bushbuckridge Magistrates court, there was no space to sit at. Outside protesters were singing and marching. On their faces, drips of sweat fell to the ground. The protestors were asking the magistrate that the suspects should not be given bail.

The three suspects– Patrick Floyd Mokoena, 58; his son, Sidney Toto Mokoena, 33; and Sidney’s friend, Mjojo Justice Ndubane, 28 –were arrested between 13 and 14 August 2008. They are accused of killing Clarence Brown, 25, on 23 February 2008.

According to the police, Floyd approached his son, Toto, and told him that he urgently needed human body parts to make his four businesses generate money quickly.

This is not unusual. People die everyday around South Africa for their body parts, used for muthi or sold for money. Many people believe that human parts have the power to make someone rich, especially if the victim was screaming while being mutilated. It is said that when the person cries, he’s calling customers to come to your business. There is even a story that people tell about a young boy who was mutilated while still alive, and then his murderers scooped out his brains.

In their confession to the police, Toto, Floyd Mokoena’s son, admitted to asking his friends to help him fulfill his father’s wish. The body parts were supposed to be that of a family member. Toto, Justice and Simon Nkosi, then went in search of Brown, who was returning from a tavern. Brown was Floyd’s nephew and Toto’s cousin. The suspects laid in wait for the victim at a bridge he was to pass on his way home. When Brown arrived at the bridge, he saw a car that was familiar to him, and the occupants offered him a lift. He did not reach his destination because according to the accused, they cut off his private parts, heels, and removed his brains while he was still alive. All of this happened inside Toto’s vehicle, a blue Venture. The three suspects threw the victim in the middle of the road and ran over him, making it look like it was a hit-and-run. The suspects claim they were assaulted and forced to confess to the murder. The investigating officers denied laying a hand on them.

When Brown’s sister, Divine was asked how she felt about this whole incident, she answered with a flood of tears, while holding her brother’s picture.

“This is shocking. Your own uncle doing this to you. I hope they all rot in jail,” said one of the protesters. According to Captain Hlathi, the three were arrested whilst sitting and relaxing at their homes. “They were thinking that their evil deeds had gone unnoticed,” said Hlathi. They were remanded in custody until 26 August 2008, when they would appear again in court for the bail hearing. On the 21 August, the police exhumed the body for further investigations.

On the set date, the accused appeared again in court for their hearing. M.R. Mashiloane represented the defendants. They all repeated their claims that they were assaulted when arrested; That is why, they say, they admitted to killing Brown. Floyd Mokoena said, “This is a political issue. The Chief is angry because I’m no longer a member of the ANC, and that I disrespected him during a family meeting.”

It took six days for the bail hearing to be finalized, during which Mashiloane asked to be excused because of the threats on his life and family. Advocate P.J. Laurens took over the representation of the accused. He tried his best to get them bail, but at the end of the day, the decision was left to the magistrate.

The state said that it couldn’t grant the accused bail because it was afraid “They would not see sunset.” He further said that the community of Oakley was very angry. The deceased’s family cried with joy. Floyd’s family was sad, but there was nothing they could do. The supporters outside were ecstatic when they heard the defendants were denied bail.

Whether the accused did kill Brown for his body parts, or it was politically related, it’s up to the State to prove it, defense to convince the state, and the magistrate to decide. The date for the trial is set for 7 November 2008.

[BM] Living in the fast lane

Every Friday, a girl from a few blocks down the street in my neighborhood dresses to kill. This, to her, seems to be some kind of a tradition. Armed with her beauty and youth, she gets any man she wants – the classic cars, sports cars, family cars – they all want her. They always park under three, large mango trees near her house. She always comes out fashionably late, wearing stilettos in an array of hues, swaying her slender hips from side to side, and hypnotizing the men.

Watching from my door, I ask myself, every Friday, why does she prefer men with cars? Not just any car, but wheels that are sleek. Does it give her status, or is she genuinely interested in the men? I just wonder if I could do the same thing. If I would be so desperate as to fall on my knees and worship someone just because they have money. The thing is, around Acornhoek, things like these are a norm.

Acornhoek is a small town in the northeastern part of South Africa. Poverty and unemployment is high. Most women are breadwinners, and young girls have kids at an early age. Women here love a man who is loaded, a man who will give them money for their kids. Others are just used to a good life, and they want someone to pamper their luxurious lifestyles. While others date a man with a car because of the status it will bring her. The faster the car is, the greater the speed in which the women will fall for him. It’s not that cars are alien to this place; a lot of people own motor vehicles.  I just think women find it satisfying to find themselves in a nice car. They think they are the envy of other girls. Well, not me.

Men always think I’m different because that doesn’t matter to me. I don’t need a man to complete me, or to make me happy. If I want something, I have to work hard to get it. I’m a very independent woman. I taught myself from an early age to do things for myself. I earned my first pay cheque while I was still in high school. From then on it was a breeze for me. I had my first child when I was 20, and I made sure that I worked to provide for my son. I thank my grandmother who drummed these values into my head. My grandfather was there, but he never lifted a finger to help her. She raised doctors, teachers, prosecutors, nurses and writers.

What I find disturbing is that most men use money to lure innocent young girls into sleeping with them. These women are not innocent either. They wear skimpy skirts that come up to their bums, or tops that leave everything hanging out, to attract the men who have money.

Either way, at the end of the day, the two parties get what they want. The only thins that worries me are the diseases that are spreading like wild fire. Especially HIV/AIDS. Around Acornhoek, a person with HIV is a normal person, because a lot of people are infected with this disease in South Africa. In fact, statistics show that our country has one of the highest rates of HIV positive people. The faster you live life, the faster you’ll retire from it.

If I could talk openly to women in Acornhoek, I’d tell them to have pride in themselves for being women. Work hard to make their lives into what they want it to be. Don’t wait for the crumbs falling from someone else’s plate.

It’s Friday, again. I’m still here, at my door, looking down. Today, a silver-grey BMW is parked under the mango trees. She’s coming out, wearing yellow stilettos that match her blouse and earrings, and her move, as usual, is hypnotic.

[LN] Medical Train Stops in Acornhoek

From 22-26 September, people from different villages in Bushbuckridge Municipality flocked to Acornhoek, to queue in the line for the Phelophepa Train, a seSotho word for Good Clean Health. Everyone waited to be examined at an affordable price. People have been waiting for their health train to come for more than a year because, since it started in 1994, the train comes once, every other year. Now it sees more than 45,000 patients in a year across four provinces, all in rural areas. “It gives insight of how rural people live,” said Magdeline Ntikinca, deputy manager of Phelophepa, from Eastern Cape.

Phelophepa works with last year’s medical students from all the universities in South Africa, and also local retired nurses. “They never want money because they know what we give them is more than money will provide,” said Magdeline. The students are offered practical job experience, traveling, and free food. Phelophepa has five clinics: eye, health, psychology, dental, and medicine. It also has free one week health education courses for 16 people, sponsored by St. John Ambulance.

Not only does the Phelophepha train help sick victims, but it also empowers local people by giving them employment as cleaners, translators, labourers and other positions during its presence. Musa Mnisi and Goodwill Makhubela from Timbavati village, who both worked in registry, said Phelophepa gave them the opportunity to help their community. Goodwill was given a bracelet by an old woman, thanking him for his services. “I wish the train could come every year because there are a lot of sick people,” said Musa.

It also brings smiles to Magdeline every day to sees the train achieving its main purpose. “It is a fulfilling job. At the end of the day, I am happy knowing that I am doing something to help rural villages.”

Villagers could should have even more hope because Phelophepa is planning to build another train before 2020. It may seem very far, but time passes like water.

[LN] Connection with God

Everyday at 9:30 a.m., gospel music booms inside the International Faith Healing Church, in Acornhoek, South Africa, my home village.  The church is a wooden plank structure with a corrugated, iron zinc roof. I know exactly, in my heart, that it is time to take my bible and go to church. A chorus singing, “U thando lu ka baba,” meaning “the love of God,” calls out to me, and I walk the 500 metres towards the church.

Once inside, everyone is singing, shouting as if the angels of heaven are present. Sometimes, it feels like I could die at that very moment and go to heaven because I feel I am connected with God. Here comes the heavy weight of the church, Pastor Khosa. He is a tall and huge man who has been a pastor since 1985.

When the pastor stands up in front of the pulpit, I feel inside as though Jesus is standing in front of me.  The pastor sings “O phuzayo lawa manzi,” - the one who drinks this holy water will never be thirsty again. I feel as though I have drunk the holy water already, and that I am sitting in a garden surrounded by love. At this point, the audience stands up and sings. Some of them are waving their hands up in the air and closing their eyes. Others kneel down while singing. I cry out with joy to the almighty.

I was born in a neighboring rural village where most people believe in Christianity, but others are traditionalists, which means that they believe in and speak to their ancestors. My family is Christian, too. Everyday, after dinner, we used to sing a chorus, read the Bible, and pray before going to our bedrooms. Every Sunday, everyone in my family had to go to church, the Roman Catholic Church. At the age of 17, I started to understand why it was important for me to go to church. That’s when I started to have this connection with God. My mother taught me, while I was growing up, that a person must go church in order to see the kingdom of God after death.  

When it is time for the pastor to preach the word of God, everyone takes their seats and keeps quiet, listening to him while he preaches. I could stay inside the church and not go home because it is here that I feel God’s presence. My connection is not the same when I’m in my house because at home I can play gospel music and listen to the beat and the meaning of the song. But some other times I will end up playing another kind of music that is not related to gospel, and then I loose my connection. Sometimes I even play gospel music while I’m in bed, but I fall asleep without finishing my prayer. My connection is totally different when I’m in the church than when I’m at home.

The pastor preaches like anyone’s business. He spends hours preaching without stopping. The service starts at 10 a.m. and ends at 12 p.m., but sometimes it go on until 1 p.m. The pastor, wearing a black suit, walks around the church shouting, waving his hands and yelling, “Jesus was the lion of Judea.” He knows the Bible from Genesis to Revelation. The pastor teaches us to love our neighbors and to respect our parents. In return, God will expand our number of days on this earth. He often preaches about giving. It brings me peace. The Gospel of God heals the wounds inside of my heart, and I feel like I am a new person. When I drink his blood, I know that I am healed, for it is the blood of Jesus Christ, our savior. This is the only time I can ask for him to forgive me. Because we make mistakes everyday that hurt other people, I pray I ask for forgiveness from God.

[CR] Broken Heart

I was sitting at the table writing my first draft of my weekly story, and I kept on checking my clock, waiting for 8 p.m. to arrive. When it finally reached the hour, my phone alerted me that I got a new message. I giggled before reading it. Knowing it is from my boyfriend, because he always sends me romantic messages before I sleep and in the morning. But that day it was different; the message was not romantic, but hurtful. “Baby, I am sorry but my boy and his mom are back.” I didn’t know how to react after reading, I read it over and over again but couldn’t change it. Should I call him or send him a rude message? I asked myself. But I decided to keep quiet and continued on writing, but my mind got blank, I couldn’t concentrate, I ran out of words.

I went straight to my room, and tried to read my favourite magazine, but I couldn’t focus. I went to the living room, and watched television but I couldn’t hear any words, because I was not focused. I went back to my room and decided to sleep but I couldn’t fall asleep. I felt hot although it was very cold. I removed my sleeping clothes and tried to sleep again, but I didn’t fall asleep. I threw away all the blankets, and kneeled and prayed, as I started talking to God, I just burst and cried loudly. I asked God, why? why, has this  situation has to happen to me again. But there was no response. After seeing that my grieving is not helping, I tried to sing worship songs, and went back to bed again but I couldn’t sleep. I just changed positions all over and over. At around 1 a.m, I decided to send him the message. I asked him how could he do just what he did, how could he break his marriage promise to me.

Although I had only been with him for ten weeks, what we had I thought it was real, and I believed it could work out. He had promised me land and heaven, and I was also looking forward of being called his wife. After more than three disappointments in relationships, I assumed that I finally found the perfect guy. Even though he had been together with his wife for nine-years, he assured me that they have broken up, and he will never be with her. He would chase her away when she comes back. He was also my typical guy, tall, little fat, with breasts, big buttocks and loving and romantic. I saw a future with him, although I didn’t like his aggressive side.

He replied to my message in the morning assuring me that he still loves me and he will chase her the following day. But she stayed for another day, he claimed it was because of his parents.

That was the beginning of my walking in the rough road. The next day he told me he chased her away and that he was all mine, but I didn’t believe him, because when I visited his home I found the woman’s clothes. He insisted that they were there before and she refused to take them.

After a week, my nightmare began again, she came back and this time she didn’t go back after two days. She was there to stay and I am left with a broken heart. Every night I spend three to four hours trying to get the solution. I don’t know how can I fix my broken heart. On the other side he claimed that he still cares about me. She is there because of his parents. They want her there. I wanted to believe him but deep down I knew if he didn’t care about her she wouldn’t be there. I just wish she would just pack her clothes and go, but I know it is impossible. What it is possible is for me to look for another man, he was never mine.

After all I had been through for the past 25 years, I thought I would be much stronger for any kind of relationship. I thought no man will ever make me cry again, but I was wrong, I cry every day. Two things I learned from this experience is, once you love someone it doesn’t matter how much you have been let down or how long you have been together, you heart will always be broken when he walks away, and I would never trust a man. But I will need a man in the future because sometimes life is not complete without them. I just pray to God to fix my broken heart so I can move on with my life. It is not easy to fix the glass once it is broken.

[BM] End of a Chapter

My boyfriend, the father of my baby Angela, and I had been going out for nine years. As it had been months since I last saw him, we thought it would be a good idea for me to go visit him when I got a week break during August. The day I called him to finalize the details of my visit a woman I don’t know answered his phone. I tried calling him several times after that, but what followed was a series of voicemails. I’m a stubborn woman, so I thought: If he doesn’t love me, I want him to tell me straight in my face that he doesn’t want me anymore. That was on Sunday 10 August 2008.

The following day, 11 August 2008, I decided to take Angela and go to Witbank where he works. It’s approximately 300 km from where I’m staying. During the journey I kept on calling him, but to no avail. I ended up calling the office to please tell him to come and pick us up at the bus station. He sent an sms, telling me, “So I got the call from the office that you are on your way. Forget it, sis, I’m not meeting you anyway. I told you I don’t want to meet you, but you’re forcing it. You know who you’re visiting not me.” After the message I felt like I was dream. I said to myself, what does he mean when he said I knew whom I was visiting and not him. He was the only one I knew in Witbank. I said a little prayer to “the man upstairs” to protect me, and my daughter Angela.

We arrived at the bus terminal and alighted, but no one was there to meet us. I sat at one of the benches, and hugged my daughter so tightly, not knowing if we’ll ever see him again.  I sat there for ten minutes, hoping by some miracle he would change his mind. I tried calling him one more time, and he told me that there is nothing he can do for me. I looked for a police station to spend the night, but it was far from where I was.

I thought we would have to sleep in the cold. I feared we would be on the newspaper headlines: “A woman on her thirties, and her two year old found raped and murdered”. Just then, a miracle happened, my coworker Lydia called to ask me about the journey. I told her what happened. By then I was crying because Angela was playing, unaware of what was unfolding. Lydia told me to stop crying because her brother and his wife were staying around Witbank, and she gave me their numbers. I called the wife, and she didn’t have a problem with me coming to stay a night. I had one problem: my money was finished because of all the cell phone minutes I bought to call different people. I calculated my money, and it was ten cents short. Thankfully, the gentleman on my right in the taxi offered to pay those ten cents, and I was on my to a new place and new people.

Lydia’s brother and family welcomed me with warmth and love. It brought tears to my eyes because I thinking to myself, I’m getting love from total strangers. The person who is supposed to do that shunned me. I’m crying as I’m writing this story. Anyway, we were given warm food and a cozy bed to sleep in. I slept like a baby. I didn’t dream a thing. When I was woken up, we took a bus to town.

But guess what…Angela’s father met us in town. When I saw him I was neither angry nor happy. He gave us money to get home. I arrived at Acornhoek around six in the evening. I sent him a message telling him that what had happened the previous day told me he was not into me anymore. He told me that he loved the other woman he was with, and he can’t control himself. He also said that he didn’t love me. I said thank you. Funnily, I was not sad. I felt free. That was the end of a chapter

[LN] When Days are Dark and Friends are Few

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You will never know when you might lose your friends. Someone you called your best friend can change in a minute. Sometimes is hard to keep secrets from the people around you. When you have some miseries in your life, you want to share these with your friends. I hate keeping secrets especially from the people I see everyday and my co-workers.

I have been keeping this secret for a very long time. I was not ready to tell them this issue, and I waited for the right time to come. I needed to be stress-free. I trusted my co-workers as my family. However, I thought I had a second family that I can cry to when I needed to cry. I trusted them 100%.

One day early in the morning we were at the editorial meeting. My heart was beating very fast. After the editorial meeting, I said to them, “I have some news to tell you.” Everyone’s eye looked at me. They were shocked. I held my breath for some seconds not knowing where to start. I couldn’t help myself. I cried for a very short time, and then I stopped crying. I start by saying this, “It took me a very long time to tell you this, but I gained this trust and because I hate keeping secrets from the people I love. I’m so sorry for taking so much time, but today I want you guys who I am. Exactly the true Lydia. I’m HIV positive.”

Then everyone around me was crying. They started to comfort me. We talked for a very long time because they had lots of questions and gave guidance. I felt relieved. I thought that now they will show me and give me the love that I needed.

The following day, I was shocked to hear my best friend rejecting me by saying that she is not going to eat with me. We used to eat everything together, but now she is so scared of me. She thought maybe for the past six months by sharing food and drinks with me and the same glass, she might be infected.  I hadn’t heard of anyone believing this, but I accepted she couldn’t trust me.

Now I’m confused. I thought I was doing the right thing by telling them. But now I think that I shouldn’t have told her. When I disclosed, she was crying and comforting me. Now I wonder if she was worried about herself because we had been sharing everything. Maybe her cry was “I am infected or not?” I’m just asking myself that.

But, my friend, know this: this is the real world not a fake. Even though you are scared of me, I know that others love me. You cannot get infected by sharing pap and meat on the same plate as me. What I realized you are lacking is information. What I know for sure is that God the almighty loves me and I love myself too.

[LM] My Second Half

In June 2007, I went to a doctor since my boyfriend, Dan, had been asking me to go for a check-up. Dan had been nagging, “you have gained weight and your complexion has changed. You are carrying my son!"

Yet I was shocked when the doctor said, “you are three months pregnant.” Dan laughed at me. “I told you so,” he said. I was happy, though I hadn’t noticed anything in body change.

Dan wanted me to check with the doctor about what kind of baby I was carrying. I wanted to enjoy the pregnancy not knowing if the baby is a boy or girl. Yet I wanted a girl so much, and I knew Dan wanted a boy. I told myself that even if I have a boy, I would love him as much as I will love a girl.

The doctor told me that the baby would arrive on or around the 25 November 2007, but I was not sure whether to trust the date. On the 23 November I went to the hospital. I didn’t have any pains, but I wanted to be safe. Early in the morning on the 25th I was in pain, labour pains! I was blessed with a baby boy. We named him Neo, meaning gift.

Before Neo, I never knew the pain that mothers feel when their babies get hurt. I have two younger siblings, Vino and Nature, and as the older sister to them, when they got hurt or wanted something it was my responsibility to help them, especially when my mom wasn’t home. My mom is a businesswoman, who goes to Durban one weekend every month, and often I would have to look after Vino and Nature.

I have realized now that it is harder to be a mother than being a sister. A mother is always thinking about her child, if he is safe or if he has eaten or needs anything. I always worry that Neo is going to hurt himself or that younger children in the neighborhood are going to drop him while trying to carry him.

Neo is the most precious thing that ever happened to me. I couldn’t imagine my life without him. The feeling is easy to explain to other mothers and difficult to explain to women who have only looked after relatives. If I am not around Neo, I feel like something is missing. When he is sick, I intensely want to take that pain away from him. When he is crying I feel like my heart is torn into pieces. Neo is my other half.

[LN] Acornhoek Plaza

Before Acornhoek Plaza became a complex, it was bush. Today it is a busy place where everyone is excited. They walk, shouting at each other about the money inside their pockets. It’s month end for the people who work in the government. It’s early in the morning and the wind is very cold. The sun is shining in the blue sky. The smell of fire floats outside the shops of Acornhoek Plaza, where most of the woman are busy preparing lunch for their customers. They cook chicken and beef with pap (a corn mixed porridge ). Taxis, trucks, busses and small cars are passing in front of Plaza. There are many cars parked in the parking area. To my surprise, an old blue car parked near Scores supermarket is a shop. A man sells DVDs, CDs and cassettes of gospel, house, and Xitsonga music from the car’s boot. The sounds of high-pitched voices singing “yoo rosa wa minaa!!” to a quick, lively beat fill the parking area. Other loud music booms nearby. Indian music comes from the shop that sells bicycles and fashionable clothes. The Bujo Mujo song, “So Unbelievable”, plays as people go in and out of  Score supermarket.

Now it is twelve thirty in the afternoon, lunchtime inside the Score restaurant. People sit eating their chicken stew and mashed potatoes. Behind them, a table is packed with empty takeaway trays and cool drink cans. While some people eat, others buy their groceries. The security guards wait at the entrance of the store to check their till slips., At the King Pie restaurant ,opposite Score, customers sit inside and outside on the stoop. The smell of the freshly baked pies flows into everyone’s noses.

There are queues everywhere. People stand at Standard Bank waiting to use the ATMs. Many cars are lined up from Chicken Licken to the Caltex garage to fill up with petrol. Inside A1, customers queue to buy fresh meat and bread, and other groceries. At KFC, people hold paper bags with meat inside. Behind KFC, at the taxi rank, drivers are hooting to attract their customers. Women walk with plastic bags full of groceries, and put their heads down to get into the already packed taxis.

One woman is carrying her groceries on her head, and her baby on her back. No one helps her because everyone is minding her or his own business. She gets into one of Ngobeni’s taxis. The driver never smiles. He is sitting holding the steering wheel, ready to hit the road. “Let’s pay,” he says, looking back at his fifteen customers. Their last view  of plaza is through the window. It looks quiet outside, but it’s a very busy place.

[BM] Hair Salon

Grace was sitting behind the counter of All-in-All Hair Salon. She had this strange hairstyle, wrapped the way the African women do it, a huge headscarf that looks like Kilimanjaro mountain when you are done with it. She was talking to one of her employees, who responded with a smile. The conversation was bubbling around, even though it was hard to make out what was being said because of the humming of hair dryers. Even someone like me, who was new at the place, was included in the talk.

The salon was full of smoke from all the hair that was burning. It was so foggy that I had to blink twice before I could see what was in there. The hair was strewn all over the floor, the air from the hair dryers blowing it everywhere. It looked like a million black spiders crawling around on the floor.  On one of the tables, the TV was playing, even though no one noticed what was on. The sink where the hair was rinsed was dripping non-stop, and no one was even aware of the wasted water. Their hands were so busy combing  and styling hair and putting coins in the phone booth. Not only are people there to have their hair done, but they also come in to make phone calls. The people making phone calls were mostly calling  relatives. Posters of different hair products of beautiful women with shiny, silky hair were pasted all over the walls. Some pictures of different colors were hanging from the ceiling. They looked like Christmas decorations.

One woman wearing yellow earrings, a yellow blouse with a black pullover on top the blouse, jeans and black stilettos, was obviously happy with the outcome, as she was smiling from ear to ear. Her hair was pushed to the back, with a parting made on the left side of her head. The ends at the back were curled upwards, as if waiting to be kissed by the sun. The owner was smiling , too, as she gave the woman the change. She waved cheerily as she went out the door.

After the woman had left, I took a look at my hair, it seemed dusty and in need of attention. I felt the need to have it done. I’m definitely going back tomorrow to have that sleek hairstyle the happy woman had done on her hair. When one is in the salon, a woman has the sense of wanting to look beautiful.

Audio Stories: Descriptions of Place

Close your eyes and let the Amazwi journalists describe their hometown! (see stories below)

[LM] Car jacking? nahhh.

 On the 31st of May, I was going to town with my mom, when the driver of the taxi we took to Plaza told me that something terrible had happened. Because I'm a journalist I wanted to know what it was. "Moruane was hijacked last night," said the taxi driver. I was shocked, feeling sorry for the hijacked driver. I asked for more details. The taxi driver told me that Moruane was traveling from Boelang to his place in Township when he was hijacked. "He said two boys stopped him. One of the boys pointed a gun at him and told him to get out while the car was moving," explained the driver. "Is he okay?" I asked. The driver explained that he has small cuts on his knees, but he was not hurt.
   
I thought of giving the story to one of my friends who works for African Eye News Services. That same day I came across Moruane at A1 store in Plaza. I asked him about what I had heard from the taxi driver and he confirmed it, telling me that his taxi was found at a tavern but the radio was missing. He said that one of the boys was arrested and the other two disappeared, but he thought the police would find them or they found the bullets that the boys used at the tavern.  I ask him if it was okay for me to tell the story to my journalist friend, and he said he was fine with it.
   
Before I could tell my friend, I told my co-workers, and my editor said I could write the story. I called Moruane to let him know that I would be writing the story. I told him that I wanted to see him the next day so he could tell me all the details. He was fine with it. We met the next day and he told me that three boys hijacked him and they also robbed a tavern, that is when the police found them. His taxi has a satellite and it led the police to the hijackers.
   
Rumors, in fact, spread all over Township the community Moruane comes from, that he was not, in fact, hijacked but was with a woman and her husband had found them. But I could not believe that because I talked to him and he had told me what had happened.
   
I called the communication officer at Acornhoek police station, Inspector Joseph Mogakane, to find out what the situation was and what the boy who was arrested said. He told me that the previous day, the same day I interviewed Moruane, the boy had been in court and the case was postponed. I asked him if taxi hijackings happened regularly. "I have been a policeman for many years, but this is the first time I have been across this kind of incident. Taxis are not being hijacked because thieves are afraid. They know that taxi drivers stick together when they have problems, and they are dangerous," he replied.
   
I wanted to know the name of the tavern where the taxi was found. I decided to call Moruane from the newsroom, and ask him. He said, "You have to ask the police that, I know nothing about the tavern." Soon after the office phone rang. When I answered it was Moruane, saying I must not write about the situation because it might be dangerous for him. I was surprised and said, "Ok I won't write it. The phone rang again, and it was Moruane speaking in a scary voice: "I am not asking you, but I'm telling not to write about my accident." He hung-up without giving me chance to reply.
   
One of my co-workers was near the phone 30 minutes later when it rang again. She answered, and the scary voice said to her, "Lady, this writing of papers will get you into trouble."  Instead of replying, she called me and I took the phone. He said "I don't want to hear you calling me again about the story and I don't want you write about it."
   
I was scared, and I told my editor that I didn't want to write the story anymore. I explained what had happened and she agreed that I must not write it, but she and my colleagues said I must inform the police about the threat. I said if he called again, I would go to the police station. He won't make me quit my job; I won't write about him, but I'm not scared to continue being a journalist.
   
I thought maybe the rumors that the woman's husband took the taxi are true but I am not going to reveal people's personal affairs. I want to write about educational stories not love affairs.    

[TM] A Kind of Therapy

I never thought I would say this, but being a journalist taken me to new levels. I get to be nosey by profession, my kind of job indeed. I have been to different places, listened to all kinds of stories, and have met different people of different shapes and sizes, which is pretty nice because I don't get to deal with the same faces over and over again; like the people around my neighbourhood. I get tired just talking about them now. But I must admit, my job is not always that glamorous, I mean I get assigned stories that I don't always want to work on. Now that I think of it, I have not liked a single story that I have written lately. It's not that they are not interesting to other people, but because I haven't been myself lately--personal issues are affecting my thinking, which is not good. I have to use my brain in order to write and it hasn't been functioning to my best desires. I must admit, it's been really hard to focus and I sometimes feel like excusing myself from Amazwi, sparing my coworkers the headache of having to deal with my under-performance and me. But, I guess, everything happens for a reason and I will know mine sooner or later or maybe never.



Anyway, I have been trying to remain strong and not to let anything get me down. Well, not in front of everybody in the office. I don't want to see them worry. My problems are my babies to carry alone, and I don't want to bother people with problems that they may not even understand. I am not the sharing type. I was born that way I guess, which is not always a good thing because the problems suck out all happy thoughts inside me and replace them with sadness, anger, negativity, and worthlessness. I sometimes feel like I am not normal, and that my life has no meaning. I look at everybody around me and see a different story from mine; they are all happy and giggling. How I so badly wish I had their kind of life.

Their lives seem too perfect, but what you see is not always the truth. They, too, have problems and I learned that problems are part of the perk we get for breathing. I learned that from a woman whom I have written a story about this week, and I am really thankful for being given a chance to meet her and listen to her story. Like many parents out there, she lost a son, but there is more to her story. She lost her son because he was killed by his own brother with a meat cleaver. She never got to see his body and his final resting place. Her ex-hubby buried him without her knowledge. I listened attentively as she told her heartbreaking story. I watched an old woman break into a serious dam of tears. I suddenly found it really hard to watch her cry, and felt so bad that I was asking her questions meanwhile she was crying non-stop. I suddenly felt uncomfortable and awkward. I mean, here was a girl with problem listening to another woman's heartache. How weird is that? I did not know how to comfort her. I am just like her. I just watched and hoped she would stop showering me with the watery gift from her eyes.

My own problems began when I lost a mother and had to take care of my siblings, one in need of serious medical care. That is what I have to deal with everyday of my life. Just like that woman, I am never going to feel at peace. Everyday is a constant reminder of my miserable life, and I have no way of running away from it.  Just like that woman, my problems live inside of me and will go with me wherever I go. I watched her tears fall from her brown eyes, and I, too, wanted to cry. But I could not let myself go like that; I don't like crying in public and for a moment felt like I no longer desired to know her full story. Yet, I was still happy to be there. It was really hard to watch a much older woman cry, but in a sense, in the process it helped me to cope with my own misery. I realized that problems don't begin and will never end with me. It's just part of being human. I switched off my problems for that moment, all thanks to listening to another person's life challenges. That is so weird, I know, but it is working for now. I don't know what's going to happen next. When I went home soon after my interview, I was smiling. So I guess journalism isn't only about nosiness after all, it's therapeutic as well. 

[CR] Living in Fear

Three weeks ago, I attended a sustainable living festival in Hoedspruit that lasted three days. Everything was bright and beautiful! I got a chance to see atypical things for free, and learn a lot through the educational speeches, which were given by different people. People from inside and outside the country flocked to watch the festival. There were a lot of people selling natural products and things that can make the country sustainable. Black and white people sat together, danced and sang. I said to myself, "This is the South Africa that I have always dreamed of living in, we have come a long way." Apartheid seemed to be a thing of the past.

Nevertheless, now I think otherwise. I don't believe South Africa will ever be a better country for all. People kill one another everyday; rapists rape toddlers; crime is increasing day by day; food has become more expensive, rich people are becoming  richer while poor remain more poor; HIV/AIDS is spreading faster, like flu in winter season. I wonder if it is what the African National Congress (ANC) wished for after it was elected as ruling party in 1994!
    
The beautiful country, which said it wants no racism and apartheid, has now turned racist against our foreign neighbours. Blacks are killing one another, it's no longer white against black. The country which sent lot of people into exile during apartheid now is chasing out others who have come into exile in South Africa. People who have worked hard to create their own business, their businesses are vandalized like unused metal scrap, while others quit their jobs and return to their country to start afresh. It is pity for people who were born dark black in South Africa because they are mistaken as foreigners, and beaten by the so-called South Africans. If you are Tsonga like myself, I feel pity for you! You might find yourself on the bus to Mozambique because Tsonga people are believed to be originally from Mozambique; others' homes are vandalized. Some people are chased from the places they called home and now live in tents, in the cold. Others are killed and tortured with fire like chicken meat. Those who escaped poverty from their country, and thought they would live a better life in a South Africa of "no racism," are going back to poor countries.
   
Those who choose to stay sleep with only one eye closed, fearing that they will be killed. Their sin to South Africans is "taking away our jobs." Which jobs? Cleaning gardens or working on the farms? It started in one village, now it is all over the country. What amazes me is there are lot of white foreigners in the country who work very well, but I never have heard that there is a single one who has been attacked.
   
I ask myself, is this the South Africa that fought hard for freedom for many years? Is it still the same country, which is going to host the World Cup in 2010? Is it the country that is going to accept lot of foreigners from around the globe? Is South Africa ever going to be a better place for all? Is it wrong for me to be Tsonga? Is it the end of the world? One thing which will remained unchanged is, xenophobia or not, I will always be proud to be Tsonga. I will speak my language loud everywhere I go. I am human like anyone in the world.

[LN] When the Spirit Takes Over Your Soul

Last Thursday morning I had an appointment with Rich, a business owner in the Acornhoek community of Brooklyn. But unfortunately Rich was not at his place. Maybe I couldn't find him because he is always busy with his shop, tavern and taxis. So I went to my coworker Linky's place nearby to wait to see if maybe in the afternoon Rich would return.

I sat with Linky and Bongi and watched "Night of Bliss, Benin", a DVD of Pastor Chris (whom Bongi wrote about). As we watched, it was very hot as if the spirit of God was in the house. Many things happened on the DVD, including the healing of disabled people. I could not believe that someone who was paralyzed for fifteen years since the age of three was healed. He stood up walking, jumping, and running. I was so blessed since that was the first time I had seen miracles happened in God's power.

I kept quiet for a very long time; I was connecting myself with the spirit. The song, "When The Spirit Takes Over Your Soul" made me feel like something had changed in me.

When the spirit takes over your soul,
when the spirit takes over your soul,
you will be blessed.
His glory would be revealed
when the spirit takes over your soul

It was my first time to hear the song and I realized that Christ Embassy song is unique. I felt almost like I did after my marriage failed, I came across many things that I couldn't handle. When the song continued, I said to Bongi and Linky, "Please lets close the door and pray." I started crying. We prayed shouting for a very long time. I realized that something different is coming to my life. God has changed me. I felt lighter, because God has taken all burden from me.

In the afternoon I went back home with the Holy Spirit and I went straight to church at five in the evening because Thursdays are days women to go and pray for themselves. The song stayed in my mind.

I took the song to church on Sunday and I sang in front of everyone. The pastor and other members joined me to sing the song. I do sing at church every Sunday but that Sunday was very unique by the song. The song touched all the people and we started singing like a choir. I will never forget that day.

[LM] Linky's Church Experience

video below:

[TM] Thandi tells what she really thinks!

video below.

[BM] Waking Up

Every morning as a child, I woke up to a loud bang on my door and thought, Here we go again. At four in the morning, my grandmother would wake me up and say, "Sleeping never earned money." My nana herself never slept for more than two hours a night. Although at the time I didn't like rising early and tirelessly working, my grandmother's influence has shaped me into the hard-working woman I am today.

As a reporter for the Amazwi Villager newspaper in Acornhoek, Mpumalanga, I enjoy writing about women's issues in the community, including their career choices. In Acornhoek, most women depend on men for financial support, which I think is unfortunate. I wish women would stand up and do things for themselves, but most of them take on traditional roles and even stay in abusive relationships, fearing that otherwise there will be no one to take care of them and their children.

For me, it wasn't easy to get to where I am professionally today. It took me eleven long years after matric to achieve my dream of working in the media. Along the way, thoughts kept creeping in like, Why don't you kill yourself and end this misery that you're going through? What kept me going was the positive attitude that I had gotten from my grandmother as I was growing up.
  
My grandmother was not a business or career woman, but the wisdom that she imparted on me was more than I could have gotten from any professional that I know. Nana worked tirelessly to make sure all her children made something of their lives, and she succeeded. Her hunger to achieve made me never want to give up on life, even though there have been a lot more challenges in my life than achievements. After passing matric in 1993, I had three children and devoted my time to raising them. I joined loveLife in 2002, to share some of the life lessons that I had learned from my grandmother. I volunteered for three years, but I felt unfulfilled because it wasn't my dream.
   
In 2007, the opportunity that I had been waiting for presented itself, and I grabbed it with both hands. American journalist Maggie Messitt gave fifteen women from rural Acornhoek the rare opportunity to train in Narrative Journalism. Messitt saw a need for community journalism, and a gender gap in the media. After a series of interviews, I was chosen to be among the fifteen women in Amazwi School of Media Arts. My grandmother's words, sleep does not pay, kept ringing in my head, when I had to write my articles in the early hours of the morning. In the beginning, reporting was tough, as the people from our community were not used to journalists inquiring into their private lives. However, it has gotten better since Amazwi has gained local presence, and we reporters have won people's hearts.

Sometimes it is hard for me as a female reporter. Not all people trust me. I have to constantly prove myself in my writing. The more accurate my facts are, the more people believe in me. When I am asked to pitch a story, I focus on empowering women, showing them that they can succeed in spite of all life's obstacles. It is easy for me to find amazing women in my community.

I wake up at four in the morning, my pen in hand, ready to write down the ideas I had while sleeping. My grandmother is no longer here to bang on my door. Instead, it is my hopes, dreams to be successful, and the lessons she taught me that are moving me forward.

[LM] Discovery Through Reporting

When I was a child I never thought I could be a writer. But things changed in 2007 March, when I was chosen as one of the fifteen journalists-in-training at Amazwi School of Media and Arts. In 2008 February, I was offered a chance to continue with Amazwi to be a journalist with the Amazwi Villager and I was very happy. Writing for Amazwi is never a problem. I enjoy it and going around doing fieldwork. I'm getting there, and now I write for other media sources outside my province. Before I never considered this.

One day my editor told the others and me that a magazine called The Big Issue in Cape Town would like us to write stories for them. Because we all had to present story ideas, I thought I would never get chosen. But anything is possible as long as you tell yourself that you can do it.

The Big Issue editor liked my story idea about local perceptions on mental illness. Fear crept into my heart--I was so scared wondering how could I write what the editor of The Big Issue wanted. But to have The Villager supporting everything that I'm doing helps me. I always wanted to know about mental illness. Asking my mom questions was not enough, because she does not have all of the answers. When I told her that the Big Issue wanted me to write about mental illness, she was glad. She said, "now you will get all the answers you are looking for." I asked her permission to write about personal family issues and she didn't have a problem.

Writing was tough, because I had some wrong information about mentally ill people. I thought that people who are mentally sick are dangerous. I visited the psychological ward at Tintswalo hospital so I could learn about mental illness from experts. When I got inside the ward, I felt like I didn't have legs because I was so scared thinking that a sick person would attack me.

However after when the nurse explained the different kinds of mental illness, I felt I knew something that I didn't know before: that there are types of mental illnesses, such as bipolar disorder, depression, schizophrenia, and anxiety disorder. The thought that people with mental illness had been bewitched was gone. I understood there were other causes.

[TM] Unanticipated

All my life I have always wanted to be an accountant, but because of financial reasons, I haven't had the chance. After finishing my matric in 2002, I lazed around at home doing nothing until something I never anticipated came last year and changed my life. I got the opportunity to study something that I wasn't even considering--journalism at the Amazwi School of Media Arts. Someone gave me a pamphlet that said the school was looking for fifteen women in the rural community of Acornhoek to study journalism. All the school required was a matric certificate and a written story about anything within the community. I took a chance, thinking that I was just killing time and that they would never in a million years pick me. I asked myself who on earth would want to turn me into a journalist; after all I never liked journalism in the first place. I used to think that journalists were just nosy people who were up to no good trying to destroy people's reputation and spread rumours.

A day after of submitting my stuff to the school, I received a call from them asking me to go for an interview at a local primary school. I was surprised, but I still thought nothing of it. I went and oh boy! I was amazed at how many women were called in for the interviews. I thought it was official that I didn't have a chance. I mean there so many women who were probably smarter and more eager than even I was. We all were instructed to sit in a classroom and take an exam, maybe to test our English skills. Now bear in mind that even though we have finished our matric, many of us still can't speak proper English. I blame the teachers in our public schools for that, since they always translate every subject into our mother tongue, why I don't know. All I know is that we sometimes break every bone in the English language.

While other ladies were still taking their test, I was called in for an actual face-to-face interview. I must admit I was really nervous--to put it more mildly, I was really so scared to death that I felt like my heart was about to stop functioning. I didn't know what to expect in the interview chamber; after all, I had never been to any kind of an interview before. I grew up as the quiet shy type who avoided these kinds of run-ins at all cost. Maybe it's because I lacked the confidence to present myself out there or something. As I entered the office, I saw two ladies sitting there with eyes so focused on me, about to grill me with questions. They looked so intimidating to me that I almost ran out of the office, but I managed to put myself together and greeted them with a smile, even though my whole body was shaking. I think they noticed I was nervous, but who wouldn't be in this position? They asked me questions about the story that I had submitted about the problem of teenage pregnancy and the level of crime in my community. Although I understood their questions, I found it really hard to come up with the right answers.

After the interviews were over, I told myself that that was the end of the journalism thing for me. I didn't mind that much about messing up in the first interview of my life. Outside I heard people saying how the interviews were also quite difficult for them and I thought to myself, so I am not the only one who messed up. Oh well, it wasn't meant for me anyway. Other opportunities will come my way someday. I went home and I didn't even think about journalism, but at night it came and haunted me. You know, even if you don't want something, if you feel like you didn't do your best, it becomes stressful. I tossed and turned the whole night, thinking how I could have turned things around for myself.

Things pretty much went on like this for a couple of days. The school said they would inform the fifteen ladies who were selected within three days. When that day came and I didn't hear from them, it became a major problem for me. I could hardly sleep or eat anything at all. I didn't even want to see or talk to any one that day. Even though I didn't want to become a journalist, I was heartbroken. I felt like the whole world had rejected me. I also felt like a failure. The one thing that I am afraid of in life is failure. Even as a little girl, I was always afraid of failing at anything. A day passed, and to my surprise, someone from the school called to tell me that I was selected as one of the fifteen women chosen to study journalism. I must say, I screamed and did a little dance at the joy of receiving the news that I was actually amongst the chosen ones, and more importantly at the fact that, even though I felt that I had under performed at the interviews, I hadn't failed. At that moment, I heard my tummy grumbling. Feeling my appetite returning made me a happy woman.

I couldn't stop talking about my success to my brother, but I didn't tell anybody else. Because that is how I am, I like to keep things in the family. I couldn't wait to see who else had made it, and to my surprise there wasn't anybody that I knew from my community. Eventually we all got the chance to become pals. The school trained us, and I wrote my first story about shebeens. I was assigned to go spend a night at a shebeen and write down everything that happened that night, and that is what I did. Oh boy that story got me into real trouble with my community members! But that is another story for another time. That was my first real taste of journalism, my first challenge as a journalist that I managed to overcome. After all, not everybody is going to appreciate you or your work all the time. And not everybody is going to like reading about themselves in the paper, but they like reading about others.

From then on, I changed my negative perception of journalists. From then on I learned that journalism is not all about destroying people's lives or spreading rumours, it's about giving valuable information to the public to teach them important facts of life. I see journalism more like art. We may not use paintbrushes, but we do paint an important picture using words for our community. We give people a voice because we write stories focused on rural communities. We have given them a voice through the newspaper because there wasn't a newspaper focused on writing stories within rural areas of Acornhoek before. Today I am proud to call myself a journalist no matter what people may call me, and even if people no longer trust in me to keep their secrets. Sometimes when they feel like they need to open up to me they first have to say "Please don't go and write a story about us". I don't let that get me down. I am proud to be a journalist, and know this is only the beginning of a better future for me in the media world.

[CR] My Journey to Journalism

It all started in January 2007, when I was sitting under the jackalberry tree next to my home where people sell fruits and sweets. My cousin came and gave me the Amazwi pamphlet that offered a free journalism scholarship. I never thought I would be one of the students. I was tired of applying for employment and bursaries without success. I wrote the essay that Amazwi application required just for fun. I knew journalism to be a tough job and a job for men. I always salute the journalists I see on TV. I knew I loved writing, but I didn't know how I could realize that dream. My family always said I should be a lawyer or journalist because I love asking questions and hearing stories.

After I received a call from Amazwi for an interview, I started to fantasize about myself as a writer or journalist. I saw myself walking with pride as everyone feared and recognized me.

Here I am today living half the dream--most people in my community fear and respect me. Some respect the fact that I work with white Americans. Some think I am highly educated and earn lots of money. Some think I can help them with their problems. Some hate me, fearing I will uncover their dirty secrets. Most people give me their personal stories, which they think are important enough to be published. "I want you to write about my husband. He is not maintaining our children," said one woman I met on the street. Others come to my home and explain their problems. "My house fell, and I have no where else to go. Please write about it. Maybe the government will help me," said Noria.

Sometimes I feel guilty and useless knowing that there is little I can do that will change their situation. When I am on the bus to home, everyone wants to have a word with me. "My boss is not treating us well. I have been working for years, but I still earn R800," said a man. "Please write about this issue. Maybe I will finally get help."

Even in my home, a place where I used to find rest, stories run after me. My uncle said, "I want to tell you about old politics, and I want to tell the government to take away all the guns that people have. Maybe crime will be reduced. I have lot of stories. Why do you keep ignoring me?"

I always feel ashamed to tell them that my editor won't like their sob stories, so I tell them I will speak to my boss and I will tell them her response.

One story that has stayed in my mind was about a three-legged goat! I heard about it and found it weird. I had never known such a thing, and I knew that people would wonder too. Well, I was disappointed when I pitched the story to my editor, and she disliked it but said, "You can write the story but I won't reimburse you for the cost." On top of that, she assigned me another story. The looked on her face told all--that even if I wrote it, she wouldn't publish it. My managing editor also made my joints weak when she said, "It could happen that a goat could have three legs." But I knew that my community loves stories like that, which they can twist into witchcraft beliefs.

I phoned my friend who writes freelance for a big company and gave her the story. With a blink of an eye, the story was in the biggest paper in South Africa, The Daily Sun, and it was the talk of my community! When I passed through town, I heard the newspaper seller marketing it by saying, "Come and buy today's paper. It has a local story of three-legged goat! You can't come tomorrow and find this paper. All copies will be gone." I felt like half of me had been ripped away. I felt like I should tell the guy that it was my story. I felt like the story should have my name. Every person who held The Daily Sun was talking about it.

Those are some challenges journalists face. It can happen you like a story and the editor hates it, and the story that you don't want to be published for your own security is the one that she loves. Sometimes I ask myself if I really belong here, yet I love writing. I am a timid person, yet I love asking questions even though I sometimes find it hard to approach people for stories. I hate it when someone stops me on the way and says, "Constance, how can you write about that? Aren't you afraid of getting killed?" I hate it when others look at me with red eyes, fearing I will unveil their dirty life. But as my senior editor said, "60 percent of the stories you write you won't like. You will only love 40 percent of them." Yes! He is darn right! That is what journalism is all about. You can't make yourself happy all the time. One thing I know for sure, I will never enjoy another job more than writing.

[CR] VIDEO: Through my eyes, good morning

An i-report of life on a weekend morning in the Cottondale community of Acornhoek village. (below)

[LN] Tough Job

Being a single mother is a tough job because I have to play both parts, to be a father and, on the other hand, a mother. In the house it is not easy to raise two boys on my own. But anyway I have to be strong and show my responsibility as a mother. I never thought that life would be as hard as it is now and I have to see that my two precious sons get something to eat at the end of the day.

Being an advert salesperson brings a lot of challenges in my life. I'm such a busy woman, sometimes I have to spend all day on the street in Acornhoek knocking door to door. It is very tough, and when I get back home sometimes it is 5:30pm. I have to cook, clean the house and bathe. Sometimes I wake to find myself sleeping on my couch holding a plate of porridge in the middle of the night not realizing that I am supposed to be in bed. I wake up at 4:30am everyday to help my little boy to go to school.

(Above: is my youngest son eating cereal in bed. He is so tired!)

I have to wake him up at 5 from Monday to Friday and it is still too early for him to wake up, but because I have to leave for my job, he has to. Sometimes we fight because after giving him a bath I dress him in his school uniform and at the same time I prepare our breakfast and my lunch too. Sometimes he tells me that he still wants to sleep. Then I bathe myself and rush to get a taxi to Acornhoek. I have to be sure that I'm in the taxi station at 6:30 because the bus leaves at 7.


(Above: My oldest son finishing his homework in the morning.)

I am a strong woman, as I know myself to be. I'm not shy and I'm very proud of myself in the field while selling ads. I meet different kinds of people. Some people are friendly but others are not. I know I have to be patient because selling ads is not an easy job. But I know how to handle the entire situation because I'm a businesswoman. For four years I've been running my tuck shop, a shop in my house where I sell snacks to neighbors. I wish my tuck shop could grow into a big supermarket. I can spend the whole week begging people and asking for their money to advertise. Some people are rude to me, but I don't mind because I know people are not the same. I feel like a coward or a loser when I fail to bring money into the office and have to admit that people disappointed me. I hope that next time people will change their minds by knowing that advertising in the Amazwi Villager is best for them, because if people can advertise it will be easier for them to be known by the community.


(Above: Here I am selling an ad to a local gospel singer.)

[LN] VIDEO: Sunday at Church

Step inside my church on a Sunday morning--Acornhoek village, Mpumalanga province, South Africa. (below)

[BM] Miracle after Miracle

The past month was not a good month for me. I fought with the father of my baby, and a lot of secrets that I never knew existed came to light.  To make matters worse, a woman I do not even know was stalking me, calling with strange messages or silence. I started to question God's power because if He were a powerful God, He wouldn't have let me go through this.

I told my mother about what was happening in my life. She told me about a powerful man of God, the amazing Nigerian pastor who was in South Africa. It was not the first time that I had heard of him. My sister goes to the church he started in Randburg, Johannesburg, and I watch his programme every Sunday morning on e tv. I sometimes see him preaching, healing people. His name is Chris Oyakhilome. His church, Christ Embassy, is all over Africa as well as in other parts of the world. My mother and my sister thought it would be a very good idea if we went together to the Johannesburg stadium to see what sort of miracle I might receive. I thought that my miracle to me would be finding peace within myself. 

The road to Johannesburg was long and tiring. After five to six hours, we finally arrived to find the stadium was already full. People who couldn't get into Johannesburg Stadium flowed into the Standard Bank Arena, which is a short distance away, to watch the event broadcasted through satellite. As I had come, to the City of Gold for my miracle, I insisted on getting to the stadium to see Pastor Oyakhilome. I told my mother, who was starting to doubt, that we are going to get in.

At that moment, my sister, who was inside the stadium, called and told us about the small gate that was open on the other side. We managed to squeeze ourselves in. With so many people going in to the top of the stadium, it was another journey to where I could see what was happening, even though it was less than a hundred metres away. Both my mother and sister got tired along the way, but I pressed forward, as I was there for my miracle, although I had no idea what it was. I just knew that I would know when I received it. After two exhausting hours, I was there at the top, seeing everything happening down below. It felt like I'd left all my problems behind. For the first time in a long time, I felt like God had brought me there for a purpose. There was no space to sit or move. My body was tired from the long trip, and I knew it was going to get more tired from all the standing and being pushed around as the night went on.

If you have never seen a rainbow nation, then the stadium was a good place to witness what it looked like. All races were there in the same place, united in praising the same God. That in itself was a miracle for me. It proved to me that all people have problems in life; not matter what their skin colour is. I could feel that my body was tired, but my spirit was willing to push forward.

There was a moment when I felt my legs failing me. I said a little prayer asking God to give me enough strength to last through the night. There was certainly enough entertainment. Musicians, dancers and the choir kept people shouting and clapping. The playing field inside the stadium was filled to capacity with sick people. Some were in wheelchairs, others on crutches, and one in a hospital bed.  Videos played of people who were healed at the Healing School, where people are taught to practice the healing power, and people in the videos would come forward onto the stage and testify. I believed what I saw, but not whole-heartedly. The miracle stories they were telling seemed far-fetched, and I just could not believe that such healing could happen in this day and age. Maybe when Jesus Christ, the Son of God was still on earth, miracles could have happened then.

Finally, Pastor Oyakhilome arrived in his trademark white suit. The crowd went crazy when he appeared at the entrance. He was escorted to the stage, to prevent the sick people from running to him, and blocking his way. "Hallelujah," he said in a soft but firm voice. The stadium shouted, "Hallelujah." He recognised the dignitaries present: the president of the ANC, Mr. Jacob Zuma, the Premier of Gauteng, Mr. Mbhazima Shilowa and many other pastors.

Pastor Chris, as he is popularly known, then opened the Scriptures to the books of Matthew and Mark. He preached about the power in all of us that God has imparted: "The Bible says those who believe that Jesus is the Son of God have the authority over everything. The Word did not say the pastors, or the prophets, but it said everyone who believes in Jesus." He encouraged the heads of states in Africa to use the power of the spoken word to end wars on the continent. "I just wish I had gotten to some of them earlier; there wouldn't have been a bloodbath." He said, "People from Zimbabwe, there is hope for Zimbabwe," Pastor Chris prophesised.

At the time I thought it was a good thing that he was giving Zimbabweans hope in their disastrous situation. But now I know that God had actually told him that things would soon change there. Before ending the sermon, he told the South Africans that there is a purpose for the country hosting the Soccer World Cup. Pastor Chris said that all the nations will be in South Africa and the people will be saved. "God bless South Africa. I know there is someone who is saying, why do not you say, 'God bless Indonesia?' My God is blessing South Africa," the pastor concluded. Somehow, that made me feel good because we really do need a miracle for the upcoming elections. The choir sang two worship songs, and then it was the part I had been waiting for, the healing of the sick.

Pastor Chris prayed without touching anyone. There were a lot of people who were there to be healed, and he could not touch them all. "Open your hearts and believe that God is going to heal you," he urged anyone who was there to be healed. I thought this was perfect because many were accusing the pastor of paying people to testify that they were healed, but he couldn't have because he was not actually selecting people. I just hope that those who were there could go back and tell their fellow critics what they saw God doing. Pastor Chris is just a vessel God is using to help His people. He asked the Holy Spirit to come down. Suddenly people were being healed all over the stadium. Everywhere you could hear people shouting, "Hallelujah," as miracles happened.

Miracle after miracle I saw with my own two eyes. There was this young lady next to me in a wheelchair, unable to walk, and seemed as if she was mentally disabled. After ten years of not walking, she stood up. A woman who had been blind for eight years began to see. That night was the first time she saw her seven-year-old daughter. She cried with joy and praised God. Another eight-year-old girl was born deaf. That day she was healed. "I am healed pastor. I am healed," she cried into the microphone. I thanked God for healing the young children as they still have a long way to go in life, and I feel that kids do not have the will power to withstand pain. I thought he was going to pray for each and every person individually, but that was not the case. I was becoming impatient, as I had seen a lot of people getting their miracles. What about me?

Pastor Chris continued praying for other people. He called all the pastors who were there to come forward, so he could pray with them. Again, the pastors got their miracles. The Holy Spirit overwhelmed one of them, and he became unable to stand up and walk. I asked myself, why couldn't I feel what everybody else was feeling? After the pastors, Pastor Chris prayed with those who were receiving Jesus Christ for the first time. He led them in a prayer of repentance. I did not understand why he was starting his prayers with these people. I waited anxiously, and finally he moved on. "Right now, I am praying for everyone who is here to receive the anointed power to heal the sick. Whatever you are wearing or holding will be filled with this anointing," Pastor Chris said. Still I felt nothing happening in my body.

By now it was the early hours of Saturday morning, and I had not yet received my miracle. I was running out of patience. "Pray for your debts, your family, your neighbour, your colleagues, and everyone that you want to bless," he said. I instantly knew that this was the time I had been waiting for. I raised my hands to pray, but I was shy about people hearing me talk to my God. Before I could even start praying, the pastor started to talk in tongues. "Do you want to know what I am saying?" he asked. The crowd went, "Yeeess!" Pastor Chris explained what he said in English: "God has assigned his angels all around the stadium to give each and every one of you what you are praying for."

That time, I told myself, I do not care who is listening to me. I just closed my eyes and prayed so that the angels of God could give me my miracle. I started praying for everyone in a hushed voice. Then suddenly I felt like screaming, but I told myself people were listening. I forgot that people were praying for their own miracles. That feeling of wanting to scream kept coming back until I finally surrendered myself to God's will. For the first time in ten years, I started to pray in tongues. I felt like I was going through what I had gone through back then. The tongues that people pray in when the Holy Spirit overwhelms them, it is actually the language of angels. I was crying while I prayed, but I did not understand what I was saying. I prayed like that with my hands raised for a very long time,

When I said amen, I knew I was not the same person who had come to the stadium with a heavy heart. I felt lighter, more in touch with my God than ever before. I thank God for touching people like Pastor Chris, who can use their anointed power to help other people. I know that by writing this down, I too am going to touch someone. Glory be to God. 

[BM] Welcome!

Hi, I am Bongekile. I live in Acornhoek, South Africa. I'm interested in writing, particularly about women's issues. If I had free time, I would spend it reading fiction novels in bed. Since I don't, I spend quality time with my children.

Join me here on the Amazwi Writer's PNN page where I'll share my personal stories, something I don't get to include in our community newspaper, the Amazwi Villager.  I am sharing this space with four other journalists--Constance Rahlane, Linky Matsie, Lydia Ngomane and Thandi Mkhatshwa.  We'll be trading off weeks to bring you behind the scenes and into our lives in the rural village where we were born and raised (and are currently raising our own children!).

Enjoy!