Wena

Ntsiki Mazwai

• Publisher: African Perspectives Publishing
• Year: 2011
• ISBN:
  9780992187552
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Poesia africana

The collection of poems is an intriguing reflection of the sometimes torturous evolution of inner self which so many South Africans face as they struggle to find who they are in a multicultural society that espouses the values of traditional culture while reaching for the promise of a global community. Thus the blend of Xhosa and English as Ntsiki strives to merge her modern views with cultural roots. She feels strongly the need to reclaim her culture and language and blend them within the context of a cosmopolitan society. She captures the vibe and energy of young South Africa and its blossoming as well as its quandaries. Ntsiki does not hesitate to deal with controversial and painful issues, such as rape, and her work challenges the reader to stop and think, really think. The quest for self expression and self-understanding echoes throughout the book and through it, she exhorts the reader to have the courage to explore and understand himself. Underlying many poems is the unspoken but burning desire that, by telling the truth, she will create possibilities for others to do the same. In many ways, Wena is a celebration of life. The poems brim over with Ntsikis own desire to drink to the full and then go out there and pour love and life out into the world. The manner in which she distills meaning and value from the negative is perhaps best expressed in her own words, from the poem, I choose life:

My generation

I was born and raised koKasi.

Kasi life, Kasi parents, magwinya, fish and chips

just like any kid in the township.

English was TV

attempted islungu twangs

I speaked de langwage .

Seven years old at white schools

Igama lami.

mutated

from Nontsikelelo to Nonsiki to Nsik, to Seeki.

How do I even spell that?

I had to fit in.

My own people wondered

at this name with no meaning:

pronunciation tested friendship.

Black in my world

someone had to teach me what Nontsikelelo

meant: “The mother of blessings”

I remained

an ignorant black, a stupid black,

who-did-not-speak-English black.

you could even tell apart blacks who spoke English

from the masses of blacks

They dressed fine.

I did not want to be seen

as a shady black

At primary school

I was busy being a better black

I did not play diketo

Just teddy bears and Barbie dolls

fronted like I didn’t know

masihlalisane 4-4.

I fitted in.

Embarrassed to be seen in a Golf

My little brother hides under the bonnet

When I drop him at school

He hopes to elude

eyes of rich kids who are cool

Glass was between black and white worlds.

We didn’t discuss politics or race.

In primary school we pretended

At high school we separated

Grade 3 class:

Whose fault was the mess?

Who stole the land?

Who got the goodies?

Sang the national anthem discordantly

Who has a silver spoon in their mouth?

How can I love you?

Lost we tried to find each other, our generation.

Reached high school, hiding behind makeup to mask my identity.

Asked: “So: what’s your father the boss of?”

When puberty hit

Shipped to Queenstown, Ekomani.

Yah neh, my father’s bright idea.

From Jozi to reality.

City girl tangled in grass

Black was the majority.

To raw Xhosa girls.

I spoke funny

In no time at all

they straightened me out

My mother tongue is explicit

with not much room for diplomacy

In the land of the Xhosanostra

there was no place for an English Xhosa girl to hide.

It’s not cool

I had been brainwashed.

It’s not cool to not know your own language.

My language is who I am.

Language is who you are.

What is the price of fitting in?

I sit at a dinner table

I am mgqusho

I am papa

Sent back to a private girls’ high school

I learnt my place

How it always changed.

I watched the elite surrounding me

money ate like acid

Changed faces.

What was the struggle?

Black economic empowerment dreams

broke families

Wealth divided

Those you love from those you are loyal to

Generation X with

Heartbreaking family histories

survival stories form every face.

Such great expectations.

Yet freedom blessings fall like rain.

My university daze:

My mother’s family was poor.

My father’s family was rich among poor.

Too old for pocket money

Too young for a job

But I knew I had a purpose

I had leant the ways of the West

finally reached a time when

I wanted to ...