Home » Posts tagged 'racism' (Page 2)
Tag Archives: racism
HOME AT LAST! Part 3
Friends, Families, Comrades in Exile
I guess I, like everyone else, can be bad to people; it is not beyond me to do real bad things to people. There are some who go limping around, thinking that evil doings are prerogative of only certain people by virtue of their names, tribes, races, nationalities, religions, and faiths, as well as their mental and physical dispositions. People are bad; people are good; that’s just the way we are. That’s how we roll. Just cross the lines … (Continued in the book: “MACHONA AWAKENING – home in grey matter”. Order book on Amazon here).
March 12, 2014
HOME AT LAST! Part 2
Life After Death, Incomplete Stories …
I want to equate exile to death. Whether or not planned, when it’s time to go, it’s time to go. If there is life after death, from what I know of life in exile, life in after death must be a living nightmare for the dead. I, therefore, am not keen to die just yet. And I don’t ever want to experience living in exile again.
Some people do get the chance, and make time to plan their deaths. Write suicide note. Set up video cameras. Go online. Press Record. Say/ read your message to the soon to be bereaved, to the world. Point gun to the head … (Continued in the book: “MACHONA AWAKENING – home in grey matter”. Order book on Amazon’s CreateSpace here).
March 10, 2014
Speaking about a terminally ill Nelson Mandela and South Africa on Norwegian TV2 end of June 2013, I was asked about the condition of Whites in South Africa: Do they have anything to fear for their future in the country?
I answered that if nothing happened in 1994, nothing is ever going to happen to them. South African Whites must just stay at home because they are needed for their knowledge and skills in the process of growth and development of the country. I went on to say that despite the much talked about problem of corruption and other manifestations of good governance inadequacies in the country, democracy was now firmly ingrained in the more open, and free post-apartheid South African society.
Indeed, the high and mighty in the state apparatus will in the short to medium term stretch the law when exposed of their corrupt practices and other vices. But, in the long run, processes as provided for, and backed by, relevant democratic institutions and organs will insure that all law breakers will be caught, and shall be punished accordingly if found guilty in legally instituted courts of law.
South African Whites have nothing but their own fears of the unknown to fear. I cannot think of anybody in the current political dispensation sitting somewhere plotting, alone or together with others, the annihilation of the White Race in South Africa. Private, for purposes of this discourse, Black South Africans, despite their horrendous pre-1994 history, have other real and current issues to worry about than driving White South Africans out to sea and disappear: Poor Service Delivery, Child Abuse, Violence Against Women. Chances are higher by far that at this very moment a child is being brutally molested, and a dejected lover is killing a woman who doesn’t love him anymore.
Despite the rather characteristically loud, small-scale populist rhetoric which South African democracy necessarily allows adequate room for, there is no single landowner whose land shall be repossessed without compensation, where applies. To the extent that conventional paper work pertaining to land and property ownership is in order, appropriate laws, as well as conventional business negotiations methods shall be followed to subsequent mutual satisfaction of all parties concerned.
At its most elegant, democracy works systematically and orderly. Choosing to ignore democratic principles and processes would only lead to chaos, and, at worst, war and total disintegration of the gracious Rainbow Nation of South Africa. Free South Africans with nothing to fear have no time for wars and destruction. This country is just too beautiful to burn alive in pursuit of selfish ends driven by ignorance of the functionings of modern, progressive societies.
People die. People are killed all the time. Criminals kill people. From the outset, we are all equally vulnerable to hideousness of crime. What differentiates us is how security/ safety conscious or non-conscious we are. Who is better security/ safety conscious than White South Africans? No one does it better … (Continued in the book: “MACHONA BLOGS – As I See It”. Order Simon Chilembo books on Amazon)
Tel: +27 717 454 115
October 11, 2013
I am inclined to believe that my mother was never prepared for what was to come out of her initial conjugations with my father. Compared to the overly protective manner of many mothers over their sons, I understood very early in my life that I have a very special relationship with my mother. I’ve seen her watch me fall into the deep end more than once before, without her doing anything about it. Just watching, waiting to see how I’ll deal with it.
I have never at any one point felt any sense of neglect though. There’s something about the look in my mother’s eyes, which has always given me Samson-like strength when it seems the darkness of the deep end is about to swallow me up completely. She is my first best friend, my number one confidant.
My mother has always openly declared her love and admiration for me. She adores me. I’ve heard her many times tell other fellow mothers how proud she is of me, “… this man who felled my breasts”, because of my generousity and kindness as a son, and big brother to my two younger siblings.
Thoughts of my mother make me very strong always in this regard. She listens to me, even if she may not agree with what I have to say. I owe much of my strong sense of independence and self-reliance to her. She taught me very early to be proud of myself. Much of my need and love to excel in the things I do, and thrive in, I got from her. “O motle, ngoana’ka! O a utlwa!/ You are beautiful, my child! You hear?” She tells me she used to sing these words to me when I was a baby. Not that she’s much of a singer, though … (Continued in the book: “MACHONA BLOGS – As I See It”. Order Simon Chilembo books on Amazon)
April 05, 2013
Inspired by: Lynching Black Men
I had first picked it up in his voice on the phone. Calling him from Oslo at his work place in Pretoria about once a week in the latter part of the 1990s, I could hear him sounding ever more tired each time we spoke. He would of course express tremendous delight upon hearing my voice, proudly shouting to his colleagues, “My son is calling from overseas!”
When I last saw him Easter time 1996, he was as charming as ever. But he was beginning to look a little frail. And it seemed he had stopped caring too much about his hair, which he always groomed immaculately before, dying it pitch black constantly.
I was just beginning to find my way around in Norway at that time myself, and coming home to Welkom that Easter, I had bought presents for everyone. I even paid for renovation work on the family house, buying some nice furniture for my mother as well. Better times had arrived. Let’s celebrate.
Pappa would be fine, I thought. At age 63 then and still working in Pretoria, I felt it was, indeed, time for him to retire, come home, relax, and enjoy life. I would do every thing possible to ensure that my parents have a good life all their days. But my ever-resilient Pappa went back to work. His work was his life. Little did I know that it would be two years later the next time we meet again after the Easter holidays, 1996. He would be in an abattoir-like city council mortuary, lying supine in a coffin; eyes open wide, staring into oblivion. The autopsy cut sewed up ugly, unbefitting a once most elegant gentleman. In the end, we are just things, I thought … (Continued in the book: “MACHONA BLOGS – As I See It”. Order Simon Chilembo books on Amazon)
March 08, 2013
HAPPY NEW YEAR 2013!
In a flash it felt very strange for me to be sending an Instagram Happy New Year 2013 greeting to the world from the platform of the place of my birth, Thabong Location, Welkom, South Africa. Cruising into a new year here for the first time since 1974.
For me Festive Seasons in Zambia 1975-1984, and 1986-1987 came and went nonchalantly as did the Independence Day, Youth Day, KK’s birthday, etc. celebrations. My own birthdays 1975-1980, and 1982-1988 were but just notable events on the calendar. Festive Season 1985 I was in Greece. What a ball! 1981 I turned 21, and my parents spoilt me. What a groove!
The Norwegian Festive Season is one climatically cold, colourful, vibrant affair so full of love, where over the years the people I’ve had anything to do with have shown me humbling generousity, kindness, warmth, protection, and care. Seen only with my own eyes, processed in and by my own mind, and felt in my own heart, this time of the year in Norway gives the impression that life is here to stay, cherish and nourish it all life long.
So, every time, since 1992, I come to mark the Festive Season with my mother and my two siblings in South Africa, I come here in a Norwegian-Festive-Season-State-of-Mind. But when my parents came back from exile in Zambia, they bought a new home in Bronville, a formally Coloureds Only township in the old Apartheid South Africa. Here, the standard of housing was/ is better, with bigger yards. So were/ (are?) the provision of social amenities, and service delivery.
More yard space translates to more privacy for neighbours, thereby reducing chances of conflicts arising from occasional or regular trespasses into one another’s private domains. My mother and one of her neighbours have a cat-and-mouse relationship though. Both very beautiful and strong women are extremely jealous of each other. I think though that the essence of their mutual dislike has its core in one fundamental, very sensitive issue in South Africa vis-à-vis Black-Coloured relationship as moulded from the earlier colonial times, and fostered during the Apartheid era to this day: The one Coloured Maria lives in strong denial of ‘Black blood’ flowing in her body, “ONS IS NIE KAFFIRS NIE! MY GRANDFATHER WAS SCOTTISH!!!” My mother Maria on her part has long lived with a painful denial of ‘White blood’ in neither her self nor her people, “RE BASOTHO, HA RE BARWA/ WE ARE BASOTHO, WE ARE NOT COLOUREDS!!!” This, however, is another long and heavy story to tell on another and different occasion.
As the Instagram Happy New Year 2013 greeting whooshed out to the world just after midnight December 31, 2012, recollections of the 1965-1974 Festive Season fun times in Thabong came to mind in a flash. Much as I recalled, there were here many, many people partying out on the streets as the mid-night hour approached. Loud music everywhere, with booze flowing everywhere. Smoke and smell of braai everywhere. Everyone looking good and sexy. Such exuberant, free spirited enjoyment of life. Wow, this IS my element. I love it!
The strange feeling came when I realized that there was also this strong, acrid smell in my nose. This special smell I hadn’t registered since New Year’s Eve 1974. What I knew from the streets as a child was that during the Festive Season everything was allowed, including murder. That another so-and-so killed so-and-so especially on Christmas and New Year’s eves was as normal as the great anticipation for Father Christmas children will show in Norway. At perhaps age 6-7 years old I remember thinking to myself how nice it would be to kill certain people on one New Year’s Eve when I’m grown up. By then I had already seen several dead bodies on the streets on various occasions. But it wasn’t till about Easter time 1969 that I first witnessed at close range one man stabbing to death another with a knife. The murderer could have been slaughtering a cow. The dying man’s blood spewed so I could have been watching a burst running water pipe. And then the acrid smell of the man brutally breathing his last’s blood hit me. Festive Seasons were violent those days.
Tel.: +27 717454115/ +47 97000488
January 01, 2013
IF YOU ARE REAL GOOD AND ARE REALLY COMMITTED, YOU’LL BE CHAMPION ANYWAY. JESUS!!!
The Zambian National Karate Team that would meet Zimbabwe in April 1981 went into the country with heads bowed. We checked into a Harare hotel unZambianically hushed up, like sheep entering a slaughterhouse. That was my impression. We had already lost against Zimbabwe, long before we would embark on the goodwill trip to mark Zimbabwe’s first independence anniversary celebrations.
A few weeks earlier on our National Team Coach had told us that, to be honest, we were no match against the Zimbabweans. The latter were rich and were almost exclusively White. This meant that by default they had better terms and conditions of training, with access to training facilities Zambians could only dream of. But we had strong minds, so we’d be fine, he told us. Ok … (Continued in the book: “MACHONA BLOGS – As I See It”. Order Simon Chilembo books on Amazon)
September 05, 2012