Venda Sun 23 Farewells - leaving Mani and the family
Childhood officially ended for Giya about a
month after we returned from South Africa in 2012 but I had a year's grace
before waving her off. A photography course at City
College, Brighton turned out to be her proper launch into adult
life.
Since September last year I have been readjusting. Transcribing these diaries is part of that. They don't tell the
whole story of 21 years of parenting, even the whole story of the trips to
Risenga's country.
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| Giya with her uncle, aunt and cousins in Palm Springs |
So the big work is to try and make
something of these transcribed pages
and observations.
What I value about blogging is
it can capture the energy of a moment, passing thoughts which,
given time and attention, might help me understand what I'm noticing and
experiencing.
I blog selfishly, to try things out. This place is a record and the South African posts are a notebook made from of notebooks.
South Africa is so far away, so expensive
to visit but Mrisi and Giya's childhood was altered by the trips. They share two countries' histories, even though
they have only lived in one but more importantly, they have two families.
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| In Nwamatatane, Limpopo |
Poems that resonated for me
throughout their growing up are the early ones written by Moniza Alvi about Pakistan. Moniza's a good friend as well as one of my favourite
poets. Her collection, The Country at my Shoulder was published in 1993, in
between the births of Mrisi and Giya. Her poem 'The Sari' ends with the line:
'Your body is your country' and I think this has come to underline the
importance of the country my children are linked to. In her early poems,
Moniza created new imagery of identity. These poems are vital and brave - they fed me,
they provided an imaginative backdrop to some of the issues mixed race children face.
Moniza's work covers many other aspects of
human existence so these poems are a relatively small aspect of her writing,
although she has returned to the country of her birth in her most recent
collection, At the Time of Partition, showing the power of that imaginative
drive to explore identity and the history that informs it.
Back to the diaries. They rarely refer
to poetry. They occasionally mention visual artists. In 2012, I realised how
hard it is to devote time to writing when cooking on wood, washing up and
washing clothes with precious water fetched from a standpipe take up so
many hours of the day.
After every trip, though, poems have
emerged. Sometimes they were in the notebooks, sometimes they've come
from a line or a memory I didn't write down. They will never be all I write,
and unless I go again, perhaps the most recent batch of poems from SA are the
last. Just as the trips have punctuated my bank
statements, poems from South Africa have punctuated my last four collections. A handful of
new ones may survive for the next one, whenever that happens.
Friday
August 10
We have one more day in Mashau. For most people here life is taken up with collecting water and wood,
making just enough money to eat and stay in one place. Why would you make art
and dream about anything else when you are exhausted from that? Why not sleep?
The sun's higher now and the sky's turning
yellow. I am thinking about the road from the north. The monkeys have been here
and moved on. There's still one in the tree below the houses, others are
rustling in the bushes and earlier walked along the terrace wall. G didn't
sleep because I was snoring. It's the dust.
G and R go to the dam near Thoyandou
without me. I couldn't be in the car again. I wash clothes and dishes, cook a
pumpkin and lentil curry. Write a bit.
I am still making lists. I make a list of
birds on the land near the house. Black headed oriole, speckled mousebird. Is the one with a red beak a Cape
bunting or African quailfinch, or red billed fire finch?
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| saying goodbye to the neighbours |
Saturday August 11 - Secret water caught in the sun
My last Mashau dawn. I'm sitting by the
fire with water for coffee. Traffic interrupts the silence along with a cockerell and now a
bird that sounds like it's singing in a tunnel, more an echo, or a mechanical winding down, a bell petering out.
The other birds I heard as I woke up are
quiet now and for the first time I imagine I hear the watery sounding birds I
remember from this hillside. Perhaps it's because the weather's heating up.
Last night I had to unzip the sleeping bag.
We went to the Malmedi Lodge for a drink
last night and it was almost empty. The barman was chatty, telling us
he'd never left Limpopo province.
There was a fire by the road, spreading
when we got back from our drink.
I am at last starting to relax and we're due
to leave. Now the valley's smoky. In full
sun, what you see is the charcoal-black patches of roadside, of places where
there have been fires. At a certain angle I can see the Nandani dam for the
first time - a very distant glint on the horizon. I've never noticed it before
and as the day goes on it'll disappear. But right now the sun's highlighting
that vast expanse of water, and water being what it is here, it'll be secret
soon, hiding between trees and in them.
Today we go to see Grace and the mother of
R's cousin, the dead chief whose inauguration we went to once, in Nwamatatane.
Only one of his three wives is still alive.
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| Sad to leave |
Sunday August 12 - Souvenir shopping and relatives
We're in Jo'burg by about 10 and go
straight to Rosebank for the Sunday antique market. I buy an embroidered table cloth
for Mum from Madagasgar and G finds bracelets for her friends. The to Eldorado
Park to see Harry and Pearl, Dolly and Netto. Harry's doing the house up.
They're so welcoming. Pearl is especially happy to see G and is incredibly
upbeat. We watch Nigerian films while R goes to find coal
with Netto.
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| Giya and Pearl |
We stay too long and go to Orange Farm. R's
mother's gone to church, so we go to Palm Springs where Nkateko's on
her way out. It turns out that R had promised we'd be there at midday and we
turn up at 5. Margaret had gone to the trouble to make food. It's frosty when
we get back to Flora Street.
Monday August 13- Eet sum mor
There's a patch by the garage that's warm.
The ibis remind me of seagulls. We're going to Oriental Plaza for presents and
to meet R's mum for lunch. I've been to the Plaza before. But I discover a
wonderful vegetarian Indian restaurant where I get a spinach dahl with potato
paratha while R and in his mum sit in KFC. The area around Oriental Plaza is
relaxed, the architecture is old, lots of women are veiled. We get a taxi back
to the house but on the way stop at the Maboteng quarter which is closing. R
sees someone he knows, a guy called Lucky who's a dancer living in SA and
Germany. We join him and a guy who runs a new Ethiopian restaurant. It's a
lovely relaxed end to the day before carrying on to Eastgate mall where we have
to buy stuff for Mrisi - Simba chips and Eet Sum Mor (!) biscuits.
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| Giya and her grandma |
Tuesday August 14 - Flying home to Herbie Hancock
I'm listening to Herbie Hancock on the
plane. Yesterday was all goodbyes, from the morning ride around J'burg to lunch
in the house with Jo and Margaret. The story of R and Jo's childhood came out.
The conversation happened like
a catalyst in the sun as the weaver bird finished off its nest.
Then waiting in departures. I don't sleep much, upright for about
11 hours watching films, but there's a sunrise, possibly over the Sahara. We arrive back to rain and a grim taxi
driver in Brighton. But how lovely to see Mrisi. He waits to
go into work late to welcome us back. We chat and chat.