Madness

As children growing up eLujizweni, eNgqeleni along the Wild Coast, we used to play a running and catching game. In this game you had Mama or Tata who represented the protagonist. For the vilain we had Ingcuka – the hyena. Abantwana, the poor vulnerable kids, always found themselves in a perilous situation, having to outrun Ingcuka to get to uMama/Tata. Central to the game was a call and response exchange between Mama/Tata and Abantwana.  The exchange always went as follows (I hate that I have to translate hence I opted for a direct translation rather than attempting to rearrange the words):

Mama: Bantwana bam                                                            Mama: My children

Abantwana: Mama                                                                 Abantwana: Mama

Mama: Yizani kum                                                                  Mama: Come to me

Abantwana: Siyoyika                                                              Abantwana: We are afraid

Mama: Noyika Ntoni?                                                             Mama: You are scared of                                                                                                                 what?

Abantwana: Ingcuka                                                               Abantwana: INgcuka

Mama: Itya ntoni?                                                                   Mama:It’s eating                                                                                                                             what?         

Abantwana: Isonka                                                                 Abantwana: Eating the                                                                                                                             bread

Mama: Ilumela ngantoni?                                                       Mama: Washing it down                                                                                                                   with what?

Abantwana: Ngegazi                                                               Abantwana: With the blood

Mama: Lalani                                                                          Mama: Go to sleep now

Abantwana: Awohoo                                                              Abantwana: Awohoo

Mama: Vukani                                                                         Mama: Wake up now

Abantwana: Awohoo                                                              Abantwana: Awohoo

Mama: Ngomso yikrismesi!                                                     Mama: Tomorrow is the                  Christmas!

With mention of ikrismesi the children would go beserk, lose their minds and as if possesed by some kind of spirit. They would dash into the danger zone where there is Ngcuka who washes down his meals with childrens blood. This was the world of my childhood, when I was still a country bumpkin who knew nothing about itwo-feet or the fact that my isiMpondo dialect would be an oddity once I got to Mthatha. Looking at it now, this was complete madness on the part of Abantwana, dashing off like that risking being Ngcuka’s dinner just because they cannot fathom the idea of missing ikrismesi the next day.

  Now as innocent as this scenario is, there is more that meets the eye. There is something out of kilter about children whose imagination could allow them to risk life and limb for Christmas.

 The truth is, for people who grew up in the world I grew up in these things don’t just happen, they take some kind conditioning. For instance I wasn’t conscious about christmas till I was five years old. I think that is when alienaion proper  started in earnest for me. In hindsight I think that it was inevitable because of the broader historical context around me. It had been more than a century since the cheap migrant labour system of the mines had been sucking the countryside dry began. This system was calculated to break the entire social structure of Southern Africa. What was left was a countryside where Africans were herded into reservations and, without land, denuded of their dignity as a people. With the new democratic dispensation the countryside was bleeding youth at an even faster rate because of the perception that there are more opportunities in the city. Needless to say, the township and squatter camps were waiting for them.

The kind of alienation we have in mind here is one where the tendency is that the center reinforces and reproduces itself as a significant force of gravity as far as national or social life is concerned. By this I mean the kind Chinweizu mentions when he discusses the “Melting Pot” perspective. Here he says ‘groups from the periphery are being culturally re-produced in the centre’. Of course no real cultural re-invention happens. Nevermind a reproduction.  What really happens is that they face immense social pressures that force  them to assimilate. About this kind of alienation Chinweizu goes on to say:

‘The bad side of the game is the process of centro-marginalization, where the middle will be turned into the centre of power and wealth, and the periphery turned into the margin which becomes more and more relegated everyday’.

What is worth mentioning is that when those from the margin are pulled into the middle it is not for their own good. It is for their destruction, to be quite frank. When we look at our childhood game closely we are fortunate because iNgcuka is easy to spot and the blood-drinking antics are well-known. In real social situations this is not always the case, unfortunately.

What is quintessential about the all cases of assimilation-alienation is the almost chaotic madness involved. Where the two meet there is always a clash of some kind. A review of the song Madness by Miles Davis, in 100 Greatest Jazz Albums, speaks to something similar. The tune is a Herbie Hancock composition which appears on the 1967 Nefertiti album. About the song the review says:

‘“Madness” seems to capture musically the idea of cultures colliding at the opening theme, announced against a jaunty running bass and drum accompaniment, literally collides with a shock against a sudden break up of the rhythm before stretching out again with Miles Davis’ long unsettling solo’ 

I might have seen this kind of madness not so long ago. It was during the opening of a new shopping complex in the East London CBD. What makes it interesting is that this is the poorer part of the town, where the so called second economy is located. The spot where the new mall stands was previously a taxi rank with caravans where one can get umngqusho and umnqambulo. Like any rank you had oomama that sell their wares from fruit to ulusu and everything in-between. Now the rank is located in the dingy underground parking of the beautiful R316 million shopping complex. The once bustling pavement economy is dying a slow death. And this is not because oomama on the pavement have moved to the new mall. The proud occupants of the mall are the same multi-nationals one gets on the main road in the same CBD. The same stores you get in any mall in the country anyway. Capitalism has decided to pay the dirtier parts of the town a visit. 

As a sangoma, my suspicion is that this marks the beginning of yet another phase of social erasure. Pretty soon the poor souls who have always eked a living from this part of the town will become misfits. The shabby stalls they sell from will soon be an eyesore that is bad for business. Very soon they will have to disappear and reappear as new converts to our growing consumerist culture. It will not happen overnight. Madness does not just set in immediately. First people have the blank expression that I saw on many that day, an expression of uncertainty about what this new culture asks of them. Then comes the mob mentality that needs mounted police to monitor the scene. What tops the list for me is not the competition where old women, older than my mother, compete at making animal sounds. That was degrading but it is not what unsettled me. What made my stomach turn is that people were able to continue as if nothing happened when a lady was knocked unconscious in the stampede. To me this is no different to what we did as children when we heard Ngomso yikrismesi. Do they know that there is iNgcuka waiting to have their blood for a drink? This to me is MADNESS!