!Qhoi n|a Tjhoi (Tortoise and Ostrich/Skilpad en Volstruis) is a treasure bequeathed to us by Katrina Esau in the autumn of her life.
In N|uu, with English and Afrikaans translations, it’s a delightful tale that urges readers to embrace world views, impressing on them the value of preserving and using indigenous languages, as well as the need for things not to be lost in translation.
One becomes acutely aware of the difficulty in this when reading !Qhoi n|a Tjhoi because as one keeps up with the tale via the English or Afrikaans, one wonders what is being lost in that very translation.
For context, let me say this:
The year is 1982 and I am a 12-year-old son of South African parents, being raised in Eswatini,formerly Swaziland. I stumble across a Siswati saying, “kubindvwa kubonwa”. Seeming to confirm the meekness I suspect is the Swati temperament, I am enraged and mutter to myself. Translating the saying I wonder why anyone would remain silent when they have witnessed wrongdoing.
Enter James Dlamini, a man who walks around the small, picturesque town of Mbabane with a novel or two tucked under an arm. This odd character is an idol of mine, feeding my blossoming love of books. Why, I challenge him, would the Swati people say a thing such as “kubindvwa kubonwa”? “Because it is true,” he answers. “Just because one is silent, it does not mean that one has not seen.”
My understanding of the saying and his were so different as to be almost at loggerheads. The things we lose in translation ...
Esau has long been engaged in rescuing her native tongue. However, her efforts to keep it alive by teaching it to children folded due to lack of funds and the language was declared extinct in 1973.
However, Esau and others vowed that N|uu would not be buried while they still had breath.
“One day, a huge sandstorm came from the sky, and when it was over, everything had changed.”
This powerful, beautiful sentence jumps out from the second page of Esau’s story, daring the cobwebbed adult mind and reeling in the worlds of possibility that live unchained in the imaginations of children.
It truly is a wonderful book, wonderfully illustrated, and every child in this land ought to have a copy.
The beautiful clay pot that becomes the prize for which Tortoise and Ostrich must race is a powerful metaphor for the treasures that remain even after the storm.
Growing up, my mother told me of her school days in Upington, where Esau lives. My grandmother, noting how a visiting, much-better-off coloured family had taken a shine to her eldest daughter, begged the family to take the child with them. She figured, correctly, that the family would send her to school, something that was unlikely to happen if she stayed in Soweto.
My mother told me these stories of growing up in Upington, of a people who looked ancient and wise, no matter how young.
Language, too, is a mirror of those parts of us so intrinsic and unique to our nature that their value can never be estimated. Those parts that are priceless.
During a chat with Elinor Sisulu, founder of Puku Books, which is dedicated to promoting children’s books in indigenous languages, she said: “When a child looks at the mirror, the first thing they see is their reflection. When they look through the window, they see what is outside. Before they see the outside, they should see themselves.”
We will do our children a grave injustice if we do not write books in their languages. We will rob them of who they are and can be.
Salute to Esau and others who provide children with stories in their mother tongues.
