Sandile Dikeni
Between me and you this was a long month. Not because it has 31 days, no. It was long because it is Women’s Month.
Women are special in humanity as you know. But it is not just me who says that. Remember Shirley Brown who recorded, I think sometime in the 1960s, a crafty album called Woman to Woman? My eldest brother, Douglas, tried to get my brothers and I into the album’s vibe.
Let me not speak on behalf of the other two guys, but I want to believe, even though I cannot point a concrete finger at the factual nature at it, that I did try to see Shirley Browns’s pointer from an artistic perspective. At the time, in the early 1970s, I was not aware of my leanings to the creative world called poetry. I was also not aware that the essences and abilities that I carried in the creative world were something to boast about.
On the contrary, I was ashamed to be known as a poet. Poetry did not sound cool at the time. And so like all the other guys I pretended that Shirley Brown was a mere consciousness that I held in respect for my eldest brother. The title Woman to Woman was also a bit uncomfortable. Frankly speaking, man to man, sounded more stronger and, shall I say, slightly more durable than the Shirley Brown title.
I was also not eager to bother the ouens in the Mannetjies Roux (Springbok player) Karoo with Ella Fitzgerald, Aretha Franklin and Nina Simone. Neither was I eager to hum songs from the likes of Miriam Makeba, Gcina Mhlophe or Letta Mbuli. Why, when I could hum Babsy Mlangeni or whisper the lyrical nature of Steve Kekana? Okay, granted there was also the enormous presence of Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens that could not be ignored in the township. Needless to say, Mahlathini was the man who was leader of the band.
It is also needless to say that what seemed then an exciting pop musical breakthrough, in the silent black South African musical landscape, was a bit bigger than that when Brenda Fassie emerged with Weekend Special. The whole township jived. I remember seeing a church congregation singing and jiving to the tune. When I told my mum about it, she said I must be careful of such churches. As you know when your mum says you must be careful of such things, that is when your interest begins in such things. Soon there was also Yvonne Chaka Chaka who demanded attention. It is general knowledge that in the 1980s, after the rally, we made it to the nearest Brenda Fassie or Yvonne Chaka Chaka or Mercy Pakela gig. Yes, we did attend concerts of the Soul Brothers, but that was rare. Personally, I was rather more entertained in the women gigs.
I really like Abdullah Ibrahim, but let me be honest, although his music is one of my highest musical moments in South Africa, the Abdullah moment for me was the Sathima Bea Benjamin moment. Also, her guidance of the Abdullah moment in the US is something that is not easy to forget. I cannot forget speaking to her. It was conversation but her voice was not chatting. It was more musical than mere chat. The moment was when I was in the cultural movement in the Western Cape. I remember being told once that I was in a meeting and not in a musical concert because I was being lyrical. That was after my conversation with Sathima. A cousin of mine used to remind me that whenever I interviewed women, it was impossible to stop me sounding like I was singing. I like to sound like I am singing!
Let me suggest something nice. August is Women’s Month. Besides looking after babies, cooking and healing sick guys, I think women should be made to sing in major concerts organised by the Ministry of Culture in August. It is not a political suggestion. It is a cultural suggestion! I know we will love it. So will they! So will you.
I am not critical of how the ministry of culture played its role during this month. I just think they should have done more. More, it is not only about singing. Women can act, did you know? They also write poetry. So maybe we should have a lot of poetry readings by women in August. SAfm had a couple of readings on air, by women. I loved them. I kept on picking up an insight that I thought I knew but suddenly realised a deeper depth from the woman who read or recited it. You know that I love radio, but just a voice on the radio for me is not adequate when they read the lines they were reading this month on Safm. I want to see them while they are reading. It is not a sin to read a beautiful poem in a theatre organised by the central or local government. It is not!
In the Congress of South African Writers in the 1980s we had various readings that we hoped would continue in a free South Africa. But now that we are free we have forgotten the artistic powers that are treasured in the art. I also think that we have forgotten the many depths that the consciousness (excuse the pun) of the female harbours. I know that this is the end of August, that is why I insist that the post-mortem be done to inform the following year. I am pleading also with civil society that they approach the state with creative projects that deepen the world’s consciousness about this mother of humanity. It is not the guilt of a male consciousness speaking here, it is the discomfort of a bothered humanity.
True, there is the poetry of near panic here, but is it also not true that reality too near to the womb is more than a mere itch? It is true that when we are faced with victorious moments, we develop a discomfort that warns us not to overdo it. It is not with a high-pitched voice that I remind the sensitivities of this country that we are not intent to be limited in the borders of this geography called South Africa.
We, I believe, intend to march to the universalities of the concept called world. It is not by choice or adventure. We are forced by the difficulties that the realities of centuries of gender misconduct forces on us. We have discovered that the limitations of national liberation are nothing but that – limitations. Humanity is demanding that we take steps with deeper care and love for what we thought is merely a stupid “thing” in life.
There is an alarming thought that says our reluctance to walk in the big arenas that our current sociology prescribes are more than dangerous.
They make me shiver. I hope, you, more than shivering, have an insight and an inclination that can counsel us to a social moment away from the silly trepidations of our sociology. It is not me manufacturing this; it is the brilliant glories of this place called South Africa that challenges us to a deeper mindset. At the end we discover that the bigger mission is not nationalistic. It is bigger than us!