Stories of Msanzi: Part 2

The following post is the second of three stories I’d like to pass on about people I’ve walked alongside in Umphumulo.  None of the posts are specifically related to each other-one is about dancing, another about family, and the third about being alone.  The one thing that each has in common is the impact the experience made on me.  Please enjoy!

“You know Steve, I grew up with whites.”

Mrs. Makhaye is the head of the science department at Amaphuphesizwe (ma-poo-pay-seez-way) Secondary School in Umphumulo.  She teaches “pure” mathematics and mathematical literacy to about two thirds of the 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th grade students at the school.  She is the teacher who I’ve worked with the most during my time at Amaphuphesizwe—I’ve taught her classes when she had to moderate exams, helped mark her students’ papers, calculated grades and averages for her classes, and helped fix her computer.  In return, she always insists on buying me food, which I can never complain about.

On my last day at Amaphuphesizwe, Mrs. Makhaye had put together a take away feast from the Spar in Maphumulo.  The spread included curry and rice, fish and chips, frito-type corn chips, coleslaw, beet salad, tea, and cakes.  As we ate, Mrs. Makhaye began to tell me about her life as a young adult in the seventies.

During apartheid, education was one of the many services that was segregated by race.  As a Zulu woman, Mrs. Makhaye had grown up in the inferior “bantu education” system that was the standard for black children at the time.  How inferior was her education?  During apartheid, the government spent approximately 8 times more on the education of a white child than a black one.  As a girl, she dreamed of being a doctor despite having no resources to pay for post-secondary education.  When she completed Standard 10 (the equivalent of grade 12 today), it seemed that her education had reached a dead end.

While she was in school, Mrs. Makhaye’s mother started working as a domestic worker for an English speaking family in south western KwaZulu-Natal.  Although she could hear and understand basic English, her mother couldn’t speak it or respond to questions her employers asked.  Nevertheless, she and her employers managed for a few weeks until the end of the school year, when Mrs. Makhaye (who spoke fluent English as a result of 12 years of school) came for a visit. 

A small aside:  As Mrs. Makhaye told me the story, I couldn’t help but notice her eyes light up when she remembered meeting the family her mother worked for. 

From the moment they met, this family loved her.  They were completely understanding of the language barrier between themselves and Mrs. Makhaye’s mother, and were happy to make an extra effort to communicate with her.  They also offered to hire Mrs. Makhaye as well, which she promptly accepted.  As a result, at the age of 18 my friend traded her dreams of medical school for a job as a domestic worker.  She quickly became part of her new family-she took care of their children, got to swim in their pool, traveled to visit extended family members, and went on holiday with her employers. 

As they got to know each other, her new family took things a step further.  Besides simply taking Mrs. Makhaye with them when they went on holidays, they took her to whites only parks, beaches, and restaurants.  This flew in the face of everything apartheid stood for, and one can only imagine the pressure she and they received from their peers and the authorities alike.  Mrs Makhaye, as usual, understated the drama of these situations.  As she described her new family’s response to criticism for treating her as a daughter, she told how people would ask a few hostile questions (“You know she’s not allowed to be here, right?”) and quickly realize that they were powerless to change how her family thought of and treated her. 

Mrs. Makhaye’s new family didn’t stop there.  They went on to send her to college in Port Shepstone to study teaching, which became her career.  As a result, thousands of students have benefitted from this dedicated, talented, and compassionate woman’s skills over the years.  Including me, for that matter.  I pray that I can find my place in this story, make the most of the gifts people have given me, and share those gifts with others.

Stories of Msanzi: Part 1

The following post is the first of three stories I’d like to pass on about people I’ve walked alongside in Umphumulo.  None of the posts are specifically related to each other-one is about dancing, another about family, and the third about being alone.  The one thing that each has in common is the impact the experience made on me.  Please enjoy!

A few weeks ago I had two “I love this place!” moments.   I think everyone who lives in a culture that’s very distinct from their own experiences feelings like this at some point or another.  Moments like this happen to me when I least expect them, and always leave me with a sense of euphoria, inspiration, and peace. 

I had been invited to attend the first ever Diocese-wide conference for the Young Adults League (YAL), which was being held at a retreat center in the middle of the woods just across the border between KwaZulu-Natal and Mpumalanga.  I made the 4.5 hour drive to the conference on Saturday with Baba and Mama Bishop, who were returning for the last day of the conference.  We arrived late, but soon found that the conference was running about 2 hours behind schedule.  That meant that the music competition, which is a pretty standard part of the programme for ELCSA conferences, hadn’t even started yet.  Despite the inevitability of a late night, I was excited—I’ve rarely heard a Zulu choir I didn’t like. 

After each choir had sung the competition’s prescribed piece, they were invited to take the stage again to sing something of their own choice.  From the start, it was obvious that only about half of the choirs knew that there was an “Own Choice” category in the competition.  The half that did prepare something came dressed to the nines in traditional Zulu attire—the guys wore leopard print tank tops, pants decorated with colored patches, and furry headbands while the ladies wore beaded skirts, brightly colored shirts, and bright beaded jewelry.   These groups performed an elaborate mix of traditional songs and dances, which is always a lot of fun to watch.  Not to be shown up, the choirs who didn’t bring their traditional dress just got just as into it.  Most untucked their white YAL uniform shirts, put their ties around their heads, and gave just as good of a demo of Zulu culture as the brightly dressed groups. 

The best part was how much the audience and the choirs got into each performance.  I’ve rarely been in an environment where everyone is having such a good time.  People were clapping, laughing, taking pictures, shooting videos, and encouraging dancers to do more and more.  Each time a choir member would take center stage to show off her stuff, the crowd loved it.  Since traditional Zulu dancing involves kicking one’s foot as high as possible and stomping it back down, it’s pretty common for overzealous dancers (especially those with y chromosomes) to fall over backward when they’re trying to impress the crowd.  There’s no embarrassment in this; everybody just laughs and applauds, and then it’s time for the next person to show off. 

The unforgettable moment came during one of the “unprepared” choirs’ performance.  They had recruited some of the pastors from their circuit to join them on stage, so the lineup was a mix of young adults with ties around their heads and pastors in suits and clerical collars.  As the performance got going, the Dean of the circuit took center stage.  He slowly worked his way into the rhythm of the song, starting with slow, small kicks that quickly got bigger.  Before long, this 40 something pastor in a nice grey suit was giving the best of the young adults a run for their money.  The audience loved it.  Sure enough, the Dean tried to do a little bit too much and fell over backwards.  I couldn’t even hear myself think as he got up, grinned sheepishly, and dusted off his slacks.  There’s something about the head about a tenth of the South Eastern Diocese being happy to sing, dance, and fall over in front of a couple hundred people that makes you feel alive.

After the conference ended on Sunday afternoon, I was talking with the Bishop on the long drive back to Umphumulo.  Apparently the Bishop and his wife hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before due the combination of a lack of accommodation at the retreat center, elections not stopping until 2 am, and the obligatory 5am wakeup call to bathe and get ready for the next day.  A couple hours of sleep didn’t affect his talkativeness though…  We talked about everything—thatching roofs, herding cows, polygamy, the battle at Bhambela between the Zulu nation and the British, government development projects in rural areas, how to drive on washed out dirt roads, same sex marriage, the division between ELCSA and ELCSA-NT, masturbation, ordination, traveling to the US, the African expat community in Chicago, and pumpkin porridge.  As we spoke, I was amazed by how much he works.  This is a 60 something year old man who spent 18 hours in the car driving to and from the Young Adults League conference during one weekend.  He conducted two elections, slept for a couple hours in his car, and was up again to hold a communion service on Sunday morning.  The next week he mentored the pastors who are about to be ordained in the SED for five days.  Amazing. 

What’s even more amazing is how much he cares for his church and the people it’s made of.  Twice on the drive back from the YAL conference we saw groups of ladies in black and white Lutheran uniforms walking home from church on the side of the road.  As the car screeched to a stop by the surprised women, I think the bishop’s words to me were, “When I see my people walking, I can never pass them by.”  When we rolled down the window, the women went from being scared to surprised to ecstatic in about 20 seconds.  After chatting for a couple minutes, we continued on our way.  Stopping to say hi, offer a lift if he has room, and shake hands is an incredible ministry that the bishop does everywhere he goes.  The love, energy, and humility this servant of God showed me in just two days was truly amazing.