I Am

8.06.09 Continued...

As Babe Shongwe and I walk away from the Umphagatsi- headed towards the car- he leans over and whispers to me, "Sisi... you passed."

We are headed to my permanent home now. When we arrive, Babe takes off his ball cap and shouts, "E- khaya!" He explains when a man enters a home he is to take his hat off and shout ekhaya, a friendly warning that he is entering someone's home. "But you sisi, you do not have to. Women are no threat." I joke, "Well- they must not know me yet." Babe laughs. A young woman steps out of the home. She is wearing tight jeans, a sparkly hoodie, and a smile on her face. She embraces me tight and says, "Sisi!". A teenage girl- my in. Three boys step out, we exchange greetings and a shake. Teenage boys- my in. I hear shouting. A mother calling her child. A naked two year old runs out to me. Food all over her body. Her mother's high heels on her feet. She grabs my hand and laughs. Her mother, exhausted and winded, hugs me. Babe Shongwe tells me it is Saturday so my new Babe and Make are away at a funeral (Saturday- a day of funerals. So many people die here that is almost an automatic thing that someone in your extended family will have a funeral each and every Saturday). Babe tells me the children will take care of me tonight.

I watch him drive away in his little red jetta. The teenage girl helps me with my mayonnaise bags. Her name is Bongiwe. (Beau-knee-whey). Bongiwe has just turned 17, she loves Kanye West, tight jeans, boys and booze. She likes to do hair and dance. Bongiwe dreams of getting out of Nkiligi, of independence. She is Swazi girl youth.

Outside my hut I hear "Ngitawashaya Toady! Ncka! Shaya! Shaya!" (I will beat you Toady, beat, beat, beat!) Naked two year old runs past my door, broom in hand. Her name is Toady. Toady is two years old. She loves to take her clothes off when she gets angry. She likes to beat chickens and dogs with broomsticks. Toady dreams about independce and a world with no rules. She is a Swazi terror.

Her mother is yelling at her for beating the chickens in the trees. Her name is Simone. Simone is twenty one. She loves her two year old daughter. She likes to wear jeans in town, away from disapproving Gogo's eyes at home. She likes her independce away from Toady's father. Simone dreams of going back to school in South Africa. She is a Swazi mother.

Simone is living here with Toady's father's parents (my new make and babe- mother and father). She says maybe someday she will marry Toady's father- but she enjoys her indpendence too much. Since they are not married she is to live with HIS parents while he works in South Africa to support them both.

I look past Simone. I see someone I did not see before. It is clear she is mentally and physically disabeled. She is sitting on a large tire. Her barefeet, white and calloused, are curved inwards. I doubt she is able to walk. With only two teeth in her mouth, the drool pours out continuously. Her dress is stained with avacado, piss, and shit. Food all over her face.

Her name is Gigi. Gigi is 45 years old. She is my new sisi, Make and Babe's daugther. She is "mentally disturbed", as they call it here. She can barely walk, falling HARD constantly. She can barely feed herself, the dogs stealing her food. I don't know what Gigi likes, I don't know what Gigi dreams of. Barely speaking Siswati, and speaking no English. She is ignored by her family. She is Swazi disabeled.

I am looking into buying her a walker. With support she is able to get around. But I cannot be that support for the next two years. I lead her around- to the bathroom, to her tire- getting piss and shit on me in the process. I want to teach her to use a walker. I also plan on buying her a squirt gun, filled with water and citrus, to keep the dogs away from her food.

That night, as promised, Bongiwe wants to show me the local brewery behind our house. It's now dark out - so I insist one of our bhuti's comes along. I have on average four bhutis. This is a family that grows and shrinks weekly. The four boys are: Chief, Menzie, Sam, and Tabisoe. They are the grandsons. The boys are not brothers, but cousins. Their parents either divorced or mothers dead. In Swazi culture- when there is a divorce or the death of the mother- the children go to the FATHER'S mother. A man cannot raise a child alone, and a woman's children belong to the father's side. It is, of course, a patriarchal socie


ty.

Chief volunteers to come along. Chief is twenty years old. He likes to drink with his Indian friends in town and play soccer. He likes Beyonce and Akon. He dreams of graduating high school and going to university to study the weather. He is Swazi boy youth.

Chief leads us to a brewery, which is really just a home that sells Amstel beer where rowdy drunk teens hang out. As we're walking home, a group of young men walk past. One knocks his shoulder into chief's. Bongiwe begs him to just keep walking. The other young man is now standing in the middle of the street waiting for some response from Chief. Chief says to me, "He is challenging me." "No." I say. "The beer is challenging you." We are sorrounded by glassy eyed young men, loud music coming out of a crackling speaker. An atmospher of absolute oblivion. I turn to continue on, but in front of me now stands a very large man. I run into very large man's chest. I look up. His chest puffed out- I step back. I inhale deep, chest out. I look into his eyes. I extend my arm and say, "Unjani Bhuti?" I get no response. Bongiwe grabs my waist, pulls me aside. We walk back together, Chief close behind.

Returning home, I am offered dinner- chicken intestines. I go to bed, stomach empty- my mind full. They have put me in teen hell- like Michelle Phiffer, "Dangerous Minds", like my mother in Inner city schools. It's time to jump onto some school desks, its time to sculpt the youth, it's time to be a role model.

I am Simphiwe Dlamini. I am 25 years old. I love dogs and flannel. I dream to be a teacher to the youth, I dream to inspire a community. I am a Swazi Soul-dier.

(pun for Morgen)