HERITAGE DAY

Last week I celebrated Heritage Day with a difference. Originally Heritage Day meant a day off from work for me to do chores, shopping or relaxing. Usually there was a braai involved, as many South Africans tend to naturally look for any excuse to make a fire and braai in the outdoors. Heritage Day evolved into National Braai Day for the nation as most city people of all colours, found themselves doing the same. A fire, a braai and a beer in your hand pretty much sums up most South Africans I think.

This year was different. Living in rural Transkei and involved in education, we were invited to Isolomzi SSS Heritage Day celebrations and for the first time, I experienced the true meaning of Heritage Day. The day was extra special because Rondebosch Boys High School had spent the week on an outreach programme, where their top Grade 12 students, led by the head of the maths department, who had initiated the programme, were giving maths tuition to Isolomzi Grade 12’s in preparation for their final exams. Our Qolora Education Centre works closely with Isolomzi SSS after identifying this poor, yet very exceptional school in our rural area.

Theo and I arrived at the school and we were ceremoniously waved in by a group of women dressed in traditional Xhosa outfits, ululating, singing and dancing. I felt special in my improvised version of a traditional Xhosa outfit and wore as many beads as I had. Trying to rustle up a kappie, a pair of veldskoen and a voorskoot to represent my mixed English and Afrikaans heritage would have been difficult but anyway, it was fun dressing in Xhosa culture instead. We brought food to represent our heritage and Theo’s wasgoedbondeltjies and sweetcorn fritters were placed in the centre of the group for everyone to see, while he was asked to explain the recipes. Everyone was intrigued by the fact that Theo had cooked it and not me, and they loved the concept of “washing bundles”. Some Xhosa traditional food was brought forward and explanations were done for us before we moved to an area where music played for people to dance and mingle. Later we were all seated and the festivities of traditional dancing and praise singing were performed by Isolomzi SSS students. Rondebosch Boys hauled out their guitars and a Jembe drum and wowed the crowd with a few songs of their own. A Xhosa woman took the floor and explained a little about their background and I was please to hear her announce that these days, Xhosa people were buying too much food as apposed to in the old days when they grew their own food and had fewer sicknesses. Gifts and thank you speeches were given and finally a group, lead by the headman showed us their customary dance performed when young initiates return from initiation rituals. The dance included singing, feet shuffling and a sort of hissing sound which the headman directed. I was captivated by the day’s entertainment and finally we all moved into a beautifully decorated tent where the food was laid out with name tags in English and isiXhosa. Everyone in the village had brought food to share and seeing Ubuntu work and being involved in it, was a fantastic experience. I had no idea that mielies could be cooked in so many different ways, nor did I realize that home made ginger beer is also a traditional Xhosa drink.

Spending Heritage Day around a braai is great, but sharing the day with people of different cultural backgrounds which make up our unique rainbow nation, making South Africa a special place, is the way to bring the country together. Embracing these different cultures and proudly showing the world our wonderful heritage is a positive step which each individual can do. By learning about your neighbours and having some insight into their background can only result in better relations I think.

Daars a hoener wat a eier nie kan lê.

Daars a hoener wat a eier nie kan lê.


Theo’s rooster is getting cock sure of himself. About a month ago, we acquired 2 hens and a cock. During the day the little black hens walk around pecking at things on the ground and chasing each other around under the assumption that anything the other one finds must be worth stealing. The rooster, now that he has settled, spends his time trying to cross our doors’ threshold. He seems to think we have bugs inside and he is determined to come in and find out where we keep our factory of dung beetles who industriously roll their balls crisscrossing our rondavel floor. Theo has taken to hiding behind the door with a dishtowel and when the rooster ventures too near, he jumps out of his hiding place to scare him away. I don’t keep score. Initially we weren’t sure if these fluffy black jobbies were hens or cocks since they showed the beginning signs of a growth thingie on their heads like that useless flappy thing cocks have. A month down the track and now it’s easy to see that they definitely are hens by the way they daintily dart around and they take their dust baths more femininely than the rooster. At night, the three sleep in a huge container which is a bit of a metal eye sore outside our door. Also, it has a toxic sign stuck on the outside. I don’t know what it was once upon a time used for but if we end up having green eggs with ham for breakfast then I guess there was a reason for the toxic sign. Anyway, about a week ago, the cock crowed for the first time. He was inside the container at the time and his crowing echoed extra loud. When Theo opened up to let them out, Mr Rooster strutted around, puffed up like some bigshot with a torch in his pocket. A bit like the Xhosa boys around here, who apparently after initiation suddenly think they are men and act all windgat. Well I s’pose if I survived a stunt in a hut with nothing but a blanket and a piece of dry bread while nursing my injured chopped penis I’d probably also feel I had the right to stick out my chest afterwards. The whole initiation thing is a touchy subject actually. It’s probably one of the few customs that are still a very important part of any teenage boy’s life especially here in the rural community. The boys must go through it to be recognised by the community as a man otherwise they will never command respect or find a wife. The way it interferes with school education is a big problem (besides the whole issue of it being done under unclinical conditions which could lead to fatal infections or Aids from using the same blade). The ritual usually takes place in December when a bunch of school boys go off for their “manhood training”. It is such a big buildup in their lives that it carries much more weight than year end exams at school. I’ve heard talk of fighting between the boys at this time as they suddenly feel the urge to display their manhood and puff up like Theo’s rooster.

The initiation is secretive to outsiders especially to women so I haven’t exactly been able to go up to any male students and together with a couple of hand signs thrown in to explain my English say “howzit man, so are you looking forward to your circumcision?”

During their stay at the special hut, the umkhwetha (the person who trains them) teaches the initiates about the responsibilities of becoming a man and once they have passed the test, they eat meat and go home men, free from their mothers’ apron strings. I understand their training is quite intense and the painted initiatives get little food and less sleep since they have to make sure that the fire burns throughout the night. I’ve also read that they shave their heads and that the hair gets burnt or buried in case a bird uses it to build a nest which is guaranteed to make you go mad. (I think the hair bit is relevant to anyone getting a haircut actually.) At the Arts and Culture Festival, a teacher told me that the boys who were dancing did similar dancing during the ritual and also that many mothers were unhappy that their boys had become disrespectful towards them after going through their rites and in fact came home smokers and drinkers. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find out more about this passage of rites the longer we stay here.

In the meantime, Theo’s rooster is getting too big for his hormonal boots. Just because the neighbouring roosters are answering his calls these days, without him having to step into his “auditorium” container for special effects, he now thinks he is entitled to jump the little fluffy hens who squeal with fright and try to run away. They are too frightened to dip their heads to eat when he’s around since it makes their bums stick up in the air like an invitation flag. I’ve noticed that they often stand with their backsides up against the wall while chewing the cud. If the rooster keeps this up I’ll send him with the next group of boys to the grass hut so that he can be trimmed down to size or mind you he’ll probably get cooked.

Those poor hens are in for a bum deal so I hope they figure out the pecking order to survive Cocky Locky’s rites.