Words that mattered.
BY NOAH SWINNEY
Althusser’s slip-slops hit against his heels
In time to the music in his ears:
Hey, hey, you, you! I don’t like your girlfriend!
He hums along. Looks around—
Gives a little skip. A slop falls off.
*This poem refers to the Fake Avril Lavigne conspiracy theory. The line ‘Hey, hey, you, you! I don’t like your girlfriend!’ is the chorus from Lavigne’s single, Girlfriend.
BY MOAGI MASIKE
The pozi shack,
It stands near the tuck shop,
Simple as it is
Not too tall,
It boasts it’s medium-height,
A worn and rustic beauty
It has a chimney,
And two windows with cardboards as
The window panes and a house number
On the old door
The red stoep, like a white lady’s lips,
Shines from a distance,
Mama had polished it before we opened
Our eyes in the morning
Food retailer catalogues clinging to the wall,
Buckets filled with overflowing water
And a candle is on the rickety table,
And my deceased father’s chair still
Standing there
Our pozi shack,
Built tough by rough, overworked hands
Of half-drunk men, chatting about
Football and “tarven stories” in the heat
I loved it on rainy days,
As the raindrops landed on the rooftop,
I listened to the pitter-patter of the
Raindrops and became sleepier by the
Minute
BY KAY UGWUEDE
My mother once had a golden bracelet.
It became mine in the manner that things mothers own
become their daughters’.
Far away from home it’ll become a relic,
a memory of Sunday mornings,
the smell of warm milk,
of Sunday bests off the bottom of my mother’s brown trunk.
The smell of newness in the red earth.
Of my father’s cologne.
The drives to Sunday morning masses in his grey Peugeot.
A million laughters, late night stories and Amens.
Preliminary Injury
The screaming at the playground
goes on too long and we run to see
it’s a girl, nine or ten, who’s banged
her head on an upright. Her mother
comes, so we back off, but the girl
doesn’t stop, till gradually we can
see she’s crying for more than her
ear, and the air and the metal and
the bare ground and the rest of us
absorb her grief or bereavement
or unpacked pain and we wonder
if she’s an artist still wrapped up
in herself, and how and when
she’ll know. Or maybe she can’t
know. Or maybe they beat her
at home and the most we can do
is stay where we are to hear her
and afterward, help her lash
out as long as she likes by
letting her scream on this page.
Heatscape
We live near thirteen lakes
with a water table so high
that our cellar is usually wet
but after two months with no
rain our lawn has gone yellow
with islands of chicory green
and blue, purple and grown
so strong in the heat that dry
as we are, we hesitate to take
them down and in fact wonder
whether we should shear
any green life gone at all.
As the aftershocks of #MeToo continue to reverberate around the world, ALEXANDER MATTHEWS reflects on the role of social media and publishing in the sharing of women’s stories.
Days after revelations that movie mogul Harvey Weinstein had sexually preyed on dozens of women, actress Alyssa Milano invited women to respond with “Me too” if they had ever experienced sexual harassment or assault. Respond they certainly did. According to The Guardian, #MeToo was shared nearly a million times in 48 hours on Twitter while there were more than 12m comments and reactions to the hashtag on Facebook in 24 hours.
The viral campaign not only highlighted the devastating ubiquity of inappropriate – and in many cases downright predatory – behaviour towards women. It also illustrated how social media can be powerful platforms to share stories, giving much-needed oxygen to previously-hidden narratives, and becoming catalysts for listening and support among those affected as well as their friends, families and colleagues.
The sharing of these stories have emboldened many women who – fearing indifference, recrimination or retribution – had remained silent until now. New allegations of sexual misconduct have been levelled against a number of MPs and ministers in the UK, for example.
As I followed the aftershocks of #MeToo reverberating around the world, I started thinking about home. South Africa has a long, inglorious history of silencing and marginalising women. Sexual violence remains rampant, with many perpetrators going unpunished.
While fiction, memoir and poetry don’t have the power to stop the violence or destroy a patriarchy that cuts across race, class and culture, these modes of storytelling can, however, inspire change and connection and facilitate catharsis, healing and solidarity.
Recognising this, in 2015 radio presenter Nancy Richards established a dedicated Women’s Library in Cape Town through the NGO she founded, Women’s Zone. In addition to more than 1000 books (everything from self-help to fiction), the space at Artscape hosts panels, launches and workshops.
Richards says, “Not every woman is born to write a book, but every woman has a story. Our aim is to encourage as many as possible to share her story, through workshops or just by listening – for her own, or the benefit of others who may relate, learn and grow from it. If it gets written we will celebrate it. If it gets published we will launch it. We will always welcome it onto our shelves.”
A decade ago, Colleen Higgs bravely launched a woman-focused publishing press. Since then, Modjaji Books has published 16 short story collections, 21 novels, and 41 books of poetry – ushering new voices into the public consciousness – often books that mainstream publishers have deemed too risky to take on.
Encouragingly, those mainstream publishers appear to have increasingly diverse lists. Some of the most buzzed-about books of the year were by women writers of colour – and dealt with gender issues head-on. I’m thinking of the memoirs by writer/activist Sisonke Msimang (Always Another Country) and outspoken feminist academic Pumla Dineo Gqola (Reflecting Rogue). I’m thinking of Kwezi, Redi Tlhabi’s heartbreaking account of the woman who accused our president of raping her. And I’m thinking of Business Day journalist Rehana Rossouw’s second novel, New Times.
New Times is about a female journalist in Cape Town at the dawn of our democracy. When Rossouw was asked at her recent launch why she had chosen fiction to explore this epoch instead of memoir (after all, she was a journalist in the same place at the same time) she said: “The stories we don’t write are always more interesting than the ones we do.”
She explained that – paradoxically – writing fiction gave her the freedom to write the truth.
The risks of speaking out remain too great for some women, particularly when their abusers marshal considerable power and influence (as they often tend to). I was reminded of this when I discovered that a friend of mine had walked out of her high-powered job at a major brand because she could no longer bear being sexually harassed by her boss. She was advised to sign the nondisclosure agreement and accept the hush money she was offered – because her lawyer assured her that the company’s all-powerful legal department would crush her if she didn’t. She could see what lay ahead – an exhausting lengthy legal battle, her reputation shattered, with scant support from those in her industry with whom a relationship with this brand is more important than sticking up for what is right.
One day I hope she writes a novel about it. Because we need constant reminding of what we might know but choose to ignore: that in the age of equal rights, misogyny is alive and well. It might be more sophisticated and less obvious – but through bullying, manipulation, cover-ups and collusion – it is rife. Shining a light on it won’t make it disappear, but it will contribute to the groundswell of desperately needed change, as we work towards building a truly non-sexist society.
Visit www.womanzonect.com to find out more about the Women’s Library Cape Town.
This column first appeared in WANTED magazine.
AERODROME and MASALA DOSA invite you to join Ishay Govender-Ypma for an intimate three-course lunch as she chats with Ming-Cheau Lin about her book CURRY: Stories & Recipes Across South Africa.
When: 12.30, Saturday 3 February (the conversation begins at 13.00 sharp)
Where: Masala Dosa – 167 Long Street, Cape Town
Tickets: R170 (vegetarian option) | R185 (meat option)
Price is for a three-course meal. Drinks will be available at an extra cost.
Booking is essential as seating is limited to 30 people.
How to book:
1. Email riyaz@masaladosa.co.za with the number of guests and their dietary preferences.
2. You will then be supplied with the restaurant’s banking details.
3. Make an EFT, and email proof of payment to secure your booking.
Books will be available for purchase.
About the author:
Ishay Govender-Ypma is a freelance travel, food and culture journalist and writer (former lawyer). She focuses on stories that delve into the human interest, grit and quirk of a place. Her research-based heritage book Curry: Stories & Recipes Across South Africa (Human & Rousseau) launched last year and has been selected the winner in two categories to represent South Africa, including Best Book Overall, at the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards, May 2018. Govender-Ypma’s journalism has appeared in many local and international publications, including National Geographic, Sunday Times Travel magazine (UK) and SAA’s inflight magazine Sawubona. Food and the Fabulous is her own food and travel website. She was selected by the Mail & Guardian as one of their 200 Top Young South Africans for 2014, for contributions to media.
Watching birds
There are those times when
my son and I stand by the window
and look outside, brief moments
when we look out the window
and we are silent. Moments
when neither of us speak, when
we are not working or playing
or watching TV or arguing, moments
when we do not use words,
but just stand in that dumbed silence
seeing the colours of blue, dull
brown, yellow, glossy black, the jumping
around on the lawn, the sudden wingspread
and flight up into the sky with ease
that we can never reach. We watch all
this, saying nothing. We stand
next to each other in the room
looking out the window
in silence, watching birds.
Metaphysics
Hot day, growing hotter.
Poetry won’t come.
War is coming in the Middle East,
and you in blue skirt
and bare feet
bringing me water. Sweat
on your dark eyelids,
glistening in the solid heat.
Trends
Trends will come and go,
but the washing never ends.
BY CRAIG O’FLAHERTY
The dust road ahead
cuts dead straight
through the stony
semi-desert folds,
as if someone’s drawn it
from above.
To one side I see a
a small lit plaas window
winking in the darkness,
emboldened by the whistle
of a burnt kettle
sitting on its blue
ring of fire,
calling out into
the starlit cold.
BY SAALEHA IDREES BAMJEE
Turmeric persistence.
The tenacity from garlic skin
but never the vengeance of chilli haunting fingers.
Beets teach passion.
For tenderness, heat low, go slow.
Taste after each addition.
Onions soften in hot oil. This is one way to build a foundation.
If you’ve over-salted, add extra potatoes for compromise.
When the toffee looks like it’s failing,
stir and stir and stir.
It will all come together.
BY KHANYA MTSHALI
I saw a woman drop a briefcase holding her life together
She hissed at the contents on the floor
Wished they would pick themselves up
And return to where they belonged.
The floor broke itself open,
swallowed the briefcase whole.
The woman collapsed
so the floor could caress her body.
She turned on her belly
Clicked her back
Banged her head
And waited for the floor to disappear.
AERODROME 