There are things you never forget about growing up ekasi. Some memories are sweet, some are embarrassing, while others only begin to make sense when you are old enough to look back and laugh at yourself.
For me, one of those memories is the national anthem. Not just the singing of it at school, but how omalume labokhulu would turn us into their little performers every time the family gathered.
Back in the day, when I was still a primary school pupil, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika was the national anthem we knew. It had been Zimbabwe’s national anthem since independence in 1980, before the country adopted Phakamisani iflag in 1994, when I was doing grade three.
When the new anthem was introduced, I was not worried about its history or the reasons for changing it. Mine was a much simpler assignment: learn the words, stand properly and sing when instructed.
And school made sure we did exactly that.
Every morning, assembly was our national anthem training ground. Before the lessons, before the spelling tests and before the teacher could start asking who had failed to do their homework, we had to gather in the school yard, stand in formation and sing.
There was no hiding behind your friend, no pretending to know the words and no casually moving your lips while everyone else did the work. You had to sing, and you had to sing properly.
Little did I know that this school achievement would earn me a completely different assignment at home.
Enter omalume labokhulu.
If you grew up in the kasi, you know that uncles and older relatives had their own ways of entertaining themselves at family gatherings. Sometimes they wanted you to recite a poem, demonstrate a dance, tell them what you had learnt at school or answer questions that made you wonder whether you were attending a family gathering or sitting for an examination.
For some reason, knowing the national anthem was one of those achievements that made you a prime candidate for an impromptu performance.
A weekend visit or a family gathering could be going smoothly until one of the uncles suddenly remembered that there was a young, educated citizen in the house.
“Wena mntwana, uyayazi ingoma yesizwe?”
Before you could even finish nodding, the instructions would follow.
“Sukuma ume kahle, usihlabelele!”
Just like that, your afternoon of playing with other children would be interrupted.
The same people who had been discussing family matters a few minutes earlier would suddenly become judges at a national singing competition. Some would sit back with folded arms, others would nod approvingly, while one or two would be ready to correct you if you missed a word or sang without enough enthusiasm.
You had to stand straight. Your hands had to behave. Your voice had to be audible. And heaven forbid you should start laughing halfway through the anthem because your cousins were pulling funny faces behind the audience.
What made it even more interesting was that the performances were not restricted to one occasion. It could happen on a Saturday afternoon, during a Sunday visit, at a family celebration or whenever omalume decided they needed a reminder of what the children were learning at school.
Looking back now, I realise that those moments were not necessarily about the anthem alone. For our elders, they were also a way of seeing what we were learning at school, testing our confidence and having a little fun at our expense.
The irony is that the anthem we were drilled to memorise at school became a family entertainment package. The teachers made sure we learnt the words, and omalume made sure we demonstrated that knowledge whenever they had an audience.
Today, I laugh when I remember those unexpected performances. At the time, they could feel like an ambush. You would be minding your own business, and suddenly you were the main act at a gathering you had not even known was a show.
But that was the kasi childhood experience: elders had their ways of keeping us on our toes, and children learnt early that family gatherings came with responsibilities beyond eating, playing and waiting for the adults to finish talking.
Until next time, keep your kasi close, your memories alive and your stories coming. This is Vinch, signing out from the Kasi Chronicles.
