Day 243: Mbokota village

I was fortunate to meet Woo through my equally remarkable hosts, Fiona Nicholson and Felicity. They opened my eyes to what people were doing to improve the lives of others within their communities. Fiona had founded TVEP, the Thohoyandou Victim Empowerment Programme, an NPO whose main aim is to create an environment for the victims of sexual assault, domestic violence, child abuse and the HIV and AIDS pandemic. Fiona encouraged me to visit Twananani Textiles. She said that if I wanted to be inspired by some powerful women I’d have to go to there.

I leave Thohoyandou behind and focus on the clouds accentuated against a sky of a deep-sea blue ahead. There are many people on both sides of the road and I don’t have the capacity to meet everyone in the way they expect. If I have to have an indaba every five metres, I may as well stay here. My backpack feels heavy on this hot day. I feel ashamed at my unwillingness to interact. At one stage I lose my temper when some guys across the road catcall in my direction. ‘You have no manners,’ I shout at them.

About a kilometre down the road a vehicle pulls over. Neil from Johannesburg is very happy to pick me up because he has a score to settle with the universe. ‘A few weeks ago there was a woman at the side of the road with a baby. Out of fear and because of the possible dangers involved, I just drove past. I didn’t give her a lift. I have felt bad about that until now,’ he says.

When I get to Elim I ask about Mbokota Village and am given loose directions. I’ve only walked about five kilometres today and it feels good to stretch my legs some more. I have no idea how far away Mbokota is, but it is a beautiful day. A mountain looms in front and the road looks as if it disappears into it; at one point it feels as if I’m actually inside it. I’m walking in a pass where the mountain used to be before it was chipped away to make way for the road. I pause and feel the moisture on the rock. I look at the other side. I am the only thing standing between these two parts of the same thing. It is beautiful here and peaceful.

Nine kilometres further I get to the settlement and find my way to Elisa Mamahile Maluleka and Twananani Textiles. Here I meet Jerry Maluleka, the son of Fambisa who also works here. Jerry has a BSc, is now studying towards his MBA and speaks excellent English. I ask about Twananani and hear that they started back in 1983 without funding or help from anyone. A lady from India visited their community to learn more about the traditional designs they paint on their houses. In return she taught the women cloth dyeing techniques, and it was this exchange of information that galvanised Elisa into creating the textile enterprise.

At the time most village men worked in the faraway mines of the Witwatersrand and only came home infrequently. Then they would give the women money to run the household, but it was always a struggle to stretch the funds until their next visit. The thought of an independent income was attractive and within a short time the textile business was booming. Looking at their products it is easy to see why they’re so successful.

Jerry and Ma Fambisa offer me accommodation. I really look forward to staying with a Tsonga family in one of the beautifully painted huts and am much surprised when we stop in front of a Tuscan villa. Ma Fambisa apologises that they are still building their home. She lives here with her two sons and their families – Jerry, Yvonne, their daughter and young son, and Eric, Othelia and their two sons.

After lunch I join Ma Fambisa outside to wash some clothes. I concentrate hard to rub the rich red African soil stains out of my trousers. I have lost weight by this stage and it seems that part of the fabric is now literally mopping up some of our earth. Ma Fambisa watches me and I can see that she is thinking, ‘This mlungu has NO idea.’ Without comment, soft tsking under her breath, she takes the pants from my cold red hands and points to an item of clothing that I am sure she’s washed already. The grandchildren help to carry water for the rinsing and when we are finally done the clothes are hung on the barbed wire fence, shadowed by some trees. Who needs pegs with barbs like these?

Then Othelia invites me to accompany her to her mother’s home on the other side of the main road. After quite a walk we arrive to find Othelia’s mom sitting on the ground with her legs stretched out in front of her and a flat woven basket in her hands. She is busy winnowing some home-grown mealies. She grows, dries and grinds them all herself.

They invite me into their home, where a small boy begins to cry when he sees me. He has never seen a white person before. I am served tea and polony sandwiches. Only me. Nobody else eats. It feels strange. Afterwards they ask if I have heard of the Mbokota Pure Holy Boys gospel group. When I shake my head, Othelia’s sister puts a DVD in the player and I see eight men singing, with Mbokota as backdrop. Their second song is especially touching. It is called Stop Abuse and has as its refrain the words ‘You strike a Woman, you strike a Nation’. It is great to hear such powerful male voices singing out against abuse.

As soon as my sandwiches are done, the volume is cranked up and the xibelani skirts make an appearance. Othelia’s mom starts to dance with a sparkle in her eyes. Another skirt is brought for me, but judging by the laughter I’m not quite shaking it like I’m supposed to. ‘I don’t think too many white girls would like this, because it seems to be designed to make your bum look bigger,’ I say to Othelia. She nods and tells me that Tsonga men find that very attractive in their women.

When it is time to go Othelia’s old mother insists that she’ll walk me back to the other side of the road. I can’t keep up with her! Here she is, in her seventies and carrying one of her grandchildren on her back, scurrying away sure and fast-footed.

Before we part she takes five rand from her pocket and gives it to me. I start to cry. This is such a big gesture for a woman who has to run her home on so little. She squeezes my hand to tell me it’s alright. Then we hug and, though her English is not great and my Tsonga nonexistent, she manages to communicate to me that I should come and watch the gogos kick a ball tomorrow.

When I ask Ma Fambisa about this later, she informs me that a team of gogos plays soccer every morning at six. Apparently a district nurse told them that they have high blood pressure and diabetes because they don’t exercise enough. So they decided to do something about it.

I spend the rest of the day with young Charlotte, whom I met on the day I arrived. She is supposed to wash all her family’s blankets today, but decides that she’d rather show me around. We go to the shop to buy hair extensions for her, we eat magwenyas with her friends and I meet a very special man. Mr Mashaba appreciates my uBuntu journey and tells me, ‘You are so welcome here in our village. We are all South Africans. We are all one. The colour of our blood is all the same.’

On my last day Othelia comes to wake me up. She tells me that the gogos, including her mother, have decided to play soccer even though it is raining. They want me to watch them. They are very proud of themselves and relish the opportunity to show off their skills to a visitor. I don’t have the words to explain the beauty of seeing these old ladies, all over 60, running around after a ball and getting wet. Some of them are smiling, but this is definitely a serious match! An umbrella is lent to me and I snap many photos of these remarkable seniors who have inspired younger women in the community to start a team of their own. I’m glad to see I’m not the only one laughing. A few young volunteer ball boys are also highly amused and clap and cheer them on.

It is raining hard now and I’ll have to wear my poncho, but for some reason my instinct tells me that it is time to leave. This is how it has been, and so I listen. When I get to Twananani Textiles I see that Jerry is also there to greet me. Elisa thanks me for coming and hands me money the women have collected to make my journey today easier. ‘Just so that you can buy yourself a little cold drink or something.’ They also give me a place mat with their batik on it and I get the chance to take photos of some of their work. Elisa goes around with me so that I can thank every person individually.

Ma Fambisa walks with me to a little spaza shop where she gives instructions to a youngster working there. Then she presses ten rand into my hand and leaves. From my perfectly dry vantage point under the shop roof I watch the young chap standing in the rain to flag down a taxi for me. He has a word with the driver and only then does he signal for me to come over. I thank him for his help and pass Ma Fambisa’s money on to him.

As Mbokota receded in the rear-view mirror I saw it more clearly – this community was completely aware of the fact that we are all interconnected.