Zulu culture and Zulu practise

We’re back in the south, back on the buffalo fence of Inkwazi floodplain. The plains are not yet flooded with water, but a wash of green growth has started to emerge from the tired, yellow-grey grass. Some of the green is from wild spinach. Good, healthy food. And it’s free! Fani and Lakhize walk the fenceline, stooping occasionally to fill their plastic bags with small wild spinach leaves.

Thembankosi and I walk in the short grass next to the buffalo fence, grass freshly cut by tractor and slasher. Hoops in hand we walk, pole to pole, slashing the grass under the two strands of electric wire that run between us at chest height. The sun is warm on our backs and so the pace is relaxed. And the conversation flows easily. “To get married if you are Zulu is expensive” he tells me. “Eleven cows for lobola usually, furniture for the home, two cows to slaughter for the wedding feast and all the Zulu beer.” But only when you are married are you considered a man, no matter your age. And if you are unmarried you don’t sit with married men when they eat. You wait to be invited to get meat from the men. Zulu people also love to have many children he explains. “Why?” It is so that your surname is spread far and wide. “And being married and having a girlfriend, is that allowed in the Zulu customs?” Yes of course. In fact you get permission from your wife to have a girlfriend. And she also helps the wife with the work around the house. I ask if he thinks all the laws and customs are a good thing. “Yes, because without them there is no respect. A young boy can then order around an old man and that is disrespectful.” Interesting discussions, made much more interesting when undertaken all in Zulu.

Thembankosi tells me that Vusi, now on leave, has suffered a tragedy in the family. A child has passed away. Not sure who exactly and not sure how. Back at Izwe later I ask Musa for Vusi’s number and some coaching on how best to pass your condolences on in Zulu. “Don’t send an sms, Vusi can’t read and will just think it’s a Please Call Me and delete it” he says, “Phone him rather.” I do. And I can hear both sadness for his loss and gratitude for my call in his voice as I share my half prepared, half spontaneous message of sorrow for his loss. He puts the child’s father on the phone. I repeat what I’ve said and I can hear the same feelings in this man’s voice. It is perhaps not so hard to describe the feeling of reaching out to someone like this, to share just a small part of their loss. But the gratitude that I felt, for the tiny bit of Zulu I know that afforded me the opportunity to do express my sadness for Vusi and his family is not possible to explain. Certainly one the most poignant moments I have experienced and an inkling to what is possible when language is no longer a complete barrier between black and white. It is a small thing that happened, but it is also a moment I shant ever forget!