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Franschhoek, Moshoeshoe & Pan-Africanism

I met PJ Mofokeng in Franschhoek, Western Cape. PJ took up space. He was loud, in the sense of a man who knows for sure he is speaking the truth. He told me about his publishing outfit Geko, which published Sabata-mpho Mokae’s Dikeledi, a book written in Setswana and which traveled far even without an English translation. I would later be on a panel with PJ, where he introduced himself in Sesotho, in an earth-shaking fashion that elicited ululations from the crowd. Energies were immediately lifted. You couldn’t help being present. Now, all writers loved hanging out at Elephant & Barrel. To reach it, you had to tunnel between a stretch of houses that looked cinematic with their perfect hues of blue, green and white. There was the option of staying at the Green Room, where you could drink all the wine they wished. But if you wanted an ‘escape’ you went to Elephant & Barrel, where you sat on hardwood benches, drank Windhoek Lager and Carling Black, as you listened to live bands playing Alternative Rock. We all flocked here at night, spicing our animated conversations with alcohol and smoke. The very first evening, PJ Mofokeng and I were among the last to leave. We had talked and talked and time just flew by. As we stepped out, I realized that it was difficult to trace my house at 32 Van Wyk Street. So PJ accompanied me as I searched. Now, Franschhoek gleams during the day, with grand houses arranged better than Hollywood facades. But at night this fine layer lifts off. Shadows gather and roads lose their geometrical sensibility. I felt I was in a different place than I was during the day but I kept on, eager to see the sign for 32 Van Wyk. We missed a turn unfortunately, and we kept walking, up to a point where there were no more street lights, where the road vanished inside a cluster of tall trees. As we turned to walk back, we noticed that we were being trailed by three masked young men, who immediately hid behind trees when they saw us. In that most unholy moment, as I tried to register the danger, PJ leant towards me and whispered, “Be prepared to fight.” As I gathered my breath to speak, I saw PJ unhook his belt, ready to flick it out as a weapon. “After hitting them, we will need to run for our lives Kiprop,” he said. Instinct spoke to me then, and advised me to be bold. I knew I would not fight. I have never been in a street fight of any kind. Still I raised my shoulders high, wrapped my coat tight and began walking up with what I assumed was a mean Nairobi swagger, hoping against hope that they would be deceived. As we came close to them, PJ narrowed his brows in a manner to suggest “Kujeni vile mnakuja, hata sisi ni wanaume.” The three masked men emerged from their hiding, and walked by us in an Indian file. They maintained their hooded gazes till they vanished in the murk ahead. Now I really wanted to run but I kept on with my confident swagger, and sighed in relief when we finally saw 32 Van Wyk. We walked to my house, unlocked the door and sat on the wicket chairs inside. I felt as if I was being pricked by a thousand needles and it took me a while to realize that PJ was talking to me. His face was the same truthful face I had seen all along when he said, “I would have fought beside you to the end. You know I find it sad that other Africans see us black South Africans as being violent to them. When I was in Nigeria I was shown so much kindness. I insist on being kind as I can to any other African, to show them that a South African can see them as brothers too. I am tired of this xenophobia.” He then scratched his locks for a while, before adding “We once had a king called Moshoeshoe. When people ran from wars and famine, and wanted refuge in our Sotho kingdom, his only question would be ‘Are they brown?’ You are a Sotho too Kiprop. You are brown, just like me.

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Kimoi

In 1919, a man named Arap Moi (nothing associated with the former president) walked from Mutei to Karonai, to visit his son Chesire, who worked as a horse trainer for Mr. Right, a colonial settler. At that time, girls were about to be released from seclusion and he was immediately fascinated by a girl, who led the group in singing and who had the loveliest beaded leather skirt. Arap Moi searched for the girl’s father Kipkigey, and gave him a pouch of tobacco, telling him that this girl had to be wedded to his son. Arap Moi walked back to Mutei, and got seriously sick. Before dying, he told his family that he had reserved a daughter for his son Chesire. After his funeral, people were sent to Karonai to search for this daughter. They found the mother Kabon who was immediately distressed that her daughter had to move to Mutei, which she felt was too dry and had insufficient pasture. Besides, her daughter was the eldest child and it pained that they had to be soon separated. Kipkigey agreed with the proposed marriage though, and the wedding happened. The daughter, Kimoi, moved to Mutei, where she promptly got pregnant but suffered a miscarriage. She subsequently got pregnant three times again, but lost all these babies during childbirth. Kipkigey was furious, saying Chesire’s family was cursed, and demanded his daughter back. Kimoi and Chesire consulted an orkoiyot to end their despair and were told to walk till they had crossed four rivers, then find a place to settle. That place was Sergoit where Kimoi’s daughter Chesiny was born in 1926. Kimoi, following the instruction of the orkoiyot placed Chesiny inside an empty hyena’s den and asked the hyenas to talk to death and have it spare her daughter. Chesiny is still here today, and is my eldest aunt. Kimoi, on the other hand, passed on just three years after I was born. My memory of her is hazy. I just see an old woman on a stool, who was wrapped in a yellow leso and had black rubber shoes that stepped softly on the grass. Mum tells me that Kimoi was so happy when I was born, and came to hospital with millet. She sprinkled the millet and on my forehead then squeezed my cheeks saying, “You are the heart of my youngest daughter. You are the reason I have lived this long.”

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Malaika

I always thought of angels. I wondered what it felt like to be one, to illuminate from within with divine light as you walked on panels of cloud and sunshine. I imagined their staffs blazing brighter than Star Wars’ sabers. I wondered about being lifted from my human existence into a celestial, angelic experience, which was free from capitalism, nationality and race, which allowed me to move as I pleased. I asked for this. I prayed my rosary. I sat still under the shade of our lemon trees, believing the transformation would happen at any moment. The Cherubim were my favorite, those who guarded the Tree of Life with flaming swords that turned every way. I was frightened of Jophiel, with his golden wings that were as sharp as knives, how he held his arms high to cast Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. In the images, his face was always white and deadpan, as he looked down upon the two human beings curled in shame, unmoved by Eve as she pulled a garment over her breasts. I would think of Gabriel, visiting Zechariah and Mary. He seemed a solid and precise-this Gabriel. Eager to pass his message and leave. Always dressed in linen with a halo on his head. I would also think of the fallen ones-Ramiel, Batriel, Kokabiel-who were cast out of heaven after desiring the daughters of man. I thought of their children, the Nephilim, who grew up to be men of great renown. I thought about these women, who were desired and loved by angels. I digress: In 2012, I was alone in the house at night while it was raining. Then I heard giggles outside. I asked if they were angels and they went quiet. I asked if they were kind and they said yes. So I opened the door. The sky was like I had never seen it to be before, a maelstrom of shadow and rain that turned the air cold. I walked back to my table to finish my tea and felt the presence of two beings walk in. I tried to talk to them-“Where are you from? What do you want? Where are you going?” But they were mum. So we all sat still in the dark, as I drank my tea. Later, I told them that I was tired and going to sleep. Since they were kind, I told them they could sleep over or be on their way. I woke up to find them gone.

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