A prayer for marriage with mkhaya

I must say I absolutely love being a black woman. What a phenomenal position to be in – especially in this contemporary post-apartheid SA.

I mean, sure, historical repression is feeding into current systems that subjugate women, but it is phenomenal, nonetheless.  

I had an experience with several  older black men which left me feeling amused and ultimately grateful for my intersecting identities of race and gender.  

A few days ago I had a hysterically comical moment with a petrol attendant at my local garage and the interaction began as he approached my car. I smiled and we exchanged pleasantries. He initially greeted me in English, asking me how I was. I responded in IsiXhosa. Our conversation continued in our mother tongue as he asked about my background, which is in Mthatha and Butterworth in the Eastern Cape.  

He grew ecstatic, because as fate would have it, he was also from  Butterworth. I told him that my mother was a Kentane, to which he responded in a way that showed me he was in fact familiar with my village and my family. He shared fond memories of uMfundisi Kentane, whom he had great love and admiration for. It was at that moment that I let out a sharp, loud burp followed by a loud ‘iyooooh’, to which he responded: “Camagu Makhosi”! 

I suppose we were both elated to have some semblance of a connection to home, particularly because we were in the southern tip of Africa, a thousand-plus kilometers from home.

He asked when last I had been home. I laughed and assured him he could relax because I was not the proverbial prodigal daughter. I go home often and in fact I will be headed there soon as I need herbs for my home pharmacy. He assured me that he too would never abandon home and that he had just been with is family. 

As the conversation progressed, it naturally got more personal as I was confronted with questions on my marital status and whether or not I had children. Now, usually I am quick to dismiss enquiries into my personal business, but he was friendly and oddly familiar. I suppose I had let my guard down due to the illusion of familiarity. I answered him and he looked at me in slight disbelief and a slight expression of disappointment.  

He then assured me that these things would happen for me and that he would personally pray about it to lament my fate. At this point I was driving off slowly, thanking him for his service, thinking that the interaction was over. But, as luck would have it, in the car pulling up behind me was a bishop, whom my Mkhaya felt the need to call me out for. Bishop approached my car and was informed of my my situation (childless and husbandless)!  

When I tell you guys that they put hands on my car and prayed to God I am not lying! As Bishop was done and now joking in endearment, he saw my wrist with my beads and inqwambu (goat skin bracelet) he shouted “Hayi, Uboniwe, ukhethiwe- uthathiwe” (she has been seen, chosen and taken). He laughed, we all did and parted ways.

I laughed about it all the way to work. Primarily at the comical display of random people praying for what they are uncertain is a fate I would choose for myself or not. I was amused at myself for brushing this off as comedy rather than be offended as my 23-year-old feminist self would have been. I mean, then I would have ranted about the ways that patriarchy positions us as potential wives and mothers without our consent!! I mean, that did cross my mind but I was not as outraged as I would have been in the past. Growth bethuna!  

My heart was warmed at the bishop’s understanding of my situation as umntana weThongo (sangoma). By my situation I mean my responsibility towards fulfilling umsebenzi wabantu abadala (working for my ancestors) above all else. Although he uttered three words, he said them with conviction backed with a sense of firm understanding and acceptance of ancestry. I appreciated that. I appreciated the patriarchal energy that I was surrounded by that morning and I suppose being prayed for.  

I am only sad that I never learned the names of those gentleman, but whoever they are I thank them for reminding me of home and the power of praying patriarchs. In a world of “men are trash” it was a truly refreshing experience.