Asithandile Gxumisa's Public Diary

All about us old rhymes are drowned out in the cacophony of modern life, the jarring rumble of which rises by the day. One such old rhyme, not long for our world, is the ancient character of the life of a little known folk in an obscure corner of South Africa. Unlike their Bushmen neighbours, they are not so few as to pique the curiosity of activist conservators of 'cultural rights', the amaBhaca people. Nor are they numerous enough to be mistaken for the tribe of the Republic as their Zulu or Xhosa brethren often are by outlanders. This peculiar fact is, in part, to blame for their long-standing obscurity. Natheless, to the North and East of the erstwhile Transkei, upon the highlands of the Great Escarpment that runs through the country in the likeness of a horseshoe, amaBhaca have dwelt for many ages of Men amidst cold dales. Nothing much is written about the history or the ways of life that have long sustained the communal living of this people. In an Age where oral lore ...

If the mountains of Olympus were the seat of the gods of Greece, then the valleys of Thembuland are the seat of the paladins of Africa. For in Cofimvaba of that great realm was born Mr Hani, a giant among pygmies. His comrade-in-arms, Mr Mandela, was also a native of that ancient land, though not exactly his neighbour. An old river runs through Mr Hani's place of birth, and it is from its fascinating name that his village gets its beautiful name. "Cofi" is a Xhosa word that means "to froth", and "mvaba" is a goatskin bag for milk. This river, after a downpour, is said to swell up and froth like a milk-bag. Mr Hani was among three lucky children of his mother who survived death at infancy; the other three were not so lucky. Still, the lot of the latter three was better than the fate of countless children who are today crushed by the scalpel of the humanitarian doctor in the womb. Lucky? I think that Mr Hani's escape was more the work of Provi...

Of yore was the Age when the hearts of Men could still seize the dark solemnity in the tragedy that always haunts the affairs of their fallen world. Gaiety, in our 'enlightened' era, bestrides this globe of the machine and skyscraper - so much so that the sacred and the tragic have their price in the all-embracing marketplace. Once more some impressive reporting from Cutting Edge , an investigative programme from the national broadcaster, shed light on the veiled ailments that gnaw at the delicate fabric of our Republic.  The show brought to the national attention the heart-rending tale of a Port Elizabethan mother of six, Nokuthula Mjekula. Miss Mjekula had left her home in 2016 for Cape Town in a rage over apparent neglect by her family. It would be almost four years before her family and her unlucky children would see her anew. Her disappearance stunned her family and a manhunt was launched in order to pinpoint her whereabouts. It was not long before her family was...

" I am not a saint, unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying. " These wise and truthful words could only have been said by a man of advanced years, who had lived through the ennobling fire of sorrow and had tasted of the bitterness of human moral frailty even as he bravely strove for that nearly unattainable pinnacle of virtue. Thus did Nelson Rholihlahla Mandela honestly testify about himself in his twilight years. Today marks the 30th anniversary of Mr Mandela's release from prison on the 11th of February, 1990. That historical event marked the beginning of a " New Dawn " for South Africa even as George H. W. Bush would later, in that same year, memorably announce the advent of a " New World Order ". It was no coincidence. Apartheid was slowly unraveling and communism in the East was sinking into the abyss of memory. Indeed, of all the men who stood tall during the trying days of white minority rule Mr Mandela had a ...

   Quite like the seasons, men come and go. And quite like the lonely, fleeting wisp of cloud across the sky the length of their lives is woefully miniscule. Often, as the Biblical Job once lamented while in the grip of deathly sorrow, they are also " full of trouble ". Robert Gabriel Mugabe, who was no stranger to trouble and whose familiar voice shall never again be heard, went the way of all flesh on the 6th of September, in a Singaporean hospital, at the age 95. Death, be it of a cold murderer or a delightful friend, is always a sad affair. Judging by the shock and the countless words of condolences proffered to the family of Mugabe, it is clear that his own death did strike a chord with great multitudes. However, his legacy as both the leader of the struggle against British colonial rule in the former Rhodesia and as the leader of postcolonial Zimbabwe has come under sharp scrutiny over the last few days. As it often is with men of his historic stature, there exist...

Once more the Republic of South Africa finds herself relapsing into her chronic malady: xenophobia. The country's major cities and towns have recently become infernal pits of horror and death for foreign nationals. Many shops believed to be owned by foreigners have been torched to the ground, and many others have been either vandalized or looted by violent and opportunistic criminals. The Salajee family in Malvern, Johannesburg, was brought to tears when they learned in the early hours of Monday that their car dealership had been burned down. All that was left were ashy frames of cars whose value was reportedly in the millions. Since the violence began on the 1st of September, about 10 people have lost their lives, the majority of whom were actually South African nationals.  Commentators have thus warned about how the country is at risk of descending into the gory xenophobic savagery of 2008. The attacks of that year left well over 60 people dead. I do not wish to descr...

" Of all the lands there are for dismal scenery, Palestine must be the prince. The hills are barren...Nazareth is [absolutely] forlorn....Jericho...accursed...Jerusalem...a pauper village...Palestine is desolate and unlovely ." So did Mark Twain, author of the classic  The Adventures of Tom Sawyer , write about Palestine in 1867. Clearly, the land that we were once told by our elders was  running with milk and honey did not at all appeal to the celebrated American skeptic humorist. However, despite the bleak and dreary ambience of this mysterious land that Tom Sawyer observed with apparent disfavour, I do not think it would be a stretch to argue that it has been a magnet for all kinds of ugly, dark and fiery passions like no other land ever has. The Christian once claims it for his own, for his Lord was crucified upon its craggy heights. The Jew claims it for his own, for God gave it as an eternal inheritance to Abraham. And still the Muslim claims it for his o...