Simply Philile

Dear men, Do you know that today is about you? November 19 is celebrated by some countries as International Men’s Day. We’re supposed to celebrate your strength, health and wealth in all spheres on this day. When we wake up next to you on this day, we’re supposed to lovingly look at your faces and see Marcus Garvey, Muhammed Ali, Tupac, Lumumba, Emperor Haile Selassie…heck even Jesus Christ and all of his disciples and followers. We’re supposed to see the doting fathers of our beautiful children and even imagine them in as our sons’ favorite character Spiderman and even Shaka Zulu…izinja zelife basically. Dear men, for this important day I had this celebratory narrative all worked out in my head for weeks because men are actually at the top of my list of favorite delicious people. In my head, in your honor, I’d slated all these Shakespearean lyrics that, even though they don’t resemble your faces, they sure feel like your well chiseled presence. I had all the live bro

Freedom can be defined simply as the state of being at liberty from confinement or restraint. With the advent of easy individual access to mass communication spaces, certainly an increasing number of voices speak of and demonstrate 'freedom' in this simplistic definition of the term.  However, it seems we talk more and walk less freedom so we’re far from being free. Our mentality and reaction to what happens outside of the confines of this kingdom continues to expose a number of us to this truth. This past week I was initially irritated when people on Facebook continuously disseminated the exact same message after literally copying and pasting it. My irritation evolved to sadness and hurt when the number of people who committed this heinous act grew even five days after the message was first posted.  The text which started with the words DEADLINE TOMORROW went on to detail how Facebook is deep in the process of invading our privacy as users in contravention of serious l

If ever there is a lesson in any struggle – individual or group and regardless of where you stand in that struggle – the lesson is that hope is not an action plan. For things to change or remain the same (to suit the status quo), a notable level of effort is required. Privilege Must Fall ; my inaugural article in this very column in October last year was inspired by South Africa’s #FeesMustFall student-led movement. Exactly twelve months later here we are again; at square one, like maybe struggles are some meteorological condition of the year.  Only, it seems the year long orbit has given birth to an intensified raging struggle. It’s not surprising really that today we’re in an uglier space than we were when all this began in 2015.  The intervention made by South Africa’s powers that be to freeze annual tuition fee increase for 2016 no doubt brought hope that the issue of affordability and by extension accessibility for all to education, was receiving the attention it des

This past Wednesday on “World Teacher Day” we were reminded to celebrate teachers”. I’ve had many teachers in my life and I’m thankful for all of them particularly my grade one teacher Miss Masilela; I was as raw as a nerve coming into her class with not one ounce of pre-schooling –  a six years old, I didn’t know how to even imagine the spelling of my first name – totally clueless about writing anything.  But today is about a teacher that I was to meet in later years of my life when ironically, my life revolved around writing. This teacher is named Donny Nxumalo; a teacher who didn’t teach. It was last week on September 28 that I got the news that Donny had died (he would want me to say ‘died’ and not ‘passed on’ because that’s just Donny).  Just a few days earlier my friend, a fellow journalist Brian and I, in a long telephone conversation spent a significant chunk speaking about Donny and how I’d been meaning to call him.  I knew his number off by heart and had mad

I once wrote; “ Bonginkosi “Zola” Dlamini is an important institution in my world...”  No kidding, this is how significant an impact the guys (and Mshoza girl) from eZola, Soweto have made on me through their music.  One of the most respected musical legends from eZola is of course Mduduzi Edmund Tshabalala. Many of us know him by his stage name - Mandoza.  The 38 year old Kwaito giant died a week ago. He features in this column today not only because he is an institution to many including myself but an IMPORTANT institution that even future generations need to learn about. So dear parents… Let me remind you of the simple definition of institution, according to Google; 1) An organization founded for a religious, educational, professional or social purpose 2) An established law or practice. If we were in Literature class and I was a Literature teacher we would be unpacking each of these words but we’re not in class and I’m not a literature teacher like the poetic Mandoz

By Vumile Mabusela The passing of Kwaito music icon Mandoza has brought to the fore many great life lessons as narrated in this column last week- agreed.  But as we all know, we constantly exist within two extreme worlds; for every positive there’s a counter that must be explored, that’s just how nature continues to work. And so as nature would have it, the death of the man Mandoza raised the issue of the opposite sex - a woman’s role in a romantic relationship. Reacting to Mandoza’s funeral, I found that many people, especially on social media, were hailing praise at Mpho, the late legend’s wife, for her perseverance and sticking it out to the bitter end.  Phrases like ‘Umfazi wamampela’ (real wife/woman) and ‘We need more women like her’, were making rounds and even getting retweeted and liked a trillion times over by both men and women.  This had me thinking; ‘Is a woman’s strength defined by how much hubby-manufactured bile she can swallow in a r

We’re midway through Africa month and this has made me think a lot about what it means to be an African in 2016.  Of course I could never define my Africanism without reflecting on my identity as an African from Swaziland. One of the things on my mind is our language siSwati; how it has evolved and with what consequence. Have we lost ourselves in translation? Maybe it’s the nostalgia on being home a few weeks ago where I attended a traditional Swazi wedding and listened to recordings of the radio show of yesteryears called Khala Mdumbadumbane that got me thinking about this thing that separates us from most Africans called siSwati. Spoken Word To be honest, I never really took an interest in this popular show when I was younger – I only paid attention, in fact only some attention, on the days that it drew controversy and the protest of women’s empowerment groups who denounced it for its sexist approach to addressing some issues.  This was mostly because by then, I wa