Imagine Africa
sonder herinnering of verbintenis
miskien is die nag die knettering
van dit wat ons verlede noem
die dorre bewegings maar ook die groenhout
en verlepte liefdesblomme
die klere wat ons gedra het om die wêreld te ontmoet
die musiek wat soos ’n vergeet deur ons harte
geklop het
die krete op ons lippe
sodat ons die ooglede toeknyp teen die bitter rook
en die verwarring van niks meer te wees nie
elkeen het gepoog om ’n verbygaan vas te lê
soos asemhalingtekens in as en in stof
chant de lamentation pour une révolution
dirge for a revolution
la lueur de chaque matin peut-être
perhaps each morning’s shine
est-elle le dernier éclat des jadis
is the after-light of yesterdays burnt
changé en flocons de cendre jaune
to these light yellow flakes of ash
le soir c’est peut-être l’instant où la coupole
perhaps every night under the vault
s’étire bien nette sur nos têtes
curved clear up above
le foyer tout consumé
is the oven where all was consumed
quelques braises luisant ça et là
to coals still glowing here and there
sans lien ni souvenir
with neither attachment nor recall
la nuit c’est peut-être le crépitement
perhaps night is the crepitation
que nous appelons le passé
of what we name as past
les balancements arides mais aussi le bois
the barren moves but the green timber too
des Guyanes et les fleurs d’amour fanées
and withered love flowers
les parures endossées pour saluer le monde
the clothes we donned to meet the world
la musique qui telle une défaillance
the music that throbbed in our hearts
traversait nos cœurs
like forgetting
les clameurs sur nos lèvres
the cries on our lips
les paupières scellées barrant la fumée âcre
so that we close tight our eyelids
la confusion de n’être plus rien
to the acrid smoke
and the desperation of being nothing at all
on a tous essayé de poser une borne
comme une respiration entre cendre et poussière
we all tried to tamp down the fleeting
as signs of breathing in ashes and dust
en die gebeentes self het woorde geword
om soos geheue weg te waai in stof en as
en ons nie meer daar is nie
al ruik ons soms nog die vlees op die tong
en ons nooit hier was nie
want ons het blind teen die besetter geveg
ons het ons borste vir die duisternis ontbloot
miskien is almal wat ooit bestaan het
die statige wals die dreun van tromme
die wekroep tot weerstand
die rose van wonde
die reuk van vars koffie
miskien is alles wat was altyd hier
in elke oggend se gloed
van gisters wat uitgebrand het
miskien is ons alles net soos ons niks is
miskien het ons verskriklike vleeslike kennis
’n wind verby die verbygaan van onthou
miskien het die swart voël in die tuin van nou net
se roep vervlietend geraak aan betekenisbegin
maar hoekom dan die treurige lied?
les os mêmes sont devenus paroles pour s’envoler
till the bones themselves became words
comme des souvenirs entre poussière et cendre
to blow away like memory in dust and ash
nous n’y sommes plus, même si nous flairons
and we are no longer here
parfois la chair sur la langue
even if sometimes we still smell flesh
nous n’y fûmes jamais
on the tongue
car aveugles nous combattions l’occupant
and we were never here
offrant nos poitrines aux ténèbres
because we fought the invader blindly
we bared our chests to darkness
ce qui a peut-être existé ce sont
la valse digne le roulement des tambours
perhaps all those who ever lived
l’appel à la résistance
knew the stately waltz the ruffle of drums
la rose des ecchymoses
the rollcall to resistance
l’odeur du café moulu
the roses of wounds
tout ce qui fut, peut-être, fut toujours ici
the smell of fresh coffee
dans la lueur de chaque matin
perhaps all that was has always been here
des jadis tout consumés
in each morning’s shine of burnt yesterdays
peut-être sommes nous tout, ou rien
perhaps we are all just as we are nothing
notre savoir est peut-être terriblement charnel
perhaps we have terrible carnal knowledge
un vent passe devant la disparition de la mémoire
a wind past the passing of recall
dans le jardin du présent l’appel de l’oiseau noir
maybe the black bird in the garden just now
s’est peut-être évanoui en prenant sens
touched furtively on the advent of meaning
mais alors pourquoi ce chant éploré ?
but why then this melancholy song ?
klein etimologiese les
(maar filologie is nader aan vlieg)
oor die middaguur in die ravyn
waar dit dig en groen bebos genoeg is
om die son se vuur te demp
kweel en kwitter die nagtegaal
soet snikgeluidjies,
en jy dink: dis goed en wel om ’n woordsifter
te wees met skiwwe indrukke
waarmee jy die papier probeer bind
asof dit ’n wêreld sou vergestalt
van beboste heuwels en ’n sekelmaan
wat as herout van nag – en reisruimtes
se sterre in mens se verbeelding
sing. maar wat is jou tog tog vergeleke
met die onsigbare rossinyol s’n –
die ruiseñor, riviermeneer –
as hy hierdie seisoen sy nessie
kom bou in boom en kreupelhout
en ravyn om die oorhoofse trekvoël,
die wyfietjie, hoog genag soos sterre,
met getjikker en lang melodieuse note
petite leçon éthymologique
small etymology lesson
(on plane mieux avec la philologie)
(but philology is closer to flying)
aux heures de midi dans la ravine
at noon in the ravine
plantée bien dru et vert
sufficiently impenetrable and green
afin de calmer les feux du soleil
to shush the sun’s fire
le rossignol lance des trilles
a nightingale warbles and twitters
des sanglots doux
sweet sob-sounds
et tu penses : être un tamiseur de mots
and you think: it’s dandy to be the wordshitter
c’est bel et beau pour les impressions rugueuses
of a slewed raft of observations
qui permettent de lier le papier
with which to bind the paper
comme s’il figurait un monde
as if to craft a world
de collines boisées, une serpe de lune
of forested hills and sickle-moon
qui chante comme le héraut de la
nuit –
that would sing in the imagination
les espaces interstellaires dans l’imagination
to herald night’s soundshifting stars,
de l’homme. mais qui t’est tout-tout de même
but what is your odyssey compared
comparé à celle de l’invisible rossinyol –
to that of the unseen rossignol
le ruiseñor, le sieur de la rivière –
the ruiseñor, river lord
lorsqu’il revient bâtir son nid
when he comes to build his seasonal
dans les arbres les taillis la ravine
nest in tree and undergrowth and rift
pour inviter l’oiseau migrateur suprême,
so as to convince the lady,
sa femelle, haut perchée comme les étoiles,
the migratory bird night-robed high
en l’enrobant de longues notes mélodieuses
in the sky with kvetching and long
van vleitaal óm te sing om haar eier te lê
in sy gedig? jy hoor en jy eer hom,
die nihtegala, die nagsanger,
roesbruin gedou op die skouers,
wat ’n wêreld bind
asof dit papier is met verhale
van verwante in verre klimate:
die Kaapse lyster donker gerug
met nagvlerke en ’n oranje pens,
die klipwagter (Monticola rupestris)
wat in bergagtige streke skaam
sy blougrys kop en nek sal wys,
die lysternagtegaal (Luscinia luscinia)
so skaars soos liefdestaal
in Natal en die Transvaal,
en die lemoenvoël. en jy dink:
dit hoef nie opgeskryf te lê
as uiteensetting van aanhoulewe
sedert die aanvang van tyd nie,
want met middernagvuur en ook oor die middag
en langue flatteuse à pondre des œufs
melodious notes as ruse to rest
dans son poème ? tu l’entends et le vénères,
her egg in his poem? you hear, you respect
le nihtegala, le chanteur de nuit,
the nihtegala, the nightsinger
rosée rousse sur les épaules,
rusted brown from dew on the wings,
qui noue un monde
bringing to book a world
comme du papier avec des histoires
as if it were papered with stories
d’âmes sœurs dans des climats lointains :
of distant relatives and faraway shores:
la grive du Cap au dos sombre
the Cape thrush rumoured to be sombre
ailes de nuit et gorge orange,
on twilight feathers and an orange breast,
le monticole rocar (monticula rupestris)
the rock-throstle (Monticola rupestris)
caché dans les zones montagneuses
that in mountainous terrain will bashfully
montrant sa tête bleu-gris
display its blue-grey head and neck,
le rossignol progné (luscinia luscinia)
the bird of passage (Luscinia luscinia)
aussi rare que la langue d’amour
as fatal and far between as love ploys
au Natal et au Transvaal,
in Natal and the Transvaal,
et la grive olivâtre. et tu penses :
and the Turdus olivaceus. and you think
pas la peine de tout coucher par écrit
it need not be written up
comme perpétuation de la vie
as explanation of wanting to continue
depuis l’aube des temps,
living ever since the unbearable likeness of time,
car avec le feu de minuit et l’après-midi aussi
for with midnight’s flame and again at twelve
in die kloof waar dit groen en dig genoeg
is om die vlugwete van son as ster
te verdoof, bid jy in skamele gebied –
stameling jou woordklopklop se nabootsing
van nagmaal onder die hemp
dans le ravin où il fait bien dense et vert
in the gorge where it is green and lush enough
pour étouffer la course du soleil-étoile
to hush the fugacious understanding of sun as star
tu adores dans un humble bégaiement
you pray in shabby territory –
territorial le choc des mots-fauvettes
stuttering your wordthrob imitation
d’une communion sous la chemise
of communion under the shirt
CEDRIC NUNN
Madhlawu
CEDRIC NUNN began to take photographs professionally in the early 1980s in South Africa and is well known for images taken during the period of struggle under Apartheid rule and from the transition to democracy in the 1990s. Nunn lives in the KwaZulu-Natal province where he was born. In his own words: ‘I am committed through my photographs, to contributing to societal change that will leave a positive legacy for the children of Africa.’
IT WAS a photographic project in the early eighties that led me back to reconnect with my maternal grandmother, Amy ‘Madhlawu’ Louw. She lived in the remote region of iVuna, midway between Ulundi and Nongoma, KwaZulu Natal. She was born in 1900 and raised in the nearby Ceza region. Her father, Arthur Nicholson, had come from England where he had been a bank clerk, and inexplicably left for the lure of remote Zululand, where he married Elina Velaphi Mabaso, a Zulu woman.
I had the good fortune of seeing quite a lot of my grandmother while I was growing up, as we were living about 100 km away in Hluhluwe. I spent several holidays with her and our family frequently visited her over weekends. But for a child growing up, adults were remote and not easily accessible. When I returned years later as a 30-year-old, I began to see her and the land she inhabited with fresh eyes and new understanding. Encountering her as an adult, in what I had regarded as a harsh and unforgiving landscape, far from the conveniences of civilization, I immediately began to see how truly remarkable she was.
Madhlawu had had two marriages, first to Willy Louw when she was about twenty, then after Willy died, when she was in her forties, to his brother Dandy. When we teased her about this seemingly traditional practise, she was quick to tell us that she married him for love, and that he was the sweetest man. From these two unions she produced eight children, five from her first marriage and three from her second. She kept all her pregnancies through to term and raised all her children in that remote region.
She was already in her eighties when I re-encountered her in my thirties, and she had had to relocate to higher ground after the death of Dandy, when the land they had occupied was designated communal grazing ground by the local Chief. She left the solid stone house built by her husbands and built what was to be a temporary house, of wattle and daub, about two kilometres away from the confluence of the iVuna and White Umfolozi where the stone house was.
It was in this humble abode, where she was to live for the rest of her life, that I began once again to get to know her. I spent a week with her on that first encounter, rising with her in the morning and heading into the fields, returning at midday to eat lunch and then take a siesta in the fierce heat of the day. As a peasant farmer, she was incredibly resourceful and enterprising. Her days were filled with planting maize, sorghum, pumpkins and cotton, with hoeing, feeding fowls, ducks and pigs, making grass mats, sewing clothes to sell, brewing Zulu beer (for which she was renowned), selling snuff from the tobacco she had grown, and, of course, the inevitable cleaning and cooking in her own home. In addition to all this, there was the constant flow of neighbours and visitors who kept her informed of goings-on in the community. There was always time to relax in the midday heat, and to enjoy company in the cool of the afternoons and evenings. Radio Zulu was a constant background sound.
I found that she occupied a space that did not quite fit wi
th the orthodoxy of the Apartheid eighties. The only person of mixed race in her immediate environment, she was surrounded by Zulu neighbours, and in many ways shared a life with them. But there was a curious reserve, a contradiction that confounded me, a certain distancing. For instance, MaKhumalo, her closest neighbour and friend, would never sit on a chair while visiting, sitting instead on the floor, or standing, and showing a definite deference. My mother explained that Granny had arrived in this region, which was largely unpopulated, in the thirties and that most of the people who lived around her had come there originally as servants. While her husbands were alive, they had had a lot of cattle, and were considered wealthy by the standards of the time. Therefore there was a class difference which everyone continued to observe, even after she had lost most of her herd to a cattle disease that ravaged the land, and her relocation reduced what little of the herd remained.