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Saturday 20 April 2013

How much for the bride?

Being a South African black girl in her 20-ties and living in a white community but grew up in a black community makes this question odd and old for me. I have had many of my white friends ask me about lobola ( A tradition practiced in a black culture where the bridegroom would pay the bride's parents  either in a form of cows, land or nowadays cash. But then the brides parents pay for the wedding.) and many of my black friends would joke about how their parents still believe in the lobola practice. I often, if not always, joke with them and go on about how silly the thought of someone paying for you is not only illiberal and archaic for us (new generation) but that under the line it is insulting.  What if you get a poor husband, or a rich husband who believes in saving or a husband who disagrees? What if your parents ask for too little or nothing for you? How do they calculate how much you worth and can they really stop you from getting married?

A white friend of mine asked her black domestic worker about the lobola practice. Her worker explained to my friend that the husband pays in cows and then turned the question around: "How many cows did your husband pay for?". Everybody knows only black people practice lobola. Right? Not this black lady. In short my friend was caught off guard by the same question she asked a minute earlier and got thrown to the lions. She took a moment to think and pounded at how strange it is to be asked a question she has nothing to do with, a few more split seconds of pondering, she calculated that her wedding ring is worth just as much as her worker's lobolas' trade, maybe. So oppositely similar.  The whole week she could not stop playing that short, innocent scene in her mind. Some would call this a culture shock... in your backyard (that for free).

What took her a week took my the opinion I have been strongly preaching away.  When a boy takes a girl to the movies he pays, when a man marries a woman he buys a ring and gets down on his knees (in white culture), and when men wants to get married he pays lobola (in black culture). I would have never understood this since I pay for my own movies and take myself out and see idylls of equal love.

It is not human to think that sacrifice is necessary but sacrifice we do.
I think of Jesus here. He loves us, He loved us all this time but He could not be with us because of sin. So He sacrificed. He died for us than rather not be with us. Like a perfect gentleman, He paid for the movie, He bought the ring, He went down on His knees and He paid lobola and acted Father who paid for the wedding.

Lobola might be "a black thing" just like wedding rings are considered "a white thing" but at the end it’s the same, what matters in not how much you worth but the sacrifice. 

Friday 19 April 2013

The Cliff


Trembling.
My guts tied in a perfect not.
Keeping me grounded.
I am going to jump of the cliff.

Go, Jump, Do it, Don’t think about it
Go, Jump Adolf.
I yell and shout from the top of my lungs.

Along the journey I am reminded of
all the time I sat on the left side of the couch with my friend.
Go, go to university.
Go, go talk to her.
If you want to do go do it.
Go jump off the cliff.
Because I can't do it.
You see, I can't swim.

Toes hanging in the air,
Feet planted on this piece of rock.
I look down. I am going to die.
Gripping anxiety rushes through me and hugs me tighter than mom.
I want to take a moment to check how much my hands are shaking. I am not going to miss this.

Adolf took turns giving his cells a chance to see the view.
Up and down, back and forth.
Just when he thought he had seen enough, he takes one more trip forth only to make sure and take a the trip back again.
We watched and waited.
We were determined not to leave him there but to get him here, where we stood  looking up at him.
"Go, jump, jump!" I shouted louder.
So desperately wanting to stand    here.

The shaking turned to a vibrating to the pit of my stomach.
Then I lost sight of my senses.
All that was left was me and my mind.
'stop it.' I told her.
'Don’t think about it.' I said.
'Go, jump, JUMP!' I jumped.

I don’t recall flying, but floating in
It felt safe, tight and perfect in the longest 1…2…3...seconds.
 I was waiting for friends to come get me.
They were waiting for me to swim up
But you see...the thing is I can't swim and its hard to kick when your thighs are on fire.