The death of listening

People are not the same nowadays. We don’t relate the way we used to. The men are
not men. The women are not women.
Whatever baby wants, baby gets. We are all spoiled children, shouting at each
other in a massive sandpit. Everyone gets a turn to speak, but no one gets a chance
to listen.
I attended an umsebenzi in Tsolo, Eastern Cape, heartland of the
AmaMpondomise people. It was a masterclass in the art of listening.
These people are public speakers beyond my comprehension. Literally. I
speak a pitiful amount of Xhosa, so the meaning of the bulk of the speeches were
wasted on me.
And boy, were there speeches!
We rolled into Tsolo after cresting the treacherous Barclay Pass around 7pm
on Friday. The men had just finished slaughtering a cow and they were gathered in
the lounge of Malume Magida’s house with the younger men.
The umsebenzi is a Xhosa cultural ceremony, and this one was to mark the
opening of Bhuti Magida’s homestead on the rolling plains below Tsolo mountain.
When my wife Nomfundo and I arrived, the men were singing. “Hey yah-Hah!
Hey Yah! Siza-uthetha maBunga!” or words to that effect. We are now going to speak
of secret things.
Chanted in the round for minutes at a time, this male chorus – the men sang
more than the women – is utterly mezmerising. And it’s message too. We are going
to talk now, they say. And what we are going to talk about is special. It is important.
It is fundamental to our culture. And it is exlusive. It is not for everybody.
I was privileged to be there, but of course, I could not yet fathom the true
wisdom that was being shared. And it is shared.
Interspersed with the singing are intense sessions of the deepest, most
compelling public speaking I’ve ever witnessed. Every older man in the room was
granted a chance to speak. Some several times, especially Zanexhoba. Ah,
Zanexhoba! King of Amampondomise! The man is a repository of all the nation’s
cultural history. All of it!
You only grasp the concept of oral history when you witness it being shared,
being spoken, being performed! For this is spoken-word poetry, free verse, lecture,
storytelling and education, all in one.
The history of Amampondomise is reinforced. It has been told many times,
but people have come from far, the 250km from Bisho, the 500km from Port
Elizabeth, from Joburg… People don’t get to hear it often enough, so Zanexhoba tells
it.
Mpondo and Mpondomise were twin brothers, sons of Njanya, the son of
Sbiside. There was a dispute and their family lines diverged…
And the people listen. Each man is granted his chance to speak, 20 minutes at
a time, sometimes. When the band for the next days festivities arrives, the band
leader is granted a chance to speak, to explain the provinence of his band, and the
name and clan names of each band member.
 “Ah, my sister,” notes Zanexhoba later, “did you know that your clan is
descended from Dlamini?”
The king commands the greatest respect, but everyone’s turn to stand and
speak is welcomed. There’s silence, and regular ngqukul’ing. Mmmmm-mmm. Mmm.
Ewe! Nyani! Nyani! The encouraging phatic noises that lubricate the speakers
address, encouraging them, propelling their story forward. Yes, brother, you speak
the truth! Tell it!
Speeches last a few hours, then the drink is produced. Several bottles of hard-
tack and some Carling Black Label quarts. Tonight it will be dispensed to both the
older men and the young men. Before that, Magida delivers a speech outlining why
we are drinking. How usually the young men would not get to drink with the older
men, but tonight they will be allowed that privilege. They are being treated like
grown men and it is expected they will behave like grown men.
Each of the older men is allowed the chance to nominate a drinker. The
drinker can either drink his shot, or nominate someone else to down it.
Some more singing. “Hey yah-Hah! Hey Yah! Siza-uthetha maBunga!”
A new guest arrives. A former Eastern Cape health MEC. He has given a lift to
the catering contractor. They bumped into each other in the lobby of the Umtata
Holiday Inn.
He’s a surprise guest. The host delivers a speech welcoming the MEC. He was
instrumental in building the primary school next door. The local chief gives a short
speech. And another of the village elders.
The MEC delivers an eloquent speech thanking the host and explaining how
the people of Tsolo have always held a special place in his heart for their integrity
and adherence to traditional values.
More drinks are ceremonially administered.
More singing. For we are speaking of secret things!
And then it’s time to go. The MEC takes his leave. Magida delivers a speech
thanking all the guests. One last round! For the men alone.
The young men leave and the last of the booze.
There have been roughly four hours of speeches, all entertainingly delivered
and voraciously entertained.
The next day, we will be treated to another eight hours of speeches, delivered
from the podium in the marquee, from the audience seated on the white plastic
chairs. Outside the kraal, where the meat is being cooked. By the umqhombothi
barrel, in corners of the tent while the band is playing at full volume.
“Ndinik’imzembe, Malaisha!” The music. At full volume! And in the corner, a group of
ten people speaking at eloquent length, all in turn, before they being sharing out a
case of Fanta bottles. And listening to each other!
With this level of ceremony, there’s hardly time to chat! You spend most of
your time listening to people! If you’re lucky, you might get one chance to speak, and
boy, you better make it count.
Other than that, you will spend your time listening. Being educated, being
entertained, being welcomed, being admonished. Encouraged. Praised. On the
meaning of being a man. On one’s responsibility to the community. Packaged
autobiographies with capsule summaries at the end and a particular life lesson
learnt thus far.
These are stories worth listening to. Crafted, considered, punctuated,
rhythmic, and often suffused with wisdom.