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!

[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.