Asithandile Gxumisa's Public Diary

Ours is a time of troubles. The West is in turmoil as a whole generation of men and women, rootless and thankless, rises up to lay waste to anything that smacks of their past: monuments are desecrated, statues toppled and ancient institutions set alight. In the East dormant disputes and old resentments threaten to sweep away the stability and peace of an entire region as two great powers, China and India, face off in the Galway Valley. Nearer home, in the Republic of South Africa, trouble has emerged in the shape of a Plague and a Scourge: a deadly Flu and a concatenation of cruelties perpetrated against women. In parts of the Middle East religious fanatics have yet to find a language better than bombs and rifles in which to converse. Perhaps worse than all these general calamities are the multiplying troubles of the souls of all of us - souls hopelessly adrift like ghostly cadavers in a raging sea of confusion, error and apoplexy. For are not the afflictions of republics, kin...

If ever there was a face that stood most accurately for the beauty of South Africa at her best then it was the splendid face of Tshegofatso Pule. Alas, those closest to her, her family and friends, shall never again behold that bright face, now hidden forever behind the impenetrable veil of death. For she was murdered viciously, allegedly knifed many times and left hanging upon a tree in the woodlands of the Durban Deep. She was with child, now into her eighth month. With her departure for the realm beyond the grave passed something of the remaining beauty of South Africa - without any hope of recovering it. In many ways the last hour of this 28-year-old lady tells a tale about the Republic she left behind: South Africa becomes grotesque by the day, she becomes less innocent by the hour and her soul loses its lustre of life slowly, as her last hope of redemption dangles perilously by the proverbial gallows. Violence is in the DNA of South Africa, or so we are often told ...

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...