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A Cat Called Bongani Madondo

He should have been a Sophiatown heavy. With his two-tone brogues, tweed jackets, and occasional bowtie, he looks like something straight out of Sophiatown. Or from the Harlem of the Renaissance in the 20’s. All of which would make sense because Bongani Madondo’s literary soul mates include James Baldwin, E’skia Mphahlele and Miriam Makeba. He is a fast talking dandy armed with an encyclopedic grasp of all things Pop drawn to noire movies.  He devours long reads in Esquire, Vanity Fair or the Paris Review Of Books.

At a time when so many writers peddle words mostly to pay the rent, Madondo is that rare cat who still answers to a higher cause; the art of it all. It would be incorrect to call Madondo a reporter even though he has a nose for the news. Little wonder he calls himself a storyteller. But the stories he goes in search of stay with him for a long time. As he says in his Note to the Reader in I’m Not Your Weekend Special, “Way before I’d even seen her, let alone met her in person, the story of Brenda Fassie fascinated and perplexed me on many levels”

But then again Madondo should perhaps have been a rock ‘n’ roller. A quick glance at the musicians he loves brings up the baddest rock artists of all time. Busi Mhlongo. Philip Tabane, Joni Mitchel. Jimi Hendrix, Miles Davis, Brenda Fassie, Ali Farka Toure. If this list seems confusing, it’s because Madondo has an expansive sense of what qualifies as rock. Not for him the narrow definition of rock that bizarrely disqualifies its founders and acknowledges those who borrowed the music.

For Madondo, the ultimate rock’n roll star of them all was Busi Mhlongo. What with her ability to bring to Maskandi a devil-may-care attitude, matched by a hoarse voice that announced Maskandi as the ultimate rebel party music. And if you ever saw Busi Mhlongo in performance, dressed in a punk-meets-goddess style, then you know Madondo says she is or rock ‘n’ roll royalty. What she did to Maskandi, recognising its urban roots that harked backed to rural stories and minibus taxi gossip is the stuff of genius. If universities are teaching courses on modern day Divas, it is Busi Mhlongo who should be enjoying the bulk of the attention.

And when Busi Mhlongo sings Ebathenjini, she brings to Mfaz’ Omnyama’s song a certain wistfulness to it, but one that rests on the pillars of life’s hardest lessons. Where Mfaz’ Omnyama’s song has a boundless joy, there’s a dark blues tinged edge to Busi Mhlongo’s. And one can imagine Madondo bobbing to its hypnotic rhythm even as he clutches a dog-eared copy of Rolling Stone. When he dances, he moves to the music with the joy of a practiced hedonist. It is as if when the music gets him, it gets all of him or not at all. Then it is easy to make sense of Madondo’s close reading of these wizened artists. For like them the music reaches into the deepest parts of his being.

Madondo is good at slicing through the of minutiae of celebrity. In Hot Type we find him philosophizing on Bob Mabena in Hi I’m the new bob Mabena

“here the name Bob Mabena is not used as a third person display on an ego , tripping off the runway again, but playful metaphor, for a blind but adventurous thrill seeker and urban hedonist of days gone by ”

Where others worship at the altar of religion, it is safe to say that if Madondo has any faith that moves him at all, it is the connection with the ancient souls that walk this earth disguised as musicians. As he writes in Hot Type on hearing Magwaza by Johnny Dyani;
“Yep , it was a religious experience . Hallucinatory even. The sort of ‘ high’ thousands of rock ‘n roll and jazz fanatics are prone to evoke in their countless ‘I saw Elvis’ or ‘ It rained horizontally the day Miles Davis died.” Here is Madondo implicating himself in the observations that he delights in pinpointing in fellow converts to the faith of music.

Writer and critic, Bongani Madondo
Portrait of the culture critic, Bongani Madondo

If it comes as a shock to the reader that Madondo knows his way around rock’n ‘roll as much as around Kwaito or Maskandi, it will probably shock jazz purists that this cat knows his Charles Mingus from his Winston Mankunku Ngozi. When he drops in for a visit, he will pick that rare vinyl that no one else even recognizes, and he will proceed to school me on its importance in the discography of that artist. Such passion is a joy to behold, and it explains why when Madondo writes on art, it is a deadly serious matter.

For Madondo this isn’t just music. It is something else altogether, something tinged with the numinous. It will come as little surprise to learn that Madondo has been known to go on a pilgrimage to Dr Malombo, Philip Tabane’s home in Mamelodi. When Busi Mhlongo was still amongst us, Madondo also went on regular, extended pilgrimages to her home north of Durban in KwaZulu Natal. Where others just want to get the story and file it, it is obvious that for Madondo the story goes way, way beyond what the artist wants to be written about them. And perhaps that’s why he connected so deeply with artists of the highest order, such as Busi Mhlongo.

Like Busi Mhlongo, Madondo makes it his business to turn convention on its head. He speaks a language that is wholly his own. One that borrows from his hometown of Hammanskraal but embellishes with bits from his adopted Joburg and that also picks up from his spiritual homes of New York. Even in his writing, you sense that he has a fine ear and listens very closely not just to what is said, but how it is said. Interviewing Rita Marley, his essay is filled with what Madondo picks up of her diction, her Jamaican voice booming unmistakably across the page. It is a remarkable skill at a time when reading through interviews you would think linguistic nuance was a thing of the past. In Hot Type in his essay on Rita Marley he writes “Boojah! So ’tis you? Mah dear , Afreeka feels good to me. The sun, the energy, the love, shoo , I feel blessed mon. Blessed! Discussion? Oh , go get the rest in the book my brethren.”

Bongani Madondo has an insider's knowledge of Miriam Makeba's music

Perhaps Madondo’s fine ear for language explains the confidence with which he delivers his musical judgements. They may sometimes be written languidly, developed with the patience of an artist painting on a delicate surface, but when he delivers them, they are sharp, direct and unforgettable. As Njabulo Ndebele remarks of Madondo’s Hot Type “Bongani Madondo’s portraits made me gasp and sigh and shake in my seat. Long after I have experienced them, I’ll be saying: ‘life is beautiful after all.’

When you catch him in a sit down with Hugh Masekela, you can tell that the connection goes way deeper than the ask-question-answer-question that is today’s sound-byte journalism. Where others might be quite content to meet their deadline, to turn in the story they promised at conference, Madondo seems to be interested only in the backstory. Not for him the glib quick shallow answers that satisfies the curiosity of a generation ever on the move. It is when the stage lights have long been switched off, the fans gone home, the stage dismantled, that Madondo moves in for the kill. He has the instincts of a hunter, patient when necessary, but well aware when it is time to ask the burning question.

He is a critic who does not fear offending the biggest names in music or the arts. If his book, Hot Type, introduced him to a wider audience, those who follow him across the various magazines, newspapers and websites for which he writes know he is bold with his opinions. But he is also insanely funny, and has trained himself to resist the performance that many artists use to shield their real selves from those who chase them for stories. He is wise enough to know that patience and persistence can wear out even the most difficult superstar.

Style is Bongani Madondo's vernacular
Style is Bongani Madondo’s vernacular

Throughout Hot Type you see Madondo chasing after an interview. It is as if he doesn’t know when to give up. In his new book, I’m Not Your Weekend Special, Madondo tells of how long it took him to get Brenda Fassie to agree and sit down to an interview. He is a cat who is not only curious, but knows when to bide his time till the rock stars yield to his combination of charm and stubborn persuasion.

When Madondo has a new book to read, or a new record to listen to, or even an art exhibition to attend and review, he retreats into a kind of sanctuary. It is fascinating to watch him go through his rituals of coming to terms with a new piece of work. Then he will disappear, he wrestles with the demon of writing late into the night and into the wee hours of the morning. Not unlike an animal responding to nature’s call to hibernate. One senses that it is not the deadline that makes him switch off his phone and not even respond to emails, but a need to withdraw into some primeval space in which he is alone with the literary gods.

Even though politics is not his subject of choice, every now and again Madondo will tell us how the politics impedes or subverts the artists whose lives he dissects with such thoroughness. But then again perhaps it is by looking through the lens of pop culture that we may see politics for what it is, modern day theatre, complete with props. As Madondo writes in Hot Type: “Why is it that we despise self-promotion by leaders who are all sheen and no substance, yet we are inherently opposed to those hard-working types we tag as ‘lacking charisma’? But he also makes the larger point that maybe we already live in the post politics era. How else do you explain, he wants to know, why “in New York City, Christopher Wallace, a.k.a. Biggie Smalls’ funeral was attended by close to a million people, blocking the streets of Brooklyn”

In the essay Pop Among The Believers, Madondo lays bare some of the contradictions of modern day life. He is at his sharpest when asking questions. “Why is the majority of populations in democracies voice out their disdain about the cult of personality, especially as it pertains to a popular leader – say Bill Clinton – and yet go ahead to venerate another leader, Nelson Mandela?”

When he brings his sharp eye to what may seem like banal pop videos or lyrics, Madondo often draws startling conclusions. On Makhendlas he writes, again in Hot Type;

“The notion that black men are buffalo soldiers blessed with a natural gift for toughing it out on the rough edges of life has sent young black males into a cyclone of confusion , fear and unending challenges to legitimise their status in this depoliticised, insensitive, indifferent era , where the fruits of the revolution feed on their offspring.”

It is why Nathan McCall says that Madondo has “a wicked wit and a keen sense of the complex ways that pop culture intersects with politics”

Bongani Madondo
A man with a sharp eye and a keen ear

There’s a special place in Madondo’s universe for Miriam Makeba. His pursuit of an interview with Miriam Makeba reads like a courtship of sorts. Here was the scribe as convert, seeking an audience with one of the deities of the music. Where others may have wanted confirmation of what they has read elsewhere, Madondo wanted to get to the core of what set Miriam Makeba apart. Not what was familiar and rehashed over and over till it became bland. But something that would explain the Songbird who had sung Soweto Blues, Sophiatown Is Gone, Ask The Rising Sun and of course the hypnotic Pata Pata.  He got his story all right, but he was after something else. He wanted to reach into the inner secrets that had compelled Miriam Makeba to take on the might of Apartheid and even Uncle Sam so she could sing the songs of freedom.

Which makes you understand why Zolani Mahola of Freshlyground says of Madondo “I found Madondo slightly unsettling, not least of all least because this was not a journalist asking the usual superficial questions”

If Madondo writes with an urgency about artists, there’s perhaps another side to him that comes through Social Media. On Twitter he is not only deeply informal, but he displays a comfort with the short prose format that a 140-character limit imposes. His posts are often pithy, irreverent, but still deeply conversational Below are a few posts that show a vintage Madondo

‘Some kinda time out. Road tripping with filmmakers Deon Maas&Keith Jones to Giyani in search of the soul of Shangaan Futurism. What holiday?’

‘Great day hanging out with Mr. Rose Phaahle talking about Nat Nakasa.Later with homegal Trudi Makhaya talking new ways of Business Journalism’

And when he uses his allocation of 140 characters by Twitter Inc. to ask;

‘Sorry, but what is the National Democratic Revolution? Also can a “revolution” truly be democratic?’

You know that Madondo would make a rebel reporter in politics, one who questions even as he chastises.

He can also be wickedly funny even as he is dead serious. Here is a post to Twitter Headquarters, written in a moment of exasperation; ‘Letter to Twitter HQs: How many times should I change my password? How come I get hacked everyweek, does my machine have an incurable virus?”

At times he is just plain out to have fun. And what’s wrong with that. Pop was founded on the principle of hedonism.

‘I’m Nelson Mandela’s long lost grandson. Mother is Orphelia Madiba Madondo frm Qunu.I got meself some accent. Some1 gimme a TV talkshow now!’

And again

‘Surely thanking any1 on Tweeter’s like peeing into the Atlantic but hey.Mad Love to YALL supporting ‘Im Not Yr Wknd Special book.’ Touching.’

Here is a man having the time of his life, chasing his dreams and stopping every now and again to peer into the abyss that separates the normal from those who suffer from artistic greatness. Bongani Madondo will read their books, listen to their music, and even get lost in their shows. But he is the cat who always gets to the bottom of their story. Little wonder that he follows so closely the work of those other mercurial readers of their culture, like Greg Tate, Deborah Willis and Binyavanga Wainana. Like them he doesn’t just want to report on his society, he wants to explode some of the myths that have turned culture into mere commodity.

Madondo has no doubt that if we look closely at pop culture, we will get to the kernel of what drives our societies. As he says in Hot Type

“If pop culture as well as political personalities bizarrely evoke God and Christ for their own crass ends, how come then, society and the media accord those ‘stars’ reverence befitting early prophets, sages, shamans, the true social conduits to higher forces, huh?”

But he is aware that many of those revered in pop culture as ‘icons’ are often reckless self promoters. As he writes in Hot Type, “Like the wickedest pop image-makers, self publicists, artists, con-artists and manipulators of the age – Don King, Muhammad Ali, Mobuto Sese Seko, Prince, Miles Davis, Fela Kuti and others (Kanye) West has a cunning internal compass wired to the root of his brain”

Naturally the last word should go to Madondo via his musings on his beloved Miriam Makeba. “Whether performing for European lefties in Paris or singing Black Power songs for guinea’s peasants, Makeba – eternally stylish and perennially edgy – knew how to carve a niche between counterculture and couture culture. For her, it was, I imagine, a matter of saying: ‘I am an artist, but if I have to speak for my people, honey, let me do it in style.’

 

 

 

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Whose literature is it anyway?

 

It was inevitable that the defiance, dissent, resistance and protest against Apartheid should be reflected in South Africa’s literary tradition. What is surprising is the extent to which the literature that dealt most urgently with South Africa’s unbearable political oppression was dismissed as ‘protest literature’. The suggestion was that this fiction did not deal sufficiently enough with the depth implicit in most things, but scratched only the surface of meaning. An entire cottage industry emerged that extolled the literary shortcomings of the literature that dared to explore in its fictional worlds both the political repression as well as the dissent.

The most troubling aspect of the school of thought that sought to belittle this literature they called ‘protest literature’ was that it seemed that the very act of questioning the political persecution of the day was a betrayal of some higher literary code. There was a suspicion of a commitment to the political as a kind of betrayal of the literary or even a lowering of literary standards. Poets like Mongane Wally Serote and Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali wrote poems that were at once deeply political even as they were allegorical. The meaning that their work yielded depended on the effort the reader was prepared to make to go beyond surface meanings.

The Poems in Sounds Of A Cowhide Drum by Mtshali offer a powerful reminder that the most political language is often deeply coded so that those unaware of the code may read it at the surface level. But when picked up by those familiar with the code, the same line, passage, or poem yields an entirely different meaning. One of the things that I always found troubling about the dismissal of ‘protest literature’ was the uniformity of the reading of the texts.

Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali
Poet Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

 

Now one of the things that is well known is that the same text yields different meanings to different readers because they bring both themselves and their expectations to the text. So the idea of the text as a uniform narrative is not plausible. It suggested to me the emergence of a popular response that may have amounted to a cultural sleight of hand because it relied for its uniformity on referencing the responses of persuasive reviewers and critics.

The alumni of this loose network of critics of this literature were not always openly hostile to these writings. At times the criticism reacted using the well-known rituals of literary criticism before delivering that telling blow that typically faulted these writers for serving political rather than literary gods. But the agony, the anguish and on occasion, even the ecstasy of small triumphs within the milieu of Apartheid were said to strangle the literary imagination of the writers of what was styled ‘protest literature’.

In its introduction to the course on American Literature of Dissent, the University of Pennsylvania says ‘The United States is a nation founded on dissent and some of the most enduring works of American literature deal with topics that were politically controversial at the time’

 

The great critic and novelist Lewis Nkosi
The great critic and novelist Lewis Nkosi

The Urdu writer, Dr Gopichand Narang says of literature “Basically it is a social act, sa-hitya, that which is with the people. Like all arts, it provides a space for dissent, raises voice for the oppressed and against social injustice” He adds “Literature reflects the dreams, desires and aspirations of the people. It is inspired by ideology but it goes beyond the narrow confines of ideologies”

Within South Africa there was relief amongst some that the end of Apartheid signaled the death of politics as the primary source for the country’s literature. For many a burden had been yanked off their backs and they could rush to write novels and poems about flowers, birds, and even love. It was truly fascinating to hear at literary gatherings so many writers express the view that the end of Apartheid signaled the moment of their literary freedom.

But things did not work out so neatly. As the post Apartheid novels of writers like Mandla Langa and Nadine Gordimer, J.M. Coetzee and Njabulo Ndebele have shown, the everyday can be deeply political. In the works of Gordimer, Langa and Coetzee, it is clear that there are always sides to be taken in any conflict, no matter how large or small.

As soon as the political dust had settled and even former combatants found themselves locked in the tentative embrace of reconciliation, they were surprised to find that the old suspicions persisted.

The Novelist Mandla Langa
The Novelist Mandla Langa

It is worth revisiting this important period in South Africa’s literary history. It is true that some South Africans find it unsettling when the dark periods in our history are revisited for fear that this may open old wounds. The trouble with this kind of nation building that favors amnesia is that it leaves too many questions. In any case peace founded on ignorance is not worthy of our aspirations.

In fairness to the school that curated this ‘protest literature’, South Africa has an enduring fondness for catch-all labels as could be seen soon after 1994. The label ‘the new South Africa’, suggested a neat break with our past that was politically and emotionally desirable to many but was sadly implausible. What was fascinating was to see how so many in the literary establishment prayed that this new South Africa might bring what they called ‘one dimensional’ protest literature to a quick death.

Incredible as it may seem now, the common prayer was that the new writers would spurn the exterior for the interior, and the gun for the flower.

It is worth noting that one of the strongest critics of ‘protest literature’ was Lewis Nkosi. Nkosi brushed aside much of the literary response to Apartheid as formulaic and devoid of the imagination. Nkosi’s main charge was that writings by Black South Africans had not responded with the imaginative force that matched the scale of the oppression. His assertion was that the literary works were minor in the face of a major political crime. Njabulo Ndebele refined Nkosi’s position, saying that a lot of the writing favored spectacle at the expense of the ordinary and the nuanced.

It was thus not surprising that at the crossroads between the repression of Apartheid and the freedom of democracy, there was this hope, perhaps even plea that writers should abandon the political in favor of the personal. The spoken word artists were the first to seize on this release and their mostly spoken word performances were littered with references to desire, sex and broken hearts. But as they were to quickly discover, even the seemingly personal can become deeply political. The disease AIDS brought to the intimacy of the bedroom the political squabbles of the day.

Beyond that, while the term ‘protest literature’ may have provided the critic with a reliable literary pillar, it was always likely to include works that differed considerably, and paradoxically, leave out works that had a lot in common. 
 With the passage of time, it is clear that what was then seen as a lost literary opportunity reflected the expectations of the interpreters, fed as they had been on a literary canon that favored introspection over action and the inner life over the outer life. But more importantly, it was inevitable that South Africa’s literary output would reflect the struggles and the war for control that raged on the political front. The ‘literary canon’ of the day reflected the contradictions of the colonial experience. Most of the novels and poetry and even fashionable theory were imported from abroad. The ‘classics’ as they were known, were supposed to contain ‘Universal truths’ and young students had to ignore any doubts about the appropriateness of these foreign books.

Of course on closer reading it became abundantly clear that many of these classics that were supposed to be above temporal political concerns were deeply political.  I often wondered if they had they been written in SA, would they have been considered protest literature. Novelists like John Steinbeck were in the canon, but their writings were deeply subversive.

Perhaps the writer Zakes Mda’s words provide a useful post Apartheid perspective on how the political situation may have created narratives with clearly delineated parameters. “It was easier to write about the past… because the past created ready-made stories. There was a very clear line of demarcation between good and evil, you see? Black was good; white was bad. Your conflict was there”

Mda suggests that this polarization in real life translated to a literature that sacrificed nuance for clarity. He adds. “There were no gray areas…. We no longer have that. In this new situation, black is not necessarily good. There are many black culprits; there are many good white people. We have become normal. It’s very painful to become normal”

It is fascinating to see how there is now a new movement towards literary exile, fuelled in some cases by writers with a strong desire to avoid any mention of Apartheid, even two decades after its official dismantling. What this shows is that there will always be many responses to writing the politics of the day in literature. But the past offers no clean break either, and writers and critics have to accept that meaning and significance in literature is always negotiable and never fixed.

 

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Nadine Gordimer’s shining literary voice

It tells us something about Nadine Gordimer that Raks Morakabe Seakhoa, the untiring champion of South African letters, used to call her ‘Comrade Nadine’. In her country, where identity is everything, that Gordimer was comfortable with a word viewed with skepticism in high literary circles is significant.

Her death brings to an end a remarkable literary career, and coming so soon after the deaths of Maya Angelou, Amiri Baraka and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, there’s a sense that this is the end of a literary era. These writers did not shy away from addressing what they believed ailed their societies, even as they held onto notions of literature as romance.

Nadine Gordimer

Gordimer relished language. Her fiction and non-fiction alike rewards the reader with passages of exquisitely written prose. She used language as a surgeon uses a scalpel, delicately opening her characters to reveal what contradictions they contained.

“To a writer no one is ordinary,” she once said – one of many gems delivered almost as asides by way of explanation.

Nadine wrote in one of her short but important essays, “Five Years Into Freedom,” “Again and again, when I’m interviewed or find myself in encounters with other people abroad, the burning question is ‘What is happening to whites?’ And again and again, my genuinely surprised response is: ‘What about blacks? Don’t you believe there are challenges to be met in their new lives?’”

Gordimer’s ability to weave lyrical, even magical, prose into her writing, as she tackled the most prosaic human shortcomings, says something about her commitment to social justice. “There are some who still have this sense, suffer it, I would say, and unnecessarily, so it becomes a form of self flagellation. I don’t posit this in any assertion of smug superiority; I should just wish to prod them into freedom from self confinement.”

“Five Years” explores very directly, and with Nadine’s typical courage, the subject of what it means to be South African, to declare oneself as such. If the topic was a complex one five years after South Africans gained their freedom, it has only increased in complexity since. When Gordimer writes, “A city in transition is always full of contradictions,” she may well have been referring to the entire country and all who live in it.

Gordimer did not yield to the nomadic impulses that claim so many of our writers. She lived here, in South Africa, a South African, defiant against apartheid and also against the titters of the so-called genteel set, the liberals who found fault with her uncompromising stance. She was a home-grown revolutionary – but it is worth remembering that Gordimer also cherished the bonds that link writers across borders.

Reflecting on fellow Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka, she said “He has done something Camus despaired of seeing any activist achieve: lived the drama of his time and been equal to the writing of it.” But Gordimer’s assessment of Soyinka provides a clue to her own status as a writer. Her fiction never shied away from drawing from the freshest pages of history. Luckily for us, she was equal to the task of writing it. If Mbeki and Zuma received literal attention from the likes of the Reverend Frank Chikane and his book Eight Days in September, Gordimer’s last novel, No Time Like The Present, placed a kind of literary focus on the two leaders that seemed almost impertinent in its immediateness.

Even as she wrote alongside history that was only few years old, however, it was her ability to leave moments of silence in her fiction that spoke most eloquently, daringly and damningly. It is her unflinching focus on how individuals wrestle with personal responsibility, even as they face political, social and family pressure, that has been the source of her literary strength across the vivid decades of South Africa’s recent past.

If the notorious immorality act once forbade mention, let alone practice of sexual relations across race frontiers, the present has rendered invisible some of the contradictions of a society that was once constructed around race. Thus, in No Time Like the Present, Jabulile and Steve have come back to establish their careers, like other returnees from exile. It is fascinating to observe the delicate balance they have to strike as they attempt to communicate across the vast cultural gulfs that separate their two families.

But the complications are never simply binary, and beyond any racial and cultural minefields that they have to negotiate, Steve has also to content with the demands and expectations of his father and the deference to his Jewish mother’s claims on him.

One of my favourite sentences from No Time Like The Present is, “There was no space for meaning in personal achievement. Climb Mt Everest or get rich, all cop outs from reality, indecent signs of being on the side of no change.” Indeed.

To cut to the quick, observations like that serve as a reminder, if one were still needed, that Nadine Gordimer belongs in that very special club, the great world writer. Her voice will be missed, but lucky for us, in her writing it will never be lost.

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Lichawe lemachawe Mshengu Shabalala, We Ladysmith Black Mambazo

Mshengu wena lowatsatsa emajaha lahlabelako ngemavi lesingatange siweve, wabalolonga kutsi baphe umhlaba wonkhe umculo welizinga lelisetulu. Maningi emachawe emasiko lesitigcabha ngawo, lafana nabo Magolwane, bo Magogo, bo Mazisi Kunene, bo Mahlathini nabo Mfaz’ Omnyama. Nakabumba I Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Joseph Shabalala, umshengu lomuhle, waphakamisa sitfunti selisiko lesichathamiya waphindze futsi waba ngulomunye lonotsisa emasiko jikelele.

 
Nawulalele emambazo uyativela kutsi kudzala Mshengu nemajaha ase Mnambithi bangemagagu esicathamiya. Likhono la Mshengu kutsatsa nobe ngayini ayigucule ibe yingoma. Kuletinye tingoma emambazo ahlabela ngemachawe lafana nabo K.E. Masinga, lomunye wemavulandlela ekusakata. Ngalesinye sikhatsi utfola bafana base Mnambithi bahlabela ngelutsandvo, nome bahlabela ngalabadlala ngemali batsenga tjwala.
Batsatse likhono lekuhlabelela sichathamiya, balilola, lacija, lakhalipha njenge mukhwa lololwe ngensimbi.  Tingoma tabo setengca libanga lemculo tisisekelo semlandvo. Tingoma temambazo tisikhumbuto, tijabulisa balaleli, titsatsa tindzaba tebantfu, tesive netigodzi itente tingoma. Tingoma letatiwa kakhulu letifana nabo Nomathemba, nabo Homeless, nabo Uzenzile Aka Khalelwa tinguletinye letitsandvwa kakhulu live lonkhe.

 
Likhono la Mshengu kunganetiseki ngalase awkwentile, umculo welicembu lakhe uhlala utfutfuka njalo. Lebakwenta lamuhla nase utsi uyakutayela utfola kutsi sebendlulile kuko, seba ngetile kuko, sebakwente lenye intfo lejulile. Njengalabanye labanelikhono lelikhulu, Mshengu ungatsi akahlaliseki, uhlala atibuta kutsi angayiletsa kanjani intfutfuko nenchubekela embili. Akunendzaba kutsi balaleli bayijabulela kangani intfutfuko kulomculo leletswa ngu Mshengu nelicembu le Mambazo, intfutfuko ayipheli.

 

Lowaka Shabalala watalwa e Mnambithi esigodzini sase Ladysmith, wanikwa lamabito lalandzelako. Kwatsiwa ngu Bhekizizwe Siphatimandla Mxoveni Joseph Bigboy Shabalala. Labanengi abati kutsi umShabalala wacala umculo adlala siginci. Liculo lakhe lekucala lekalicamba kwaba ngu Nomathemba. Mshengu wagcugcutelwa ngu Galiyane Hlatshwayo kutsi asebentisi sipho sakhe selivi, kutsi ahlabele ngemdlandla nemfutfo.   Wabumba licembu lakhe lekucala walkbita Ezimnyama. Lelicembu lahlabana kumnchuntelwano wesichathamiya.

 
Kulandzela emaphupho lamanyenti lekaba netiboniso kuwo, Mshengu wabese ucamba licembu lakhe watsi yi Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Njenge mazembe lakhaliphako, e Mambazo bekahlula emacembu lamanye. Batsandzi bemculo batitfola balalela e Mambazo ahlabela tingoma letitdvodzile, letizothile, letijulile, letiletsa bunandzi bemculo.
Umculo we Mambazo sowuhambe wafika kumagumbi onkhe emhlaba, ulalelwa ngibo bonkhe labatsandza umculo lomsulwa, welikhono lelisetulu.  Kuhlabana kwe Mambazo akwehli, kuya ngeku tfutfuka, kuyabonakala kutsi umholi we Ladysmith Black Mambazo ngulomunye walabatsetse lisiko lekuhlabelela walitfutfukisa kakhulu. Kuyakhanya kutsi Mshengu te adzinwa kucamba tingoma, nekutsi utawuhlala anganetiseki ngalase akufezile. Akasiye lotsandza kulala ecansini lelindlalwe kutsanti nobe itolo ngobe uhlala abuke embili, hhayi emuva.

 
Bemanga batsandze kabi kutsi emasiko etfu ayanyamalala, nekutsi sitawugcina sesilahlekelwe yonkhe imilandvo nemalwimi abomdzabu. Loku bakusho njengoba bangati kutsi linengi liyatigcabha, futsi likhuma lulwimi lebalumunya. Ngobe bona bangalukhulumi lulwimi, futsi bangaluva, akusho loko kutsi lolulwimi alukhulunywa ngulabanyenti. Siyafundza emaphepheni lokutsiwa bonjingalwati batsi sekuhlwile, kuyahwalala kumasiko etfu, akunalikusasa.

 

Kepha u Mntimandze lobhambo lunye,  Mazisi Kunene uyasitjela kutsi singabalaleli lalabatsi intfutfuko tesayitfola kulawetfu emasiko, funanele sikhohlwe ngawo nasifuna inchubekela phambili. Umntimandze washo kutsi kute lulwimi lolune nkanankana yesi manjemanje ngaphandle kwalo sitawulahlekelwa likusasa. Bemaphephandzaba bashicilela imibono leyenga labanengi ibatjela kutsi abafulatsele konkhe lokumklandvo yabo nafuna kubona intfutfuko.

 
Nasibuka umShabalala we Mambazo, siyabona kutsi kute sizatfu sekutsi utfulatsele lwakho lulwimi nawufuna kuphumelela ekuhlabeleni nobe ekulobeni nobe ekucambeni tingoma, tinkondlo nobe tincwadzi. Nakufanele, Mshengu nelicembu lakhe bayashwampuluta talabanye tilwimi.  Njengoba umlobi Ngugi wa Thiong’o ahlale asho, kufulatsela lulwimi lwakho kutenta sigcila.

 
Asimbonge lowaka Shabalala ngesipho sakhe semculo, lese sinjingise kakhulu lisiko lesichathamiya. Akekho emagama langachaza kahle intfokoto letfolwa ngulababukela lelicembu lemajaha laphuma e Mnambithi.
Nabavala tonkhe tingoma tabo, baya sikhumbuta kutsi bona ngibo ‘Abafana base Mnambithi’ Longati angamangala kutsi yini leleyenta bo Mshengu bangakhohlwa kusho kutsi babuya kuphi kuyo yonkhe ingom lebayihlabelako. Loku kusikhumbuta kutsi asilutfo nasikhohlwa kutsi sibuya kuphi. Njalo nje kufanele sitikhute nase sititfola ungatsi sitinyoni letingati kutsi tibuyaphi, tiyakuphi.

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City blog News

Joburg’s Inner City Blues

Urban renewal, gentrification, inner city rejuvenation, call it what you will, awaits every ageing city. When done well, it is more than plastic surgery for the city, but almost a reinvention.
The decline of Johannesburg’s inner city coincided neatly with the arrival of democracy in South Africa. The reasons for the flight from the inner city were many, but some were just rumor and others no more than urban legend. Safety was cited as a major reason, but it is also likely that developers saw an opportunity to make a killing and they knocked on the doors of corporate bosses at a time when change was in the air. In any case instead of a trickle from the inner city, it became a flood.

Since its decline in the 90’s Joburg’s inner city has flirted with any number of ambitious plans to give it a face lift and attract hip urban dwellers. But these plans have all ended in despair as its once bustling streets are virtually deserted by the end of the Joburg rush hour. As they say, ‘kukhala ibhungange’ in the evenings when very little stirs in this iconic city

The iconic Mandela Bridge, named for Nelson Mandela

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No one will ever know for sure what precipitated this exodus from this once hallowed city, but overnight, once prestigious office blocks and gleaming restaurants were left vacant, haunted by their quick fall from glory. Parking spaces that had once been reserved for shiny chauffeur driven Rolls Royces were left to rot and decay as the offices were abandoned. The rush to flee the city led to a plethora of suburban office and residential developments in places like Sandton & Fourways.

The departure of the city’s business for the suburbs had a devastating effect on the inner city as rents collapsed and restaurants, fine shops and nightlife spots closed in quick succession. The departure of the Johannesburg Stock Exchange from its imposing building on Diagonal Street was probably the symbolic moment when the inner city became a ghost town. The city’s financial heart had been transplanted to the then largely residential hub of Sandton, something that would have been impossible to imagine even five years earlier. When the money men from the JSE left for Sandton, the really big money soon followed suit and the Sandton CBD was born.

But even as the business elite were departing for the barren safety of the suburbs, a few die-hard inner city loving businesses put up a regal fight against this hasty retreat from the once mighty city. The mining houses like Anglo, JCI, Amplats and some of the Banks like Standard created the first of what came to be known as the Inner City Business Improvement Districts, initially focusing on safety and cleanliness. Their first recruits, with distinctive yellow caps and green uniform, were to be found armed with a shiny baton, gleaming handcuffs and a broom. They certainly kept the designated precinct clean, startlingly at odds with the rest of the inner city that was yielding to dirt and decay almost without resistance.

Condemned building in Joubert Park
Condemned building in Joubert Park

But it was not enough and the sale of the Carlton Centre for the ridiculous bargain price of just over R30 million signaled the nadir to which Joburg’s inner city’s fortunes had sunk. By then whole office blocks stood deserted, once prestigious restaurants shuttered and hijacked buildings were a sign of the times. The captains of industry had made way for informal dwellers who moved in to make a new life for themselves in cheap but unsafe digs inside neglected buildings that had been condemned by the city officials. Building hijackers made a fortune as they packed desperate tenants in this twilight zone of abandoned buildings. But it wasn’t long before the madness of this hasty exit from the inner city became obvious. Then a a second wave of inner city rejuvenation was tabled.

But this time it was driven entirely by a bunch of dreamers who sold implausible tales of turning the Joburg inner city into the next Manhattan, complete with loft apartments and sexy bistros on crowded streets. Armed with computer generated impressions and killer smooth talking salesmen, they made a killing as greedy investors bought into the tantalizing possibility of buying penthouses on the heap and off-loading then for lottery scale profits. But it turned out that many of these developers overestimated their ability to act as a catalyst for the rejuvenation of Joburg’s CBD. In their wake they left many of their flagship projects half finished, and what had once been impressive show units now serve to highlight the improbability of the pitch that had been sold to gullible investors.

Developers like Urban Ocean once hosted the hippest parties in the inner city and even provided the 900 square metre penthouse for the production of the first Apprentice show in South Africa. But beneath the shiny brochures and aggressive sales pitches of a rejuvenated Joburg inner city to rival Upper West Side, the numbers did not add up and soon these projects were abandoned. Even some of the first flagship projects remain unfinished, but those investors who threw money at these extravagant dreams have had to brave it and live in half completed developments.

One of the biggest problems that faced the renewal of Joburg’s inner city were the completely unrealistic expectations of the developers. It is as if they expected to make their profits overnight, and they sold the same irrational exuberance to their investors. The idea of buying an empty shell on the cheap and ‘flipping’ it for a massive profit was part of the DNA of the rejuvenation. But the prices they were asking for were truly outlandish and so these developments foundered as economic reality dictated what rents owners could charge once resales dried up. In many instances all that remains of these lofty dreams are the tattered outsize posters that once promised an urban paradise, complete with names such as Shakespeare and other names that tapped into fantasy.

But all may not be lost as the renewal of the Braamfontein seems to have hit on a formula that may work. Gone are the drams of outlandishly priced penthouse, but instead a more modest approach that develops accommodation for students and young professionals at prices they can afford. On the other side are developments like Randlords and the refurbished Alex Theatre that cater to Joburg’s need for spectacle. But neither Randlords nor the Alex Theatre expect their patrons to hang around the inner city at the end of the lavish events they host. In this sense then it looks as if Braamfontein may be about to give the city of Gold its first rrejuvenation success story.

There is no doubt that a new lease of life courses through the streets of Braamfontein. The streets are full of people well into the night, the theatres, clubs, salons, art galleries and restaurants are popping up all over the place. It is a remarkable achievement given that it has happened without the usual hype that surrounds urban regeneration as publicity hungry developers and city officials punt its potential to create new real estate millionaires.

It is well known that Joburg has always had its fair share of dreamers, visionaries and conmen, and from the first day it was mooted, urban renewal was presented as the new ‘gold rush’ it attracted all three in equal measure. Since the mid 90’s tidal wave of white flight to the surburbs left the downtown Joburg desolate, city officials have launched many ill-fated programs to rejuvenate the city. They each promised a return of the city to its golden age, but all that remained after the hype were dilapidated billboards and posters advertising this false dawn.

In each instance of a renewal project, the speeches were long, the fanfare sizeable and the hope tangible, but no amount of hyperbole could hide the fact that the renewal of Joburg remained an elusive dream. This fate befell the much hyped Newtown renewal which did revive the theatre arts complex around the Market Theatre and even brought new residents like Kaya FM into the precinct, but the buzz that accompanied the initial renewal has been replaced by a palpable indifference. Bars that had sprung up have closed, and the swanky lofts that sprung up near Newtown are exchanging hands for much less than their initial asking prices. Still there are remarkable success stories, like the low income housing not far from the Mandela Bridge. This was not fancy accommodation, but it was decent, solid and affordable and it was sold out immediately. Crucially people live in the development, unlike many of the developments that were bought by ‘investors’ with no intention of spending a night in the inner city.

Detail on a once beautiful inner city building
Detail on a once beautiful inner city building in Joubert Park

But the opening of 70 Juta Street in 2010 was different in that there were almost no officials but the ordinary people that can this precinct aims to attract. Since its opening this short street has retained most of the buzz that was evident during it’s Sunday opening, attracting visitors to the boutique shops, galleries and design shops that line it.

The problem with many of the previous attempts at renewing Joburg is that they wanted to import wholesale what had worked elsewhere. A lot of time and money was spent trying to turn downtown Joburg into the new Manhattan, but this was doomed from the start. They should have known that each city has its own unique history and that it is impossible to just import wholesale solutions that worked elsewhere. If you look at the first brochures that promised the renewal of the city, you would have believed that they had Wall Street salary earners in mind when you look at the inflated prices of the apartments and penthouses.

In the aftermath of these giddy launches, many front page stories in glossy magazines were written touting the inevitable rise of the hip urban dweller. Interestingly enough these stories mostly portrayed the sellers of this lifestyle, not the buyers, and even then the hype should have been evident.  But it was a tantalizing story and it created new heroes in a city that is always inventing them even as it discards its old ones.

Who can forget the hype that was first generated when the first swashbuckling renewal starlets captured the public imagination with their endless stories of ‘Manhattan style lofts’. We should have smelt trouble at the first mention of Manhattan because that model is not what Joburg needs.

Joburg’s renewal has to be home grown, but it also has to face head on the terrible legacy of the Apartheid city on the patterns of urban living and commuting. The terrible truth is that unlike in other cities in the world Apartheid banished the poorest workers to live furthest from their place of work. As a result they spend a disproportionate amount of their income on travelling to work and their homes. In many other cities such a cost, in effect a penalty, is passed on to those who choose to flee to distant middle class suburban enclaves, not those forced by history and circumstance to commute such long distances.

Thus any inner city renewal that is aimed at shutting out the ordinary workers and create yet another haven for the already well off is bound to fail. Braamfontein already had a head start in that it is a nucleus for student accommodation, but now it has extended its offering to include the young and the not so young but hip at heart. It has also created a multiple offering that includes the very rich but also the ordinary hair salon and supermarket worker.

In many ways it has been the absence of hype that has given Braamfontein’s renewal the opportunity to get right what earlier attempts to revive downtown Joburg had missed by a wide margin. The new precinct on 70 Juta Street is a small but significant step in the right direction. Perhaps now the officials can learn what actually works and implement it in other parts of the city minus the noisy hype they like to accompany their projects. It is also telling that many new corporate offices are being built in the Joburg CBD by the likes ABSA and the number of empty buildings has declined. Heavy morning traffic into the inner city is the clearest indication that Joburg’s inner city has once become a hub for business. This is what will provide the backbone for a credible rejuvenation programme, not the empty hype of publicity seeking mavericks.

You will know that these schemes to rejuvenate Joburg’s inner city have worked when the city has cafes, bars, libraries and music clubs that stay open in the evening which is when most cities come to life. Of course much has changed and the city may not rediscover the glory of its heyday, but it will once again become a city that does not become a ghost town in the evening.

View from Biccard Street
A view from Biccard Street, one of Braamfontein's busiest streets