Gedigte oor kruie en tuiskoms deur sangoma Sithembele Isaac Xhegwana

Illustrasie: Carla de Beer

Hierdie artikel is ’n vertaalde en aangepaste weergawe van Sithembele Isaac Xhegwana se ‘Dreams, Spears & Sacred Herbs: Reinventing and Documenting Indigenous Knowledge Systems’ wat oorspronklik in Engels by die Amazwi South African Museum of Literature se Literature, Heritage and Ecology Conference aangebied is. Luister hier na opnames van die aanbiedings. Vertaling deur Elodi Troskie. 

---

Drome en inheemse kennisstelsels

Suksesvolle Afrikaskrywers het almal vanuit verskillende benaderings met vervreemding, ballingskap en tuiskoms te make. Wole Soyinka, die eerste Afrikaan wat ’n Nobelprys vir Letterkunde ontvang het, praat oor hierdie tipe ervaringe in sy memoir, You Must Set Forth At Dawn (2006). As ’n toegewyde sosiale aktivis in sy geboorteland, Nigerië, is ’n doodsvonnis in absentia oor hom uitgespreek. Sy ballingskap was beide geografies en esteties. Chinua Achebe, ook ’n Nigeriese skrywer, ontbloot in sy trilogie (Things Fall Apart (1958); No Longer At Ease (1960); en The Arrow of God (1964)) die negatiewe invloede van die Engelse koloniale sendingprojek in Afrika. Bo en behalwe hierdie werk, was hy ook ’n padaanwyser vir ’n estetika wat deur Afrika-mites en volksverhale ingelig is.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o som die bogenoemde kommernisse op in sy versameling essays en lesings, Homecoming (1972). Hy is onder meer bekend daarvoor dat hy in opstand gekom het teen die missionêre christendom waaronder hy grootgemaak en opgevoed is, dat hy die Engelse taal in sy latere skryfwerk verwerp het, en dat hy uit sy geboorteland, Kenia, verban is weens vervolging. Albert Camus, ’n Algeryn wat ook ’n Nobelpryswenner is, vang hierdie denknuanses vas in sy boek wat onder twee verskillende titels gepubliseer is, The Stranger (1942) en The Outsider (1942). Oor dié skrywer het John Cruickshank gesê: “His writings, which addressed themselves mainly to the isolation of man in an alien universe, the estrangement of the individual from himself, the problem of evil, and the pressing finality of death, accurately reflected the alienation and disillusionment of the postwar intellectual.”

Ek hoop dié twee paragrawe dien as ’n gepaste inleiding tot my eie verhaal. My reis met letterkunde het op laerskool as orator begin. My debuutroman The Faint-Hearted Man is in 1991 gepubliseer toe ek in matriek was, en dit het die langlys vir die Noma Award for Publishing in Africa gehaal. Scatter The Shrilling Bones, ’n versameling van gedigte in Engels en die produk van my meestersgraad in kreatiewe skryfkuns aan die Universiteit van Kaapstad, is in 2003 deur Lovedale Press gepubliseer. Dié projek het nie net gedien as voortsetting van ’n kreatiewe proses wat belemmer is deur ander akademiese betrokkenheid by die Universiteit van Kaapstad en ’n akute christelike, godsdienstige ervaring nie, maar het ook die begin aangeteken van ’n verbeelding rondom inheemse kennisstelsels wat ek vir meer as ’n dekade lank aktief aan ontvlug het. Tesame hiermee word al my individuele gedigte wat in verskillende bloemlesings soos die Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology (2014) en die Best New African Poets Anthology (2021) gepubliseer is, gekenmerk deur een gemeenskaplike draad: ’n kreatiewe verbintenis met my Xhosa-erfenis vanuit beide persoonlike en historiese perspektiewe.

In 2007 het ek uiteindelik my roeping as sangoma omhels. Ek is ’n buikspreker wat beide die Bybel en orakelkaarte gebruik om in mense se verlede, hede en toekoms te delf. Vir persoonlike doeleindes gooi ek ook af en toe bene. Ek vertaal sommige van hierdie “rare oomblikke” in gedigte wat nie net persoonlike genesing bied nie, maar ook dien as media waardeur ek alternatiewe denkwêrelde deurkruis. My meesterstesis in kreatiewe skryfwerk het sy bestaan en sukses aan sulke oomblikke te danke.

Ek grawe kruie wat soms deur my drome na my toe kom. Ek gebruik die media van die berg, woud, grot, rivier en die see om mense te help om beide hulle genesing en geestelike voltooidheid te omhels. Die vibrasie van sekere kristalle komplementeer sommige van my genesingaktiwiteite. Nog ’n spesifieke gebeurtenis het my “rolling stone”-lewe in ’n ander rigting begin dwing. Ek het begin droom oor spiese en heilige kruie. Een aspek hiervan is om toe te sien oor tradisionele familiefunksies deur onder andere die gebulk van die verskalf of die bul vir offerande te fasiliteer. In 2010 het ek my eerste van hierdie soort funksies verrig as deel van die seëninge van die patrilineêre Nkabane-stam. Die verband tussen letterkunde, erfenis en ekologie kom sterk na vore in hierdie tradisionele praktyke, waarin die verhouding tussen kultuur en natuur sentraal staan.

Questions of identity

Below me, a picturesque
valley, dotted, with undulating
hills. This valley, wanting to nestle
on the hills that I, dumbfounded,
wish to confide in.

Deep in these hills, I,
having rounded other heights,
more abstract than the guilt-inducing
panorama below my feet, I sense
inabilities, far beyond those of sight,

in defining this scenery. I saw
them sink, these grass thatched
domes, these corrugated iron
roofs. Upon the swift impact of this
view, I seem to trudge to an even higher

peak. Alone, shivering, I struggle
to locate any pathfinders.
Having confided all, in the secrecy
of these desolate hills – trusting
that no one would ever hear

my dark secrets – I walk down
to face more of my humiliation:
in this place, that only a higher
force knows why, I have decided
to call home. No matter how

sharp the contradictions that this
vulnerability confronts me with,
it is now – and only now –
that I absorb, with an even
sharper precision,
that what has been, has been –

the past almost shuts out
in the present. And even more,
that perhaps my presence
here is for other things, other
than those that seem to lodge
their claims.

Rites of passage

Why should you always leave
us, unannounced? By the river’s
bank, we could not see the stone
sinking, the fort from where
you spoke with the spirits. Only

the brim of your hair sailed
above the river’s face. Shining,
the spirit world fused with
the waters –

we would not deliver you. And now
the timeless drums wish to lure
you back. Even the pigeons,
flocking upon these acacias, they
plead, relinquish yourself from
the river people.

The vigil dance, intlomble,
seems to be the only meeting
ground. The offerings we have
brought, the transigence song
we murmur, as you fluently sing –
all melt into the seamless tune
of your doom: half-human,
half-spirit.

Upon your return,
we do not wish to see you
divine the end of our courses
in life, and perhaps foretell
a new beginning –
along shores foreign
to our memory.

We are much happy to be
who we are and the tides
that billow encroach
our enclosures in such
a merciless mode.

Hintsa’s portrait

Through English picturesque, here
he stands. Overburdened with colonial
lexicon, he still stands, an intransigent
opponent of colonial advance –
narrative of the war.

Possession of land through
nineteenth-century Romantic
imagination – ceded territory.

Here he stands, as a figure
of Xhosa Royalty. That only
through political manoeuvring,
Smith could be the true meaning
of a traitor.

Yet, this portrait cannot reflect
the realities of the many voices
still crying for a ceded throne,
of which the climax was
the burning of Hintsa’s kraal
and the mutilation of his body.

And even more, the exportation
of the king’s head to the colonial
masters.

The captured maiden

By early sunrise this day
I should have long deserted this place.
The spaces far away
Together with my people
Have long forgotten the sight of me.
Early in the days of my womanhood
I left, in search of your kraal.

Many moons have I counted
The glimmering light consuming
Many by the weary banks of the river pool
Where, as first born of your kraal,
I have been master
Of your many ceremonies.

Legions
Long have they deserted you
Big piles of herbs their awards
Crowds behind them
Countless herds scattered
Throughout those sleeping valleys.

Patterning yourself after your predecessors
You suffocated me with your misplaced proverbs
The traditional conclave –
Your main residence
Has lost its relevance.

It is almost a hundred moons now
With me tendering your cattle
And me creating your music
Slouching with your medicinal bag
Over my tattered shoulders.

My defeated husband
Has long forgotten
The warmth of my now tired breasts.
I have to please your kindred
With all that I am.

The members of my clan
And those of my traded-in man
Have long been calling me
Through many dreams –
Gushing words from beyond.

With your baboon fly-whisk
And your chameleon head-gear
Have you shrugged their wishes
I could only own
Countless drums of my tears.

Today
I would like you to know
The contents of my last dream
Which I could not pour
Over your stone ears –
To leave you, unseen
For you would never release me.

Have I not paid enough
For the dream that brought me here?
Come, let us dance
For the last time now.