What it Must Be Like to Be a Woman

For Mothers and Daughters.

Men.

Have you ever in your short life wondered what it must be like to be a woman in this day and age?

Love in the time of the Virus.

Again, I must apologize to Senor Marquez, Columbian maestro of magic realism, renowned for masterpieces such as Memories of My Melancholy Whores, One Hundred Years of Solitude. And of course, Love in the Time of Cholera.

His work does remind me of one other great writer, Albert Camus who produced the masterful The Plague. Africa should be so proud. Always just remember that Camus was not only French – he probably spent many a year musing through the streets of Paris, eternal city of Love – he was Algerian.

And yet still. Men. Forgive me for saying this but how can Africa be proud, the way it continues to treat its women. Call me a rabble-rouzer, I really don’t care anymore what you think of me, but I cannot stand by idly while you, a Zulu King, can pick and choose any virgin, old enough to be your grandchild, to deflower – or rape? – at any damn time you damn well please.

You call it the annual Reed Dance. I call it Mass Rape. A man does not necessarily need to rape a woman physically. He can do it with his eyes. If I must have the courage of my convictions, then I must be prepared to make that acknowledgement. Yes, I too, have wondered what it must be like to wantonly take a woman and do as I please with her.

And in the transaction, the exchange that takes place between a man and what is impassively referred to as a sex worker – she’s been called many names; prostitute, whore, harlot, Gentoo. I cannot excuse my loneliness. Or even my curiosity. I’m ashamed to say it. But there it is.

Sexual fantasy. And much, much worse.

And before you judge me.

Be very careful. How is plowing a woman with one drink after another a more acceptable transaction? It’s not a fair trade, and she’s the one who ends up paying, sometimes with her life.

Sexual fantasy. Taking what you can get when your own woman cannot or will not.

I can’t blame her.

It simply isn’t right.

Goodwill. King of the Zulus. What a name! King Shaka must be rolling in his grave. Do I hear the Ancestors calling? Go roll your bones for all I care. Yoweri Museveni, the strutting, longest serving president of Uganda. What despicable, despotic Idi Amin could not do, he appears to have done.

And is still doing, lock-down or no lock-down.

And yet.

No. It just isn’t right what Museveni and many Ugandans continue to do to so many lesbian women and gay men over there. And trans-gendered women too. Ugandans’ claim to fame is selective appropriations of the Holy Bible, otherwise known as the Word of God. Go on. Go read the Book of John. This is a predominantly Catholic country, by the way.

Bench warmers over there obviously missed Pope Francis’s famous sermon in which he proclaimed;

‘Who am I to judge?’

He could only have been inspired by Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, because it was He who said; let he who has cast no sin, cast the first stone. And yet. Have the victimized really sinned? Because it seems to me that they are mostly in it for the Love. And why not take what He said literally. Love your neighbor as you love yourself. It’s how you feel inside, your heart, right? Love your wife, man, if you have one. A heart. Do not hurt her. Do not abuse her. If you cannot love your wife, you cannot love yourself. Instead of beating her to a pulp, why not beat yourself up.

Until you get it right in your head.

Until that day comes, as far as I am concerned, women are off limits to you. But who am I to judge? Certainly, women are off limits to me as well if I cannot love them. I cannot love them if I cannot love myself. But today, I feel glad. After all this time, I must love myself after all. The lock-down owing to COVID-19 could not have come at a better time.

But yes, I know. It is really hard. People have been losing their jobs. People have been losing their livelihoods. And people have been losing their lives. As far as I am concerned; unnecessarily. Not through the novel Corona virus. But through the regular beatings. It has been going on for years. Indeed, it is said that women and children enjoyed a brief reprieve once my country’s version of the Lock-down came down.

Because guess what, chaps; no more alcohol, read my lips, no more alcohol. And no more barroom brawls either. Hooliganism, and worse, stamped out. Overnight. Bars, pubs, shebeens closed, lock, stock and two smoking barrels. But plenty of cigarettes and crystal meth – we call it tik here in Cape Town, a city ironically named the Mother City. Smokes and meth. If you can afford it. Actually, you can’t.

Guilty as charged. What a twelve-dollar pack of cigarettes could have bought in fresh fruit and vegetables, enough to feed a poor family of five for a few days. Yes, loving in the time of the Virus is hard. Today, let me state quite emphatically that I am NOT proud to be a South African. Men, our country holds the ‘proud’ record of having the world’s fifth highest COVID-related infections in the world.

Who lies above us in this inestimable record? I tell you what; two countries stand out. Clue. They hold the record for harboring the world’s largest nuclear weapons arsenals. So much for reducing the stockpiles, Mr Obama. Anyhow, something else stands out about these two great countries. They are ruled by misogynists, one with an iron fist, the other with a limp dick.

Yes, they don’t always have nice things to say about women. And they don’t have nice things to say about me and you either. Lesbians. Gays. Bisexuals. Trans-gendered men and women. And fun-loving queer kids too. But Messrs Trump and Putin, sorry to go breaking your hearts because boy, have you got a mountain to climb.

Because, lads, you’ve got some way to go before you can catch us. We hold some of the highest records for the most beatings, most murders and, of course, proud record this, most rapes. South African-born literary luminary, JM Coetzee, was not far off the mark when he wrote his Booker Prize-winning Disgrace .

Amongst the highest rates in the world. For murder. Beatings. Rape. But here, you see, we murder our women, we beat them too. And if we’ve got time, we’ll rape them until Kingdom comes. We even correct them. We correct lesbians. Oh, we rape boys too, most of us when behind prison bars. See if you can top that, guys!

And we rape them before, during and after Holy Mass.

Disgraceful! Indeed, it’s worse than that.

Mr Coetzee packed his bags for Perth. And he actually went! The thought has crossed my mind. But I have somewhere else to go. Not to escape the harsh realities of daily life here in South Africa. Because, Julius Malema, I too am a son of the soil. And my reasons for going elsewhere are motivated by love.

Not violence. Not hate. I certainly do not hate my fellow man, but I wish he would just stop already. More has to be done to stop this scourge. And to think, just the other day I had this to say to a lady with a lamp. I said this to her. Heck! If I can survive in this country, I can survive anywhere in the world. Oh! That’s just so easy for me to say.

Because get this; I am not a woman. And while I may still tremble at times, I am still able to defend myself. But not a woman. She could try but, nine times out of ten, no. Now try and do this if you can. I tried this in the past. I have been trying in recent days. But be warned. It’s not easy to imagine yourself in a woman’s body. No, it’s not that I have gender-bending feelings from time to time, not that.

No, because in South Africa, if you are powerless as a woman, life is extremely hard. Today marks the early days of what we South Africans commemorate as Women’s Month. We wish to stand up for the rights of all women in this country, and for that matter, the rest of the world. I for one wish to stand up for the children too, those without food, and those who are beaten, and raped by their uncles.

Uncles, my arse!

I wish to stand up in church one day once the lock-down restrictions are a thing of the past and shout and scream at the top of my lungs. Stop raping the boys! That’s going to be quite a challenge for me because I’m not accustomed to raising my voice. But when it does happen, very rarely, thank God, I’m extremely angry.

Nevertheless, it’s on my mind all the time. I wonder sometimes, lovely man that he is, if it’s on Pope Francis’s mind too.

And he’s still not my father.

There’s this old English saying. Women are the fairer sex. That they are, and God Bless them for that, I adore them for that. But weaker sex? I think not. Men. Come on now. Admit it. It is we who are the weaker sex. If we’re not violent, we don’t always seem to know what the hell we’re doing. Let’s use this as an example.

Let’s look at those countries with the worst COVID-related infections in the world. And compare them with some who have slayed the virus like Wonder Woman would a demon from out there in the universe. Cyril Ramaphosa is South Africa’s State President. He’s also a billionaire. How he got his hands on that lucre is a story for another day.

Donald Trump is the USA’s President. They call him the Commander in Chief over there. Huh? Anyway, he’s a billionaire a few times over. How did he make it? Actually, he didn’t. He inherited it from his immigrant father. I’m led to believe that he still had a silver spoon in his mouth when Trump Snr handed over the poisoned chalice. And then there is that man.

Vladimir Putin.

Tsar of Russia.

Rumor had it that he was the wealthiest man in the world at one point. Prizes for guessing how he might have got to that point? And is it any wonder that our country’s former statesman, Jacob Zuma is a huge admirer? And he’s a huge admirer of women too. On the charge of raping one, here, in a court of law he was adjudged to be not guilty. For crying out loud, the man took a shower!

But today that woman is dead.

Putin the richest man in the world? Today; perhaps not. That disputable record belongs to none other than Jeff Bezos, the Amazon king. While thousands of people are losing their jobs every day as a result of COVID-19 (somehow I doubt that that’s the real reason) Jeff Bezos is making more of those billions.

Where others fall, go steal from them.

How stuff works. Go read an Amazon book.

Speaking of the Amazon. If you thought COVID-19 was bad, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Because just you wait and see what happens when Jair Bolsonaro finally burns the Amazon jungles to the ground. Putin, Trump, you can pack away your nukes, we might not need them  after all. Bolsonaro, we’ll he’s a billionaire too.

And he’s a misogynist as well. Let’s not even talk about what he thinks of the beautiful Brazilian trans-gendered women over there.

But enough of these men.

Let’s talk about the women. Not for nothing is Germany’s longest serving Chancellor, Angela Merkel, referred to over there as Mutter. And today, COVID-19 is under control in Germany. It’s under control in Finland as well. But Finland’s Prime Minister is far too young to be referred to as that country’s mother.

Or is she? I ask you. Jacinda Arderne is what you could refer to as the consummate multi-tasker. Women are good at that sort of thing. Multi-tasking. And leading. You’re surprised? I’m not. Now, this gorgeous lady, first known holder of office to parade with others on Pride Day, breastfeeds her baby while running her country. And running it very well indeed. And beating the living hell out of the virus.

Just like New Zealand’s mighty All Blacks beating the crap out of our beloved Springboks. Today, the people of New Zealand are walking their streets at night without any fear. There’s no virus, you see. But it’s more than that. Because New Zealand also enjoys amongst the lowest crime rates in the world. And by that read that women and children are relatively safe.

I wish I could say the same for my country. Heck! We may be Rugby World Champions, but we’ve got nothing to be proud of over here. I’ll say it again. Jacinda Arderne. You really have outdone yourself! You’re a swell gal if you don’t mind me saying so. And it would not surprise me at all if Time Magazine makes you its Person of the Year in this year of the Virus.

Men. Forgive my emotions. Forgive my anger. I’m guilty. Don’t you feel it too?

Women. I really do have tears in my eyes, no really, I do. It’s Women’s Month here in South Africa and in that spirit, I would really like to wish you well for tomorrow, come what may. I pray that it will be safe.

May God be with you.

Eyes of the Sky

 

In an earlier blog post I told you how I had surreptitiously come across Rayda Jacobs’ The Slave Book. I posted my thoughts on Ms. Jacobs’ work, daring to compare her with the South African literary giant Andre Brink. I also remarked that I accidentally tumbled into the second part of Ms. Jacob’s chronological epic of one or two South African families which began in the seventeenth century. The saga of the Kloot family, for one thing, begins in the Cape.

The first book in this trilogy is Rayda Jacobs’ award-winning debut, Eyes of the Sky, published by Kwela Books, an imprint of NB Publishers in South Africa. The reader’s eye is immediately drawn to the novel’s title, wondering who or what is Eyes of the Sky. First impressions do last. My initial thoughts were drawn to the indigenous people of North America and their penchant for naming their sons and daughters elaborately after what is spiritually important to them in nature, the skies and the heavens.

The naming of children is closely connected to humankind’s spiritual communion with nature. More importantly, it is an acknowledgement of a higher force. On the Southernmost tip of Africa, it is believed; lay the true origins of humanity. Today’s Khomani San people, living mostly in the urban ghettos of the Western Cape and on the rural outskirts of South Africa’s largest province, are the direct descendants of what is believed to be original man and woman. Call them Adam and Eve if you will.

Much like the remaining Native American tribes, even the original inhabitants of Australasia, the scattered families and clans of the Khomani San are gravely endangered. Much like the European and African settlers in North America, settlers from abroad, whether willingly or forced, have invaded and endangered the livelihood of this originally nomadic group of people. The most direct descendants of the Khomani San live on harsh, dusty plains across the Northern Cape.

It is sometimes hard to imagine their ancestors living in a Garden of Eden. Certainly, this was not the case during the seventeenth century when the original Afrikaner settlers migrated to the Karoo in search of their own freedom from oppression and land on which to farm. Rayda Jacobs’ recreation of the Kloot family is a vivid narrative impression of what life was like for the early Afrikaners who sought to exorcise themselves from the colonial claws of the British Empire.

In their search for their freedom and right to live, they unwittingly invaded the vast living space of the Khomani San. Invariably, their misguided Calvinistic and Dutch influence gave them a superiority complex over the indigenous nomads who in turn knew and understood the land far better than these early settlers. The settlers in general perceived them as mere savages, scantily clad and without proper shelter from the harsh elements.

It was nothing of the sort. The Khomani San, in close communion with their ancient primal religion, knew how to survive. What they could not do (well) was come to terms with the superior force of their European counterparts who brought with them fire sticks (rifles). How were they to wage a fair battle with their poison-tipped arrows, essentially used only for hunting, against rifles that could pulverize their naked bodies with heavy casings of lead?

As this story goes, the Kloot family has decided to settle in an area known as the Hantam, only a few days journey from the Colony’s capital, Cape Town. The landscape here is harsh and dry, but Oupa (grandfather) Harman, a hardy farmer, recognizes it’s potential. Invariably, time waits for no-one and the patriarch passes his life-giving flame to Roelof who sires two sons born three years apart from one another. The older brother, David, is cast as the stereotypical misogynist and racist. He vents his hate-filled spleen on the indigenous tribes living near the Kloot farmstead and the women living on the farm, both relative and slave. It is left to the younger Harman to put an end to this human tragedy which threatens everyone’s existence if it is allowed to fester.

Harman Kloot is a passionate chip off his old grandfather’s shoulder. Before the old man’s death, a secret is imparted to the younger Harman. In later years it will become part of his legacy and the cultural heritage of later settlers of the Western Cape. Today’s (real life) descendants of such encounters between the rural pioneers of Southern Africa and their European and Northern African migrants are known as Cape Coloured.

Some of them today jestingly and colloquially refer to themselves as a “mixed bredie”, a metaphor of an original and tasty dish brought to these shores by their Malaya ancestors who were conscripted as slaves by Dutch colonialists. All that is left for me to say now is that I look forward to the conclusion of a vividly colourful portrayal of life in the Cape which began in the seventeenth century.

Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart

 

What a pity Finuala Dowling left teaching by the time I enrolled for my first year in studies for my degree in Languages and Literature. But, then again, I will have been marked rather strictly if she read any of my papers, particularly on poetry. But, then again, the school from which I graduated still has a pool of excellent and dedicated teachers. I can’t help thinking, though, that Ms Dowling has left her mark somewhere along the line. Satisfyingly, reader and writer, share Irish roots. Like her name, Finuala Dowling’s poetic prose is swan-like at times, rooted in the female voice.

There are strong biographical influences and elements in Finuala Dowling’s award-winning Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart, published by Kwela Books, an imprint of NB Publishers. Both the author’s parents were radio broadcasters, and in Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart, the protagonist, Margot, is a radio broadcaster. Once again, the author locates her story in Kalk Bay where she still lives with her daughter. Margot has a teenage daughter, Pia., and they share their home with an eclectic and colourful arrangement of characters, no less vulnerable and humane than they are.

Margot’s middle-aged lover, Curtis, may be every grown woman’s dream man, but he is no less prone to the idiosyncracies of the male species which causes much pain for their female partners. Then there is Margot’s eccentric brother known to the reader as Mr Morland. He is a psychic, but is prone to unhygienic habits which causes still more anguish for the female protagonist who is naturally inclined towards conserving her living space. Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart takes its name from the brilliant Zoe’s famously unorthodox self-help tome. Zoe is now senile, causing Margot still more anxiety.

Not to be outdone by this seemingly, close-knit, but typically fragile family, is Joylene, aptly named, as Zoe’s help-meet. She may not be a qualified frail care nurse, but her heart tells us that she is practising her vocation while always preoccupied with her own economic uncertainties which are a consequence of historical inequality in the Cape region. She must travel reasonably long distances to be at Zoe’s side. But, when she is there, she over-extends herself to the point of invasion. But, troubled by this, Margot is aware that Joylene truly means well.

Pia is the product of Margot’s failed marriage with Leroy, a self-centred man-child who is always recklessly down on his luck, earning his keep as a stand-up comedian. His metaphorical tale towards the story’s end is a gem and one well worth quoting at a dinner party or barbecue. Needless to say Margot must balance her own private life and thoughts with her family and professional life. She is self-conscious of her image as a radio broadcaster, plagued with guilt over the treatment of her senile mother, all at sea over her relationship with Curtis and concerned about her daughter’s emotional well-being.

The book’s chapters are remarkably short, but there is a certain metronymic ebb and flow to it, well-crafted and continuously shifting the point of view and narrative arcs. The natural landscape and domestic and social settings also coincides well with the characters’ thoughts and actions. it is familiar ground for any reader who knows the False Bay area of the Cape well, but the narrative is descriptive enough for the first time visitor who needs to re-imagine these settings. Temporally, the story spans about two and a half years, but fleeting reflections from the protagonist set the clock back. While faced with dilemma’s on how to deal with life’s curve balls, there are always timely reminders from Zoe’s eccentric Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart to fall back on.

Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart was awarded the M-Net English category prize in 2012. No stranger to literary excellence and reward, Ms Dowling was awarded the more prestigious Ingrid Jonker prize for her début collection of poetry, I Flying, and the Olive Schreiner Prize.

While Dowling’s work seems to be deeply personal, sensitive and sensible readers can dig deep into their own lives and relate personally to this novel. For me, there is the unresolved issues of the relationship with the mother and how to deal with it in more challenging times, juxtaposed against her own ageing. It matters not whether you are a man or a woman. And while my mother is still well and truly in her prime as an elderly woman, I am also drawn to the inevitable conclusion of earthly life. What happens after one family member has departed? Is a void left when she goes? How do the remaining members cope? Such thoughts are universal, but this fictional journey ends with the promise that no matter what happens, the soul will cope.

As I ended my reading of this touching family drama, I had one regret. I ended my reading far too quickly to savour every last page. I was reading Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart in the bath and the water was getting cold.

The Slave Book

 

Rayda Jacob’s The Slave Book was first published in Cape Town in 1998 by Kwela Books, an imprint of NB Publishers. I was endeared towards Ms Jacobs after watching her film adaptation of her own novel, Confessions of Gambler, a few years ago. Before beginning my reading of The Slave Book I returned to an earlier debate over the awarding of a writing scholarship to the late Andre Brink. The fruits of that scholarship are now well-known. It produced the MAN Booker-listed Philida. Today, my argument remains the same. Brink was already a prominent literary personality, some would say a legend. My argument never questions the undoubted literary craftsmanship of Professor Brink. What, I ask again, is the purpose of a scholarship? It affords a new writer with above average talent and great promise the opportunity to produce an opus free in the knowledge that he, or she, does not need to be concerned about material matters.

The awarding of a scholarship is equivalent to any good writer who has qualified to do a Masters or Doctorate in Creative Writing, say. After reading The Slave Book, I asked myself whether Ms Jacobs would be a more worthy recipient of this scholarship. Culturally, she may have been. At this stage, I do not know whether she did apply for this scholarship offered by the University of the Western Cape. But, perhaps literary excellence was always the primary motif and Brink’s Philida, also published by NB Publishers, testifies to this. But, this also takes nothing away from Rayda Jacobs and her narrative interpretation of the history of slavery in the Western Cape. The central point of The Slave Book always remains the pivotal date of December, 1834, when the promise of freedom is given to all slaves of the Cape of Good Hope.

Before the novel begins, Ms Jacobs acknowledges in some detail those who contributed towards her research. I wonder if this was necessary, but much like Brink did throughout his career, it is laudable. What intrigued me about Jacob’s narrative was her own cultural heritage and perspectives as a woman writer. Slavery, still practised today, is grim enough, but Jacobs steers away from descriptions of the harsh, physical treatment meted out to both indigenous and indentured slaves by their oppressors, particularly the Afrikaners. Instead, she focusses on the psychology of it all and how relationships, particularly between the so-called baster (mixed-race) Harman and the Mahometan (Muslim) slave girl, Somiela, are affected by the oppression of slavery and racism. Religion is not spared either, and who better than a Muslim writer – Rayda Jacobs – to tell this story.

The debate surrounding religion is focussed on the sociological consequences of marriage which does not observe the dogmatic conventions of religious traditions and customs. It is always a good argument, and many enlightened spiritualists – including the story’s protagonist, Harman – will propagate that it does not matter which religion we inherit, because we are still serving the same God. A conservative reader may frown upon the comparisons drawn between the two religions portrayed in The Slave Book, but as Ms Jacob’s research has revealed, the Muslim faith was far more amenable than the Dutch Reformed practices of the Boers. Indeed, the Afrikaners’ version of Christianity is formed through a long history of colonial arguments in favour of racial supremacy.

The Muslims of the Cape do not have this history, but what they do have is the belief that their religion is pure and should not be tainted through other influences. What many Christians of today may not know is that much of what the Qu’ran teaches and many of the pious devotional practices of Muslims have at some point or another since its foundation been appropriated from the earlier Christian and Judaic teachings handed down since Abraham.

I enjoyed the textures of colour, taste and smell which are blended into the narrative. It serves as a beautiful metaphor for those who are able to experience life beyond racial, cultural and religious boundaries, no matter how difficult it remains. Traditional dress and cooking lightens the burdens of slavery, but never erases it. The landscape is familiar to any reader from Cape Town, but is sufficiently descriptive for the foreign reader. Either way, we are never far from the hearts and minds of the characters, even the villainous Andries who is stereotypically characterised as the arch-oppressor who inevitably provokes the conflicts between master and slave. In Cape Town, we could very well describe The Slave Book as a mixed bredie of characterisation, plot and story. While Harman and Somiela must always be our hero and heroine, we must also be aware of the supporting characters’ interpretations and emotions of life in the Cape during the eighteen-thirties.

It is a great pity that I began my reading of Rayda Jacobs with The Slave Book, only learning afterwards that it is part of a trilogy. The Slave Book follows Ms Jacob’s first novel, Eyes of the Sky. The trilogy is concluded with Sachs Street. Pity? No matter. Curiosity got the better of me. I found Eyes of the Sky in my library the other day. I also found Joonie and Confessions of a Gambler – both movie and novel. My introduction to Ms Jacobs’ work began a few years ago when I saw her independent and thought-provoking film which she co-produced. She also wrote the screenplay and directed the show. And what a show it was! Even while watching it for the third time, I remained absorbed in this story about a Cape Muslim woman dealing with the crisis of losing her younger, gay son to HIV/Aids, dealing with her past and facing up to the consequences of depression. I enjoyed the visual presentations of the Muslim practices of prayer and the cleansing and burial rituals of the deceased.

Confessions of a Gambler is an engaging and enlightening encounter for the first-time viewer, or reader. It offers an honest interpretation of what it means to be a devout Muslim in the truest sense of the word. For those who are not Muslim, Ms Jacobs’ work should also address the unfortunate ignorance of this religion. It has many spiritual and physical benefits for the devotee when it is practised in accordance with the teachings of the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him.