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Beating the Odds: Zama Kunene lives up to her given name

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By Natalie Elliott 

 

What can a name tell you about the person it belongs to? For Zama Kunene, it means she will never stop trying.

Zulu names reflect the parents’ expectations and hopes for their child, and are given before birth, according to the African Studies Center.

Emelda Kunene was married for eight years, but the marriage fell apart because they waited too long to have kids.

Then, she met Zama’s father.

“When I met Zama’s father, in just one visit, Zama was made. I was just trying life again. That’s why I called her Zama,” Emelda said.

In isiZulu, Zama means “try”, and she wanted her daughter to live up to her name.

Zama takes a break from studying at Mojo’s Car Wash, a popular place to get drinks and listen to music in Cato Manor.

Zama is 19 years old now, and is the first in her family to attend college. She is in her second year at the South Africa Maritime School and Transport College, studying logistics. She hopes to work as a logistics coordinator for a major company like Hamburg Sud.

The road to get to this point, however, was not always smooth. Zama faced many challenges to get into college. She first applied to the Durban University of Technology (DUT), but waited and waited…

“Waiting for my application to go through [at DUT] was just way too long…the decision should have been made” Zama said.

According to Zama, the delay in processing her application was due in part to the #FeesMustFall protests that had erupted on South African Campuses in 2015. These student-led protests were aimed at lowering university fees and increasing government funding.

Aside from logistics and shipping, one of Zama’s biggest passions is fashion, which can be seen through her sense of style.

Zama was faced with two choices: she could continue waiting for DUT to get back

to her and lose a year in her education, or she could apply to another university.

She chose to apply to a private university, something that had never been on her radar before, due to both financial and systemic odds against her. In the township high schools of South Africa, only 20% of pupils make it to university. But Zama tried, like she had every other time, even when others doubted her.

“Because of how I act, a lot of people thought I would be a certain person, or maybe have a kid by now…I am proud that I was able to finish high school and now I am on the track to graduate [from college],” Zama said.

She chose to try even though nobody else in her family had gone to college. She chose to try even though her high school did not prepare her. She chose to try, even when she faced financial challenges.

She chose to live up to her name and try. And Zama is not only trying, she is succeeding.

Photo of the Day: September 18, 2018

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A street performer plays guitar in front of the booths at the Essenwood Street Market in the Durban neighbourhood of Musgrave. Essenwood market occurs every Saturday from 9am-12pm and includes food, clothing, books, and art vendors, among others.

 

 

 

Photo: Natalie Elliott

A Small Town Girl with Big Boss Dreams

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By Kelly Vinett

When Lipuma Thabede discovered the hospitality service as a teen, she booked herself a life-long reservation.

Lipuma, now 21, is a first-year student at the International Hotel School in Westville, just a short drive away from Cato Manor which is a working-class township in Durban. Her older siblings –too many to count, she says– have all moved out. The only child left, Lipuma lives with her retired parents in their immaculately clean, bubblegum-pink home. This place is all she knows, but she’s more than ready to leave South African suburbia behind.

Drawing of Lipuma Thabede by Kelly Vinett

Usually sweet and soft-spoken, Lipuma transforms when she speaks about the hotel industry. Just think of the opportunities for travel, she says. She leans in a few inches, puts her elbows on the table, and lists all of the cities she hopes to explore.

“I could travel the world and get out of South Africa, I could earn real money, I could meet new people.”

Then she reveals, “I’ve never been out of Durban or South Africa before.”

Living at home can feel constricting for someone with such wanderlust.

“It gets kind of boring and lonely. When something goes wrong, your parents always blame you.”

Lipuma’s escape route is coming, and soon. On the brink of leaving the comfort of family, and girlhood, she’s ready to make her own rules.

 

Her degree is going to force her to leave the only territory she’s ever known. “The hospitality industry is not that big [in South Africa] so there’s no room for growth. In the U.S and in Europe there are more opportunities.”

Maybe her first destination will be to work on cruise ship.

“It’s like a mall that’s on water.”

Or perhaps, she’ll work in a hotel in Paris—five star.

This small town girl is hungry for the spotlight. She wants to be her own boss, an entrepreneur.

“Kitchens, they’re okay but they’re not what I want to do,” she proclaims, “I want to be an owner. I don’t want to be behind the scenes.”

Lipuma has a practical exam next week where she’ll be mixing and serving cocktails to hotel customers.

“I’m excited because it’s a totally different experience. I’ve never done it before. Never.” Her voice commands the space, she’s going to run the room.  

 

The Heart’s Beat

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By Corey D Smith

Music has several functions in the day-to-day dealings of people. It can serve as one’s tempo, a person’s peace in troubled times, and even their very heartbeat. For many Black people, this experience is one that rings true.  For Neo Mokoatle of Durban, South Africa, music is the air he breathes.

Neo has found the sound and begins free-styling.

Neo, who is the second oldest of four-siblings, recalls the days when he and his brother would run home after school and listen to the radio, jamming out while completing their homework.

“We would listen for hours, imitating the sounds we heard, just passing the time,” he says. Neo remembers beat-boxing while his brother spit (rhymed) and making magic in their shared room. Neo’s passion for music amplified and after completing high-school, he traveled to Cape Town to study audio production.

“University gave me technical skills, but the music was always in me,” Neo says as he changes the levels to a track he has been working on during our conversation. He is working from home today, very relaxed in his bedroom, completely isolated from the rest of the family. Neo calls this his “downtime” even though he is still hard at work.

Neo sits at the grand piano, testing the keys to make sure everything is in tune.

“Most people in South Africa are consumed with either American hip-hop or African house music… my sound tends to be overlooked,” Neo says. “People always think I’m crazy for these beats, but they love my production quality.” He is in a lane of his own.Soft tones of soprano piano, mixed with deep electric beats fill the air, a mezzo alto voice sings a melody.   I close my eyes and am warped into an otherworldly experience. Each sound ringing out to me, as if it were made to fit my ears.

The entire weekend was spent listening to beats and swapping music. Discovering the fact that music is the connecting force, which allows many worlds to become one. Alternative R&B, neo-soul, new age hip-hop, even old skool tunes are all a part of the many phases of Black life.

“I know that this is what I was called to do, that’s why I pursue it like my life depends on it, because it actually does,” he says.

This connection that I found to Neo through music, is one that he longs to feel with others. After only four years of producing, he knows he has some way to go before he is a household name, and that is what continues to propel him forward.

“It’s like we grew up the same, only in two separate places. That’s why I love music so deeply,” he says. He eventually gets a call from his co-producer and I slip out of the room, energised and ready to bump some tunes.

Swag, Fashion, Music: Born Free in Cato Manor

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By Saam Niami Jalinous

Akona outside his home in Cato Manor

Akona starts and ends his day watching MTV music videos. I come home at midnight, and we watch “In My Feelings” by Drake for the fourth time today. He stays up to watch and talk with me.

Akona is one of the born frees of Cato Manor, KwaZulu Natal. Like Americans, this is a generation raised with the Internet. However, they are also deeply disillusioned by what they see as the stagnation of post-Apartheid South Africa after their parents were promised universal freedom. Yet, the similarities between the born frees like Akona and the youth of a frustrated America are more abundant than I had originally expected. The love born frees have for American hip-hop is one example of the many cultural parallels.

“Most important things to me,” he says. “Swag, fashion, music.”

Swag? I ask him. The word has too many meanings.

            “Cool.” He says. “I gotta be cool. If I don’t got swag, if I don’t got fashion, if I don’t got music, I got nothing.”

He was a part of a modeling company that wouldn’t shoot him and his friends, so he and his friends started their own company.

“They didn’t care about us. They didn’t think we had it. So we said, ‘F you’.” He raises his middle finger. “‘F you, we better than you. We got more potential than you. F you.’”

His favorite things to talk about are girls and California, especially girls in California. I try to let him into my world by telling him how my friends and I run. Weed is legal in California. You can do whatever you want, I tell him. His face lights up at the possibilities.

He can’t read Zulu, unlike his friends. It’s one of the ways he chooses to impose distance between himself and those around him; but it’s a distance he feels acutely. He loves his family and his friends, but dreams of going far away, no matter where.

“People in town, they call me mama’s boy. They say I spend too much time at home. But I don’t like too many people. I like my friends, I chill with my friends. Why waste time around people who don’t really know me?”

I tell him travel is important, that’s why I came to Africa.

“Yeah man. It’s good here. We got it here. But everyone needs to get away.” I realize we are now talking about him. “You gotta go out, see the world. You gotta know how you are when you’re in other places. But you always gotta come home, or else you lose yourself.” He raises his hand and creates a wave in the air. “It’s up down, up down, that’s how you get peace. You gotta balance out your good with your bad. Old with new.”

I show him my tattoo, which is based on that very idea. That classic white smile shines out at me.

“Man, I want a tattoo. I want grills too. Gold necklace, nice shoes, nice watch. I want it all. Fashion, man.”

I lent him my neon jacket the other day, an essential wardrobe piece in California.

“Your jacket, man, we don’t have anything like that here. That’s what I love. I love seeing different things, new things. It gives me energy, gives me life.”

It’s okay to be a kid

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By Francine Barchett

 

Sthembeka is a 9-year-old studying in fourth grade at Mayvillage Primary School in Cato Manor.

The round of Uno has been going on a good 10 minutes but neither Sthembeka nor her Gogo are closer to winning than when the game started. As they take turns drawing in pursuit of the next playable card, their hands grow fatter and fatter. “Sthembeka, no!” Gogo moans, half laughing. I peer over at Sthembeka’s hand. Pleasantly surprised at what I see, I point at her rainbow card and whisper, “You can play that. Let’s end this quickly and beat Gogo.” Sthembeka snickers. “No,” she whispers back, returning to her routine of cheerily drawing, concealing, and drawing again. Meanwhile, poor Gogo takes another card, hoping that it can wrap up the round. “Don’t you see?” Gogo explains. “Sthembeka knows what she’s doing. She just wants to keep playing.”

Uno is Sthembeka’s new favorite game, and before playing she likes to practice her card-dealing skills.

As I watch Sthembeka fixate on Uno night after night, I begin to understand that the nine-year-old girl doesn’t care about winning. She is determined to enjoy herself, even when others — like me — have long forgotten what being a kid means. If Gogo, whose eyes often cannot recognise the numbers written on the cards, plays incorrectly, Sthembeka immediately catches it like a cop in action. “Gogo, you can’t do that!” she bellows, handing Gogo’s card back to her. On the other hand, Sthembeka’s shout turns victorious if she decides to — and succeeds — in running out of cards before Gogo and I. “Checkmate!” she celebrates, soon after asking which of us would like her help as we vie for last place. I used to tell Sthembeka that “checkmate is only for chess” and “Uno is just a game of luck,” but I later realised how politically correct I sounded. Maybe Sthembeka’s stubbornness has more to offer than my ingrained political correctness.

Sthembeka and I modeled our pink dresses on the first day of spring following our church service at Embassy Church in Cato Manor.

“Let’s do something special for our birthdays.” When our favourite soapie breaks for a commercial, Sthembeka keenly brings this up. Since discovering our birthdays are one day apart, the idea of a special activity has been on her mind. “What do you want to do? Do you like cake?” I reply. “Hmmm…” Sthembeka seems puzzled, but only for a few seconds. “Let’s have a treasure hunt,” she beams. “You buy me a present, I’ll buy you a present, and then we’ll hide them in the house.” She adds, “And we have to write 10 clues to help us find them.” Why did I not think of that? Perhaps I had spent too many years stooped in my studies to recall how adventurous and exhilarating treasure hunts are!

“Good morning, Francis.” Every morning as I finish my last bites of porridge, Sthembeka emerges from her room in her green uniform, greeting me with a name I have never identified with. My name is Francine and she knows it. My first instinct is to correct her, but as I watch her pour herself some cornflakes and add a hearty portion of sugar, I smile. “Let her call me whatever she wants,” I think to myself. “It’s okay to be a kid.”

 

 

 

 

Next to Mandela

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By Francine Barchett

 

“I don’t think you’ll understand the magnitude of your conversation with Mac Maharaj until long afterward.”

As SIT South Africa academic director Imraan Buccus informed us that the ANC activist, 12-year political prisoner on Robben Island, and long-time friend of Nelson Mandela would visit us, his voice carried an elevated tone. “You in many respects are meeting someone as important to the Struggle as Nelson Mandela,” he told us.

On September 5, former ANC activist Mac Maharaj spoke with SIT students at the Moses Mabhida Stadium’s South Africa in the Making exhibit in Durban.

When the students of our program met 83-year-old Maharaj at the South Africa in the Making exhibit in Durban’s Moses Mabhida Stadium, we encountered a charming, grandfatherly man who told us anecdotes from his extraordinary life that were peppered with humor and full of dignity. Maharaj pointed us to the example of Nelson Mandela, specifically highlighting how Mandela’s life holds lessons on true leadership.

According to Maharaj, Mandela-style leadership involves not taking away anybody’s sense of personal dignity. Maharaj recounted how, while in prison, Mandela had led fellow prisoners to slow their walking pace after the prison warders had insisted they humiliate themselves by running while crouched over. Maharaj also views Mandela leadership as taking ownership of the consequences of one’s actions. Mandela always accepted burdens placed upon him or induced by himself. That alone is a top quality that can make leaders who previously had no leadership inclination, Maharaj said.

Maharaj worked as Minister of Transport under Mandela, served as spokesperson for former President Jacob Zuma, and taught as faculty of Bennington College in the United States. He spoke with great pride in his country, noting its progress since his involvement in the underground movement and looking with optimism toward its future. He left the SIT students with the encouraging words that democracies give individuals the power to have a voice that inspires political and social change.

History has a way of remembering some names while making less of others, and despite Mac Maharaj’s being less well known on the international stage than Nelson Mandela’s, his story and legacy resonates with those who take the time to hear the story of his walk to freedom.

21-Years-Old and Still Me

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Here I am dressed up to go trick-or-treating during my elementary school Halloween.

By Francine Barchett

I am told that I was a rambunctious 5-year-old, so high-spirited that at my grandparents’ 50th anniversary my mom pasted a nametag on my shirt that said: Don’t talk to me.

Me alongside my Grandpa with the accordion he gave me. Grandpa’s polka music has remained a powerful influence in my life.

In elementary my mischievous days came to a halt, but my fire manifested in other ways. For 5th grade English class, I gave a boisterous speech about why Mike Huckabee, a then-rising politician, should become US president. Around this time, inspired by my scholarly brother, I also developed a habit of studying that earned me a reputation later on.

I graduated high school in a class of 13 students, from the same school building I had been at since kindergarten. Though my school was indeed tiny, it allowed me to spread my wings as a four-sport athlete, a multi-band musician, and an intellectually curious student. Many people called me competitive, but my fire arose out of a fear of not reaching my potential and a desire to make a difference, however trifling my actions might be.

After high school, I left my close-knit school community behind, traded my formal sports for heavy weights, and these days I rarely perform musically. I have now traveled and researched in 16 countries, I study at a university I had previously only dreamed of attending, and write articles for a magazine which are read by more than just family.

From childhood to adulthood, I have prided myself on the change that comes with making progress, but the deepest parts of myself have not changed. I have always had a stubborn spirit and a passionate desire to instill change, so whether I am arguing with my brother or writing about the land conflict in South Africa, I will remain me.

Me relishing the vivid colours at an Indonesian village. Indonesia is one of many countries I have studied in since graduating high school.

 

 

 

 

 

An American in London

By

Saam Niami Jalinous

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From left to right, my uncle Nariman, my brother Salar, and my mother Susan, in London, summer 2017.

 

Last summer my mother, my younger brother, and I went to London. We were visiting my uncle who was recovering from cancer.

This was a big trip for the three of us. My mother moved us to California when I was thirteen after she divorced my father and found herself bankrupt through his mistakes.

After six years of financial struggle and three years of success as a realtor, she had saved up enough for us to undertake the journey to London. After my uncle went into remission, my mother told us we had to visit him.

“I’ve spent the last six months preparing myself for his death,” she said.

They fled Iran together when he was nineteen and she was sixteen. She would have been alone with the stories of all they went through if he died.

I spent the mornings in London making fun of my uncle for the marijuana oils my mother had smuggled for him. He lost his taste buds and he was having trouble eating. His mealtimes consisted of shouts like, “Holy fucking shit I can taste,” and, “Cancer isn’t even that bad people bring me free drugs.” I love him and I did not want him to die. I was very happy when it didn’t happen.

We spent the afternoons exploring the city on the tube. I would watch my aging mother go into boutiques like they were candy shops, trying to pretend like she still had the money to afford what she wanted.

I read Patti Smith on the way home. I didn’t miss my America but I missed her America: the creaky floorboards in her Manhattan apartment, the struggle of the artist, and the life force of creativity. Going away makes you fill in the spaces you didn’t know were there before with romantic reflection on where you come from.

At nights I took my brother out for drinks as I transformed from “older brother” to “role model” in a matter of a few drunken conversations. And when the jetlag hit me too hard and I couldn’t fall asleep, I read Beat poets and knew that I had better “make it” or else I’d be out of anything to do at all.

We all felt a little lost in a way that made us a little scared to go home. But how else would you learn that all you want to do is get away over and over and over again?

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