SONGEZO ZIBI | Pride and hope tremble beneath the despair of rural neglect

Last Thursday I drove on the R61 from Mthatha to Ngcobo, Eastern Cape. A stretch of the road has been under construction since about 2007.

My son, who is now in grade 10 and has grown a beard, was months old and in diapers then. There have been periods over the years when the project appeared to have been mothballed before resuming, then stopping again. This time things look very busy since the national and provincial elections are coming up next year.

Ngcobo is the hometown of Eastern Cape premier Oscar Mabuyane. I am certain he has driven up and down that same road countless times. I would love to be with him in the car when he drives on the same road, just to ask him if he is as frustrated as I am.

My RISE Mzansi colleague, Makashule Gana, remarked that despite the futile appearance of the entire endeavour, the project must have nonetheless produced several millionaires. Though this is likely true, I told him I know it has also produced a lot of dead bodies and maimed many more.

Fifteen minutes after this exchange, we encountered yet another car accident. A bakkie was lying on its roof, but its occupants appeared to have escaped with minor injuries. Though police were there, there was no ambulance yet and no accident signs to warn other motorists.

I also grew up in a village just like the ones we drove past. A car accident was a major event that drew the entire village to come watch because it was rare.

A man on horseback was riding at speed alongside the road, taking two cows somewhere. On the opposite bank, three villagers were spectating while four more walked past and showed very little interest. For the rest, life in the nearby village appeared to be ticking along as normal.

I also grew up in a village just like the ones we drove past. A car accident was a major event that drew the entire village to come watch because it was rare. Granted, there were fewer cars then, but when something happens as frequently as the carnage on that road, people begin to get numb.

The next day I facilitated a training session for volunteers in my own hometown, Mqanduli. One of the things we teach RISE Mzansi activists is to draw out of people issues they may have become numb to over the years but explain the trauma and political disaffection overwhelming these parts.

Having asked participants to list issues affecting them personally, and the community at large, we ended up with about 12. There were three missing. Hunger, violence against women and rape. It was only when I prodded that the floodgates opened. Some of the men in the room squirmed a little, but the women expressed the severity of the burden to feed children while the men are away drinking or looking for work.

Again, these are so prevalent that they are “not an issue” worth mentioning for some. Though they mentioned the drug addiction epidemic, it was only on further reflection that they mentioned alcohol abuse. This was only when a participant was explaining how young people spend their days.

In Qawukeni, Mpondoland, people share similar tales. Last Wednesday we were told of a child of 10 who recently gave birth in an area with probably one of the highest child pregnancy rates in the country.

Many people in these parts simply do not vote. They have lost faith in the political system. As downtrodden as they are, they remain very proud people. They dislike being treated like small children when they are promised the world in the hopes that they will soon forget.

One of the few joys from such trips, which I make frequently these days, is that I get to speak isiXhosa almost exclusively. As a writer, I deeply appreciate the turn of phrase that shows not just intellectual depth but sharp political insights people have.

People have a deep sense of purpose buried underneath all the despair. Young people have dreams, not just of jobs but of communities that are vibrant, filled with friendships and bonds borne of doing things together. People want to regain their dignity.

These conversations can be emotionally draining because though people make light of their situation, the pain beneath them is undeniable. Some look a decade older than their age because of stress and suffering — and in some cases, heavy drinking that starts as early as 10am.

As a former editor, I am realising how the lives of ordinary South Africans remain untold, and how removed from reality social media conversation is. I also wouldn’t vote if the news didn’t tell my story. And when journalists did tell my story, nothing changed.

Yet there remains so much possibility for change in those very circumstances. One of the reasons I am more driven to work for political change now than a year ago is seeing how people respond to what we challenge people to do so we can challenge ourselves to work with them.

This weekend someone remarked that they were pleasantly surprised to see so many people “supporting” what we are doing. I realised then that they are not supporting us per se, but are looking for hope.

I would ordinarily share what it is we do on the ground. Instead, I will ask every person who is from a village reading this piece to think of one person they grew up with who did not make it out of the village. Think about the story the lines on their face show, and make a commitment to talk to them about hope and change.

You will see the most beautiful, bright light emanating from their eyes. To me, it shows the South Africa that is possible if we fight for it.

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