Mbuso’s foot hit the ground and the dust lifted in a standing ovation to the dance she was performing. Vibrations from the drums coursed through performer and spectator alike. Their thundering sound mimicked by the clapping of hands and ululation. Joy and belonging fully manifested and impossible to deny. “Ngiyabonga, Ngiyabonga bazali …” she began to sing the next song. Emotions caught in her throat for a second when her eyes caught the delight in her grandmothers. She walked towards where they were seated and her sister placed icansi on the ground for her to sit on. The singing faded into the background as her grandmother stood up and began to sing her clan names. “Musho!” she heard members of the crowd shouting. And then she heard the origins of her genealogy. Her grandmothers words of advise and praise weaved a strong and bright tapestry with depictions of history and familial pride. She had never heard anything like this before and was glad they got a camera person for the event. She had never thought of asking about her grandparents names or birthplace. And though it felt like the hottest day of summer, the blanket that her grandmother wrapped around her shoulders felt like more than just plush cotton. “Siyakuthanda mntanami. Ende re motlotlo ka wena.” Her grandmother ended and gestured for the singing to resume. Izimpelesi zakhe removed the blanket and mat. And her sister carefully folded the blanket and gave it to their brother to take into the
house. Her cousin pinned the hundred and two hundred rand notes from her aunts and
uncles onto the umbrella as Mbuso continued to sing her thank you song. Her father and uncle joined her and soon the rest of the family joined as well.
Mbuso’s friends and family surround her in a spontaneous moment of dance and cheer. The colours and tassels, the beads and the sounds, the aroma of the food and the fire, the earth and the water, the stomping and the rhythm. The love and the sun. This divine bewitching moment unburdened by the days leading up to it. No one will ever know that this day nearly died a thought. That Mbuso, for a moment, thought nothing of discarding this coming of age ceremony she had been looking forward to for years. That it was one of many parts of her culture she considered leaving in the history books in exchange for more ‘civilised’ and ‘respectable’ customs. Faith and religion had taken their toll on her identity. And modernisation seemed to threaten the relevance of certain aspects of her culture while clashing with some of her beliefs. She had never scrutinised anything like this before. Not even her choice of facial cream.
On the drive to her first fitting, she decided to talk to her mother about the evolution of this part of her identity. Her mother’s response was gentle but stirring. She expressed most of her opinion through a series of questions. “Whose culture is this
that you would discard your own for? Whose ways are these that you would place above our own? Why does it require you to shed and mute so much of yourself and us in order for you to fit into it? And when you look at the entire world mntanam’, has the conversation ever occurred in the opposite direction? Have the custodians of this culture and religion ever giving up any part of who they are to fit into another reality?” she asked before tuning the car off. She placed her hand on Mbuso’s shoulder and smiled. “Our culture and religion is magnificent. And yes, some of our practices are not without flaws. I encourage you to question those and not follow blindly. And before you make any decisions Mbusowami, I want you to consider the questions I’ve asked you. Find answers if you can. I believe they will help you in your journey of settling into your beautiful skin ma baby.”
Noma the writer 