Bushbuckridge Salutes Munghana Lonene FM

It is often said that the problem with most of us is that we choose to be ruined by baseless praise than to be saved by constructive criticism. I have always believed that in order for all of us to see the light, we need other people to spot and expose our shortcomings, thus unconsciously motivating us to do better.

On this note, I would like to congratulate my favourite radio station, Munghana Lonene FM, for reaching out to the people of Bushbuckridge by conducting community outreach events in that area. For many years, we, the people of Bushbuckridge, have been weeping for recognition by this radio station, after realising that communities in Limpopo were the only ones mostly benefiting from the station’s outreach programmes, despite us also being its target audience.

It was for this reason that some time last year, I wrote an article expressing my disappointment and sadness concerning the unequal treatment that the people of Bushbuckridge were constantly subjected to, by the radio station. This unpalatable treatment ranged from less airplay of songs of musicians from Bushbuckridge by the radio station, to other issues such as minimal engagements with local communities, which precisely worked against socio-economic transformation in our areas.

Let me put it categorically clear today that I am proud to highlight that after a spontaneous confirmation that the station had seen and read my article, live on air by one presenter, we have witnessed multiple dramatic changes concerning the relationship between the area of Bushbuckridge and Munghana Lonene FM.

The station has thus far managed to conduct a back-to-school campaign at Mugena High School in Hluvukani, interviewed Petrus Mdluli, the man behind the construction of many schools in the area of Manyeleti, in its show called Mikondzo Ya Tinghwazi and also embarked on numerous community outreach projects.

Some of these outreach activities took place in areas such as New Forest, Angincourt and Casteel, where the station also donated a borehole. The radio station also travelled all the way to Kwinyamahembe to honour our local hero, Sam Nzima, who captured the historic photo of the June 16 Soweto Uprising, many years ago.

The recent function that took place at Timbavati in Acornhoek saw the station's employees engaging in corporate social responsibility activities to commemorate Nelson Mandela International Day. The massive turnout by the people of Bushbuckridge to all the abovementioned functions bears testimony to the fact that the station is well received in the area.

What has been encouraging about Munghana Lonene FM’s recent moves is that all the outreach programmes provided a platform for musicians such as General Muzka, Themba Nyathi, Clive S, DJ Kukza and many other local arts groups to entertain the crowds and also showcase their talents.

It is for this reason and many others that I personally take my hat off to the radio station for hearing our plea and acting accordingly. We appreciate the efforts recently made by the station and, in the same breath, we encourage it to continue to equally cater for the people of Bushbuckridge and also make them feel a sense of belonging. We are grateful that artists from Bushbuckridge are also receiving fair airplay at the radio station, as opposed to how it was in the past.

Keep up the good work Munghana Lonene FM and be rest assured that your great deeds cannot by any measure, and under any circumstance, escape our ululation and applause. We hope that even the annual Munghana Lonene FM Xitsonga Music Awards will soon be directed to Bushbuckridge. Let the good times roll.

Part Two of Chapter One: Dry Tears Count Not

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“I am sorry to invade your space at this time of the night maam. I had to come have a word with you,” said Mokoena after realising that there was not going to be any communication if he did not lead the way. “I am here to discuss your son, Hector…” he continued.

“What happened to him sir? Is he fine? I am sitting here stressing about what may have befallen my poor son for him not to have returned home at this time of the night,” said Ntsakisi, who had to interject Mokoena due to anxiety that was slowly creeping in.

She was obviously not looking forward to hearing terrible news. It could not be. That would cripple her whole body and freeze all her body organs. She moistened her lips while looking straight at the teacher, hoping he saves the day by telling her that her son was all but okay.

“Forgive me maam. I am not a bearer of bad news here. I was not even aware that Hector is not in the house yet. I am here in my capacity as his teacher to discuss his school work,” said Mokoena with a soft yet confident voice.

“I am sorry to come at this time of the day,” he continued. “I had just decided to visit my friend who stays in town and on my way back I saw it conveniently fit to pass by and greet, after noticing that the lights were still on. My apologies.”

“Not a problem sir. I even forgot to greet you. How are you?” said Ntsakisi.

“ I am fine thanks maam. Thanks for letting me in,” replied Mokoena.

“I am also glad that you are not bringing dreadful news. I am not ready for such news. Otherwise this heart would stop ticking immediately. It has seen enough and it cannot take the bullet anymore. I may not be too old but I have seen the worst in my short lifetime,” remarked Ntsakisi with a short grin that represented a sense of welcomed relief.

Mokoena’s voice was a grand contradiction of his stature. He was a very big man yet his voice would fit in well in the soprano group in a church choir. It was too soft and bit squeaky for a man that gigantic. A man who would just look at a lion in the eye and order it to run away.

In spite of his no-nonsense approach to life issues, Mokoena was a well-respected man at both his school and community. A teacher who loved his work. He would laugh if the need arises, and act all serious when circumstances dictated so. In his nine years of teaching, Mokoena had seen it all. He was reprimanded by the provincial education department on numerous occasions on his approach to child discipline. Contrary to the law of the country, which totally abolishes corporal punishment, Mokoena was one teacher who would occasionally apply corporal punishment to his learners. “I cannot be part of the generation of parents who contribute to ill-discipline by sparing children the rod. They need to learn at a young age that ill-discipline cannot be tolerated.” He would often say.

Despite the serious face, Mokoena was an eligible bachelor. At the age of 40, many people and relatives had expected him to have settled down and have his own family. But that was just the Mokoena they wished for, not the real one. He was single and still stayed alone. He was not one to be convinced to tie the knot. Not by anyone.

“So, tell me sir. What do you want to discuss about Hector’s school work? Is he underperforming?” asked Ntsakisi.

“Not at all maam. Hector is one of the best performing learners in my class. He is an exceptional case,” replied Mokoena. “I just came here to see the woman who gave birth to him so I could give her a pat on the back for making my job easier,” he continued with a faint giggle.

“I am happy to hear that. He is doing well indeed. He took after his father I guess. Samson was such an intelligent man. More intelligent than many men in this area. Even the local headmaster knew that with him around, there was no community issue that was impossible to unscramble,” said Ntsakisi. Her face beaming with confidence and pride to prove that she knew what she was talking about.

“He sure was… He must have been very intelligent,” reacted Mokoena with a dejected voice.

The poor teacher immediately directed his eyes to the surface: an unconscious sign of defeat and disappointment. For a second he regretted visiting the household. As it is the case with all men, Mokoena became uncomfortable listening to a woman praising her husband, in his presence. Worse, it was not just a husband, but a husband who had passed on. How unintelligent could he be to be outshined by a departed soul? Mokoena asked himself in vain. His heart started beating furiously. His soul was extremely wounded but his face partially succeeded in trying to contain and hide the inner pain. It became self-evident that Ntsakisi’s praise for her late husband had pierced the heart of Mokoena and successfully stripped him of his manhood.

His mind immediately became very busy. It embarked on a racing competition with itself. Mokoena was having silent conversations with himself. ‘Yes, Samson may have been an intelligent man, but he was just a construction worker. Mokoena is a teacher. An educated somebody’. He said to himself just to resuscitate his fading status.

“So sir,” said Ntsakisi, whose words awoken Mokoena from his forged sleep, “Are you satisfied with Hector’s performance? Are there areas he needs to improve in?”

“No. I mean… yes. Yes he is doing a great job. Very great job and everything is balanced. He just needs to keep going,” said Mokoena, whose short slumber almost exposed him.

“I am glad to hear that sir. With a teacher like you, he surely is going places. I am very thankful. I have heard a lot about you. I guess all the stories are true based on our conversation and your voluntary move to come and check on your favourite learner. May God bless you sir,” she said with an innocent smile.

Her words shot straight to Mokoena’s heart and suddenly revived the wounded ego in him. He felt special, all of a sudden. He felt big, not only in stature but also in spirit. These were not only sweet words directed to him, but words coming from a woman. Priceless.

“Thank you for your kindness maam, I am really…”

His words were cut short by an opening door. It was Hector. He looked amazed at seeing his teacher in his own house. What could he have done? He thought. At the back of his mind he knew he was not a troublesome boy. But what if he is being accused of something that he never did? He sat on a chair next to his teacher and extended his right hand to greet him.

“Good evening sir. I was not expecting to see you here,” he said. He then turned to his mother and asked: “Everything okay mama?”

“Yes son,” said Ntsakisi with a smile of both joy and relief to see her son back at home. “Your teacher just came to greet us. He must definitely be on his way out now. It is getting late.”

“Yes Hector. I need to get going,” said Mokoena, preparing to stand up. I just came to say ‘hallo’ to my favourite learner, and unfortunately you got home at the time when I was about to leave. Good night, young man.”

“Good night, sir,” replied Hector.

Mokoena opened the door, looked at Hector, then at Ntsakisi. He smiled, waved and submitted himself to the outside darkness..

(To be continued)

Dry Tears Count Not

CHAPTER ONE

As the night grew older, Ntsakisi waited patiently for her son to come home from the sport field. Like all mothers would, it became difficult for her to steal a sleep without knowing her son’s whereabouts. She sat on the mat in her three-roomed house, humming what seemed like a church song. Ntsakisi is a strong woman. Maybe not physically, but hers is a solid heart that managed to raise two children after the death of her husband, Samson, over two years ago.

Her husband’s death was a tragic experience for her, given that the man was the sole breadwinner in the family. How could she forget that fateful night? She was sitting on the same mat one evening just after bathing her second-born child, Risima, when she heard a soft knock on her ailing door.

It was her husband’s colleague, Musa, who was in the company of two other men whom she could not recognise. The three men had brought with them, faces that had no happiness engraved on them. They looked like they had just lost all their life’s savings to an Internet crook. They sat down, with Musa looking at Ntsakisi straight on the face, yet struggle to utter even a single word. His face was heavy.

Despite all his efforts of putting a brave face, uncontrollable tears of sorrow found a way out of his big red eyes and greeted his cheeks on their way to his mouth and eventually, his chin. He could not hold it any longer.

Ntsakisi could see that something unpleasant had happened. Of course she recognised Musa, and she could see the other two men, and that none of them was her husband. Where could he be? It is late and he is not here. What may have had happened to poor Samson? She asked herself. Knowing exactly that she had no answers for all these questions.

Deep in her heart she still had hope despite all her negative thoughts and baseless imaginations. The worst news would be, she wished, that Samson was injured at work but still alive. It could not be death, she convinced herself, and without realising it, a single teardrop sneaked through her left eye. She wiped it with a face cloth she had just used to bath her child. She looked at Musa hoping for a different facial reaction. There were no changes. Musa, together with the other two men, were equally shattered. But none of them had guts to spill the beans.

“On our way from work…” mumbled Musa. “A truck came from nowhere. It was speeding. We were walking on the roadside. Apparently the driver lost control. And, and, and unfortunately, in the process, we lost your husband. Our dearest colleague whom we dearly loved…” before Musa could finish his statement, Ntsakisi fell on her back. And what followed was a loud cry that would even stop the rain. The poor woman cried hysterically over hearing the dreadful news that his only hope for a better tomorrow was no more. The three men tried to comfort her, but their deeds fell on deaf ears. She was just too devastated to listen to any of them. No amount of words could reverse the unfortunate event that had just befallen her. She was drowning in the pool of sorrow. The three men let her cry. She needed it. Who would not? This was the most tragic news she has ever received.

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It was for this reason that Ntsakisi could not sleep without ascertaining her son’s return from the sport field. Since the death of his father, Hector, at the tender age of 14, was all his mother had. “I will strip you of poverty one day mama, worry not,” he would say to his mother whenever he noticed that she seemed devastated.

For a woman who sold vegetables and fruits at the market place to survive, these are the words she needed to hear. Ntsakisi had faith in her son’s abilities, despite him being young. Hector was a top learner in his class. He was a promising young man.

It was getting late and Ntsakisi was becoming more worried. She stood up and resolved to walk few metres down the road that leads to the sport field, just to check on her beloved son. As she stood up, she heard a soft knock on the door. Her heart started pounding heavily. Hector would always accompany his knock with a “Hello mama, it’s me”. She knew it was not him. Who could it be? She took a deep breath and told herself: “It cannot be bad news again. I am not looking forward to hear this again. Not now. Not ever.”

She stepped to the door and pulled it. Standing outside was Mr Mokoena, a school teacher at Hector’s school. A tall dark man with strong arms and huge chest. He was standing there like a giant waiting for Ntsakisi to say something. In turn, the woman looked at him, hoping for a smile or something positive. Mokoena was not smiling. Neither was he sharing a positive story. “May I come in?” he asked. She nodded in agreement and also offered him a chair. The look from Mokoena sent shivers down Ntsakisi’s spine. She bit her lower lip. Mokoena just sat there and said nothing. He then cleared his throat…