By Panashe Chigumadzi
South Africa
Since I’m demanding honesty from racists, I must confess that part of my Marechera question was projection. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been more grateful for the personal fury of changes that the Fallists churned up and mirrored inside me than for the actual movement itself. Even if I was as presumptuous as Brenda Marechera in her political metaphor, I don’t know if I’d call my leaving Joburg for Cape Town a personal exile. The only other way I can explain it is as a form of masochism. How else do you explain the fact that at a time when there’s the Great Migration North by Young Black Professionals, I’ve chosen to leave South Africa, and self-elect into refugee status in Zille’s 1652 Republic?
Part of why I left Joburg was because whenever I would meet friends and family they were always eager to know “what happens next?” because I “look, well, stable.” Of course. I knew to go to therapy. I knew which medication worked. I knew to avoid dysfunction. When I told them I was going back to school for my post grad, they congratulated me for being positive and “doing something for my career development.”
In my short life as a journalist, or to be less diplomatic, a Cog in the Young Black Professional Industrial Complex, I’ve come to know that whenever a Young Black Professional “Goes Back to School” they are Escaping. When Lindiwe Mazibuko “chose” to leave the parliamentary leadership of the country’s largest (Ytest) opposition for that Harvard Masters all of us Young Black Professionals and Zille’s Professional Blacks alike, no matter whether we hated the DA, empathised. We understood.
Welcome Black.
Welcome Black.
Welcome Black.
We wanted to say.
That night, the night I was Welcomed Black at Gallagher Estate was an ironic time to have had it happen, but it happened nonetheless.
“This way to the party,” said the only other Black face in sight. I glanced at his imitation gold name tag: “Johnny.” He could’ve been my grandfather. A whole tata called “Johnny.” I wanted to tell the tata that it wasn’t a “party,” I was there for my award as best culture journalist for my story on the Economic Freedom Fighters’ “revolutionary fashion.” I left it. It was more important that I showed him some semblance of respect in a place where 1652s called him “Johnny” all day.
Per uTata Johnny’s instructions, I followed the path promising to take me to the kind of exclusive “party” I’d dreamed of for years. I was so intensely focused on Arriving that I didn’t notice the Black Woman walking footsteps ahead of me until we nearly bumped into one another. When I saw who it was, I became a mess.
It was Khanyi, the Khanyi.
“Hi, I’m Khanyi,” I’d wanted to say. It was how I’d always announce myself with a firm handshake because I’d chosen to believe in a nominal determinism of sorts.
It was important for people to know that I was Khanyi, not anything like the Khanyi Mbau of Muvhango’s-Doobsie-turned-BEE- tycoon’s- floozy-turned-reformed-actress-presenter-singer-and-best-selling- author-of-tell-all-memoir fame.
Khanyi Mbau, the crass Soweto-born go-getter who clicked right into the canary-coloured (lamborghini-owning) caricature of Black Diamonds in post-1994 umlilo wamaphepha with her busty implants popping out of Juicy Couture tracksuits, ass length weaves, and talon-like French nails.
It was important for people to know that I was Khanyi, everything like thee Khanyi Dhlomo of First-Black-news anchor-turned-Magazine-Editor-turned-Harvard-MBA-grad-who-returned-to-launch-her-own-Media-Empire fame.
Khanyi Dhlomo, the silver (/Black?) spoon born, acutely talented, crisply enunciated, pretty and sexually hushed Black Female Media Personality prototype who clicked right into the Rainbow Nation’s Black Excellence Dreams with her lithe fashion model’s body type, weave-less relaxed hair and subtle makeup.
This Khanyi’s name was nominal determinism at its best. Khanyisile, dawn, light. In Khanyi, Black girls could revel in visibility and its possibilities. Our lights shone brighter for hers. The glint in her perfect teeth, the gleam in her eyes that said, long before Lupita did it so cutesy-ly at the Oscars, My Dreams of Perfect Black Girlhood Were Valid.
“I remember that Lux ad where you were proofing photos from a magazine shoot. That’s the moment I knew I wanted to be an editor.”
She smiled politely at the throwback. Just like with uTata Johnny, I wanted to tell her that I was there to receive an award. I wondered if it was a little too forward, but Fuck It, I needed for her to know that I was more than just a fan. I told her.
“Congratulations Khanyi,” she began what could’ve been the standard email reply note her office had created for her countless awestruck fans, “I wish you all the best in your future endeavours.”
