A plethora of attributes contribute to making one a semi-decent writer. One is insatiable curiosity. An inquisitive mind. This is why you should never do anything vaguely memorable around this bunch. Incorrigible gossips, they will eavesdrop and might even follow you around Rosebank Mall because they find you intriguing. That inquisitive streak also applies when a bomb goes off and everyone runs away but writers run towards the explosion in the hope of spotting a severed limb or skull.
Like that famous clip of a man seen running towards the World Trade Center while everyone else was fleeing. The thing about stereotypes is that, regardless of their accuracy, they are as interesting as hell. For instance, speaking of 9/11, a few days after that tragic event my colleagues and I had to fly to HQ in Durban for some team-building nothingness. As we huddled together, nervous about flying, we spotted four gentlemen in Islamic garb roll out prayer mats in a corner.
One of my colleagues went into panicked distress mode and whispered, “Is that really necessary at this point in history?” I laughed out loud when she said that, as she is of Indian descent and grew up near the Jummah Masjid in Phoenix, Durban. Her own brother had converted to Islam. But this is the power of stereotypes. I’m only sharing this story to make the stereotypes I’m about to share seem comparatively innocuous. I’m a writer and I’m drawn to stereotypes like a moth to a flame.
Now, most indigenous people did not have surnames before the pale people that Juju calls “settlers” decided to give them to us. You were given a name at birth and to distinguish you from all other fellows named Bulongwe (cow dung) you were called by your father’s first name; so Bulongwe kaMaqashana, as opposed to Bulongwe kaSibumbu. This is why there had never been a historical figure called Shaka Zulu until Flynn came along. He was just Shaka ka Senzangakhona. His father’s name.
Given a choice, most people would opt for inyangas with Gumede or Qwabe as surname. Your assault charges will be dropped by the prosecutor if you get a potion from a Gumede.
In the case of “the Zoeloes” on everyone’s stoep, this all changed when an English gentleman called Sir Theophilus Shepstone, who ended up as the secretary of native affairs in Natal and Zululand, got really frustrated trying to enable the 19th century Sars to collect taxes from folks in the same family who didn’t have the same last name. So he lined them up and said, “Okay, if you live between the Ngquz’phola stream over there and that giant baobab, your surname is Khumalo! Got that?” Well, it wasn’t that dramatic, but you get the gist.
This is how my forebears were given the Ngcobo surname. An important surname in KwaZulu-Natal. Back when we had that thick Telkom directory, Ngcobo was probably only outnumbered by Naidoos, Pillays and Govenders in the 031 area code. But my surname is also synonymous with omantshingelane (security guards). Everyone who has entered any public hospital, clinic, school or university has had to be allowed onto the premises by an Ngcobo. Popularly addressed as “Pholoba”, my people are notoriously hard-headed gatekeepers, literally. And they’re all polygamists, with a serious alcohol problem. That’s just us.
And then there are the Gumedes in KZN. Given a choice, most people would opt for inyangas with Gumede or Qwabe as surname. Your assault charges will be dropped by the prosecutor if you get a potion from a Gumede. The same goes for the Cele surname. If someone breaks into a house and there is a Cele household with more than three boys nearby, everybody knows whodunit. It’s Abafana bakwa Cele (the Cele boys were involved). That’s why the ANC deployed our erstwhile police minister and national commissioner in those positions. To catch fish, you use fish as bait.
Question: If you want the best biryani mix on Durban’s Grey Street, who do you go to? If there are two spice shops, one owned by a Mrs Mahabir and one by Mrs Govender, who do you buy from? Don’t be ridiculous; everyone knows the best biryani, bunny chow or bajji is made by the chatty Mrs Govender with the red dot. And she’ll throw in a complimentary container of dhall and two rotis.
If your English teacher was not Mrs Hudson, Mrs Hathaway or Mrs Cavendish, commiserations. You probably didn’t get a decent English education. A Mrs Thornton or Spencer would also do. But if your English teacher was a Mr Smith or something lame like that, you probably mix your prepositions all the time. My high school Afrikaans teachers were Mevroue Nel, Steenkamp and Van der Waal. Those are good names for an Afrikaans teacher. That’s why I got an “A” in Afrikaans, in matric. You can’t get an “A” from Mevrou Gouws or Mr Snyman. And definitely not a Van der Merwe; they’re much better at overhauling Ford Focus engines, that lot.
I have to spend about 10 days in Cape Town next week. So, it’s probably best that I don’t know why there are people called January, February, August, September or October in that part of the world but I’ve never come across a March, a November and a December, huh? I have self-preservation instincts. And for that reason I will not ask why all the Ntate Kekanas are Camry-driving school principals. And why all the Matlalas run spaza shops.
Before I go I’d like to apologise to anyone whose surname I haven’t denigrated in this column. And if you’re a Christian, please have a blessed Easter weekend and come back a better version of yourself. And remember Matthew 5:39, which tells you that if a slightly deranged columnist offends you, do turn the other cheek so he can do it again next week.
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