Following Winnie Madikizela-Mandela’s passing in 2018, the author and orator, Gcina Mhlophe was invited by the news broadcaster eNCA[1] to reflect upon how “Mam’ [Winnie’s] death brought a number of issues to the fore, one of them being how we tell our stories”[2]. During the interview, the journalist Duduzile Ramela enquired about “the importance of telling our own stories and how this influences or shapes history”[3]. In response to Ramela, Mhlophe not only lamented the relenting vilification[4] of mam’ Winnie, but also emphasised the necessity of having the agency to tell one’s own narratives. Mhlophe aptly framed this practice of narration, which she interestingly tied to cinema, theatre, media and live storytelling, as “history-telling”. Mhlophe’s notion of history-telling is important because it allows one to think critically about ‘official’ historiography, particularly where subversive Blackwomen[5] such as uMam’ Winnie are involved. Mhlophe’s insistence on history-making practices that are reflective of wide-ranging and dynamic Black voices is vital because it demands an interrogation of what is deemed ‘official’ history.
Winnie Madikizela-Mandela
It is in this vein that I meditate upon Athambile Masola and Xolisa Guzula’s children’s trilogy called “Imbokodo: Women Who Shape Us” (Jacana, 2021) and propose that abalobi such as Masola and Guzula are history-tellers. Although the idea of ukuloba is commonly associated with fishing, it is critical to note this Nguni concept’s multifaceted dimension. While the practice of fishing (also known as ukudoba) is a befitting metaphor for the kind of meticulous “excavation activism” (to borrow from the writer and anthologist Makhosazana Xaba) that Masola and Guzula delve into, the notion of ukuloba also offers a Black lexicon that is centred around writing and representation.
Ukuloba does not only involve ukubhala (writing), but it also includes the embodied practices of ukubumba/ukubaza[6] (to shape, sculpt and/or carve) and ukushicilela[7] (to publish, document and/or archive). Like the theatre maker and scholar Refiloe Lepere’s idea that “Reading is an embodied act”[8], the notion of ukuloba requires an embodied approach to writing and representation. Since ukuloba entails “[uku]hlobisa into ebunjiwe nebaziwe ngemifanekiso”[9] (to aestheticise something that is moulded/fashioned/carved through imifanekiso), it becomes equally imperative not to depoliticise the act of representation. In this context, the Nguni term imifanekiso not only refers to image-making processes (i.e., visual representation(s) and/or visuality), but it also includes the courageous act of perceiving or seeing the unseen.
In the case of Masola and Guzula, their trilogy does the daring work of seeing Blackwomen who are deliberately made unseen through dominant history. Through this project, the two scholars also invite a reimagining of the contentious mbokodo trope.
In the popular imagination, the phrase “imbokodo” has come to represent the limited idea that Blackwomen in particular are “rocks”. The scholar Sivuyisiwe Wonci asserts that during the 2018 women-led #TotalShutDown march which happened during South Africa’s Women’s Month, there was a “rejection of ‘imbokodo’ (rock) as a symbolism that defines women’s struggles and resistance”[10]. Wonci states that this demonstration was “a response to the gender-based violence and femicide incidents in [South Africa]”[11]. She observes that during this protest, “the older women chanted ‘wathint’ abafazi, wathint’ imboko’ (sic) (you strike a woman, you strike a rock)” while “the young women shouted back ‘we are not rocks, we are not rocks’!” [12] Wonci’s African feminist-centred work suggests that the isiZulu concept of imbokodo has become fraught with controversy. She argues that “the origins of ‘imbokodo’ can be traced [to] the women of 1956 who marched to the Union Buildings against pass laws which restricted [Black]women’s free movement during the apartheid era”[13]. However, it is important to keep in mind that the expression “imbokodo” precedes the 1956 women’s protest. This isiZulu phrase has a longer history in the everyday lives of isiZulu speakers and its use is not confined to the earlier mentioned demonstration.
Similarly, the media practitioner, writer and musician Ncebakazi Manzi, highlights that the contention that surrounds this term is because it is “associated with ukunyamezela/ukubekezela [endurance/tolerance] [14] of intolerable situations as Blackwomen” [15]. She further emphasises how “trigger[ing]” [16] its use is because of “generational nyamezelaring” [17].
Wonci and Manzi’s assertions are important because they illustrate how concepts found in African languages are not only lost in translation but those translations are available for co-option for patriarchal means. This phenomenon is regrettable because it undermines the intricacies of powerful and complex ideas that are found in African languages.
The English interpretation of the phrase “Wathint’ abafazi, wathint’ imbokodo” as “You strike a woman, you strike a rock” is not only narrow, but it flattens the potency that is found in African languages. In the world of isiZulu speakers, the noun “mbokodo” is not synonymous with the English term “rock”. This isiZulu expression may also be interpreted to mean “amabutho empi amaningi ndawonye” [18] (a collective of regiments).
Moreover, it is vital to note that the English translation of this isiZulu phrase insists on unidimensional individualism when it is evident that the composers of the 1956 protest song “Wathint’ abafazi, wathint’ imbokodo” intentionally frame imbokodo as a collective of abafazi (women). Consequently, the English phrase “You strike a woman, you strike a rock” not only singularises the woman in question, but it delinks her from a community of abafazi; an antithesis to the community-centred idea that “umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu” (“a person is a person because of others”) [19].
This is not to suggest that in the Black world(s), the uniqueness of the individual is not valued. As highlighted by the activist and writer Nomboniso Gasa, “African cultures have always valued individual rights and choices, and affirmed these as integral to each individual being part of a community. There is no individual/community dichotomy” [20]. In this regard, it is crucial to consider how the translation “You strike a woman, you strike a rock” does not capture the interdependent relationship between the individual and the community.
Furthermore, the expression “Wathint’ abafazi, wathint’ imbokodo, uzakufa!” (As seen in the previously mentioned 1956 protest song) suggests that the mere act of touching (ukuthinta), Blackwomen without their consent is in itself a solicitation of one’s death-a death that takes place at the hands of these izimbokodo. This song’s reference to ukufa is crucial because it signals the fact that izimbokodo are not passive. In many ways, the exclamation “uzakufa!” affirms Audre Lorde’s assertion that “women are powerful and dangerous”. And Lorde’s framing of izimbokodo as izingozi is in light of unrelenting dehumanisation and violation.
Within the context of isiZulu, it is critical to note that imbokodo is also not simply any “rock”, but it is “itshe eliyimbulunga lokugaya okuthile” [21]. It is a grinding stone; a stone that is active and life-giving.
Ukugaya is commonly related to the nourishment of people (E.g., “Ukugaya ummbila (to grind mealies); ukugaya umoba (to crush sugarcane)” [22] etc). This is to say that the use of the phrase “mbokodo” in relation to Blackwomen suggests that they are sources of sustenance in their communities and the world at large. And the term “mbulunga” (as seen in Mpume Mbatha’s conception of imbokodo) indicates that this stone has a circularity that is infinite and boundlessness that rightly represents the greatness of Blackwomen.
It is not a coincidence that composers of the protest song “Wathint’ abafazi, wathint’ imbokodo” connect Blackwomen to the idea of imbokodo because in isiZulu, imagery that is associated with amatshe (stones or rocks) is powerful. For example, the saying “ukugwinya itshe” [23] (to swallow a stone/rock) is akin to “summon[ing courage]” [24] or “pulling oneself up” [25].
Considering all the layers to the term “imbokodo” and how deprived the dominant English translation is, it is pressing to “centre African concepts as ideas that are worth intellectualising and theorising” [26]. Masola and Guzula’s insistence on framing the Blackwomen in their multilingual trilogy as izimbokodo is to be understood within this context.
In her interview with the academic journal The Conversation [27], Guzula intentionally uses the expression “Imbokodo women” to speak about the multiple Blackwomen that she and Masola have focused on in their work. She opines:
“We have noted some improvements in the recognition of the work that our Imbokodo women have done, in that, the government’s national orders have been bestowed on some if not most of those featured in our books. But this is not common knowledge for many South African children in schools. Children learn about these Imbokodo women later on in life, and only if and when they are curious to read. By then, this information is only accessible to those who can read in English. Our books are available in isiXhosa, isiZulu, Afrikaans, seSotho [28] (sic) and English.”
The multilingualism found in Masola and Guzula’s series is indicative of how important the politics of language are. One cannot underplay the power of words as Masola and Guzula characterise the icon Brenda Nokuzola Fassie’s voice as “iphimbo […] elimnandi [e]linkeneneza ezifundazweni eziningi, ezigodini, kumadolobhakazi, emalokishini, ezipotini, emaspaza, emaphathini, emarenki amatekisi nasemabhishi” (See Imbokodo: Abesifazane Abasibumbayo. I-10 Labaculi, Ababhali, Namaciko Abakhuthazayo).
When one reads the English version of this isiZulu expression, one cannot deny how the English rendition pales in comparison to the isiZulu phrase. In Imbokodo: Women Who Shape Us. Inspiring Singers, Writers and Artists, this isiZulu expression is interpreted as “Her beautiful voice vibrated across many provinces, villages, cities, townships, taverns, spaza shops, parties, taxi ranks and at the beaches”. On the surface, the English variation seems fitting until one carefully considers each concept.
Brenda Nokuzola Fassie
For example, does the idea of a village adequately capture the dynamism that is found in the notion of isigodi? While the noun “isigodi” is commonly interpreted to mean a village or a rural area, it is important to think about how this onomatopoetic concept embodies movement across umkhathi (space) and isikhathi (time). The idea of isigodi as “isisele” [29] or “isikhisi” [30] encapsulates a downward movement which may or may not be quantified. And the root “-godi” suggests that isigodi is a space that is not easily confined or demarcated.
This is to say that ukutolika (translation) is not only political but it is subjective. It is precisely because of the dangers of uncritical translation practices that isiZulu speakers have the aphorism “isiZulu asitolikwa” [31]. The complexities of translation work may be seen in the case of uMntwana uMagogo’s narrative which is found in the books Imbokodo: Abesifazane Abasibumbayo. I-10 Labaculi, Ababhali, Namaciko Abakhuthazayo and Women Who Shape Us. Inspiring Singers, Writers and Artists. In the former, these abalobi refer to this “Zulu” [32] royal woman as “uMntwana” and in the latter they refer to her as a “Princess”. On the surface, the terms “Princess” and “Mntwana” appear to be synonymous, but with more focus on each concept, one realises that each idea has its own context and particularities. For example, the ungendered Nguni term “Mntwana” [33] refers to people of royal lineage at large while the phrase “Princess” predominantly refers to royal women. It is worth reading Masola and Guzula’s books in the multiple languages they are available in as a way of understanding how various lingual concepts are mobilised by these abalobi.
uMntwana uMagogo
In the book Women Who Shape Us. Inspiring Singers, Writers and Artists which is dedicated to “the children who are artists, dancers, singers, painters, storytellers, writers”, Masola and Guzula feature “women you may not have heard about in your classroom”. Even though these books are marketed as children’s texts, it is worth considering how many adults have had classroom encounters with Blackwomen like Brenda Nokuzola Fassie, Nontsizi Mgqwetho, uMntwana uMagogo, Busi Mhlongo, Dorothy Masuka, to name but a few of the individuals that Masola and Guzula have written about. That said, Masola and Guzula’s focus on children is necessary because ‘official’ history does not usually centre the narratives of children, specifically Black children.
In the book Imbokodo: Women Who Shape Us. Extraordinary Leaders, Activists and Pioneers which is dedicated to “the women whose names are known and unknown” as well as “the children of Africa”, Masola and Guzula acknowledge how difficult it was for them to select only a few Blackwomen out of the many whose names “are not in your history books”.
As noted by Masola in dialogue with The Conversation:
“It is important that people see our selections not as definitive but as ongoing. The historical figures were much easier than the contemporary figures because we had been collecting content for years. So we initially made a list of people who come to mind and have possibly not received as much attention in previous works such as books such as Women Writing Africa. Someone like school teacher Mina Soga is less well-known than scholar and activist Charlotte Maxeke even though they were contemporaries. Even while there are a few more hypervisible figures such as Maxeke and social worker and activist Madikizela-Mandela, it felt important to include them because they are the hook or entry point for some people insofar as how they understand women’s role in history.”
Charlotte Maxeke
Masola’s postulation is important because it demonstrates not only how colossal the act of writing invisibilised Blackwomen into being is, but how history-making through the written word and other art forms is limited. To put it differently, it is unrealistic to expect Masola and Guzula’s work to be an exhaustive representation of Blackwomanhood in South Africa. What they have done is to scratch a surface that requires many to do excavation activism. The fact that Masola and Guzula could bring a dynamic Blackwomen-centred project like this to life is commendable.
It is crucial to approach this trilogy with love within the framework of what feminist scholar bell hooks means by the term. For hooks, love means “we must learn to mix various ingredients⎯care, affection, recognition, respect, commitment, and trust, as well as honest and open communication” [34]. This is not to suggest that love lacks critique or that love is synonymous with what the writer Sisonke Msimang calls “hagiography” [35]. What is important is to enter this world of izimbokodo with a generative impulse; one that pushes the discourse further in ways eziphilisayo (life-giving).
In the book Imbokodo: Women Who Shape Us. Curious Inventors, Healers and Educators which is dedicated to “all the women who are teachers, nurses, healers, social workers, doctors, scientists and change-makers in innovation and technology”, Masola and Guzula focus on “how women who became teachers, nurses, social workers, scientists and community workers overcame obstacles and through their education fought for social change”. This book is especially significant considering how such figures played a critical role in mitigating the collective experience of a world-shattering global pandemic. In this book, Masola and Guzula unearth the narratives of Blackwomen such as Nokutela Linderly Mdima-Dube, Sibusisiwe Violet Makhanya, the Makiwane sisters (Daisy, Florence and Cecilia) alongside contemporary Blackwomen such as Zanele Mbeki, Professor Tebello Nyokong and Dr Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka, to name but a few.
Nokutela Linderly Mdima-Dube
This trilogy should be part of every history teacher’s curriculum. How does one write umlando wesizwe (which may be loosely translated to mean the history of isizwe[36]) while relegating izimbokodo to the peripheries? As the artist Samthing Soweto echoes in the song “Omama Bomthandazo” featuring Makhafula Vilakazi:
Hee bafethu ng’khuluma nge star
Ng’khuluma nge starring
Ng’khuluma nge Mbokodo yoh
Indeed, how does one write South Africa’s “grand narrative” without:
i-Starring?
i-Star?
Ng’khuluma nge Mbokodo yoh!
Permission to feature "Omama Bomthandazo" was granted by Samthing Soweto/Samkelo Mdolomba
ENDNOTES
[1] See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BD1ENtLgseQ&t=156s [Accessed 6 September 2022].
[2] Ibid.
[3] Ibid.
[4] See Sisonke Msimang’s book chapter Winnie Mandela and the Archive: Reflections on Feminist Biography (2021).
[5] Following the feminist scholar Pumla Dineo Gqola in Ufanele Uqavile: Blackwomen, Feminisms and Postcoloniality in Africa (2001), I combine the words “Black” and “women” to highlight how race and gender cannot be treated as mutually exclusive for Blackwomen.
[6] See Mpume Mbatha’s Isichazamazwi sesiZulu (2014: 375).
[7] Ibid.
[8] See https://soundcloud.com/embodied-reading [Accessed 6 September 2022].
[9] See Mbatha’s Isichazamazwi sesiZulu (2014: 375).
[10] On the 29th of August 2020, Wonci presented at the African Women’s intellectual Histories: Inyathi Ibuzwa Kwabaphambili colloquium which was hosted by the Centre for Women and Gender Studies (Nelson Mandela University), Political and International Studies (Rhodes University) and English Department (University of Pretoria). Her presentation titled Is it the fall of imbokodo: from the women of 1956 to #TotalShutdown women and beyond? problematised the idea of Blackwomen being framed as izimbokodo. See https://news.mandela.ac.za/News/Inyathi-ibuzwa-kwabaphambili-Remembering-Women’s for more information about the aforementioned colloquium.
[11] Ibid.
[12] Ibid.
[13] Ibid.
[14] My addition.
[15] Personal communication, 22 September 2022.
[16] Ibid.
[17] Ibid.
[18] See Mpume Mbatha’s Isichazamazwi sesiZulu (2014: 375)
[19] See Siphokazi Magadla and Ezra Chitando’s book chapter The Self Become God: Ubuntu and the Scandal of Manhood (2014: 180). In addition, the writer and scholar Panashe Chigumadzi challenges the common idea that the adage “umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu” means “I am because you are”. Recently, I invited Chigumadzi to be in conversation with the Anthropology department’s first year students as part of a short course I teach at the University of the Witwatersrand. In her conversation with them, she noted that this phrase is about one’s humanity being constituted through others. She insisted that this isiZulu expression centres around the communal while the English phrase “I am because you are” revolves around the individual “I”.
[20] See the article The Traditional Courts Bill: A Silent Coup (2011: 24).
[21] See Mpume Mbatha’s Isichazamazwi sesiZulu (2014: 391).
[22] See Doke, Malcolm, Sikakana and Vilakazi’s English-Zulu, Zulu-English Dictionary (1996: 233).
[23] See G., R. Dent and C., L., S. Nyembezi’s Scholar’s Zulu Dictionary (1984: 502).
[24] Ibid.
[25] Ibid.
[26] See https://mg.co.za/friday/2021-06-25-speaking-like-falling-centring-ukhokos-tongue/ [Accessed 18 September 2022].
[27] See https://theconversation.com/imbokodo-is-a-long-overdue-series-of-childrens-books-on-south-african-women-177754 [Accessed 6 September 2022].
[28] The expression “sic” has been added because it is a common practice to write “Sesotho” instead of “seSotho”.
[29] See Mbatha’s Isichazamazwi sesiZulu (2014: 202).
[30] Ibid.
[31] It is essential to also keep in mind that this adage may also be found in multiple African languages.
[32] I have placed the phrase “Zulu” in quotation marks because multiple scholars have interrogated
the homogeneity of “Zuluness”.
[33] It is also important to note that this Nguni noun also means “child”. In addition, this expression may also refer to beautiful legs. For example, when one says “uhamba ngabantwana” (which literally means “you are walking with/on children”), they mean you have stunning legs, abantwana. Moreover, in the Black community, the phrase “mntwana” may also be used as a term of endearment to refer to one’s lover (Goniwe, 2021).
[34] See bell hooks’ All about Love: New Visions (2001: 5).
[35] See Msimang’s Winnie Mandela and the Archive: Reflections on Feminist Biography (2021: 24).
[36] Although this phrase is commonly translated to only mean “nation”, the historian Nomathamsanqa Tisani notes that this word may also “refer to a clan, an exogamous group that claims to descend from one ancestor” (2002: 90, footnote 121). Tisani asserts, “In such a context the word isizwe emphasizes the autonomy of a clan in relation to other clans. This is usually noted in religious contexts. Isizwe under inkosi is a politically independent unit that is separate from other izizwe, with different iinkosi” (ibid). For more information, see Tisani’s thesis titled Continuity and Change in Xhosa Historiography During the Nineteenth Century: An Exploration Through Textual Analysis.
NOTE: Permission to include the song "Wathint' Abafazi Wathint' Imbokodo" received from Philip Miller. The song is arranged and sung by Lydia Manyama https://soundcloud.com/user-902706185/wathint-abafazi-wathintimbokodo.
Permission to use the graphics of Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, Brenda Fassie, Charlotte Maxeke, uMntwana uMagogo and Nokutela Linderly Mdima-Dube has been granted by Jacana Media.
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