Sometimes There Is a Void (64 page)
Read Sometimes There Is a Void Online
Authors: Zakes Mda
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I RECALLED A SCANDAL
that broke out when I was in my final year at Peka High School. A group of Afrikaner men and black women
appeared at the magistrate's court in a small Orange Free State town called Excelsior charged with contravening the Immorality Act which prohibited sexual relations between blacks and whites. There were many such cases throughout South Africa, but what made this one different was that the men were pillars of the Afrikaner community and included pastors of the Dutch Reformed Church and leaders of the ruling National Party â the very political party that introduced a lot of the discriminatory and oppressive race-based legislation in the country, and actually coined the word
apartheid
. The miscegenation came to light when the police discovered a number of Coloured or mixed-race children in the town, and the culprits were rounded up and imprisoned. The case received so much publicity in the local and overseas media that it embarrassed the South African government. Percy Yutar, the attorney-general, was instructed to withdraw the case, and he did. That was supposed to be the end of it. Indeed, the people of Excelsior thought the past was dead and buried for ever.
that broke out when I was in my final year at Peka High School. A group of Afrikaner men and black women
appeared at the magistrate's court in a small Orange Free State town called Excelsior charged with contravening the Immorality Act which prohibited sexual relations between blacks and whites. There were many such cases throughout South Africa, but what made this one different was that the men were pillars of the Afrikaner community and included pastors of the Dutch Reformed Church and leaders of the ruling National Party â the very political party that introduced a lot of the discriminatory and oppressive race-based legislation in the country, and actually coined the word
apartheid
. The miscegenation came to light when the police discovered a number of Coloured or mixed-race children in the town, and the culprits were rounded up and imprisoned. The case received so much publicity in the local and overseas media that it embarrassed the South African government. Percy Yutar, the attorney-general, was instructed to withdraw the case, and he did. That was supposed to be the end of it. Indeed, the people of Excelsior thought the past was dead and buried for ever.
But not for me. One day, as I sat in my house in Weltevredenpark, I wondered what had happened to the people of Excelsior; the black women and their Coloured children, and of course the Afrikaner men â those who had not committed suicide because some of them did or had attempted it. What were they doing and how were they coping in the new South Africa? I got into my car and made the four-hour trip through the rich farmlands of the Free State to the small town of Excelsior.
I discovered that the people of Excelsior did not want to talk about the past. They resented the fact that I was trying to open old wounds. The white people I asked pretended that they knew nothing about the scandal.
The owner of the hotel where I had booked my accommodation told me: âWe bought this hotel long after those events which you say happened in 1969 and 1970. We know nothing about them. Ask the man who runs the liquor off-sales outlet next door. He might know. He has lived here all his life.'
At the off-sales outlet a group of black men were sitting on the low window sill drinking beer from quart bottles. They overheard my
enquiry directed at the white man behind the counter and one of them stood up and said, âI know what you are talking about. One of those women was my mother.'
enquiry directed at the white man behind the counter and one of them stood up and said, âI know what you are talking about. One of those women was my mother.'
That was Senkey Mokhethi. He was one of the town councillors of Excelsior and one of the men sitting drinking with him was actually the mayor of the town and was married to one of the Coloured children who had resulted from the scandal. Senkey took me to his home and introduced me to his family: his wife, his mother and his Coloured sister, Tiisetso. He also introduced me to a number of the townspeople who had had some involvement in the scandal, including the Afrikaner lawyer who defended the men, a black woman who was a town councillor for the National Party and personally knew some of the women and their Coloured children, and an old one-eyed Afrikaner farmer who was one of the accused who had attempted suicide. He had his missing eye to show for it.
I wrote a story about my Excelsior experience for the
Mail & Guardian
, and decided that it would also be the basis of my new novel,
The Madonna of Excelsior
.
Mail & Guardian
, and decided that it would also be the basis of my new novel,
The Madonna of Excelsior
.
It was about this time that we had our second elections in South Africa. I became a voter for only the second time in my life. The first time, you'll remember, I cast my vote at the Ukrainian Center in Montreal, Canada. This time I was doing it in my country. Unlike the first time, when I split my vote between two parties in honour of my father, this time I voted for the ANC. Even though I was not satisfied with the corruption and nepotism that I wrote about to Mandela, I felt it was the most progressive and most inclusive of all the parties. I liked its foreign policies â this was before the Zimbabwe debacle â especially because the ANC leaders refused to be dictated to by Western powers and stubbornly maintained strong relations with heads of state the Western world did not like but who had supported us in our struggle when the West was propping up the apartheid regime. I liked their insistence on human rights for everyone, including homosexuals, transgender and intersex people. I also liked their pro-choice position in matters of reproductive rights and their abolition of the death penalty. These were human rights issues I felt very strongly about. I did not
like the economic policies of the ANC, particularly the party's fiscal conservatism â which was a big surprise to me because the ANC had communists in its midst. But at least it was slightly more to the left of the two major opposition parties â the predominantly Zulu-based Inkatha Freedom Party and the predominantly white Democratic Party. The PAC, on the other hand, had become more of a conservative party than the pan-Africanist and progressive one of the glorious days of Mangaliso Sobukwe. Its Africanism meant the conservation of values of a romantic Africa of some imagined past. Some of these values were chauvinistic, patriarchal and homophobic.
like the economic policies of the ANC, particularly the party's fiscal conservatism â which was a big surprise to me because the ANC had communists in its midst. But at least it was slightly more to the left of the two major opposition parties â the predominantly Zulu-based Inkatha Freedom Party and the predominantly white Democratic Party. The PAC, on the other hand, had become more of a conservative party than the pan-Africanist and progressive one of the glorious days of Mangaliso Sobukwe. Its Africanism meant the conservation of values of a romantic Africa of some imagined past. Some of these values were chauvinistic, patriarchal and homophobic.
The ANC won the elections with an increased majority and Thabo Mbeki, the party's president, became the new president of the Republic of South Africa. For his inauguration, a famed Italian composer and conductor, Carlo Franci, was commissioned to compose some kind of opera using orchestra, singers and dancers to tell the story of the African Renaissance. I was commissioned to write the libretto in the form of poetry. The performance on the evening of June 16, 1999, at the State Theatre in Pretoria was attended by a number of heads of state who had been at the inauguration during the day. In the audience I could see Yasser Arafat, Muammar al-Gaddafi, Kofi Annan and Fidel Castro relishing my words brought to life by Franci's music as the revered South African actor Sello Maake kaNcube performed a particular poem of mine titled âBirth of a People'.
I attended the day's events and the evening performance with Adele and she was overcome with emotion when she met and shook the hand of Winnie Mandela. She had always been a fan. She once told me that some of her friends said she looked like her.
After the performance I saw the doyen of South African television and movie producers, Mfundi Vundla, and the musician Caiphus Semenya, who is also regarded as an elder statesman of the arts and culture in South Africa. They were outraged that a composer was imported from Italy to create an opera for the inauguration of an African president when South Africa was replete with world-class composers of all types of music. These artists were right. I felt like a traitor for having collaborated with this betrayal of South African composers.
At the inauguration I met Thabo Moerane again after many years since we parted at Peka High School and introduced him to Adele. He was Thabo Mbeki's cousin, the son of the maestro Michael Mosoeu Moerane who had been such a great influence in my life. He told me he was now based in Geneva where he worked for some UN agency and played the piano at some of the jazz venues there.
I was sad that Jama Mbeki, my late Peka High School friend, was not there to see his own brother become the president of a free, non-racial and non-sexist South Africa.
Another person that I was always sorry never got to see the new South Africa because he died only a year before its birth, was my father. I know he would have been very critical of some aspects of the country, particularly the so-called Black Economic Empowerment which did nothing to empower the ordinary black people but was aimed at creating a new capitalist class among the hand-picked ruling party âdeployees'. But still it would have been interesting to get his always insightful analysis of the situation. I wished I had paid more attention to him when he was still alive. I should have relished the round-table family meetings instead of being disdainful about them because they took me away from friends and play. I would have learnt a lot and would have become a better human being.
These were the thoughts that preoccupied me when Adele and I drove to Mafeteng for the unveiling of his tombstone. The event was held at Zwelakhe's house. He had always been the pillar of the family. Not only was he there when my father died â I was away in America and couldn't even attend his funeral â but he was the one who looked after our mother, helped financially of course by me and by the old age pension from the South African government and the lump-sum Special Pension for former refugees and freedom fighters. I was grateful to him and I expressed my gratitude in the dedication of my novel
She Plays with the Darkness
. He had read the novel and loved it; he could identify some of the people and events I was writing about.
She Plays with the Darkness
. He had read the novel and loved it; he could identify some of the people and events I was writing about.
We booked in at Hotel Mafeteng and went to Zwelakhe's house to assist with the preparation for the event the next day. Adele was busy helping the women who were cooking when my sister-in-law Johanna
came and told me that Zwelakhe sent her to tell me that Adele should go away since he had made it clear in his letter to me when we were still in America that she should never set her foot in his house or come close to my mother. I was taken aback that Zwelakhe could hold a grudge for so many years. I was also offended that he hadn't discussed the matter with me personally but had sent Johanna instead.
came and told me that Zwelakhe sent her to tell me that Adele should go away since he had made it clear in his letter to me when we were still in America that she should never set her foot in his house or come close to my mother. I was taken aback that Zwelakhe could hold a grudge for so many years. I was also offended that he hadn't discussed the matter with me personally but had sent Johanna instead.
âI am not going to tell Adele to leave,' I said. âIf you people don't want her here you'd better tell her yourselves.'
Johanna finally did give her Zwelakhe's message, but Adele refused to leave. She sat there and continued to help the women. I knew she was daring him to make a scene in public and physically kick her out. He did not take the challenge. Instead he became very angry with me, without confronting me personally. Johanna became his emissary, and through her I got to know that I was a persona non grata at his house even though my mother lived there as well. All because I was supporting my wife. My mother was saddened by this episode and assured me she had no part in it and would like Adele to be around. She had long forgotten and forgiven the conflicts of the past.
The next day the unveiling ceremony went without a hitch. Both Adele and I were at the graveside as speeches were made by various members of the community, including leaders of the PAC and the ANC, about my father's contribution to the liberation struggle and how those who were in power today thought they could wipe him off the pages of history. After the ceremony we went into the house to greet my mother and then left without participating in the feasting that followed.
There was a bitter taste in my mouth as we drove back to Johannesburg.
I FEEL THAT MY
visits to my Aunt Ella bring me closer to my father, who I miss very much. Her face is a replica of my father's. She is one of his two surviving siblings. The other is Nontombi, the last born in the family, but we have not seen her since she left Qoboshane more than fifty years ago and never returned. We only hear of her from those who have seen her. They tell us she lives somewhere in Orange Farm, one of the former informal settlements of Johannesburg. She is the mother of Cousin Bernard, the village madman I told you about earlier.
visits to my Aunt Ella bring me closer to my father, who I miss very much. Her face is a replica of my father's. She is one of his two surviving siblings. The other is Nontombi, the last born in the family, but we have not seen her since she left Qoboshane more than fifty years ago and never returned. We only hear of her from those who have seen her. They tell us she lives somewhere in Orange Farm, one of the former informal settlements of Johannesburg. She is the mother of Cousin Bernard, the village madman I told you about earlier.
Gugu and I are coming from Mofolo where we have paid a brief visit to her sister, Sis' Pat Mphuthi. Even if Aunt Ella's house was not on our
way we would have branched off to see her and imbibe more of her A P Mda aura. She waddles from her bedroom where she now spends most of her life, just like my mother, and joins us in her living room.
way we would have branched off to see her and imbibe more of her A P Mda aura. She waddles from her bedroom where she now spends most of her life, just like my mother, and joins us in her living room.
She is a political animal and she complains that the government of Thabo Mbeki is no different from that of Nelson Mandela in marginalising Soweto. The cost of electricity is very high and the government is not subsidising the poor people enough. Some have to go without the necessary utilities.
Then she wants to know about âmy' bees.
âYou got your knack for beekeeping from my father,' she says.
I am surprised to hear this because I never associated my grandfather with beekeeping. Even when we were kids staying with my grandparents we never saw or heard of his bees.
âAt that time my father was already old and had given up on beekeeping,' says my aunt.
But before that, when Aunt Ella was a girl attending Qoboshane Bantu Community School and being taught by Mr Nyanginstimbi who also taught me many years later, my grandfather was a beekeeper at the very spot where my present-day Bee People keep their bees. That would have been in the late 1920s â two decades before I was born. My aunt is surprised to hear that I didn't know of my grandfather's beekeeping. She had assumed that I had established the apiary on Dyarhom Mountain knowingly following in my grandfather's footsteps.
âWere you not doing it because he had done it before?' she asks. âWas it not under his influence?'
âNot at all. It's a great coincidence. I had no idea that my grandfather was a beekeeper, let alone that he kept them at the very spot where I later became a beekeeper.'
âThere is nothing like a coincidence. You were led there by the ancestors.'
She tells me that my grandfather used to harvest many buckets of honey. Mr Mather of Mather and Sons used to drive from Sterkspruit to purchase all the honey which he resold at his store. I tell her that the present-day Bee People sell some of their honey to the descendants of Mr Mather at Mather and Sons.
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THE BEEKEEPING PROJECT STARTED
from a quest for a story. One day I was sitting in my house in Weltevredenpark when Phyllis Klotz of Sabikwa Theatre arrived with two guys from a Netherlands theatre company called De Nieuw Amsterdam Theatergroep â DNA. They wanted to commission me to write a play set in South Africa and the Netherlands about a subject or theme of my choice. They suggested that I might write about slavery in the early Dutch colonial days at the Cape. But a historical subject didn't interest me. I wanted to write on a more contemporary theme.
from a quest for a story. One day I was sitting in my house in Weltevredenpark when Phyllis Klotz of Sabikwa Theatre arrived with two guys from a Netherlands theatre company called De Nieuw Amsterdam Theatergroep â DNA. They wanted to commission me to write a play set in South Africa and the Netherlands about a subject or theme of my choice. They suggested that I might write about slavery in the early Dutch colonial days at the Cape. But a historical subject didn't interest me. I wanted to write on a more contemporary theme.
As part of this commission I went to stay in Amsterdam for a couple of months observing the work of the DNA Theatergroep and getting to know some of the actors and directors. But since I was going to set my play in that country and I had never been there before I needed to learn more about the people, the food, the rituals and other aspects of the culture â sort of put the natives under a microscope. Besides spending a lot of time being mesmerised by Dutch masters and modern artists at the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum and the Stedelijk, I paid a number of visits to a great South African scholar who had settled in Holland, Vernon February. He told me stories of South Africans who were exiled in the Netherlands during apartheid and how life used to be those days. I learnt of a particular woman he knew who originally came from the Eastern Cape. She had a very difficult time in Holland and I thought I would write a play based on some of her experiences. But I would have to find her first; she had since returned to South Africa.
Aram Adriaanse and Gerrit Wijnhoud of the DNA Theatergroep took me to the city of Amersfoort where I saw the college where some of our Afrikaner theologians of the Dutch Reformed Church had done their higher degrees. I also saw Long John, the famous bell reputed to be located at the centre of Holland.
In Amsterdam I frequented a number of jazz cafés listening to both unknown and famous jazz musicians. It became clear to me that jazz had migrated to Europe. I was surprised at the number of American jazz musicians who were living permanently in Amsterdam and other European cities. They told me that they couldn't make a living in America.
One evening as I sat at the Waterfront Jazz Club listening to Terence Blanchard's wailing trumpet, the play crystallised in my mind. It was going to be set in Amersfoort and would involve the famous bells, an Afrikaner
dominee
or pastor who had been an apartheid security policeman and a black woman anti-apartheid activist exiled in Holland. It would address issues of peace, justice and reconciliation.
dominee
or pastor who had been an apartheid security policeman and a black woman anti-apartheid activist exiled in Holland. It would address issues of peace, justice and reconciliation.
Back in South Africa I went in search of the woman I had been told about at Vernon February's house. She came from Herschel which was a district I knew very well. My search pointed to Qoboshane Village in the Lower Telle region which, as you know by now, is my ancestral village. I had not been there since I was a little boy staying at my grandmother's home. I was struck by the beauty of the place. It was spring and the mountain was pink with aloe blooms. But I was also struck by the poverty that I saw in the village. Men who used to work in the mines of Johannesburg and the Free State had been retrenched. There was hardly any income-generating activity in the village. The land was parched and rocky, so it wasn't good for agriculture. There were patches of subsistence farming among dongas that marred the beauty of the landscape.
As I was driving back to Johannesburg I said to myself:
That mountain cannot be beautiful for nothing. It's got to yield something that will give life to the people
.
That mountain cannot be beautiful for nothing. It's got to yield something that will give life to the people
.
In my mind, the flowers on Dyarhom suggested bees, and the bees suggested honey. But I knew nothing about beekeeping. As soon as I got to Johannesburg I bought the
Farmer's Weekly
and there, in the classifieds, was a beekeeper called William Dinkelman on the outskirts of the city â a place called Kibler Park â offering beekeeping training. I immediately enrolled for a two-week course at his Blessed by the Bees Apiary. The course was hands-on and quite intensive. We worked day and night, having lessons and getting practical experience on the very rudiments of beekeeping, on how to care for the bees and how to feed them in times of drought, how to catch bees from the wild, how to rear the queens in order to create new swarms, how to harvest honey, how to heat it and then bottle it, and how to market it. We also learnt about the diseases that often assail bees and how to treat them.
Farmer's Weekly
and there, in the classifieds, was a beekeeper called William Dinkelman on the outskirts of the city â a place called Kibler Park â offering beekeeping training. I immediately enrolled for a two-week course at his Blessed by the Bees Apiary. The course was hands-on and quite intensive. We worked day and night, having lessons and getting practical experience on the very rudiments of beekeeping, on how to care for the bees and how to feed them in times of drought, how to catch bees from the wild, how to rear the queens in order to create new swarms, how to harvest honey, how to heat it and then bottle it, and how to market it. We also learnt about the diseases that often assail bees and how to treat them.
The following month I went back to the village and asked the headman, Chief Xhalisile Nombula, and his councillor Morrison Xinindlu to give me back the land that used to belong to my grandfather on the mountain so that I could start a beekeeping project with those villagers who might be interested. The headman could not make such a decision on his own. He had to call a meeting of all the villagers. I had brought bottles of honey from Blessed by the Bees and I displayed them at the meeting as I addressed the villagers showing them the benefits of beekeeping to the community.
After a long debate, with some villagers objecting because the mountain was used for the initiation of boys into men at certain times, and others because everybody who used to have property on that mountain would want it back if I was allocated the land that used to belong to my grandfather. But finally a consensus was reached. After all, the mountain was very big. Boys could still be initiated on other parts of the mountain that were more remote than the place I wanted for beekeeping. Also in my favour was the fact that I didn't want the mountain back for my own personal gain but for the good of the community.
The next step was to establish a cooperative society of all those who wanted to be part of the beekeeping project. About forty men and women registered their names.
It took me a long time to raise funds for the project. Our major electricity utility company, Eskom, had a foundation that funded development projects throughout South Africa and they approved our application. They were willing to fund the training of ten of our members who would then train the rest on site. They also funded the necessary equipment such as overalls, helmets, veils, stainless steel smokers, supers, frames, containers and hive tools. In addition to all this, the Eskom Foundation paid for the first forty hives with swarms that we purchased from Blessed by the Bees, which was where the group of ten also received their training.
Since it had taken me months to raise the money, many villagers who had initially registered had lost interest. We remained with about twenty, including Morrison Xinindlu and my Uncle Owen. It was good
to have Uncle Owen in the group because he was the most educated of the lot and could handle the records and correspondence. The meetings were held at his house. I heard that in my absence he tended to be a dictator and pretended his word was final, whereas in fact the project was owned and operated by its members through the office bearers they had elected and no single member owned it and could have the final word. I called him to order as soon as I got the report.
to have Uncle Owen in the group because he was the most educated of the lot and could handle the records and correspondence. The meetings were held at his house. I heard that in my absence he tended to be a dictator and pretended his word was final, whereas in fact the project was owned and operated by its members through the office bearers they had elected and no single member owned it and could have the final word. I called him to order as soon as I got the report.
Part of the funds from the Eskom Foundation was used to initiate literacy classes for those members who could not read and write. We also got the services of the Mineworkers Development Agency to hold classes on small business management.
At the Kellogg Foundation offices in Pretoria was a woman who had read my novel
The Heart of Redness
and had liked my ideas on rural development. She told me that they had funds which they could allocate to us, provided they were channelled through a well-established agency with a track record of handling a sizeable budget. I discovered the Herschel Development Agency based in Lady Grey and went into partnership with them. Indeed, the Kellogg Foundation gave us one hundred thousand United States dollars. The money was used to construct two buildings on the mountain, to purchase a truck, furnish the buildings, and buy equipment for extracting the honey from the combs, heating it and then bottling it. We also bought the bottles and printed the labels that William Dinkelman had designed. Dinkelman delivered more hives with swarms and trained the members to catch swarms from the wild. The Herschel Development Agency gave us a Lady Grey farmer, Aubrey Fincham, to manage the project while training the members to operate it themselves. The Department of Agriculture of the Eastern Cape provincial government was approached by Uncle Owen and they assisted by fencing the part of the mountain that had our hives and buildings.
The Heart of Redness
and had liked my ideas on rural development. She told me that they had funds which they could allocate to us, provided they were channelled through a well-established agency with a track record of handling a sizeable budget. I discovered the Herschel Development Agency based in Lady Grey and went into partnership with them. Indeed, the Kellogg Foundation gave us one hundred thousand United States dollars. The money was used to construct two buildings on the mountain, to purchase a truck, furnish the buildings, and buy equipment for extracting the honey from the combs, heating it and then bottling it. We also bought the bottles and printed the labels that William Dinkelman had designed. Dinkelman delivered more hives with swarms and trained the members to catch swarms from the wild. The Herschel Development Agency gave us a Lady Grey farmer, Aubrey Fincham, to manage the project while training the members to operate it themselves. The Department of Agriculture of the Eastern Cape provincial government was approached by Uncle Owen and they assisted by fencing the part of the mountain that had our hives and buildings.
That was how the brand
Telle Honey/Ubusi base Telle
was born. The honey that the project produced soon gained a reputation among connoisseurs of honey for its unique taste, which was the result of the fresh unpolluted air of Dyarhom Mountain and the indigenous herbs, bushes and aloes that grew on that mountain.
Telle Honey/Ubusi base Telle
was born. The honey that the project produced soon gained a reputation among connoisseurs of honey for its unique taste, which was the result of the fresh unpolluted air of Dyarhom Mountain and the indigenous herbs, bushes and aloes that grew on that mountain.
I learnt a lot about bees and beekeeping from this project, and I used that knowledge in the novel I was writing at the time,
The Madonna of Excelsior
. Bees play a big role in the development of some of my characters' conflicts. So you see, there is a symbiotic relationship between my writing and my community activism. My trip to Qoboshane in search of a story gave birth to a community project that is changing people's lives; the community project gave birth to aspects of a novel.
The Madonna of Excelsior
. Bees play a big role in the development of some of my characters' conflicts. So you see, there is a symbiotic relationship between my writing and my community activism. My trip to Qoboshane in search of a story gave birth to a community project that is changing people's lives; the community project gave birth to aspects of a novel.
Let me add that even though I never found the woman I was looking for â she had moved to other places â I did write the musical play titled
The Bells of Amersfoort
and it was a resounding success. Directed by Aram Adriaanse, it toured Holland and South Africa, and was presented at the National Festival of the Arts in Grahamstown and the Baxter Theatre in Cape Town. Because the powers that ran the Market Theatre at the time refused to present it there despite the fact that I was their dramaturge, in Johannesburg it was performed at the Theatre on the Square in Sandton. I never got to know what the Market Theatre's problem was with Phyllis Klotz who was co-producing this musical with the Dutch. Nevertheless the play was performed to full houses and standing ovations in Sandton, which was the Market Theatre's loss.
The Bells of Amersfoort
and it was a resounding success. Directed by Aram Adriaanse, it toured Holland and South Africa, and was presented at the National Festival of the Arts in Grahamstown and the Baxter Theatre in Cape Town. Because the powers that ran the Market Theatre at the time refused to present it there despite the fact that I was their dramaturge, in Johannesburg it was performed at the Theatre on the Square in Sandton. I never got to know what the Market Theatre's problem was with Phyllis Klotz who was co-producing this musical with the Dutch. Nevertheless the play was performed to full houses and standing ovations in Sandton, which was the Market Theatre's loss.
I composed all the music for this play, except for one number which was a traditional wedding song.
The play was later to be published by Wits University Press in a collection titled
Fools, Bells and the Habit of Eating
â my earlier plays
Mother of All Eating
and
You Fool, How Can the Sky Fall?
were also in this anthology.
Fools, Bells and the Habit of Eating
â my earlier plays
Mother of All Eating
and
You Fool, How Can the Sky Fall?
were also in this anthology.
The writing of
The Madonna of Excelsior
proceeded well, with Debe Morris and Sara â Teresa Devant's and Albio Gonzalez's daughter in Barcelona â giving me wonderful feedback. I was having a great time narrating my story through the paintings of Father Frans Claerhout, a Flemish expressionist I once visited with my daughter Thandi, and nieces Limpho, Thembi and Mpumi â my brother Sonwabo's kids â in Tweespruit, a small town about twenty kilometres from Excelsior. We were all inspired by the priest and his paintings.
The Madonna of Excelsior
proceeded well, with Debe Morris and Sara â Teresa Devant's and Albio Gonzalez's daughter in Barcelona â giving me wonderful feedback. I was having a great time narrating my story through the paintings of Father Frans Claerhout, a Flemish expressionist I once visited with my daughter Thandi, and nieces Limpho, Thembi and Mpumi â my brother Sonwabo's kids â in Tweespruit, a small town about twenty kilometres from Excelsior. We were all inspired by the priest and his paintings.
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