The Stench of death

Maybe we must start buying each other tombstones as Christmas gifts or even on Birthdays just so we all get to understand that we will some day leave this world. Death of our loved ones traumatise us forever. Sometimes even those who left us long go still have a massive impact on the lives we live today. The Holocaust, Sharpeville Massacre, the Iraqi War, the famine that plagued Ethoipia and Somalia. They changed the coure of many lives. We still commemorate the Rwanda genocide. Death has an enormous impact on all of us. It is still difficult to see it as part of life I'm sure not just for me, but for many others too. 

The passing of TV personality Vuyo Mbuli, was a serious wake up call for me. It was more of a text message from the universe. I had forgotten that we are not immortal. I had abandoned my mission to make a difference, to make a mark and embrace good old life. I was absorbed in the petty matters of the heart. Every spare second I had was spent on moping around, making excuses and feeling sorry for myself. I was blind to see the opportunities that Were just a stone-throw away. Days would go by without accomplishing a thing. Not even put a smile on someone else. I wanted great things that I did not work for. If ever I was caught solving problems, they wouldn't be my own. No peace of mind. 

I look at my elderly parents with a different eye now. I acknowledge that they will not be here with us forever. But that doesn't drive me into a depression state. It just helps me appreciate them more. Death has ironically become a life's lesson. 

My Tribute to Vuyo Mbuli (14 May 1967 to 18 May 2013)

Today we woke up of news that renowned broadcaster, Vuyo Mbuli died of a heart attack while watching a rugby match in Bloemfontein. To me, it was like I just lost a family member. His larger than life personality was on my TV screen every morning. It became a daily ritual to hear him deliver news before we go to school. Then I grew up, it became every morning before I go to work. Vuyo Mbuli, delivering news in the most unconventional way. There are those who were lucky enough to have had Vuyo say "O bosso wena" to them. This was an accolade to any extraordinary South African interviewed by Vuyo Mbuli. 

Anybody  who didn't know President Jacob Zuma's middle name Gedleyihlekisa, now knows because Vuyo always made it his mission to name him in full in all his bulletins. He did the same for Thabo Mvuyelwa Mbeki. It can be said that the 46-year-old TV personality was patriotic and took pride being a South African journalist, telling stories in ways that South Africans would find easy to consume. 

I did not know Vuyo personally, but when I worked at the SABC, still fresh from training to become a Sangoma. He saw me in my attire and beads, he made feel even more at home. Greeted me with respect and commended me for heeding a call that not so many in the "corporate world" would be proud to display. I thanked him with tears in my eyes. From that day when I met him on the SABC coridors we would greet and have small talk. He was a people's person. The security personnel at the SABC loved him. He would be late for make-up, held up downstaris chatting about soccer over the weekend. He could converse with anyone and would attempt speaking any South African language.

He loved saying Mintiro ya vulavula, that's Xitsonga for actions speak louder than words. His actions will be a legacy left for all of us to reflect and choose our own course. Some of his actions reported in the media were not pleasing. He made mistakes like all of us. Although the media would not tell us if he made up for his errors. The little I know is that he remained a committed father to his children. A few days ago I retweeted his tweet saying he was watching his child play soccer. A moment he clearly enjoyed. 

Vuyo Mbuli, rest in peace my brother. South Africa is poorer without you. 

Same story different angle

"You are a sangoma, gay, black and outspoken. That's reason enough for you to write a book chomie". That's one quote I heard from six different people in my big circle of good friends. I always LOL or just dismiss the idea. Being black was something out of hands, I had nothing to do with it. Although we all know that in this country, the colour ofmone's skin does help people make connclusions about what you could be all about. I make racial jokes all the time with my colleagues and friends. I think for me it's a way of recovering from the trauma. Letting go of being bitter and becoming a better human being. Like many black countrymen, I bear the scars of being called a kaffir and made to feel undeserving of my achievements by white schoolmates. Fought my battles and won them. Being black and gay meant that I had to work harder than black straight boys. Most of them were submissive to the white boys club and even spoke Afrikaans to please them. I was defiant. I am almost 30 years old now. I have a deent job and well educated. But I still find myself dealing with prejudice veiled with a fake smile. Prejudice on many different levels. When I went tomrenew my gym contract, the sales consultant asked me if my wife wouldn't be keen on joining me to gym. A wedding band on your left finger registers you as a straight man, married with children. The trouble of explaining that I am married to another man irritates more than it pains me. We have too many problems in this country. 

The stench of poverty lingers everywhere you go. And so I remind myself that last thing on people's minds is whether I am gay or not. The very same poverty, comes from the same place as the prejudice we experience almost on a daily basis. Our men are imasculated by poverty and exclusion from the economy that benefits only a few. And because heterosexism is our way of life, men are expected to fend for the women and children. Sucessful women are prejudiced. Almost taboo. I concluded that poverty breeds chauvinism and is also a roadblock for a new way of thinking. So, when heterosexism reigns in our community, do you still find it shocking that a lesbian woman is raped, mutilated and murdered? She does not fit in with what is expected of us all by society norms.

 When I heeded the call to become a Sangoma, I often found myself at crossroads. Many times, I would have to choose between becoming an activist first or a healer first. But I always remember that Samgomas have to play the role of a community builder. Despite being demonised by Christian doctrine, African traditional healing has millions and millions of subscibers. When a family discovers that they cannot bear children. The usual first port of call for divine intervention would be with a Sangoma. It pains me how women would always take the blame for not being able bear children. Perhaps that is how patriarchy programmed us all. The man being "the head ofnthe family" women often plead woth me not to tell their husbands they consulted without them. Women are delegated to the kitchen and to mind children. Even when it is know that women are often emotionally matured. There are credentials far more than maturity that should be reason enough for women to lead. My spirituality has been the referee in all my battles with tradition and custom that bother me. Culture has to evolve. But I bargain with the grandmothers. My ancestors.