Last Friday, my sister, the kids and I went up to Bulawayo for the unveiling of Thando's tombstone with her family. I miss her.
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I have two of these old fashioned Petit Godin fireplaces at home and another wood burning fireplace as well. These together with the outside pit braai makes four fireplaces that are great to sit by in winter but can be tiresome to clean afterwards. When the Petit Godins really get going and you lift the cast iron lid to take a peek, you can't help thinking of the final scene in the Lord of the Rings, when Golum falls into the flames of Mordor. Our helper Juliet, isn't so keen though. Faced with cleaning four fireplaces, she claimed the ash would give her bronchitis and she would die. Littéralement. I've spent time at two very different but strangely similar schools over the last couple of weeks. The first visit was to the African Leadership Academy where I was an observer at their Finalists' Weekend. The ALA is a really great institution and the Finalist Weekend is one of the last stages in whittling down the c.4000 applicants to around 100. As an observer, my job was to comment on the kids' poise, maturity and leadership potential as they worked in teams on selected tasks. One of the tasks went like this: There are a group of people, say 20, on an island which is about to be submerged in a flood. There's an escape boat but only a limited number, say 12, can fit in the boat. Working in teams, decide who gets to go in the boat. Now this is where it gets interesting. The islanders are deliberately chosen to provoke and include a rapist, a 7 year old girl, a homophobe, a gay man, a grandmother, a pregnant woman, a dictator, an imam, a rabbi, a catholic priest, your grandmother and so on. It was really interesting to see how the kids went about it and how courageous some of them were in "thinking outside the boat".
This morning a bunch of people from work went to a primary school in Alexandra Township to read to the kids and teach the older ones about saving. (We're a bank after all!). I was in a class of 6 - 8 year olds and it was really fun to see how keen the kids were (except for the two boys fighting in the corner). It was similar to the ALA in that respect, except you don't see kids fighting at the ALA. My colleague, Marisa , was really wonderful with the children and got them singing and clapping like they were on holiday. There are a couple of snippets of conversation I remember: Neither Marisa nor I could speak the local language so the teacher, a big strong woman with a laugh made for a crowded pub, did a running translation for us. We were reading The Twits by Roald Dahl and one of the characters, Mrs Twit, is very ugly. Teacher: What makes people ugly? Small boy: Beer Such wisdom in a child so young... Mrs Twit's husband, Mr. Twit, doesn't shave, and the conversation turned to personal hygiene. Marisa: Who shaves in your house? Another small boy: My mother Marisa: Which part of her body does she shave? That's when I should have left the classroom. Enjoy the photos! This is an email from a dear friend Dr. Chris Herold to S, in which Chris sets out his views on Black Economic Empowerment as practiced in SA. I share Chris's views and he puts forward his arguments more eloquently than I ever could. Dear S,
I have no doubt that you got where you are through your ability, which is exactly as it should be. I very much want blacks and all other races to succeed and take up positions in all levels of society in proportion with their numbers. For too long the NP [National Party] tried to do the genetically impossible – get the 5% to 10% of professionals out of less than 20% of the population. Their quota system wound them down like an ant trying to cross a floor covered with spilled treacle. Replacing it with yet another quota system based on a different set of numbers but ignoring training and merit is just as destructive, especially when combined with poor attitude (the “They owe me” syndrome that has held sway for so long). The raw numbers say one thing, but the necessary skills paint a different picture. Our distressing unemployment figures reflect the sad fact that most of our unemployed are near unemployable because of their lack of effective education and lack of opportunity to better it. This is compounded by diseases of grinding poverty, some of which, like childhood malnutrition, have impaired their ability to progress academically. I agree with you that fronting is wrong and should be avoided. But when faced with the choice of being mugged into giving up shareholding for free to spoiled BEE fat cats, or losing their ability to do business, we shouldn’t be surprised if some choose to resist the unjust legislation. During the apartheid regime companies found ways to successfully circumvent unjust job reservation legislation. (For example I know that construction companies made it possible for black employees to work as plant operators – a job that was strictly reserved for whites. Transport companies did the same for drivers – which was also forbidden under early apartheid laws. Lawyers found legal technicalities to get around unjust laws to defend the victims of apartheid, etc.) Would you say that they were also wrong to do so? Should they rather have meekly accepted the evil laws? If they had, where would we be now? Passing even more draconian laws to defend ones that are already bad cannot be construed as justifiable. It is just one more step (a big one) towards a totalitarian state. And by the way, BBBEE is not just voluntary – it is already a legal requirement. (Otherwise what do you make of the statement: “Certain companies feel as though they are not obliged to comply with BEE legislation, despite it being a legal requirement.”?) This legislation is aimed at adding a penalty to enforce its adherence. As such it will go hand in hand with enforcement of the BBBEE quotas. It is also unrealistic to use statements like: ”a higher percentage of blacks were employed in lower management levels” and bemoan the fact that there are not enough black CEOs to justify this action. Everyone needs to start at the lower levels and build their useful capacity before advancing. In most instances they also require the necessary academic capacitation to advance to the top of their profession. You cannot short-circuit this process without unravelling the organisation. (Exceptional individuals can move more rapidly through the ranks, but even they need to learn the ropes along the way and cannot simply leapfrog to the top without destroying their own credibility and the functioning of the organisation.) Given our unfortunate history we started with very few blacks with adequate academic training to fill management positions. The tertiary education outflow has improved, but disappointingly slowly due to serious educational defects. Even where such skills are available, it is intrinsically unfair to hold back one and advance the other based on their colour. Not surprisingly, private businesses are not queuing up to commit suicide by prematurely advancing candidates who have yet to develop their skills and prove their worth. That is precisely what has gone wrong in the civil service – promoting managers to levels way above their experience and skills levels. God Bless Chris Herold Today I scraped the bottom of my last bottle of shito. Only a Ghanaian would understand the ensuing feelings of loss and anxiety. It's as if the world has tilted on its axis, leaving me disoriented and lets face it, a little afraid. Every Ghanaian swears by his favourite shito chef. I swear by Auntie U. She makes her hot shito sauce with the basic ingredients of ginger, shrimps and dried pepper then throws in extra helpings of love and care like no one else can. I'm not ashamed to say I hoard Auntie U's shito, fending off eager friends who ask if I've received any new supplies from Ghana, with a straight faced "No." I don't feel too bad about that, they probably do the same.
Now as I wait for a fresh consignment, I imagine this is how the Cypriots must be feeling as they too wait to be bailed out and restored to equilibrium. Except they don't make shito in Germany. It's only made in Ghana. A recent article in The Economist entitled "Boomtown Church" got me thinking. It outlines the rise of the Catholic Church in Africa and traces the beginnings of this accelerated growth to the Second Vatican Council of 1962-65 which loosened ever so slightly, but loosened nonetheless, the very strict liturgy that had characterised the church in Africa. The article begins with a touching scene of Sunday worship from a Catholic Church somewhere along Ghana's coast. It goes on to mention Cardinal Turkson who if you believe the international media, was in the running to succeed Pope Benedict XVI. According to The Economist, Cardinal Turkson, "caused a stir when he claimed the African church knows no sexual abuse in its ranks because homosexuality is so rare on the continent." Last weekend I had lunch with a dear Zimbabwean friend. P was raised as a Catholic and attended a Jesuit boarding school in Zimbabwe. The boys who were aged between 11 and 17, regarded the Jesuit Fathers as the epitome of brilliance. How else could they describe priests who after only two weeks of the new term, knew the name of every boy in the class and could tell at a glance which unfortunate soul was absent? It was only much later that P discovered that the priests' amazing powers of recollection were largely due to meticulous organisation whereby a student's seat in chapel was referenced to his desk in class and even to the bed in which his slept. It's easy when you know how it's done. Thus it never occurred to the boys to challenge the priests on anything. Not even when they fondled them. P told me of how one night, he and a group of boys witnessed a European Father having sex with a man from a nearby village. The careless priest had left the window open and a lamp switched on behind him. When the story broke, the Jesuits immediately closed ranks. The event was reconstructed in its entirety and they maintained to a man that the sex act the boys had witnessed, never happened. It was nothing more than a mischievous fantasy put about by wicked boys. Then in a rare act of protest, the boys, some of whom were prefects, refused to take holy communion and held out for several weeks. That's when the Fathers came down hard on them. Although their only offence had been one of youthful voyeurism, the boys were suspended and their parents called in to apologise. All this occurred more than 30 years ago but P's anguish in retelling the events is still raw. African families revere education and would gladly send their sons and daughters off to seemingly benign institutions, in relatively isolated areas and be eternally grateful for the opportunity. It is also well known that the Catholic Church which set up many of these schools in Africa, is poisoned by a small but not insignificant number of priests who abused children with impunity. Put these two factors together and Cardinal Turkson's assertion that there is no abuse in the African church, looks patently absurd. I wouldn't be surprised if some priests regarded Africa as a choice destination and not because they could win over great numbers of new converts and embed Catholic values, but because of the opportunities for uninhibited abuse of children a backward continent offered. I'm glad there was no white smoke last week for Cardinal Turkson - even if he is from the same part of Ghana as I am. There's been a resounding silence from Africa when it comes to abuse by Catholic priests. Indeed, more stories like P's need to be told. I know they are out there. See the article at: http://www.economist.com/news/middle-east-and-africa/21573599-vatican-franchise-going-strong-despite-fierce-competition-boomtown-church Yesterday I watched Arsenal huff and puff and eventually lose in the FA Cup to a woeful Blackburn Rovers. As tomorrow is my birthday, I've decided to give the Gunners a gift of the deadly striker they so desperately need. Moi. So how about it Mr. Wenger? I wouldn't cost anything close to what you paid for Chamakh, Bendtner or Gervinho and there's a good chance I'd score a few of the sitters they've missed over the years. And if I show up late for training it would only be because I was still counting my last week's wages. Actually you could even pay me once a month, like a real world employee. What's that? You don't offer contracts to over forties? Who's been spreading rumours now? I'm not a day older than Gervinho and I don't have two left feet. Yesterday I went to a wedding. I'd mentored Edward in the past although I'm sure I didn't teach him anything. His wife Noma is absolutely exquisite. However there's one thing I never told Edward during our mentoring sessions and that is the Secret to a Long and Happy Marriage. Since Edward and Noma are only a few hours into their lifelong journey, its only fitting that I share this gem of wisdom with them now.
An old man who'd been married for sixty years was asked, "How have you managed to stay happily married for so long?" The old man was a little deaf by then so they had to repeat the question and louder than before. "Tell us, what is the secret to a long and happy marriage?". The old man replied, "It's actually very simple. Very early on in our marriage we decided that I would take all the Major decisions and my wife would take all the Minor decisions." Seeing his listeners still didn't understand, the old man added, "You see, in sixty years of marriage, we've never had to make a Major decision." I guess the photo says it all. Later today when Ghana's Black Stars take on the Blue Sharks of Cape Verde, the nation will come to a standstill. As no doubt the Cape Verde islanders will as well. In Accra you can almost do without a television set or a radio whenever the Black Stars play. The city falls eerily silent during the game then all of a sudden, you hear a loud cheer or a devastating groan and you're left in no doubt as to the score. My prediction for this afternoon? Three Cheers and One Groan. Long ago when I was a kid, before anyone in Accra had a washing machine, there was this guy who used to come to the house every Saturday morning to do the laundry. I didn’t know his name and I don’t think anyone did either. We just called him “Washman”. Not Samsung, not LG. Just Washman. He was tall and muscular and couldn’t have been more than thirty. He got his muscles from doing our washing on Saturday’s and at other people’s homes other days of the week. I remember him crouched over a metal tub, half hidden behind a low cloud of soap suds with his arms flailing as he beat and pummeled the clothes into submission. And that wasn’t all. Washman only took a break when the clothes were drying and in the early afternoon he’d send his apprentice (sorry, he didn’t have a superhero name and if he did he kept it to himself) to bring the clothes in off the line. Then he’d get to work with one of these charcoal irons with a cockerel at the prow. He’d heat it up with glowing coals and I would hear the thud, thud long into the night as he pressed the iron down hard onto the clothes and folded them into perfect geometric shapes. The smell of newly washed, freshly pressed cotton is one I’ll always remember. I bet Samsung can’t do that. |
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"If this is the dream God has placed in your heart, who are you to doubt?"