I got robbed, but they did not take away my teenage admiration for that dress sense.

I remember when Joe Nina's Ding Dong song came out, brand new and celebratory. It was also adding to the momentum of the spirited Kwaito movement that was emerging at the time. With this Kwaito child came cultures so particular one would feel bad when they were not part of anyone; fraternal brother, fraternal sister, people in the spirit of relevance over life of that era.
The base for All Star takkies as a symbol of some form of affiliation and expression of one thing or another was just being forged. The general appeal the brand is enjoying today in South Africa has some of its roots in that period when Kwaito was vibrant and were churning out relevant messages in the spirit of revelry and commentary.

A few months later, I would like the Matariana culture which emerged as a symbol of being street wise and fashionable. I would later be robbed by two thugs who masqueraded as these snazzy fellows whom we so admired and aspired to emulate in our young lives as boys. Two thugs, *Joe and *Pepper, whose notoriety was guised by their ever charming looks embellished with an S-curl and cut hairdo each, Mashwabane pants, silk shirts and some fancy Italian shoes if not some stylish takkies.

I suppose that's why as a teenager, I fell for their charm when they accosted me and my brother in the street when we were sent to buy a case of beer by one lady who ran a small Spot. I don't remember how much a case of beer cost at the time, but the money to pay for one was securely placed in the back pocket of my shorts with the fear of losing it.

'You look identical. Are you twins?' *Joe asked when they reached us and stood in our path, giving a good indication that they needed to chat.
'Yes we are twins,' I said excited at their small talk which seemed innocuous. Being asked such questions as young boys used to be fascinating – people were amazed at our identical nature.
'Who’s the eldest?' the snazzy fellow continued.
'He is,” I said pointing towards the direction of my twin, “but he's just a mere hour older than me,” I added to reflect the insignificant time difference between our births. He was not happy that I was entertaining all those questions from those thugs, his face expressed that explicitly.

I don't know what really happened that triggered a need for my brother to run away like he had seen a ghost – he made for it. Bewildered by his reaction, I called for him to stop but he ran faster as if pushed by the wind. By the time I looked back to the two frauds, one had already pulled out a Jungle and had twisted his face into a terrifying display encouraging prevalence of fear. I almost let everything liquid loose, including urine due to extreme fear. But I held on not wanting to bring myself to shame.

Someone had once said thugs smell money like we smell food with our senses which deal with smell, and this held true when Joe went straight to my back pocket, tore it open with his large hand and pulled out all the money I had.

An intersection of Thuhlwane and Nkwane roads being one of the busiest in Thabong, Welkom, did not hamper their criminal ways. Getting away was a hassle-free experience; a four-plus-one taxi pulled over when they hastily signaled for it to stop – and so they vanished with the money.

After they had gone, I stood there trying to make sense of what had just happened, overcome by a great sense of shock. Tshepo, one of our friends who was the only witness to that flash crime as it seemed, stood on the other side of the road laughing so hard he held on to a street lamp’s pole for balance as the amusement he had was nearly leading him to the ground to roll in a hysterical nonchalance.

I hated him for being so stupid, for being so unsympathetic and for gloating with a thunderous laughter I could hear from the opposite side of the road. I hated myself for my own stupidity too and momentarily channeled some resentful sentiments towards the culture of Matariana which brought two thugs to rob us at broad day light.
I walked home to recount the incident to the shebeen owner and at the corner, another snazzy dresser, but not a thug went past me striding in his All Star shoes and Mashwabane trousers coordinated with a colourful Cutty Sark golfer. I could not help but fall in love again with that look I so admired at that era of my young life. *Joe and *Pepper forced the admiration out of my psyche for a short while, but it seeped back.

A few weeks later I would forget about my ordeal and be on a look out for newer street trends; so did they come and go in many forms; so I look back amused at how ridiculous it all seem now.

Foot notes:

* means: not their not names

#Matariana: A name given to a dress sense or style prevalent at some point in time in some South Africa’s townships, inspired by the Italian fashion designs or style.

#Mashwabane: A linen pair of trousers

#Spot: Informal beer-selling business.

#Jungle: A name used in some townships as a synonym for a knife (Thugs carried knives as weapons)

#Four-plus-one: A name given to private cars converted into taxis. They carry four passengers plus a driver, hence the name.

Deon Simphiwe Skade ©
Apr 2010

Lost in translation: we were talking about religion

A friend of mine from the Democratic Republic of Congo, *Tony; a humble and well travelled man engaged me in religious matters in one recent evening at around seven. No, I led him to that end in which he participated with verve. With him being a Muslim and me being a man who believes in the Lord without any membership to any fraternity to confirm such, did not pose any threat of a heated exchange of views on our respective beliefs as one would imagine these types of engagements do. I suppose we bear similar traits where tolerance and empathy are concerned to name but a few.

Before I can relate the story of our religious conversation, let me reveal something about my friend. *Tony lived an extremely eventful life characterized by many heart-shattering incidents. He was once a refugee, a child soldier, a rebel and several other lives which circumstances demand of people at times. The things he's seen with his own eyes would usher in a bout of perpetual nightmares for other souls. These stories would have some people hate as a means of survival, a means to deal with the past by holding on to hostile sentiments about earlier events. But my friend, from whom I'm learning a great deal about life in some parts of Africa is not like that. His passion for life elevates him above all the negative and acidic emotions which would otherwise corrode his spirit from within.

*Tony is able to speak fluently in at least ten languages from different parts of Africa; a great advantage if I may point out. He runs a small shop where he sells items you’d find in a convenient shop. Our conversation, we conducted between brief and far in between breaks caused by his customers while his younger brother sat in the shop not bothered by our conversation and the seldom patrons who came by for one thing or another.

During our conversation, he spoke at length about the Quaran - I let him be. He straddled between English and Arabic in an attempt of explaining the contents of the ‘holy book’ as he enthusiastically referred to it. In his enthused talk, he allowed long pauses to break down the segments of information he was sharing with me; it appeared he had a lot to share with me. I suppose also, the disparities and discrepancies which existed in the two books of reference we were dealing with only widened the plain we had to walk over in understanding some teachings and compare notes.

I stood there enjoying every moment of his talk while taking mental notes of many things around. For one, I was amazed at the levels of variation in the information between religions which are following one source of life. I was also fascinated at the way his face changed form when the conversation intensified. I suppose this happened where he felt the talk needed to assume a very formal air as the subject’s elements became very critical, where some laws ought to be proclaimed strongly. Whenever he got into those elements I presumed were critical, his eyes seemed to light with caution. He would use less of his hands and assume an authoritative face. At this point I would see his determination to uphold the teachings of the Quaran.

In between talking in English and Arabic in our comparing of notes, I could see the amount of effort he made use of in maintaining his order and articulation. I could see him translate messages he wanted to convey from Arabic to English in his mind with a painstaking effort; those pauses were purposeful and served him a generous deal of help in making sense.

At this point, one patron came by to enquire about time which inevitably broke our conversation again. *Tony looked behind him to talk to his brother who was fiddling with a Personal Computer, to enquire about time on his patron's behalf. He spoke in a language I could not understand and the response also came in such a language. After this, he looked at his patron who appeared to have just woken up from a long sleep, probably prolonged by alcohol he appeared to have drank earlier and said confidently:

‘It is seven minutes past one'

The patron thanked him and walked away. Something was terribly wrong.
*Tony and I burst out laughing. We laughed like thunder when it suggests it would rain soon - an explosion of laughter.
While laughing, *Tony explained that he translated what his brother told him about time to his patron in exactly the same manner as they would say it in their language. We both laughed out more at how translation could go horribly wrong. In addition to this, we were laughing at the fellow who took ‘seven minutes past one’ as a valid time without any questions. I suspected, and I was certain that Tony suspected the same, that his patron may have had an awful lot to drink earlier not to even have realized that it was in fact one minute past seven in the evening.

This incident reminded me of the courts of law where people's fates are decided on what they say and how that is being communicated by translators in cases which make use of such means to discuss a matter. In some instances, like the one I will mention shortly, through the help of the interpreter, people’s utterances may be incorrectly translated yielding a terrible and regrettable consequence.

I went to the Cape Magistrates Court once, just to remind myself of the procedure in the court of laws. Fortunately, I sat in one of those ‘petty crime’ cases where the State leads evidence on behalf of the victim – citation for these cases often read State vs. Accused.

In this particular one, a young woman was giving evidence against a fellow who had a phuzaface, who stood clumsily in the dock. Apart from the facial expression he wore, maybe forced by the prevailing circumstances, I pitied him and empathized with his unenviable position.

Evidence was lead by a stern lady whose knowledge of the criminal procedure was evident in her confident and articulate questioning. To assist her in this quest where language was concerned, was another lady who translated the Prosecutor's questions to the accused in Afrikaans and his responses to the Prosecutor and the court in general in English – someone would have branded the translation from Afrikaans to English as done in ‘broken English’, to give you an idea of its nature. It was frightening to learn of the distortions she rendered on the accused responses. And to my relief and joy, the Magistrate cautioned her against such misrepresentation of facts. I did not sit long in the gallery as I had to go somewhere, but learnt before my departure that the fellow in the dock was accused of snatching the witness’ purse.

My point is this: a person's fate can easily be decided by terrible translation as in the incident of the court case above. Filters in our cultural background, education, religion, and many others, allow us to receive information in the manner we want which could easily be catastrophic – those who know such phenomenon refer to this as selective perception.

In other instances, like in Tony's friend's reaction, it may be innocuously amusing. Nonetheless, we're people who often get lost in translation.

Foot notes:

* means not his real name.
Phuzaface means someone whose face has lost its glow due to excessive drinking, thus look like they are drunk when they are not; it becomes a permanent look for as long as the individual drinks excessively.

Deon Simphiwe Skade (C)
Apr 2010

Are these things as definite?

He wore his wit blue. It felt like the cold water of the Atlantic Ocean when it changes the skin to the chicken type. If you had been in Cape Town and had the privilege of swimming in two oceans that demarcate Mother City’s shores from the life in the sea, you'd probably know of the variations of water temperature in the Indian and Atlantic oceans.


This blue wit he wears today, this man who always has me in stitches as a consequence of his tongue, doesn't suggests that he's devoid of any anecdotes or light and amusing elements of life. It is just that he’s been too sombre with his words, which would otherwise be hilarious and thought-provoking. But again, he's allowed this state of dryness which seems like it is of his own doing.


Perhaps it's my mood as well. I'm not radiating with light and my stiffened brow doesn’t help the situation very much.
I sincerely don’t know what it is with him today. But it is something, I know. Does nothing ever become something? Maybe nothing is never something; we give these things names, these behaviours, demeanours and all the things of this world - we name and define, that’s what we do.


I cannot escape the wonder I have over this man’s wit that has gone blue and cold today. I cannot see it as anything else? Maybe I should not have made any benchmarks. Even before then, I suspect I may have incorrectly defined and named his character as it with us people to name and identify. Perhaps that’s why everything after that first moment when I encountered his wit and saw it as fresh; I shouldn’t have boxed it because I see him in a different light now.


Perhaps as a people, as threads that hold all our greatness together, need to be careful of how and what we give names to and define. We set precedents that only build false benchmarks in many instances. Before we came to know, little was defined and named. And our creations as creative beings, only meant we needed to name and define our creations, our emotions, our thoughts, our traits and things of this world as we have built it thus far.


Deon Simphiwe Skade (C)
Apr 2010

The spirit of Gerard Sekoto

My attempt in drawing the portrait of the late Gerard Sekoto, borrowing from a photo taken in his younger days, is as depicted above. This exercise was my way of conveying gratitude to him for being one of the pioneers of art in South Africa and for creating such beautiful work. The words below are directed at his spirit which I believe is keeping a watchful eye over the land of his birth:
Gerard, know that in spite leaving South African during your prime, your achievements as the child of this soil stand eminently. I admire your courage and endurance in dealing with being away for so many years. Those who know say such circumstances break people’s spirits.

I remember reading about your troubles in Paris when you first got there. You were said to be very lonely and homesick. Dr Wally Serote, your cousin whose contribution to this world is also incredible, made me laugh greatly in one documentary I watched when he said you would often ask him about African women when he visited you in France, a clear indication that you had missed Africa. Alone with a few friends for company in a foreign land, you managed to hold on to your artistic tool and its language even though the Parisian influence was around you, threatening to envelope you into the European culture. Instead of losing your heritage, you continued splashing your canvases with the ever bright and rich colours albeit having experimented with other styles whose colours were not what you had been reflecting before your Paris’ era. These are colours which kept your paintings colourful and intense with emotions. Your language was profound.
If I were in your shoes, I may have possibly been broken by the feeling of nostalgia and homesickness. But you did not break. Contrary, you made the best of your circumstances and that is survival, at least one element of it. It comes in many forms, this survival business we adopt trying to make sense of life in the face of terrible realities.

It is mentioned that when Biko died you were badly affected by his passing that you struggled to paint at times. Perhaps you knew of the amount of hope he carried bravely on his shoulders in perilous and treacherous circumstances. You being his senior, one thinks about the belief you may have had in such an intelligent and assertive life Biko was – may his awesome soul rest in peace.
Ntatemoholo Gerard, as I should call you, let your spirit I'm addressing read these words out loud for those on the other side to hear of your times and contribution. Let them give a toast in your honour. For the living, those who may not quite know about the role you played, guide them to your life through the biography written by Professor Chabani Manganyi called ‘I Am an African: The Life and Times of Gerard Sekoto.’ You have paved the way for many in the arts (it is known just how diverse the artists world is), thus I express appreciation for your role in that I appreciate the value of expression in every artistic form i.e. writing, photography, music, painting, etcetera.
I had embraced the need to write that I had been sharpening to this day. I wish to do the same for drawing and painting. Something had chased my creative pulse on this front away into the air. But I will look for it and find it as easily as the air we breathe. And once found, I will immerse myself in painting and drawing like I had done in the past.

Prohibit your spirit from staying away from those who need to better the arts. Inspire them through and let them amplify the role of the arts. Perhaps artists should become cabinet members, maybe the entire government system. Yes, the entire government system should be made up of all artists singing, painting and creating masterpieces all the way to social commentary that we so earnestly need; that stability and direction that will perhaps be better than any time of government.

Deon Simphiwe Skade (C)
Apr 2010

The vastness of the Universe

Selective reading
inevitably
equates
to
selective
perception.
How
does
one
read
all
there
is
when
the
universe
is
so
vast?

Remembering fela Anikulapo Kuti

The bass throbs like a thunderous thud, almost brooding. Its sound paces between notes with controlled temper. I can see in its colours walking over the vastness of the musical canvas, applying strokes not too broad nor too bright - but definite and precise, while the drums trail behind keeping enough pace not to be seen as dominant contributor of the masterpiece in the making. They merely help map out the direction and style of the art at play.

Behind, almost alongside these expressions comes a shrilling voice of percussions. They rattle and tinkle in many dialects, which do not break the concord maturing from the contributors of this art. A coy synthesizer tiptoes around this gathering of harmony, hoping not to be muffled by the voices joining in song. But its sleek and melodic voice soon becomes audible with an unmistakable electric feel, also adding to the fray. Its presence only adds depth in this creation sombre with feeling we don’t know, at least at that point.
A string voice also joins in; electric string strumming with excitement.

The sound is united in a contemplative rendition and evokes the same thought-focus from the audience. This effect is written on the many faces of the Shrine; all seated and not by choice but by request from the president of The Shrine.
It's a spiritual journey, an Underground Spiritual Game - a preparation for something bigger and more powerful than any show one has ever seen.

The throbbing, with its apparent loyalty and determination, thuds on holding every other element together. Percussions, many of them tread along affirming the same commitment but at the same careful not to outdo anyone - the hierarchy is distinctive.
The drums know this all too well too. It seems only natural; orderly things - biological.
While captivated by this relationship and rendition, a horn burps as if to express a need to say something and at the same time hesitant. And then it murmurs for a short while. Eventually, it yells unrestrained leading all which preceded its entry on the canvas, commanding a following. It wails melancholic sentiments; abrasively; contemplatively. And it stretches and stretches as if forever with loud notes.
Then a beautiful chorus of young female voices emit voices wearing tender but brave sentiments.They sing about a teacher who should not teach nonsense in elegant harmony.
This is how I imagine Fela Anikulapo Kuti’s shows penned out at The Shrine.
Long live Fela, long live the Black President!

Deon Simphiwe Skade ©