SA's transition: a major breakthrough & unfinished business

What happened during South Africa's remarkable and fraught transition? I discuss some of the issues in this video interview produced by Gladys Ryan. See https://youtu.be/Yq6rT5Zmja4. 

short story: The Trip

"That was Bella on the phone. She's so excited about this London trip. We’ve booked.” Cilla, in black shorts and a pink t-shirt, was framed by the entrance to your bedroom. You, Zanele, were getting ready to go out, just sticking your eye pencil and lipstick into a small pouch on the dressing table.

“What? I thought you were only thinking about it. Wait for your dad to finish shaving.” Normally you said to yourself, "I got this". As a proud mother of a child with a spirit like Cilla, you knew when to give latitude and when to pull firmly on the reins. This time, you realise with a start, Cilla was galloping ahead.

Mandla emerged from the shower. The whiff from his after-shave tickled your nostrils and you sneezed. "Bella's booked to go to London - for a show," you said while Mandla was still saying "Bless you" and as you reached into the tissue box on the dresser.

“Whaat! When did this happen,” said Mandla. “Why do I know nothing about this?” He glared at Cilla, and then at you. Cilla moved from leaning against near the door to sit on the dressing table seat, a brown leather stool with covered buttons. The pink t-shirt seemed redder in the mirror.

“I mentioned it to mum,” Cilla said. Her eyes shifted to you, then dropped.

You raised a right hand: "Hold it right there, baby girl". Then, with a face starting to feel flushed, you turned to your man. “Mandla, she said it was just an idea. I meant to discuss it with you ... when I got more info.”

Mandla dragged a chair from against the wall. He put his right foot on it. “Things happen behind my back in this house. Maybe you wanted to keep me in the dark because you knew I'd be dead against it.” At first, you were mum, like your brain was buffering. Then you shook your head. "No, it's not like that Mandla."

Mandla turned to Cilla: “You're too young to be running around overseas.”

You knew you were in trouble. Mandla was a wonderful person, but very old school ‒ steeped in Zulu culture. Kids know their place and baba makes the big decisions for them. You could almost hear him thinking - in the kind of words he liked to use: "You, Zanele, are queen in our castle. This is your responsibility. You're supposed to keep this kid in line".

Looking at Cilla, you flicked your finger from right to left and gave a shake of the head in the same direction. Cilla left the room. Mandla sat on the bed with a gaze tilted to the carpet: “I’m disappointed in you, Zanele. Deeply.” He breathed in slowly and exhaled; you saw his chest rise and subside.

His fingers were pulled tightly into his palm. You went to sit next to him. You put your arms around him. His body remained stiff. You tried to make your voice soft and gentle: “I know you have to rush off to work, love. Let’s do supper tonight. I know you're furious and I'm sorry. I should have been more on the ball. Let’s talk about how to handle this.”

****

 “Zanele, come see this.” Mandla was shouting. You rushed into the lounge from the kitchen. On the television, you saw people running helter-skelter. The camera eye moved jerkily and, at points, the images were fuzzy at the edges. The script below said:  London: Beyoncé venue attacked!

“My god, Mandla!” You felt blood rush to your face. “Cilla, Cilla. No!” You wanted to scream her name. But only a whisper escaped, as if your voice itself had wobbly knees. Mandla looked at the screen, then at you. “Have you heard from her?” You mumbled: "I ... er ... No".

“Give me your phone,” he said sternly. You didn’t move - couldn't. You were looking at him; in the corner of your eye, you caught the news channel's whirling images, a stew of movement and colour. Mandla reached for your bag on the chair and retrieved your phone. His fingers jabbed at the screen – he knew your password. With laser eyes, he gazed at you as he waited for an answer. “No answer. Dammit!”

“What should we do, Mandla!” You lifted your t-shirt and dabbed your eyes with its edge. Your mind whirled, a bit like the TV images. Mandla said: "The show hadn't started yet … I just hope … just hope … she wasn't at the venue yet.”

Mandla turned to you. The message 'see what you have done'  was written in his eyes, eyes that glinted and, it seemed, resisted blinking for a jillion seconds.  “I knew this was a bad idea! But you wouldn't listen,” he said, speaking louder than usual. 

“Please Mandla”. You could think of nothing else to say. "Don't overreact."

“I hold you responsible.” Mandla carefully avoided the word ‘blame’ – in the past you have forced him to take back that word; to accept that raising a blaming finger wasn't bad for the marriage.

The cellphone vibrated & slowly spun on the table, like a dog chasing its tail. You grabbed it. The name “Cilla” stood out like a neon light. Your hand was shaking. “Hello, yes, yes.” Cilla’s voice was faint. “Mum, it’s me. I’m okay. Bella and I are okay.” You felt your eyes swimming in hot fluid. “Thank god. I am so glad, darling”. You passed the phone to Mandla. His left arm curled around your shoulders. You thought of many things. Images of Cilla. You imagined her in a London street, in her shorts. You remembered embracing her, as she left, her tears staining your blouse. You heard Mandla say … “I want you back here. I can’t believe I allowed you to go.” There was so much love in his voice.

Frank Meintjies

Short story: Marasta and the missing girl

Stone figures, a dog and a search party

There are several places in the world where the ocean lies close to a sea of shacks. It startles the senses. Marasta lived in such a place. From her corrugated iron shack you could peer over the main road and over the dunes that lay beyond -and catch a glimpse of the sea. There the wind whips, the gulls cavort and, on most days, fishermen line up their rods with tips pointing to the sea. Further inland, behind the shackland that Marasta called home, lay Glendale, a part of a larger sprawling township once reserved for people of mixed descent, but now open to all. That space had vibrancy, history, mean roller skaters, a regulation community hall or two – all the things that define such neighbourhoods. Yet, also in that space ... children went missing. They fell through the cracks, often in broad daylight. Last seen at a certain spot, last sent to buy bread or milk ....

Marasta's shack was close to the strip of tar that joined the wind-lashed False Bay and the university-town of Stellenbosch, a road that passed eye-catching vineyards, warehouse-size barns and sparkling Dutch-style white houses on farms such as  Meerlust, Spier and Vredenheim.

Her yard was filled with artifacts, a mixture of her own works and found articles. A bicycle frame - salvaged from a skip - now painted red. A weather-beaten canoe, filled with sand and sprouting plants. A wheelbarrow standing, its tin basin painted to resemble a purple dress and where the wheel once was, twisted metal with eyes made of bolts. An old skateboard, repainted a deep green to the resemble a giant cactus leaf, its pointy end stuck in the ground. She sculpted the wooden figures – busts of dignified rural women and men, a giraffe, a green elephant head with oversized ears and some cement figures including a calf-sized elephant, an angel and a Jesus figure with a black face. 

On days without rain, Marasta placed a large varnished wooden giraffe with dark brown spots at the side of the road, just left of the yellow line. It beckoned passers-by, those with spare money in their wallets, to pull up, come over, and part with their money in exchange for a giraffe or a stone figure. But, generally, the cars flew past what some would call a sculpture garden (Marasta used no such term) ... and Marasta wondered whether they didn't like giraffes, were intimidated by the hodge-podge of shacks, or were just going too fast to stop.

Marasta got the news on her cell phone. It lit up with a Please call me. When she called back, the voice at the other end was hesitant, strained and unusually low. Marasta got a bad feeling. It was Mamkhulu, in distant Willowvale. "The news is bad." She felt heat rising in her gut, a bit like heartburn but not as bitter; she sensed a burst of throbbing at her temples and a small spasm in her chest. She could feel her breadth getting short. She moved closer to the shack wall, clutching a corner to steady herself. She reminded herself to breathe and, as she did so, struggled a bit to stop the phone from slipping from her hand.

Gogo, was dead. Gogo who had helped raise Marasta. The voice on the line was unsteady, the quivering slightly masked by the bad line. The phone was given to someone else; she recognised it as Thami. "We called the ambulance. Then we made her comfortable," he said. "But she could not hold on. It was a mild thing, pneumonia. But for an old person, too much."

Marasta’s chest rose and fell, and her voice shrunk to a whisper, "Okay, Okay, I'll call you back." Her sob escaped before she had properly rung off, and with blurry eyes she found and pressed the end-call button.  .

She tried to gather herself and walked slowly round to the shack, heading inside. But like a wave that returns after pulling back, a shudder and tears rose within her body. Her breath was hoarse as she inhaled. "Gogo, gogo." She clutched herself around the midriff, bent over. Then she fell to the side on the bed, her fingers grabbing a handful of the quilt. Tears flowed. She reached for a towel from a pile of nearby crispy clean washing and held it in front of her eyes, crying into it. Now and again she banged the bed with the side of a fist.

***

Marasta's son, Kenny, was a godsend in several ways. In his twenties, for now he was happy to help his mother run the spaza store. He had tried False Bay Technical College, but he was nudged out by a combination of administrative chaos, student protests and a lack of interest in his subjects. He had wanted to be a mechanic, but the course was over-subscribed and a harried college clerk pointed him in the direction of boiler-making. Marasta had suspected it might not work out; the boy had always only been fascinated by cars, especially the bits under the bonnet.

Now Kenny was a pillar to his mama, selling magwinyas, apples, cigarettes, airtime, tins of baked beans from a low table in the yard, near the fence which faced inland to the sea of shacks. But even godsends have their downsides. Kenny swung between being helpful and a combination of drinking sprees. Not far from the shack was a small bar near a little open field, one that was prone to being marshy when it rained. Inside, seated around a trestle table dotted with quarts of Castle and Hansa, the men played cards or rolled dice while they sipped the golden liquid.

When his money was depleted, Marasta had to give him a loan. Then another and another. "I'm your mother, not your mashonisa," she said and with a resigned look she would take another R100 note from inside her bra. She recorded the amount in a small booklet that nestled in a shoe-box under her bed. By now, Kenny owed her close to R7000. True it hadn't been that much until recently. Late one night he had been driving a friend's car, a smokey-engined fiat Uno, and rammed it into a pole. The pal’s bones weren't broken in the crash, but the car's its front grill horribly bent and the radiator cracked. Marasta had to part with R5500 to get the car fixed. "Mama, I will pay you back someday. I promise." Marasta shook her head. “I’m waiting for that day.”

The only time Kenny got off work was on Saturdays when a neighbour's boy, Jele, helped out. Marasta liked Jele, despite the boy’s penchant for delinquent actions. Where Kenny's flaw was aggro in the presence of other males and downing too many cubic centimetres  of beer, Jele's fault was – in Marasta’s words – ‘getting up to nonsense’. Younger than Kenny, Jele was chubby and big for his age. Marasta recognised where the naughtiness came from. Boredom. If Jele threw a tennis ball, a window was likely to shatter. The boy liked seeing things burn, and every year around Guy Fawkes Day, he experimented with decanted gunpowder from firecrackers. At one point he sent his mother's pot hurtling into the air. His mother, Dudu, was not amused. "I was only trying to prove that crackers are dangerous," he moaned as he held his palm to the cheek she had slapped.

For Jele being at Marasta's was a bit like being at a reform school; once Dudu and Marasta made him sandpaper an old door after he pilfered cool drink bottles from Marasta's yard and sold them to buy lollipops and a yoyo. Since then, when he worked at Marasta's place, he was on his best behaviour.  Marasta wondered if it was forced compliance or stepping up as he was given something useful to do.

But Kenny and Jele differed on many things ¾ if one chose Pirates, the other worshipped Chiefs; if one claimed jam was best, the other pretended to intensely dislike it, if preferred hot sun, the other extolled the alleged virtues of rainy days. Kenny tried to instruct Jele on how to lay out the apples and cigarettes on the small stall near the fence, but Jele said: “’Stay out of this. You’re not my boss. We're both moegoes.”

As a result, there was often name-calling and invective. One day Marasta returned from looking for useful seashore debris to find them wrestling the ground, trying to choke each other into submission. She watched them for a few minutes, hands on her hips. The mongrel, Galaka, trotted up and stood poised, body tilted forward, ears up and releasing a soft growl. Marasta said, "Break it up, you idiots," but too much testosterone and adrenalin swirled around for the mtwanas to hear. She fetched a bucket of water and sloshed it on them. As the boys swore – “fuck’’, “damn” – and separated, she said, wagging her finger: "Next time, boys, it will be hot water!"

Galaka was Kenny's dog, a reddish-brown mutt, with equally reddish eyes. He was fit and sleek with a pelt that glistened when the sun was out. But now the animal was equally bonded to Marasta. Marasta and Galaka talked to each other on long nights when the boy was out gallivanting, when dagga wisps swirled and the South Easter turned demonic.

Kenny slept in the smaller room of the shack. Marasta's tools and half-finished sculptures were his room-mates. While his single bed was squeezed against one of the longer walls, the tools - an assortment of hammers, chisels, a hatchet, a few saws - either lived in on an open wooden box or hung from the other wall.  About a metre from the foot of the bed, the sculptures, wrapped with re-used string and black plastic sheeting, lay on the floor or leaned against the wall. It annoyed Kenny that when he needed a change of clothes, he had to fetch it from the brown cupboard in his mama's room.

***

After Marasta received the call, the day sped by (her feeling afterwards) and dragged along (her sense while in it). She spent much of that afternoon working on a pillar of wood, a large stubby log with stumps of branches sticking out, first hatcheting and then chiseling.

At times she focused on the wood, coaxing a shape out of it. Someone looking on would have seen vague signs of a nose and eyes being born out of the wood. At other times, her hands paused and  her mind wandered to Willowvale, hundreds of kilometres away, to the days when she had helped Gogo fetch eggs from the hen-house every morning. Gogo had been strict. She’d made sure the children did their daily chores – boys milked the cows; she and a cousin swept the yard; it was also her job to ferry water from the river in the afternoons. In between the memories she felt a hollow forming in her core. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the warm tears gather and trickle.

That evening, Kenny returned early – for a change. Earlier, she had given him the message in a brief call. Was it that or a coming storm that blew him homewards? Marasta, who had been sitting on the bed, bowed, with her forehead against her hand, almost as if she were praying, sat up. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve when she heard the gate squeak. On the small table, the sauce from the tripe and beans was congealing; the food half-eaten. She looked up.

Kenny sat at her side and turned to embrace her. “I'll be okay,” she said, after a few minutes.

"I want to go to the funeral.” she said. “I must. But I have no money to get there. I also have nothing to give for funeral costs. I won't forgive myself if I can't go to the funeral."

“How much?”

She figured it out in her head. When she reached East London she would need to take another kombi taxi to Idutya and from there travel the last 27 kilometres to Willowvale. She counted the fare on her fingers. R750 there and the same back. R2000 is what she would like to give towards funeral costs.

"About R4000". She felt embarrassed. She had always worked well with money. Made it a point never to sell her soul to moneylenders. But fixing that damned car had drained her purse.

Her eyes were dry now, but her face was still a little sticky. Kenny held her hand. "Mama. Don't worry. Maybe I can make a plan. Hustle." She pushed away slightly, so she could look at his face. "It’s eating me up. But, no, I don’t want you to go and make loans. I'll work something out." She tried to think of options for raising money. No ideas came to her. Her temples throbbed.

The next day, after a restless night, Marasta made a trip to the Buy-Smart supermarket in Glendale. She broke her stride at the brick side wall of the shop where Galaka wagged his tail and settled down. It was their ritual. He would wait for her return with a dollop of cat's mince wrapped in cling wrap.

In the entrance foyer people were talking about a missing girl. They put up a notice: ‘Missing girl: Tarryn, 13’. At the bottom in smaller print were the words:  "Reward R10000 for good information that helps us find her."

Marasta recognised one of the group, a women in a floral-print dress, a white t-shirt and sneakers. She was Celia, a well-known activist from Glendale. "The community groups have been out every night. Nothing. Street after street," Celia told her as Marasta leaned in on the small group. Marasta and Celia had met a few months before when Celia stopped her faded red Toyota Tazz and wandered through the yard, peering at different pieces. Not long after that, when pulling the newspaper wrapping off a paraffin lamp she had bought from the Babbie near the station, Marasta saw Celia's picture. It adorned a front page story about Women's Day in the local free newspaper. In the first few paragraphs, Celia talked about the many things that faced women in communities: the hard times, the bitter life, the unpaid maintenance, the make-up that hid the purple bruises. That was all she could bear to read. With a deep breath, Marasta had put the crumpled page aside.

Now Marasta shook her head, clenched her fist. It was a mild day, but she felt a flash of cold run through her body as she thought about where Tarryn might be, how scared the child must be.  Celia said: "It's been more than a week. We're very worried."

Marasta exited the shop foyer through its corner entrance, brushing against the stand with the free newspaper. Outside, next to where Galaka was coiled, sunning himself, she crouched with one hand on the unpainted brick wall and closed her eyes. In that moment her dream from the night before flooded back. She saw a road, a busy one with a middle line and a bus stop. Then a smaller road. She saw a head-high green gate with wire netting and a brown lock. The images melted away before she could discern a number on the gate. She opened her eyes. Galaka, now standing, was looking at her with interest. She patted the dog behind the head as if to say, "It's all right.” Looking into the dog’s eyes, the realisation came to her that, working together, they could locate the child. She nodded, partly to herself and partly to the dog, and stood up.

She re-entered the shop. The turnstile clicked and she strode past the small fruit and vegetable section, feeling the cooler air on her neck. In one of the aisles, she touched Celia's shoulder as she reached for a packet of flour from one of the shelves. Celia turned and smiled.

"Hey, Marasta.“

"I think I can help," Marasta said. "I am not hundred percent sure, but I have an idea where to go. Where to look." Celia replaced the flour on the shelf and left her half-filled trolley in the middle of the aisle.

Out in the sunlight, Celia started towards her parked car, but Marasta touched her shoulder and said: "Let’s walk from here. On foot will be better." They walked up one street and down another. Marasta wore khaki cargo pants, the ones with additional side pockets down the leg. She was glad she had chosen them. She was also pleased she’d worn her takkies that day rather than the old leather boots she sometimes wore when prospecting for things like dumped wheelbarrows or old bicycles.

Marasta was a brisk walker but she slowed down when she heard Celia breathing hard to keep up. People who knew Celia started to join in on the journey, first one woman, then another. Then a man wearing a keffia. Then a youth who appeared to know the man. "I’m also coming with, Oom."

Soon there were more than a dozen. They did not speak much. Marasta was looking this way and that. She knew her face was probably marked by frown lines between her eyes (Kenny says that's what happened when she was thinking hard). She was simultaneously determined and uncertain: What have I done? Will I let these people down? But she pressed forward.

First she was led by colours and familiar signs from her dream - a purple postbox, a blue sign for a crèche. At one point, she noticed the bus stop from the dream. Then it was down a small lane. Galaka, as if knowing something, stopped and barked outside a house, number 17, with a green gate. It was the yard of Malgas, the man who owned two bakkies -- the one who built RDP houses, Celia told Marasta. Marasta tried to urge Galaka to move along, testing him. But the dog stood firm. Celia said to Marasta: "We were here with the community police forum the other night. Malgas came to the gate and told us he hadn't seen Tarryn. Wouldn't allow us to enter his yard. He said there was no point in searching there."

Galaka barked incessantly. His tail was stiff and raised; his eyes staring ahead. The gate was midway between the house on the left and the yard on the right where vehicles normally parked. Now and again, between barks, Galaka emitted a low growl. "Malgas, Malgas", Celia shouted. "Malgas. Open up". No-one answered. Malgas appeared not to be at home.

They could see someone at the kitchen window, a woman. Marasta thought they should wait for her to open the gate. But impatience and excitement got the better of the group. Someone shouted, "Let's go in", and with people in the group pressing from behind, Marasta, Celia and a few others pushed hard against the gate and it gave way, the broken latch and lock falling to one side.

Galaka charged to the garden shed at the back of the property. The crowd gathered at the locked door. The latch went flying as members of the group, using two rocks from the yard, bashed the door open. Marasta rushed in with Celia. Her eyes fell on the rolled up rug on one side of the shed. Her mouth opened and the sound tumbled out. Guttural. "Tixo!" One end of the rug was tucked slightly behind a dusty waist-high cupboard. At the nearer end, they could see school-shoe clad feet. Marasta pushed the crowd back. From the door, they craned their necks to look inside. Celia went closer to look over the cupboard and turned weeping, hoarsely. "It's her. It's her." She was shaking her head, her hand in front of her mouth as if to hold back the sobbing. "No ...!"

The next day Celia came by the sculpture garden, stopping just in front of Marasta's giraffe on the verge of the R101. Marasta watched as Celia cranked open the Tazz's door, watched as her dusty black and white sneakers picked her way over some stones in yard.  They hugged, and in a flash, Marasta saw again Tarryn's dusty black shoes peeking from within a rolled-up carpet. Marasta wasn't an avid hugger, but now she held on to Celia a bit longer. Celia opened her purse and fished out some notes: "We can't thank you enough. Her mother and father are broken ... but they are thankful you helped to find the body. That bastard, Malgas, was arrested today in Bellville South. His lover said she had no idea."

A day later Galaka trotted beside Kenny and Marasta as they walked to the taxi-rank in Glendale. Kenny sweated a bit. The weight of Marasta's two bags - the blue and red zip up plastics bags widely used by travelers that hail from dusty settlements - pulled the edge of his shoulders downwards.

Marasta bore a backpack, the black and blue nylon, a hospice-shop special that Kenny had once used for carrying his technikon books. "Mama, you look odd with that bag. " Kenny said. Marasta laughed:  "How am I supposed to look?" She turned her head to look at him, a sad sparkle in her eyes. "Just behave yourself while I'm gone." Marasta had left Jele and Kenny in charge of the shack and the spaza. "Try to work together; stop being idiots. For once in your lives." She looked at the dog. "Galaka will guard my things in the yard."

They were at the rank. She breathed deeply and exhaled. Kenny spied the driver, a wide-hipped man who wore a black mariner's cap with a small shiny peak, and after making sure it was the correct taxi, left the bags at the driver's feet. Better for the driver to wrestle the bags into the small luggage section. Marasta hugged Kenny, both holding on for a long while. Then she crouched, patting Galaka.  The mongrel wagged his tail and looked at her with large oval eyes, blinking.  "You know I’m coming back -- sure you do." she said to the dog, nodding slowly.

Then she disappeared into the gaping Hi-Ace door.

Frank Meintjies

Mangrove swamp

Dark earth brooding

Mozzies, biting flies or imaginary gnats

Landing hits on tender skin

Body and limb squelch away, in yielding earth

While trees with wet boots trudge in cold cold sludge, & breathe & breathe

through straw-like roots, that snorkel out and up; 

Decay, everwhere, creeps once more

Into nostril, lung and pore

Aargh!

I know you have a purpose

But why must you be so awkward?

Old flag

The four-colour flag

is a gun

i hear it, rat-a-tat tat

in the ear's dark canal

commas, full stops and deadly colons

ending in a fitful pause

... is a dog

on the leash

tugged by shrouded figures -

benzine, spyker, mostert -

their bare hands & bared teeth

gouged air

from our chests

... is a yellow kwela-kwela

metallically cold

to the touch; in the

wire-caged part

my brain rolls around

as wheels slew

from caledon square to torture room to death farm to stick-figure appearance

in white man's court

the four-colour flag

tortured the confessions:

the first nation is extinct

plunder was a walkover

good neighbours and bantustan lords welcome 'pass books' & high walls

& baaskap flowers naturally, amid veldblossoms, grape-stalks, mountain bush, cacti, wild grasses & woodland

The new flag

is a too-long road

that's sun-baked, potholed, soaked

and gasping with sweat

twisted in the knots

of so many winds

Saigon*

The bristling city
With far too many wounds
Restless, heaving with possibilities
The wars have come in the air, on water, a-burrowing
They've left you unsentimental, hardy
No halo of illusions around 
the fading moon

Loud beats play in your bosom
Pistons in motion, hot and energetic 
Muffling memory
Sending memory back, deep into cells
For moments that become less fleeting
As time stumbles on

Bees abound; 'being' takes a back seat
To constant whirring
In the bastion of movement, of production
So many ply the streets 
Love and friendship in the noodles, raincoats, mini water-puppets 
Red stars on yellow cloth
How to buy time, how to grab fragments from the fire

So many trees lean in: along streets; by small craters 
Near the ancient temples; by memorials

Traces of dioxin, powdering the armpits
Landmines that still fester beneath skin
Human feeling, floating eyes, pedalling limbs, incense smoke
Like ripples, like water
Water under bombed bridges

*HoChiMin City

Blazing a trail: 'Halala Winner' mixes languages in children's book

Is it possible to write a book in more than one language? And it is it a good idea? Also, would a kid’s book which makes use of a seamless plaiting of two languages work?

Starting with the second question, there'll always be the purists who will frown on using more than one language. At the same time, using more than one language (simultaneously) is part of SA reality. In Johannesburg and other cities, people frequently switch from one language to another in telling a story. They also switch between languages in the same sentence. As South Africans when we hear such mixing, we don’t fall over in shock; instead, we hardly bat an eyelid. And thus, mirroring this reality, we have language mixing in poems; we encounter it on the theatre stage and we have the phenomenon of 'Scamto'.

So, of course, let's welcome a children’s book in more than one language (in the same book). This is just what Cover2Cover books have done. It has published Halala Winner, a 40-page story book, most likely targeted at kids in the first three grades of school. The writer is Jabulani Kunye.

In the story, Sibulele ─ an endearing boy with a big heart ─ starts at a new school, the typical story of the new kid on the playground overlaid with a ‘Jim Comes to Big City’ angle. He is teased for sounding different and because he comes from out of town. The “Funky Boys” turn up the heat also, demanding that he brings some lunch for them each day. He is sad but ─ with the help of his friend Anele ─  sticks it out. In the end, an opportunity arises where he can show one of his skills, and through it, rescue another schoolboy. He is carried shoulder high by other learners, and indications are that he will no longer be an outsider at the school nor an easy target for the bully boys.

This is more than an illustrated story; using a cartoon style of drawing, it is a picture book complete with speech bubbles, thought balloons and some exaggerated action shots. The fact that the drawings so closely track the ‘action’ helps the reader understand unfamiliar words. In addition, the broad framework (the action and the plot) carry the reader forward, providing a context in which the reader can figure out what new words mean.  

Halala Winner shows it can be done: it is possible to deploy a mix of languages (in the same text) to tell great kids’ stories. With it, Cover2Cover seems to be testing the waters – seeing how the idea works with and how it is received by wider audiences. According to the publisher's notes, Halala is part of a series (titled My World, My Words) that “celebrate(s) the multilingual realities of most South Africans.” Cover2Cover says the stories are developed with the input of young people. It refers the way it uses languages in these children’s books as translanguaging, a good term for academics but an awful term for the rest of us. If Halala Winner is anything to go by, we can look forward to more relevant and entertaining stories in the series.