I was backstage with KG, the vocalist in the Motswako trio, Morafe and I told him I had wanted to write about Motswako but was a little hesitant. He said I should write anyway. So I did.
Motswako in SeTswana means “mixture” and has been dubbed as the description of the mixture of SeTswana raps with other indigenous languages and English. This movement has been a part of our culture for years. Arguably starting with Stoan Seate in the group, Bongo Maffin. He was the first rapper to use the Tswana language in a rap in mainstream music. I said arguably, right? Ok.
So Motswako has seen many folds and changes in the years. It has even attracted nay-sayers who have said year after year that the movement is doomed. And these are mostly people who have no insight on the movement. Just a zoo-visitor-view (so to speak).
In a cover of a young magazine, a new term was born that was to be the name of the unit that seemed to be a force to reckon with in the South African Music scene, not just in Hip Hop: Motswako Republic. At the helm of it all were (and still are) HHP (Hip Hop Pantsula); Mo Molemi; Tuks Senganga; KG, Khuli and Towdee who make up the only mainstream group, Morafe. Hot on their heels are the young foot-soldiers: Notshi; Element; Cassper Nyovest; Andrianto; Fifi Cooper; KT and Lection. Supporting these guys on the decks are two talented DJ's, Zondi and Lemonka.
The gentlemen at the helm of this movement have between them 18 studio albums that have been released in the past 13 years. That's a pretty dominant feat for Hip Hop acts in this country and between them, they have had four SAMAs (South African Music Awards) and a number of nominations. The biggest export not just to Motswako but for the country as well, being HHP who is internationally acclaimed too.
I had to learn SeTswana from a Church Hymn book to be able to fully grasp what was been said in these Motswako rhymes because my Tswana was very weak, having been diluted by the English I had to speak everyday at school and consequently at home too. This is how much I was taken by the rhymes. The story of me and Motswako :) Started with a hook; lead to a t-shirt and hoodie chase; flourished into friendships and has lead me to being on the front line as its First Lady. I don't rap. Fifi does. She sings too. And she has also been named First Lady of Motswako. LOL!
And in the years that this fraternity has been around, I have witnessed businesses flourish; young talent has been unearthed and groomed; challenges have been met; sponsorship deals being clinched; endorsement deals being accomplished; squabbles have been squashed and identities within the family have been established. It is almost as though in the truest form, these boys and girls have come from one womb and have learnt to share the spotlight when need be and still be able to hold their own when apart.
So the nay-sayers will carry on saying what they have to to sell papers and have something to discuss at water coolers. The foot-soldiers will take the torch from the big brothers and be the next generation of commanders in the Hip Hop scene because as one member of the movement has on numerous occasions stated: "Motswako was, is and always will be".
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Grim Reaper
I thought I knew that death isn't something I can get used to until I REALLY found myself in a spot that made me realise I knew nothing about not getting used to death.
People die. Actually, all living things will eventually die. You too. Did I just shock you? I apologise. My mom reckons I don't handle death all too well. I have been affected by four family deaths in the past 11 years, so she knows what she's on about.
My first experience of death came in 1999 when my uncle just died within days of our 2nd Democratic elections. It was weird. I was sad. This is someone I have sparse memories of and I still don't quite know where the bad feelings came from until I recognised them as guilt. Guilt at the memory of having him, about a week prior, ask me to go buy him something at the shops and in a disgruntled huff, I snatched the money and went to make the purchases. This may seem odd. But when you can't apologise for rude behaviour to a living being who has the option to forgive or not, it makes it near torturous to have an apology fall on dead ears.
Years later I got news of my paternal grandmother having suffered a stroke and landing up in hospital. I panicked but I knew that strokes don't necessarily mean death. I kept being grateful to an ex boyfriend who had made it possible for me to have spent some time with her while she was still healthy. I remember him dropping me off at her house and I found her alone and she hadn't yet eaten. So I whipped a quick meal (spaghetti, mixed veggies and chicken) for us and we had dinner. When I left, no one had come home yet so I told her to lock the house. That was the last conversation I had with her. When she got worse and couldn't talk as a result of the stroke and got shifted from one hospital to another, I knew it was BAD. And then I just stopped going to the hospitals until I dreamt of her asking me when I would visit. It just turned out that my uncle, an avid smoker, had been taken to the same hospital that she was in. So my mom and maternal grandmother went with me to the hospital. My uncle was there cos he had skipped a few TB check ups and found himself in a grim position. So we started off at his ward and then all went to go see my paternal gran. Even with all the problems between my parents my gran loved my mom like a daughter. The visit was still hellava disturbing though. Seeing her just blinking with an oxygen mask on was gut-wrenching to say the least. And then she looked me dead in the eyes and tried to talk. The frustration on her face at not being able to talk was enough to slit my soul in half and leave it out for the sun to dry it up and kill it. Mom told her not to try to talk just yet cos she was hurting herself. So she gave up and not once did she take her eyes off me. I cried so hard. So long. She died that night.
And in the weeks following her funeral, my maternal grandmother also just started getting ill all of a sudden. Doctors diagnosed her with all sorts of things. She couldn't eat, couldn't drink liquids and just struggled to breathe. My cousin struggled with her all on her own most nights. She was the one who woke up when my gran was suffering from pains she couldn't explain and she had to help her breathe when she ran out of breath. I remember only ONE instance where I felt useful. She called out for me cos she couldn't bath herself. The rag got too heavy and I bathed and dressed her. I bargained with God so many times, I ran out of bargaining chips. And it was when I ran out of them that my cousin took her to a specialist and I had to go to my dad's house. I went to work the next day and just as I was contemplating going to her house after work, my mom called me asking for my dad's numbers. I kinda breathed a sigh of relief that she didn't suddenly say: "Ouma is gone". So when my dad came home and went straight to the kitchen and came back with a big tumbler of water and told me that my grandmother had passed away, I heard nothing and took no breath for what felt like forever. I just didn't understand. Like, I was so confused. And when I came to, I had a panic attack and I guess that was what the sweet water was for. Mom's good. She knows me well. My gran knew me even better and thought it better for me to enjoy a day I treasure more than any other (my birthday) and to rather hear of her death over the phone than seeing a coroner pull her body off to the mortuary. She at spent my birthday with me moving from the bedroom and sitting with me in the lounge while the rest of the family had my cake. It felt good. I was happy.
It was hard though. Eight weeks prior, I had just lost my other gran. It snowed a few days after her death and that just made me want to wake her up even more. The first snow fall in Johannesburg in something like 40 years or something.
Three years later, my cousins and I found ourselves in a bit of a dilemma. Our uncle that we lived with in my maternal grandmothers house fell ill again. And again it was as a result of having skipped 13 TB injections in his treatment. He was diagnosed HIV positive in 2005. He survived TB twice. You know when you take things for granted? Like: "ah well, he will make it...he always does". That was my attitude. And because I was unemployed (I say unemployed because I didn't work every day) I was the one taking care of him. Making sure he took his medication, bathed him and made him food. I was on the ball until he got worse and mom had to leave her job to help me out. And I remember that there were days where I would forget to give certain pills. I don't know how I forgot, but I did. I mean, with ARV's and a host of other MDR-TB pills, I just lost track of it all. After weeks of praying harder than I have in my entire life, and him wanting to die because he just couldn't stand the pain anymore, he got his wish.
My cousin and aunts had gone to see him at the hospital after my mom could not get him to breathe on his own and had to send him there for a few intakes from the oxygen tank and a drip. He had asked them to take him home with them when they left. Of course, my aunt told him that they couldn't take him home. So he told them that he would go home anyway. He only lasted a night there and told my aunt and cousin that he wished I was not working (I had just found a full-time job a few days before) so that I could continue taking care of him when my mom was not around. Those were his last words at the ring of the "visiting hours are over" bell.
This death in particular was the hardest I ever had to go through. It still is. The what-ifs are endless. What if it was because of my forgetting to give him his meds on time? What if I hadn't worked and he was able to be home with me like we did for three months? I slipped into a dark dimension and was diagnosed with clinical depression. I didn't cry much at his funeral. I was too dead. I still kind of am. It just still doesn't make sense. It was so sudden. Like, the Grim Reaper got too excited with that sickle, you know? And because I didn't recognise him in his coffin, I have no recognition of his death. Except that there's an obituary in my Bible and that his room is empty.
It doesn't make sense. 8 months later, I still can't wrap my head around it. I guess it will never make sense, really. *shrug*
People die. Actually, all living things will eventually die. You too. Did I just shock you? I apologise. My mom reckons I don't handle death all too well. I have been affected by four family deaths in the past 11 years, so she knows what she's on about.
My first experience of death came in 1999 when my uncle just died within days of our 2nd Democratic elections. It was weird. I was sad. This is someone I have sparse memories of and I still don't quite know where the bad feelings came from until I recognised them as guilt. Guilt at the memory of having him, about a week prior, ask me to go buy him something at the shops and in a disgruntled huff, I snatched the money and went to make the purchases. This may seem odd. But when you can't apologise for rude behaviour to a living being who has the option to forgive or not, it makes it near torturous to have an apology fall on dead ears.
Years later I got news of my paternal grandmother having suffered a stroke and landing up in hospital. I panicked but I knew that strokes don't necessarily mean death. I kept being grateful to an ex boyfriend who had made it possible for me to have spent some time with her while she was still healthy. I remember him dropping me off at her house and I found her alone and she hadn't yet eaten. So I whipped a quick meal (spaghetti, mixed veggies and chicken) for us and we had dinner. When I left, no one had come home yet so I told her to lock the house. That was the last conversation I had with her. When she got worse and couldn't talk as a result of the stroke and got shifted from one hospital to another, I knew it was BAD. And then I just stopped going to the hospitals until I dreamt of her asking me when I would visit. It just turned out that my uncle, an avid smoker, had been taken to the same hospital that she was in. So my mom and maternal grandmother went with me to the hospital. My uncle was there cos he had skipped a few TB check ups and found himself in a grim position. So we started off at his ward and then all went to go see my paternal gran. Even with all the problems between my parents my gran loved my mom like a daughter. The visit was still hellava disturbing though. Seeing her just blinking with an oxygen mask on was gut-wrenching to say the least. And then she looked me dead in the eyes and tried to talk. The frustration on her face at not being able to talk was enough to slit my soul in half and leave it out for the sun to dry it up and kill it. Mom told her not to try to talk just yet cos she was hurting herself. So she gave up and not once did she take her eyes off me. I cried so hard. So long. She died that night.
And in the weeks following her funeral, my maternal grandmother also just started getting ill all of a sudden. Doctors diagnosed her with all sorts of things. She couldn't eat, couldn't drink liquids and just struggled to breathe. My cousin struggled with her all on her own most nights. She was the one who woke up when my gran was suffering from pains she couldn't explain and she had to help her breathe when she ran out of breath. I remember only ONE instance where I felt useful. She called out for me cos she couldn't bath herself. The rag got too heavy and I bathed and dressed her. I bargained with God so many times, I ran out of bargaining chips. And it was when I ran out of them that my cousin took her to a specialist and I had to go to my dad's house. I went to work the next day and just as I was contemplating going to her house after work, my mom called me asking for my dad's numbers. I kinda breathed a sigh of relief that she didn't suddenly say: "Ouma is gone". So when my dad came home and went straight to the kitchen and came back with a big tumbler of water and told me that my grandmother had passed away, I heard nothing and took no breath for what felt like forever. I just didn't understand. Like, I was so confused. And when I came to, I had a panic attack and I guess that was what the sweet water was for. Mom's good. She knows me well. My gran knew me even better and thought it better for me to enjoy a day I treasure more than any other (my birthday) and to rather hear of her death over the phone than seeing a coroner pull her body off to the mortuary. She at spent my birthday with me moving from the bedroom and sitting with me in the lounge while the rest of the family had my cake. It felt good. I was happy.
It was hard though. Eight weeks prior, I had just lost my other gran. It snowed a few days after her death and that just made me want to wake her up even more. The first snow fall in Johannesburg in something like 40 years or something.
Three years later, my cousins and I found ourselves in a bit of a dilemma. Our uncle that we lived with in my maternal grandmothers house fell ill again. And again it was as a result of having skipped 13 TB injections in his treatment. He was diagnosed HIV positive in 2005. He survived TB twice. You know when you take things for granted? Like: "ah well, he will make it...he always does". That was my attitude. And because I was unemployed (I say unemployed because I didn't work every day) I was the one taking care of him. Making sure he took his medication, bathed him and made him food. I was on the ball until he got worse and mom had to leave her job to help me out. And I remember that there were days where I would forget to give certain pills. I don't know how I forgot, but I did. I mean, with ARV's and a host of other MDR-TB pills, I just lost track of it all. After weeks of praying harder than I have in my entire life, and him wanting to die because he just couldn't stand the pain anymore, he got his wish.
My cousin and aunts had gone to see him at the hospital after my mom could not get him to breathe on his own and had to send him there for a few intakes from the oxygen tank and a drip. He had asked them to take him home with them when they left. Of course, my aunt told him that they couldn't take him home. So he told them that he would go home anyway. He only lasted a night there and told my aunt and cousin that he wished I was not working (I had just found a full-time job a few days before) so that I could continue taking care of him when my mom was not around. Those were his last words at the ring of the "visiting hours are over" bell.
This death in particular was the hardest I ever had to go through. It still is. The what-ifs are endless. What if it was because of my forgetting to give him his meds on time? What if I hadn't worked and he was able to be home with me like we did for three months? I slipped into a dark dimension and was diagnosed with clinical depression. I didn't cry much at his funeral. I was too dead. I still kind of am. It just still doesn't make sense. It was so sudden. Like, the Grim Reaper got too excited with that sickle, you know? And because I didn't recognise him in his coffin, I have no recognition of his death. Except that there's an obituary in my Bible and that his room is empty.
It doesn't make sense. 8 months later, I still can't wrap my head around it. I guess it will never make sense, really. *shrug*
Monday, November 1, 2010
The half that's full of bits of wholes
Family reunions are an adventure I have missed out on for too long.
I've only ever met long-lost or distant relatives at funerals and weddings. The two most stressful Family Reunion days. However, this past weekend, I met the rest of my family from my dad's side. I come from a dysfunctional but well-oiled family engine. Yes, engine. The complexity of the mechanisms that make it function cannot equate to a tree.
Somewhere along the line, a White man was involved who fornicated with a Tswana woman and they had a host of Coloured babies. Or maybe it was a White woman who fell for a hot Tswana man. Anyway, those Coloured babies went on procreate a lot more babies with Indian, Caucasian, Tswana and Coloured folk. And from all that, came my grandmother who had seven kids, the first being my dad.
Through observation that was largely brought on by shock, I learned that if you pour salt in your alcoholic beverage of choice (which looked to popularly be Savanna), you won't get a hangover, or get drunk. I'm not so sure about the hangover but I do know that the not-getting-drunk bit is an absolute lie. They got drunk. And rowdy. And probably used all the salt in the house because there was little salt in the meat we devoured at 12am.
I don't remember most of the people I met. But by the looks of things, there will be more babies at the next reunion.
I've only ever met long-lost or distant relatives at funerals and weddings. The two most stressful Family Reunion days. However, this past weekend, I met the rest of my family from my dad's side. I come from a dysfunctional but well-oiled family engine. Yes, engine. The complexity of the mechanisms that make it function cannot equate to a tree.
Somewhere along the line, a White man was involved who fornicated with a Tswana woman and they had a host of Coloured babies. Or maybe it was a White woman who fell for a hot Tswana man. Anyway, those Coloured babies went on procreate a lot more babies with Indian, Caucasian, Tswana and Coloured folk. And from all that, came my grandmother who had seven kids, the first being my dad.
Through observation that was largely brought on by shock, I learned that if you pour salt in your alcoholic beverage of choice (which looked to popularly be Savanna), you won't get a hangover, or get drunk. I'm not so sure about the hangover but I do know that the not-getting-drunk bit is an absolute lie. They got drunk. And rowdy. And probably used all the salt in the house because there was little salt in the meat we devoured at 12am.
I don't remember most of the people I met. But by the looks of things, there will be more babies at the next reunion.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Brown Sugar
When did I fall in love with Hip Hop?
I don't know.
I wish my story read like that of Sydney Shaw in Brown Sugar, but it doesn't. An exact day and an exact moment of realisation would be too far-fetched for me. My memory stretches back to a time when my cousin would want to record hip hop on my empty VHS tapes that I had saved for recording movies and series on tv. He is older than me, so his authority ruled. I was inundated with the East Coast/West Coast battles and through peer pressure and propaganda; I chose the West side as a "rap-team" I would support. And then Tupac died.
I was on my way to school, listening to the radio and the jock announced that Pac was no more. I can't explain the shift that occurred in me. I began grieving for a man I didn't know. An unfinished poem. I later discovered his poetry in "The rose that grew from concrete" and realised that with him, it had always been about what he was saying and how he delivered it; not so much who he was dissing and the drama that evolved around all that. Rap. Rhythm and poetry. It began making sense to me.
More than anything in Hip Hop, I love beats. When I heard Nicolay's beat to "Nic's Groove" on The Foreign Exchange's "Connected" album, I melted. And then one day on radio, I heard Little Brother's "Good Clothes". 9th Wonder is a gem with such soulful beats it's like they don't even touch the instruments that they portray; they float. *goosebumps*...years later, I got properly introduced to Little Brother and The Foreign Exchange...and Phonte. I didn't know who the boy was but I put his verses on repeat all the time. An effortless flow with a strong voice and solid lyrical content. Phonte Coleman soon put a face to something I've always battled in finding...my favourite MC. Hip Hop and I have never really had a love/hate relationship. It has been with me since I was 12, and I've never not loved it. Since the days when I saw the colourful "Hit Em Up" video on repeat everyday til my cousin could recite the lyrics and I did the beat and chorus, it has been the only constant in my life. Hip Hop has gone through so many changes, commercially, and having discovered a sound I could relate to, finally, was exhilarating. I have heard about how we should accept the change in mainstream Hip Hop. I can't. I'm stuck in a specific sound. I listen to the new music that is out there but my preference is the mellow jazzy Hip Hop. The type that feels like it is telling a story through the perfectly created beats, well-written lyrics and trance-inducing poetry.
So, when did I fall in love with Hip Hop? I can't pin point a date or an era. Hip Hop is and always has been the perfect verse over my heart beat. I just woke up one day and knew where my soul's home was.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Reigning Queen
The Balobedu people of the Limpopo province in South Africa have (since the 1800s) had a firm belief that their Rain Queen Modjadji had special powers amongst which was the power to control the clouds and therefore, rainfall. Wikipedia states that her "mystical rain making powers are reinforced by the beautiful garden which surrounds her royal compound. Surrounded by a parched land, her garden contains the world's largest cyad trees which are in abundance under a spectacular rain belt". There hasn't been a rain queen since 12 June 2005, following the death of Queen Makobo Modjadji. I won't get into the nitty gritty of the drama that that family is facing.
After over 150 days without rain, we had our first Spring Rain in Johannesburg today. It was short-lived but we enjoyed it and tweeted about it all afternoon.
But before we get into that, let's rewind back to 26 years ago when, in the Kwatlhai household, my mothers water broke in the middle of a mourning period. Born June 21st on a rainy Thursday, I came into the world two days before my grandfathers' funeral. My mom had always wanted to name me Palesa (flower) but because of the circumstances of my birth, she didn't want me to have a name synonymous with darkness which in this case would be a wreath. Other family members suggested "Dikeledi" (tears) and others wanted me to be named after my grandfather. Mom wouldn't have it. She and dad decided to name me Motlalepule (the one who came with rain/rain maker) and later explained to me the rain (blessing) that I came with washed away their tears from having lost a loved one.
I thought it was very poetic that I would have my first post on a rainy Spring Thursday evening like the first breath I took 26 years ago, on a rainy Winter Thursday morning.
My name is Motlalepule Kwatlhai, welcome to my world of words; a kingdom where I am the Reigning Queen.
After over 150 days without rain, we had our first Spring Rain in Johannesburg today. It was short-lived but we enjoyed it and tweeted about it all afternoon.
But before we get into that, let's rewind back to 26 years ago when, in the Kwatlhai household, my mothers water broke in the middle of a mourning period. Born June 21st on a rainy Thursday, I came into the world two days before my grandfathers' funeral. My mom had always wanted to name me Palesa (flower) but because of the circumstances of my birth, she didn't want me to have a name synonymous with darkness which in this case would be a wreath. Other family members suggested "Dikeledi" (tears) and others wanted me to be named after my grandfather. Mom wouldn't have it. She and dad decided to name me Motlalepule (the one who came with rain/rain maker) and later explained to me the rain (blessing) that I came with washed away their tears from having lost a loved one.
I thought it was very poetic that I would have my first post on a rainy Spring Thursday evening like the first breath I took 26 years ago, on a rainy Winter Thursday morning.
My name is Motlalepule Kwatlhai, welcome to my world of words; a kingdom where I am the Reigning Queen.
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