We Are Music

7.2.09



Like a tidal wave- we see it coming- we are warned- we are wanted.

Our families are here to collect us. We’re all terrified we’ll say or do the wrong thing. I write an entire set of questions and greetings on my palm- just in case my new make (ma-gay ‘mother’) and babe (father) do not speak English. We walk to the top of a hill- all 32 of us. We are now face to face with a crowd of over-eager makes and babes. I shout, “Sanibonani bo make bami!” Hello my mothers. “Ahhhh yebo yebo yebo sisi!” They shout.

I look down at my palm- my nervous sweat has rubbed off the ink on my palm. Shit.

Musa (big poppa- our training manager our father away from fathers the man you just want to hug when having a bad day) grabs my hand and walks me over to a woman standing tall all alone, her head held high. She extends her tiny arm to me. We share a Swazi shake- a serious of repetitious movements grabbing the thumb then the hand then the thumb then the hand. “Sawbona make.” “Sawbona sisi.” She knows English but Musa tells her to try and speak only in Siswati with me.

Her name is Nelly.

Nelly is 34 with two girls. She is not married and the father of her children died from AIDS. Her eldest does not live with her. Her youngest is 14 and they call her Fati. They live with Nelly’s make and babe. Her niece and two nephews.

Our home is one of about 10,000 homesteads in this village. I have my own little hut next to theirs. On the way “home” Nelly tells me she has two dogs and an avocado tree. I tell her “this is fate”. I have to explain "fate". She tells me her daughter knows traditional Swazi dancing and this is part of the reason they linked me with this family. I had forgotten I had filled out paper work months ago stating I enjoy African dance.

My gogo (grandmother) looks exactly how you would envision a seriously old African woman to look. As she lays her worn out and calloused fingers on my shoulder- she tells me- “Ngikutzandza gogo.” I love you granddaughter. She has renamed me. I am Simphiwe (Sim-pee-whey). Simphiwe Shongwe. All Swazi names mean something. One of the nephews is named Mzawo. The last one of eight- his name literally means, “What am I going to do with this kid?” Simphiwe means, ‘beautiful gift” gogo tells me as she slaps me on the back smiling and laughing. “Oh Gogo- im sure that’s what you call all your volunteers who come and stay with you for nine weeks.”

Its finally time for me to meet the big Mkulu (grandfather). The head of the family. They pull me aside- wipe off the food crumbs on my shirt. They instruct me what to say in Siswati. They’re making me nervous. The niece- Thabeela (Tab-ee-lea) translates for us. Mkhulu and I are discussing the usual- Obama, Michael Jackson’s death (why did he dye his skin white?) and 911- he interrupts to go and fetch his rifle. He explains that I need not worry- the community knows he has a rifle and that he protrols his homestead every night with it .They will not harm me.

They make the 17 year old nephew sleep in a hut next to mine.

His name is Gagash- my new 17 year old bodyguard. Gagash is incredibly shy and an orphan who lost his parents to HIV. (they say TB here- but most often that’s code for HIV- people with HIV often get TB they only admit the lesser of two evils- TB). They pulled him out of school because they couldn't afford it and he was not catching on to what was being taught. He doesn't know English. They felt he was better at taking care of the cows. He lives with all women (except Mkhulu) who are constantly laughing at him. They renamed him Gagash after a character in a movie everyone seems to know here. Gagash is some sort of jokster or clown in this film. I have been trying hard to get Gagash to open up around me. We both share a love for the two dogs and one night as we were feeding them together I look at him and say, “Gagash- we are bonding.” He responds, “Bond? Gun?” James Bond. He looks out for me. Our classes ran late the other night- I did not get home until after dark- and NO ONE especially a white woman is to be walking around alone at night. On my way home, he found me and walked me back. I roll up my sleeve and flex my arm, “Don’t worry Gagash I got these babies.” He teaches me how to heard the cows into there sleeping pin at night- I hear at our gate young men whispering. “Simphiwe…come here..” (everyone seems to know my name). He grabs my arm..firmly says, “No.”

My first night after dinner Gogo says to me, “Simphiwe SMACK DOWN! Television.” I ask Thabeele, “Did Gogo just say ‘smack down’ ?” “Yebo yebo- we love Jeff Hardy!” So here I sit in a hut made out of mud, in one of the most povery striken areas, AIDS all around, women serving men, cows peeking through kitchen windows, and I hear Jeff Hardy screaming, “I didn’t put you in a ladder match in extreme rules- for nothing!” right before he cracks a chair over some spandex wearin man’s head.

Every night the women and I go to the outdoor kitchen to prepare dinner on the wood burning stove. We prepare different variations of maize. They won’t let me help cook so I sit on the ground with Gogo (where most Gogo’s sit) I pick up a husk of corn and mimic Gogo. Everyone stops what they’re doing. “Simphewe! You can’t sit on the ground. You’ll get dirty. And You cant ukhutula ummbila. (the process of removing the kernels from dried out corn). Your hands will be so sore!” After 30 minutes of mimicking Gogo- I begin to regret my decision.

I remember Nelly telling me about her 14 year old daughter who knows Swazi dance.

Her name is Fati. Her actual name is Noctunda- but because of her portly stature and her eating habits (this girl can out eat me-honest)- they have renamed her Fati. Umfati means wife or big woman. Fati does not know English and struggles with Siswati. She’s fourteen and still in primary school. Nelly blames the “fits”. I later find out she means seizures. They don’t realize Fati has epilepsy. Her “fits” last about 40 minutes and she has had about eight in her lifetime. I express my concern when they tell me she is no longer on her medication.

Fati is always smiling- always happy. Her laughter is contagious. I ask Nelly if she would ask Fati to dance for me. “I have music and speakers I could play for her.” Nelly looks at me- confusion in her eyes. “But Simphiwe- we are music.” The women start singing and clapping in unison. I watch Fati grow. She comes out of herself. I realize it doesn’t matter she doesn’t know English- it doesn’t matter she and I cannot communicate through words. Right now she is communicating everything. To her family she is slow- dumb. I find her beautiful. When she dances- she’s in that moment- I've been in that moment before. The moment where all your frustrations come out in beautiful waves of grace. The world becomes surreally beautiful. She smiles turning her head, stomping. She has one of those smiles that lie in the eyes. I see absolute beauty.

I pull out the ipod and speakers. I ask Gogo if she’d like to listen to some Al Greene, Ray Charles…. The kids interrupt- they want Timbaland Apologize and Alicia Keys No One. I turn up “No One”. The girls are dancing and trying to sing along. I grab a shoe and serenade Gagash in his chair.

My new routine- its wonderful.

Am I really here? In this moment? Wake up Mere- Wake up Simphiwe.