I remember what life was like before the internet. As I write this, the resounding cheer of my tweens echoes in my ears and mind, reminding me of a time when connection was physical, communal and unavoidable.
Although South Africa’s first internet connection was established in 1991, its spread was neither immediate nor universal. For many of us, life unfolded outdoors. We took to the streets, not out of rebellion but because that was where life happened. There, we were forced to be present, to confront who we were, without the luxury of hiding behind a keyboard.
When school holidays arrived, there was an unspoken understanding: at a certain hour, children would gather in the streets to play. Those streets were classrooms of another kind, spaces where cultural and traditional knowledge was shared, absorbed and lived.
Recently, I watched a clip from the Wendy Williams Show in which she expressed sadness about the rise of social anxiety. A few days later, a conversation with Piotr — an 18-year-old on the cusp of starting university —brought that sadness closer to home. His upbringing, shaped by constant internet access, social media and later the isolation of Covid-19, stood in stark contrast to mine. The streets I knew as sites of joy and learning were largely absent from his story.
Having taken a course on the protection of folklore at the University of Illinois, it sharpened something I had long felt but not fully named. I became fascinated by the value of folklore and its importance to indigenous communities, particularly as it faces erosion and misappropriation.
Playing outside may seem trivial within the broader universe of traditional knowledge, but I use it deliberately. Simple games designed to build relationships, trust and cooperation were part of a well-oiled cultural system. That system is now faltering.
Folklore is passed down orally, from generation to generation. When the medium disappears, so too does the knowledge. Unlike Piotr, I still remember these games, though some of the rules have grown blurry. Those of us who do may well be the last custodians of this knowledge.
Nothing, however, is truly new. What we call novelty is often a recombination of existing ideas, woven together in unexpected ways. At best, it is the return of something that was once lost.
Take, for example, a game known as “24 Back”. It is played on a rectangular field, with each corner marked by a circle referred to as a “home safe”. A player standing within a home safe cannot be struck by the ball thrown by the opposing team. In this respect, the game bears some resemblance to baseball. In the centre of the rectangle, empty cans are placed, which players attempt to stack into a tower. When the tower is successfully built and counted to an agreed number, eliminated teammates are restored to the game, subject to ancillary rules.
Traditional and cultural knowledge continues to supply raw material, while others reap the rewards of refinement and legal recognition.
This was my favourite game. It has since died. If Piotr were to one day head a gaming company, and I pitched this concept to him as a mobile application, he would likely find it innovative. He might invest. The idea would be adapted to suit the interface, but its core would remain intact. Though it would appear novel, it would not be new. It would merely have been rediscovered.
It would likely be patentable too, precisely because folklore is rarely codified and seldom documented as prior art. What was once communal knowledge would now be privately owned. A game that belonged to my community would require me to pay for access; its ownership relocated, its origins obscured.
This pattern is not confined to games. It repeats itself across disciplines. Pharmacologically, African medicinal knowledge has been extracted and patented elsewhere. In museums abroad, crafts are displayed behind glass, objects identical to those still made by women like Mama Esther in my village, who struggle to earn a living from them. The imbalance is glaring. Traditional and cultural knowledge continues to supply raw material, while others reap the rewards of refinement and legal recognition.
This is not an argument against innovation, nor a romantic plea for the past. It is a call to recognise ownership. Traditional knowledge is not ownerless simply because it is shared. Its protection demands urgency, education and care. Until we take this seriously, we will continue to wake up to find that what once belonged to us now bears someone else’s name and a price tag.
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