When my son was in grade zero, he had a friend called Brendan. Typical of a South African parent born before 1990, I asked Ntsika if Brendan was a lekgoa (white person).
”What is a lekgoa?” he asked. I did not answer, not because I believe children should be seen and not heard, but because I did not know how to respond to the question.
It dawned on me that race consciousness is not as inherent in people as I had assumed. I was kind of proud of my little boy. I was also worried. Would he be able to accept the reality that in South Africa his being black would be a factor at some stage? That still-dominant stereotypes would demand that he is expected to have natural rhythm, enjoy playing or watching football and have the propensity to rob, rape and be bad at maths. Could it be, I asked myself, that his generation would be oblivious to colour and, in the words of that great Africanist, Robert Sobukwe, live in a country where the colour of one’s skin was as irrelevant as the shape of one’s ears.
Having had time to reflect on things, I think it would be a sad day if my son forgot that he is black. I want him to embrace and be proud of his blackness. To be proud, not because it makes him superior to other humans of other colours, but because black is the colour of a people who refused to succumb to oppression.
I want him to know that black is still the colour of poverty, ignorance and the most rampant of diseases. Colour and class are still indivisible in South Africa; and since when did white women become the new oppressed?
My son would do well to know that our celebrations of 12 years of freedom are not meant to pretend that we have slain all our dragons. Instead of being rightfully angry about the past, it would give me greater pleasure for Ntsika to know that he is a descendant of a people who refused to be defined by, or surrender to, those who had the guns and the jackboot.
Ntsika, I hope, will know that his middle-class background does not make him less black, but that he is the fruit of the hard work of many people. These are the people who started trade unions for black workers and fought for what they called a living wage, so we have the wherewithal to choose whether to be called the WaBenzi, wear Hugo Boss jackets or badly washed jeans.
It would be unfair if I hid from him that the residues of institutional racism will surface at some point and will want him to believe that his people’s contribution to civilisation was negligible. And that he will hear some poor sods tell him that, had it not been for Jan van Riebeeck and his fellow sailors disembarking from the Dromedaris, which landed here on April 6 1652, we would be running around in loincloths chasing wild animals for our next meal.
I want him to know about the Timbuktu manuscripts, the Egyptian pyramids and, closer to home, the Mapungubwe site — evidence of African greatness.
I am happy that Ntsika supports Orlando Pirates, but it would make me happier if he knew that his great-grandfather played cricket on the West Rand — and therefore know it is a lie that, if he decided to play the sport, he would be invading white territory.
That very English institution, cricket, would hopefully make him connect with the likes of the West Indies’ Viv Richards and Brian Lara to make him understand the issues of the black diaspora, such as slavery and the pan-Africanist movement. Ironically, maybe through cricket he would also learn that the colour of one’s skin, geographic location and social class are not determinants of destiny.