A place called Home

This is a celebratory piece, and entry to celebrate the place I call home.

When people ask me where I am from, I seemingly always have two answers (in no particular order of precedence): Joburg seems to be the most obvious (since I lived in Soweto from birth until I was ten and then we moved to another part of Joburg. The second answer which I give is Mpumalanga, Bushbuckridge. I must admit I think that it is this answer which I find more fitting to the question, even though I did not grow up there.

Bushbuckridge, in the lush green, mountainous and scenic province of Mpumalanga is where my dad, Jimmy Magondzweni Khoza is from.

As my father’s child, it would logically follow that my genesis too stems from this jewel of a place.

This place is home, and I will proudly declare it and shout it from the rooftops!!

As I write this entry, my mom sister, niece and I are in Bushbuckridge. As we were driving to this cultural heartland, seeing the beautiful greenery, the captivating mountains, the cattle grazing, the odd goat crossing the road, I felt as though as I was experiencing a re-awakening of the deepest parts of my spirit – I felt truly alive.

It’s good to be home. And indeed knowing where one comes from is a key ingredient to truly knowing and understanding oneself, one’s people, and one’s culture. Now I understand why each June school holiday my dad made it a PRIORITY that my sister and I spend two weeks in this place where he spent his formative years!!! From since I can remember until I was about twelve years old and my sister seventeen we spent the June school holidays in the warm sun of Mpumalanga and escaped the cold and unforgiving weather of Gauteng.

Those were the days!!!

I remember the excitement - sheer euphoria that filled my sister and I as we got ready to get into our dad’s car and embark on the six hour journey from Gauteng to Bushbuckridge, Mpumalanga.

I remember the joy – uncontained happiness that seeped through every part of my being as we drove into the homestead ka Kumani, to the welcome of aunts and cousins (and the odd chicken here and there).

I remember playing every single day from sunrise to sunset and only going back home if my younger cousin and I were hungry, and then back to playing again! We would play in the sand, we would play on the grass, we would play in the street. The world was our playground!

I remember the sight of the diamond jewels which would adorn the clear jet black night sky.

I remember the sounds and smells of the farm animals: cows, chickens, goats which share the compound which we call home.

I remember so many things, some of which are probably hidden somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind and heart.                  

It has been over ten years since my sister and I spent our holidays here but being back here even for two days is wonderful.....

I do however miss something as the life which we live is not without its share of heartache…but it is the grace of God that has erased the memory of the painful losses and replaced it with a peace that surpasses all understanding.

I miss my Muhulu- Jane was her name, from whom I derive my name. Muhulu passed on to glory when I was in 6th grade. She was a strong woman! The oldest of my dad’s siblings, who raised them after their parents passed on to glory. Va ka Khoza would not be where they are today had it not been for the sacrifices she made and the effort she put into ensuring that her three younger siblings (my dad being the youngest of them all) were well taken care of.

I miss my cousin sister, Fikile who passed on to glory when I was in the 7th grade. Gone too soon, Gone too soon, Gone too soon.

I think of my cousin brother, Sonto, I think of my cousin Matimba....both also Gone too young and too soon.

But I remain grateful for the family which I still do have.

I am grateful for Aunt Denise and Aunt Rachel (my dad’s older sisters), I am grateful for my cousins and their children etc.

I am grateful that Bushbuckridge is the place which I call home.

I am grateful to Kokwani Nwa’Mhlaba my paternal grandmother, after whom my sister is named) and Kokwani Piet my paternal grandfather. Although they passed on to glory before I was even born, I am grateful that they lived and gave birth to the next generation of Khoza’s. For without them, I would not have been and everything I have described above would not have been.