It all began with a pineapple, ripe and sweet as honey full of heritage. This life had a taste we all loved but it was not long before its destructive end. When the fruit had turned bitter, clothed in mould – an outbreak came – creeping in inspiring fear, frustration and desperation as the pandemic surfaced. Lives were lost, disease and hunger were the order of the day as we all know. It forced closure to many aspects of our livelihoods, even the education system and for a succinct period of time we worked our own gardens and drank the sweat off our own foreheads like the bible said. However before all of that we were in exile where we had heard our calling. A faceless man in a big black hoodie written ‘USIZI’ stood in the crowd waving and shouting asking ‘what does the future hold?’ as if we knew anything about the future. We were just performing with one of our many faces (IINKUNZI). It was Iva, The Good Doctor and I, uBuntu, who were fortunate enough to hear the faceless man and, just like that, we all knew we had to find ourselves, go back home and kill the dreams that chased us away in the first place. We were so far from home. We were lost, blinded by the lights of the hustle in the city. One could say we were doing good, having found our feet, although that was just the surface; we were actually hanging on the edge of a cliff by a thread. Only The Good Doctor had his path already chosen and Iva was like a burning log keeping my flame or I was the log and she was the hand holding the log nonetheless we kept the fire ablaze. This was the only way, after all, it was home and that was our only consolation.
The forces took control and we were back in the Eastern Cape ‘the land of myth and magic’ as some books read, where we all met in this life. We suffered months of fatigue and the industrial smoke still hung over us, coming from the busy city of gold, Johannesburg, a mine full of opportunities. The Good Doctor went on and travelled on to higher plains as an initiation into the realm of spirits and for many moons we (Iva and I) were stranded, hunting and gathering what we could muster in the Karoo. The way we tried to tap back into our artistry was as hard as it is making a living off music or art in the Eastern Cape. As artists, leaving the bubbling platform of the city was quite impactful however we had made a conscious decision to revive heritage and culture when we first accepted the calling to be the artists that we are. And so later a great part of the sacrifice was revealed. We devoted ourselves to helping teach kids to find themselves(identity) and embrace where they came from. Bathurst, 2019 was our breakthrough and the most crucial point of our foundation, it was the end and the genesis of our new lives when nowhere else would house us in a place we all called home. Until eventually we found an old double story silo by the Big pineapple in this small village(Bathurst) by the Kowie river, the sunshine coast Port Alfred.
And so Ivanya Yethu was conceived, like many of our greats; the late Bra Hugh Masekela always reiterated that one should know where they come from to know where they are headed. I would cringe at the thought of our fated future of trees without roots. Now I am hopeful we all can still do something about it for the sake of our identity, tradition, culture and heritage for the coming generations. In the old days there were institutions that used to prepare future leaders and heritage practitioners for their envisaged roles and responsibilities in preserving, protecting and promoting the institution of traditional leadership. We need that. The sad part is that the language has been lost for some time now since our country’s democracy which is the reason why in the first place we struggle to connect and teach one another our values of ubuntu and traditions.
Post the pandemic we are still grieving, our wounds will take generations to heal. Remember the passing of the fearless lion of our kingdom, the late amaXhosa (Gcaleka) King Zwelonke Sigcawu (Ah Zwelonke!) just before the pandemic, then later followed by the Queen Noloyiso of amaXhosa (Rharhabe) in the midst of the pandemic. It is not only the kingdoms of amaXhosa that had suffered devastating losses, even the Zulu and Bhaca kingdoms just to mention a few shed tears around this time as if the curfews, prohibitions and all the vaccines were not enough. Households were ravaged with the loss of reservoirs of knowledge, our own grandparents, with no time to mourn in the same vein as UCT library fires and those archives of African history, gone. Now we are deep into the future. Everything is digital. We were introduced to an expensive life of technological advancement, virtual reality(ies) that barred us from gathering in real life, our tradition and culture doesn’t seem to have a place in it.
With everything said, this story is meant to give you courage to remember that we all have our roles to play so let us soldier on full of hope that one day we may all still find our way back home. And this is why I chose to remember it all by the beautiful concept that the calling gave to us, a foundation; a shelter for our heritage, culture as well as artists and the collective that birthed the magical music offering ‘Umhlaba Ophezulu’. It is in these witching hours that I am lamenting listening to track 09 of the album, ‘Usizi’ (meaning great sorrow associated with loss) with emotional strings and the wailing voice of Xhanti Nokwali and his angels in the middle of the night. On that note I say we should always do whatever we can to our capabilities, even though we might cherish the government efforts in aiding our institutions but we should never depend on that, that road might just end in tears as we all know. Let us tell our own stories of our own identity the way we want to, whether it is through literature, music or theatre or any form of art. Promote our languages, heritage, culture and traditions so that tomorrow we can be a better people with a home to go back to. Usizi in this case will come to us if no actions are taken.
