Being black comes with perks and challenges, just like any other race. Being born into a black family and given a Muslim name was something I never understood, especially because none of my family had Muslim names.
I was told my grandfather loved the name and it is a pity he passed on, before giving me a proper explanation on my Muslim name. Growing up in a large family was not easy, especially because everyone had to fight for everything. Back then in the early 90s though, with no electricity or television, fun times were always around the fire, where everyone made jokes and my granny would tell us stories of yesteryear.
Having a large family and having to find your true self was never plain sailing, because we were always compared to our peers, who happened to do well at school and did all the chores without being asked. ‘Well, it is not my turn to wash the dishes’ is a statement that used to get me out of trouble, but also got me into trouble.
Being hit with a thin tree branch and crying your lungs out was a norm in my neighbourhood, because black parents believe disciplining a child starts at a very young age. A slap on the bum or being hit with shoes or whatever they could get their hands on, was not taboo in our household.
Most black families never show affection. I knew I was loved when it was December, and I had passed a grade, as my uncle would buy me a live chicken and slaughter it on my behalf. Then the whole family would have a feast and I knew they were very proud of me. No one really said it out aloud, but I guess it was my family’s way of doing things.
The cliché of ‘it takes a village to raise a child’ truly exists in black communities. Anyone could give you a good hiding if you had done something wrong, and then go report to your parents, who never rescued you. You could count yourself lucky if they also didn’t give you a hiding after that for being mischievous.
As we grew older, we went to better schools, we searched for our identities and attempted to figure out where we stood in this world. Self-discovery meant trying out new things like singing and dancing, playing chess and sports or joining the debate team. As a young black child, I only found my voice when I started high school. I was then able to express myself better and was not afraid of questioning things that happened in society as a whole. Reading books was always seen as being ‘nerdy’, but few realise reading is a great habit to acquire.
One of the downsides about growing up in black communities is that everyone meddles in your business. You buy a new car and smiles turn into frowns, instead of well wishes. They wonder how are you going to afford petrol. When your child graduates, some rejoice while others say ‘there are so many unemployed graduates, where will your child find a job?’ We grew up with those kinds of remarks and when you finally do get a job, they go all voodoo on you.
Growing up in the dusty communities was great though. We learned to share, to love one another and to treat everyone as one big family. Even though those days are long gone, our children will never know the joys of playing until the street lights came on and will never know how to play ‘amatshe’ (stones). All they know is cartoons and PlayStations. When you discipline them, they cry abuse and when you shout at them, they are bitter the whole week.
All our children know is shopping and going to movies, forgetting the simple ways of life that got us where we are today, like helping your mother cook, knitting and sewing, have fun in the sun and of course, singing karaoke.
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