I was born in a beautiful country at a very bad time. I grew to recognize the smell of tear gas long before I was able to speak the language that named it.
I spent my formative years in a new country, a country younger than I was, a country that was finding its feet. I was a lucky candidate of many of its rewards, but at times, I was also a recipient to some of its subtle brutalities.
Today I have the potential to play a part in what my beautiful country becomes, how its beautiful people define themselves. I carry with me many lessons from the early days of freedom, lessons that could make the next generation’s path, a little easier. Although my heart holds so much, my head isn’t generous with the right words.
Sometimes I think that maybe had I stayed in a township school, my education may not have been the best but my command of my mother-tongue, Zulu, would have been sufficient enough for me to write. See, there are so few Zulu writers, I’m certain they wouldn’t be as fussy. But unfortunately, I did to a model C school, I did learn to speak English and I did unlearn to write Zulu.
I spent most of my high school career, attempting not to make a fool of myself in language classes, I succeeded at English, and I failed dismally at Afrikaans. Moving from a Zulu-medium school to a English medium school took my voice away from me, for a very long time. There is no opportunity to be creative when most of your effort is just to understand. A once bubbly extrovert turned to an introvert. Most of my school mates will tell you I was shy, the truth is, I had plenty to say, I was just afraid of making a fool of myself. Even in high-school, when I had a good command of the language, I played it safe. Nothing brought more fear to me than the idea of attempting to say the big words, sometimes I talked myself into writing them, but I never dared to speak them. So I focused on the subjects with symbols and diagrams, with Xs and Ys. Despite my love of History, I dropped it; I didn’t trust myself to write comprehensible essays.
And many years later, with my fancy degree and my nice job; I have found a friend in corporate English. The language of “value chains”, “customer propositions”, “supply chain strategies” and “long term portfolio planning”, a language that says a lot that doesn’t mean much.
And now I’m starting to hear the voices in my head, the ideas, and the opinions. I want to say something, but I don’t have the talent, I don’t always have the right words, just the thoughts. Our history may have stolen our words, but it gave us all unique experiences and perspectives that, collectively, could enrich us all. I don’t want a small thing like talent get in the way of my voice.
But see, despite the fact that I can’t tell my oxymorons from my mixed metaphors, I still want to write. Not to impress the masses with breathtaking imagery, no Sir, all I want is to tell my story. Actually, all I ask for is permission to add my perspective to our story.
Surely I don’t need to understand Shakespeare to have an opinion on the here and now.
Do I have your permission to write?
