community reflections

The Eastern Cape village I call home is Hamburg, or eMthonjeni, which is also my father’s birthplace. I grew up with my parents, grandparents, aunts, seven siblings and twin cousins. After a hard day’s work hoeing weeds between the rows of maize in our garden, I loved to chat with my grandmother by the cattle kraal, while she plaited my hair in the cooling sun of a late summer afternoon. I learned from uMamZangwa (we called her by this name as she was of the amaZangwa clan) that nothing in nature happens randomly—even a cock crowing in the middle of the doorway is a sure sign that a visitor is coming!

As you can tell, my people read nature like a book. In my village, as in many other rural villages across Africa, our lives are closely entwined with the natural world that surrounds us—both physically and spiritually. In Hamburg, we feel especially connected with the ocean and the Keiskamma River (iXesi), which flows right past my village and into the sea just beyond the dunes. I grew up picking mussels, clams, oysters, and many other unsightly creatures that tasted so good when cooked, even if we had no salt.

But the ocean has deep spiritual meaning for us too.

Even before the white missionaries arrived in the Eastern Cape and introduced us to the Christian God of the Bible, we as Africans already acknowledged and revered a supreme being.[1] We were worshippers in our own unique way. We believed in a mighty Creator, similar to the Christian God, called uMdali (The Creator), uSomandla (The Almighty), uMvelingqangi (The One Who Was There Before), or even uQamatha (His Place Is Beyond the Clouds). As children, we were never allowed to point a finger up to the sky as it was seen as disrespectful to uMdali. Instead, we had to use a fist when pointing upwards.

The ocean, which mirrors the sky, is a most sacred place, honoured and loved by my people. These waters not only provide food for the community; the sea with its roaring waters is a revered realm where the mighty spirits of the ancestors reside, ready to intercede with uMdali on our behalf. It is even called ‘the great home’: umzi omkhulu. As a sign of respect, we don’t just jump into the sea; we talk to the waters first. For example, amawele (twins, born together) and even imfusi yamawele (the one born after the twins) are not supposed to go to the sea often. On the rare occasions that they do, they have to announce their presence and their intentions as they arrive and, before they swim, have to throw strands of hair, or sometimes beads, coins or buttons, into the water. It is believed that, if this is not done, the tide will turn immediately. You may have arrived to find a calm sea and slow, gentle waves but in no time at all the water could rush up the shore. I am not a twin but, as I have mentioned, there were twins in my family. I heard my grandmother address and caution my cousins several times about what they should do before getting into the water.

This deep respect for the ocean can be seen in many of the artworks of the Keiskamma Art Project, which is based in my village. I worked with the Project as an embroiderer for a short time before I was sponsored by Keiskamma Trust to study journalism. In 2022 a group of Keiskamma artists made a beautiful circular tapestry called Ulwandle Lwethu Olungcwele (Our Sacred Ocean). It was one of the key artworks in a group exhibition called Our Ocean Is Sacred: You Can’t Mine Heaven, at the Zero Eitz Project Space in Cape Town, organised in response to Shell’s proposed oil and gas exploration off the Eastern Cape’s Wild Coast. It was a privilege to visit this exhibition in August 2022.[2] It showed how multinational mining companies have disregarded African spirituality and the views of coastal communities by seeking to profit from oil and gas prospecting in our oceans. The Keiskamma artwork came from a storytelling workshop in Hamburg where old and young in the community spoke of their memories of the ocean and what it means to them. You can tell the artists’ love and respect for the ocean from the care they have taken to make this very detailed, colourful, circular tapestry. Its circular shape reflects the cyclical rhythms of nature, like the moon phases and the tides. Imagery of the ghostly figures of the ancestors in the watery blue depths shows the ocean as a place where people come to connect to the wisdom of the ancestors, to pray and to heal. The same reverence for the ocean and understanding of its importance for the spiritual and physical wellbeing of my community can be seen in the sea imagery in other Keiskamma artworks too, such as the Creation Altarpiece and the Keiskamma Altarpiece. Water from the ocean is the community’s medicine, for both the body and the soul: it not only heals the sick but can mend broken hearts and calm troubled minds.

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During periods of drought, when the surrounding land was bone dry and barren, my people would go up to the top of the hill we call Ngongoshe-iNduli kaNgongoshe and pray to uQamatha for rain. There were other historic rain-making community rituals too, when our fields were parched and our crops and livestock were suffering. The loud, rasping cry of the intsikizi, the southern ground hornbill, is seen to bring thunder and lightning and rain.[3] In times of drought the men and older boys in the community would go into the forest for days at a time with their hunting dogs to capture an intsikizi. I can remember my excitement as a child seeing them setting off. They took so many dogs; just one man might have a pack of ten dogs! Eventually they would return with the captured bird, which would be released in the Keiskamma River in a special ceremony. After that the village would hold a special feast to honour the rain-making powers of the intsikizi.

The Keiskamma artists have created a series of tapestries called the Intsikizi Tapestries showing the importance of this ritual. In the first tapestry men and older boys leave home for the hunt. The community’s men and boys who have come of age spend days in dense forest hunting the intsikizi with the help of their prized hunting dogs. It takes many years to train a dog to hunt without killing, and a huntsman’s dog responds to his unique call or whistle. In the second tapestry the countryside is dry and crops are failing. Rural people who have no set, regular income depend for their survival on rain, as it allows them to grow food and look after livestock. The huntsmen, acting for the good of the community, wish to catch a ground hornbill so as to bring rain and ensure a time of plenty. In the third tapestry, the ground hornbill flies across the beautiful Keiskamma River, shown here with all its birds, fish and natural beauty. In the fourth tapestry, the hornbill is surrounded by the hunting dogs and men with sticks. It cannot escape. In the fifth tapestry, the men carry the bird home in preparation for the community ceremony that will hopefully bring rain and end the drought. The hornbill is released unharmed. The words refer to a much-loved song about the intsikizi:

Ingakhal’intsikizi madoda, nal’izulu liya zongoma

(When the hornbill cries, we know the thunderstorms are coming)

Ingakhal’intsikizi madoda, nal’izulu liya zongoma

(When the hornbill cries, we know the thunderstorms are coming)

Elders lament that the younger generation has lost any sense of the bird’s sacredness. In the present time the birds are often captured and killed by hunting dogs. This is seen as a bad omen, likely to bring flash floods and drownings. The southern ground hornbill used to be common in the area around the Keiskamma River, but today sightings are rare. This is why the last of the six tapestries represents the hope and vision of my people living in harmony with nature.

When I was a child in Hamburg, as soon as a storm came everyone had to show respect by sitting down in honour of the great Qamatha, the God who created the deep seas. Every container of water would be covered, and mirrors, shiny pots and anything else made of metal would be covered. Women would put shawls over their shoulders while men took off their hats and everyone, including the children, had to sit down and be quiet to show respect for uQamatha. One was not allowed to show ‘teeth.’ ‘You can’t be laughing when there’s lightning. Hide your teeth,’ my grandmother would warn us, even though that just made us giggle some more.

She instructed us that, if a storm came suddenly and caught you while you were still on your way home, you should not sit under a tree or walk on a straight footpath across open ground. We were also discouraged from running. It was believed that running would warm your blood and therefore attract lightning. We were never encouraged to ask why, and so I never asked.

Sadly, this beloved grandmother on my father’s side passed away in 1991, at the age of 75. According to her, Hamburg was forever a beautiful place. It was more beautiful, she said, than all the other small villages in this region of Peddie, or ‘Ngqushwa’ as we call it in my mother tongue, isiXhosa. Grandmother (who was illiterate) always mispronounced the name ‘Hamburg.’ I noticed, though, that it was not her alone but all the people of her generation who referred to the village as ‘e-Yamboko.’  I think that they wanted to make sure it had the sound of isiXhosa in it. “Kwaku seMthonjeni apha” (This place was known as eMthonjeni), she would say emphatically, recalling the real name of the village in the olden days. “A place of springs of water.” How beautiful the old name is: eMthonjeni. It seems to spring from the earth itself.

I understand why it was named like that. Growing up in Hamburg, I knew some of the springs well, as I had to fetch water in the early mornings before going to school. One had to wake very early, before the sun’s first rays had poked out from the horizon, and rush to the spring, as it was quite a distance to the one with the nice water. Closer to my house was a big river with dark, clear waters, called eMuncwini because of its rather salty, brackish water. And there was a spring near the village, called eWontini because sometimes water from that spring would come up from underground warm. It was best to collect water from the spring further away, which spouted clear, clean, refreshingly cold water, with an earthy taste.

The hole of the spring was not very big. So, if five or so people got there first and filled up their 20-litre buckets, you would have to wait for the water to fill up again. Though I loved to watch the water coming up slowly from underground and filling the hole, time was never on my side because I was always rushing to go to school. As children we were advised not to peep into the hole the water came from. We were also discouraged from going there in the morning, the evening, or at night, unless we really needed to. We were advised to rather fetch water mid-morning or, if that was not possible, in the afternoon. It was believed that going at other times would provoke the ancestors: abantu bomlambo (the ‘people of the river’), sometimes also called izilo zomlambo (the ‘creatures of the river’).

All water is seen as a source of life and sustenance in more than just a literal sense. Just like the ocean, rivers are revered as a sacred place for great spirits. Whether big or small, trickling or fast-flowing, all rivers are sacred in African culture. The source of a river is deemed especially sacred, and so is a river that flows very strongly, like the mighty Keiskamma that flows alongside my village. This is why the Keiskamma River features prominently in the brightly-coloured Keiskamma Altarpiece. The Biko Tapestry also has the river running through it, and shows the importance of the Keiskamma River in my community.

As children, we were not encouraged to swim. If we insisted, we were cautioned repeatedly not to venture into the river late or early, as this would disturb the great spirits of the river. If for some reason we had to go to the river to get water, we had to make a noise with the water bucket. This was so that the ‘creatures of the river’ who were out of the water, might have time go back in. This was crucial because it was believed that if you caught sight of the creatures of the river, you could not remain normal.

A young girl who lived in a place close to my home, eNkqo-qhaga as that area is called, went to the eMuncwini river with her mother to fetch water early in the morning. Being a child, she happened to run faster than her mother and reached the river’s edge without making any noise beforehand to warn the ‘people of the river’ that she was coming. Unfortunately for her, it is believed that she saw ‘something,’ because her mother heard a big splash and then found her daughter having seizures by the river bank. The distance from the eMuncwini River to the girl’s house was quite far and sadly the child died.

My father told me that, in the olden days, before crossing a river with their herds, young cattle herders needed to shout from afar, ‘Qhwanyaza Mlambo,’ which meant ‘Close your eyes, River.’ By addressing the river, they were referring to the spirits of the river. When they reached the river’s edge, they would appease the ‘crowds of the river’ (izihlwele zomlambo) by throwing a stone or a beaded bracelet or even a coin into the water. Sometimes they would make a paste of mud from the river bank and smear it around their eyes and face, and occasionally also on their legs. Then they would hide or cover their eyes (afihle amehlo) to show respect. If for some reason they failed to do so, it was believed that the results would show quickly. The face might swell, or in an instant an itchy rash would break out on the face or the whole body. In severe cases some might even experience a form of facial paralysis, where their mouths would turn sideways, as in a case of Bell’s Palsy. People would immediately know that that person had crossed the river at the wrong time or might have seen something that they were not supposed to see. Kuthiwe umntu usoliwe means that someone has been found guilty (usoliwe) of disrespecting the crowds of the river. The traditional healer (sangoma or igqirha) would be called to perform a healing ritual for the person experiencing the punishment (ukusolwa).

My cousin Phumeza, one of the twins, went to the river one evening to fetch water so she wouldn’t have to wake up early the next morning. We were shocked to see her swollen face the following day when she woke up. My father didn’t even ask what happened to her; he just said, “Oh, so you went to the river to fetch water very late yesterday, right?” Between sobs of pain, and with her eyes downcast, she nodded in acknowledgment.

Venturing into a river to swim was especially discouraged if one was seen to have a calling to become an igqirha or sangoma. The most revered traditional healers, amagqirha, are those initiated in the river. Because of its spiritual qualities, river water is used, especially by sangomas, as a form of spiritual cleansing and rebirth. Also, when initiates (abakhwetha) reach the end of their initiation period and come out of the bush, they are cleansed in a river before being allowed back home.

Keiskamma artist Nozeti Makubalo says:

The river is … very important to our spirituality because our ancestors are in the river … We go into the river and speak to our ancestors. We give gifts to the river ancestors like tobacco, beer, matches and white beads of the sangoma. Sometimes sangomas go under the water of the river to become sangoma—to talk with the ancestors.[4]

And fellow-artist Veronica Betani says:

When somebody is going to be a sangoma [healer] and needs to go to the river, people will say ‘Don’t go to any river but to the Keiskamma. This is a healing river. My mum’s sister was a sangoma and she went to another sangoma to be healed. That sangoma said to her that you can’t be healed until you put your feet in the water of the Keiskamma River.[5]

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Traditional healers are very important in my village, as they have ancient knowledge of the medicinal properties of certain trees and herbs essential to my people's physical and spiritual wellness. In the Keiskamma artists’ Creation Altarpiece, there are photographs of two revered Hamburg traditional healers, Mama Noshumi Rubushe and Tata Gqwaka. The central panel shows a sacred fig tree (umthombe) growing over the ruins of a colonial building. Umthombe is not only medicinal but protective, as it grows big and strong. It can protect the homestead from winds and provide shade in the heat of the day. Other sacred and medicinal trees in our region are the umsintsi (coast coral tree / erythrina), umnga (acacia), umgqange (ironwood) and isiphingo (cat-thorn), a thorny tree with sweet, edible black berries. The Keiskamma artwork South African Trees in Time, showing many different indigenous species, is a tribute to these important trees in my culture.

There is also a tree, the wood from which should never come inside one’s premises, unless there are twins born in the family. This tree is called umhlontlo (valleybush euphorbia). The tree is sometimes known as umthi wamawele (the tree for twins). When I was growing up in Hamburg, we were told never to bring wood from this tree home, even if it was dry. It was believed that umhlontlo branches also could not make strong fires. Also, I think the milky sap can cause skin irritation and even blindness. But as children we were not allowed to ask why.

The Intsikizi Tapestries also honour our indigenous knowledge systems, showing many indigenous medicinal plants used by traditional healers, such as impepho (African incense), inongwe (African potato), ikhala (aloe) and others with powerful pharmacological and spiritual properties.  For example, impepho has special cultural value. When you burn it the tokoloshe and bad spirits will not come to your house, it is believed. We also use it when we speak to our ancestors. And in the morning, when you smell that lovely, sweet, fresh air, it is called impepho. On the medicinal side, people suffering from diabetes boil impepho and mix it with honey, then drink it. It is good for arthritis too. For arthritis we use ikhala, inongwe and itolofiya (prickly pear) leaves boiled in water. Itolofiya is better than inongwe because it has a nice smell and you can eat the fruit itself as well. However, some say you shouldn’t eat too much because it will give you diarrhea and bloating. Ikhala, inongwe and itolofiya are also good for treating skin conditions as they are naturally anti-bacterial and anti-inflammatory.

My neighbour uMamNtande (her clan name), who is a well-known igqirha in Hamburg now in her eighties, introduced me to irhawurhawu, which means stinging nettle in English. She said it was very good for young women who have just given birth, or for girls with pre-menstrual syndrome. When I researched the herb years later, I could not believe what I found out. She was absolutely right, even without a degree in plant science. Since that day I have always kept a jar of stinging nettle herbs tucked between my other spices.

Traditional healers also understand the sacred significance of particular creatures. Particular wild and domestic animals have a close spiritual connection to the ancestors. Even dogs, cats and chickens represent something of importance in African spirituality. In each and every household there is an animal that is regarded as a ‘totem’ of some kind, and it is either revered or loathed. Therefore, when people see a certain bird, animal or even an insect they will immediately assume something good or bad is about to happen. Each ‘creature’ is seen to carry a message from the ancestors or from the evil forces, known as amagqwirha (witches). Either we leave time to tell or we can rush off to an igqirha who can consult the ancestors on our behalf.

If you look closely at the Intsikizi Tapestries, you’ll notice many different bird species besides the southern ground hornbill: untloyiya (yellow-billed kite), iIhobo-hobo (Cape weaver), ihobe (Cape turtle dove), ichelekwane (laughing dove), inkonjane (swallows), umcelu (wagtail), among many others. All are important and have a special spiritual connection to us. Some birds bring luck, hope and healing. If they come early, before sunrise, you will hear them singing and that means a good thing is coming to that family. In the Keiskamma Tapestry, we see an abundance of these birds singing from the banks of the Keiskamma River, which is teeming with fish.

Then there are birds of bad omen. The isikhova (Cape eagle owl), ukhozi ( black eagle) or ingqanga (bataleur) all are regarded as birds of evil portent.[6] In fact, nocturnal birds like owls are always associated with evil and witchcraft. I remember another nocturnal bird that my father hated so much, he would shout insults at it whenever it arrived at sunset to pick earthworms from the newly cultivated soil in our garden. The bird is called ingqangqolo (the spotted thick-knee or spotted dikkop).

A toad or a frog is also regarded as a bad omen, believed to be a carrier of evil, sent by wizards or witches. You might see the man of the house shouting curses to the unwelcome visitor and even throwing sea salt at it if it tries to run away before it gets killed. Nocturnal animals are also seen to be ominous. On the other hand, bees are a good sign; they are referred to as ‘great people.’ If a swarm of bees gathers in your house or yard, perhaps in the kraal, that is auspicious. Soon you will see the elders of the family gathering by the kraal, discussing when a traditional healer should be consulted and which it should be. After a week, during which the traditional healer has given the family guidance, a feast is made on behalf of the ‘great people.’ I am reminded of a story about my aunt, udabawo uLuleka, who has been a vendor ever since I have known her. One day a bee came into the house and she was beside herself with excitement that she had been visited by a bearer of good news. She warned me not to harm the messenger bee.

In African spirituality, a snake is seen as a bad omen. Unfortunately, this means that snakes are often killed. Strangely enough, in the ooJola clan, a particular non-venomous snake is revered by the clan as a totem of their ancestors and its presence is seen to bring good luck. It is believed that if a member of the clan, or a woman married into the clan, sees the snake, they must show obedience, and give honour to the ‘great person.’ It is not seen as a snake but a ‘great grandfather.’ I know little about this because I am not of that clan but I know that in their clan’s praise names they praise each other by saying: ‘Aah, mzukulwana wenkwakha’ (Hail to you, grandson of the great snake). So, the snake is seen as a form of ‘godly messenger,’ and special rituals are conducted when it makes an appearance. A well-known isiXhosa writer, AC Jordan, wrote a classic tale, Ingqumbo Yeminyanya (The Wrath of the Ancestors) which has been adapted for screen and radio. It is about the consequences of disobeying the snake—‘uMajola,’ as it is known.

One does everything so as not to anger the ancestors. Hence, when having bad luck in life, one will be advised to slaughter a cow or a goat and to hold a feast of gratitude to appease the ancestors. Slaughtering or sacrificing these animals (following a procedure in keeping with the clan’s principles) is also seen to bring the family good luck and longevity. The occasion may also be a way of honouring a visitation by one’s late relative in a dream or another farewell ceremony for a loved relative who has been gone for years.

These events are always joyful and exciting, with traditional singing, dancing and feasting on delicious traditional dishes, carefully prepared by the women in the community. The women adhere to their traditional imibhaco dress code and paint their faces with a face paint of white clay or powdered charcoal mixed with fat, before decorating the face with a beautiful pattern of dots, each pattern having special meaning. The effect is enhanced by adornment in traditional beads of different colours, each colour having a special significance.[7] There are beads for men specifically just as there are for women, young men and young women. An elder can tell from the colours of the beads if someone is wearing a necklace that he is not meant to wear.

Everyone is invited to occasions of this nature, and word spreads quickly. No one is ever chased away. The greater the number of people who attend, the greater the honour; this is an indication that the ceremony has been well-received, not only by the community but also by the ancestors. Everyone looks forward to these ceremonial rituals. They create a sense of ubuntu, a feeling of community with those who have passed on to the ancestral realm, especially to those who still adhere to the ancestral belief in uMvelingqangi: The One Who Was There Before.

Cattle, referred to as the ‘bank of an African man’ (ibhanki yendoda zinkomo), are not only a measure of wealth and status in my community.[8] They also have the greatest spiritual significance for my people and are an important part of worship in Hamburg. This is why cattle imagery features prominently in the Keiskamma artworks. These animals symbolise what Jesus Christ symbolises to Christians: they pave the way to the ancestors, who in turn talk to uQamatha on their relatives’ behalf. You see, when a person dies, it is believed that they become a powerful ancestral spirit, with a stature closer to God. This is why my people don’t say a person has died. Only animals die; people ‘pass on’ to the other realm or status of living. People believe that, on their own, they are not pure enough to talk to uQamatha, and they ask their ancestors to act as an intermediary. Even those among my people who are Christians still believe that it is their ancestors who can plead rightfully to uQamatha. This is why religion should not divide, but unite us. We have so much to learn from each other.

In the end, you see, everything is connected.
The river that runs through you is the river that runs through me.
And we all flow into the ocean to meet our ancestors one day.

[1] The missionaries may have introduced us to the virtues of the Ten Commandments but in fact we already had an African equivalent: our philosophy of ‘ubuntu’, the belief that ‘I am because you are’, and therefore will not hurt you.

[3] It is also seen to portend battle. So, for example, when adolescent boys from neighbouring villages would come to compete in stick-fighting contests in Hamburg, the older boys in my community would sing a song about the intsikizi as a battle cry to build their courage and intimidate their opponents as they approached:

Ingakhal’intsikizi madoda, nal’izulu liya zongoma X2 (When the hornbill cries, we know the thunderstorms are coming)

[4] Nozeti Makubalo, quoted in Brenda Schmahmann, The Keiskamma Art Project: Restoring Hope and Livelihoods, Print Matters Heritage and Keiskamma Trust, 2016, 113.

[5] Veronica Betani, quoted in Brenda Schmahmann, The Keiskamma Art Project: Restoring Hope and Livelihoods, Print Matters Heritage and Keiskamma Trust, 2016, 113.

[6] The writer Marguerite Poland shared her research into the Xhosa naming and classification of birds, which also informed the artists’ work.

[7] For example, white is associated with spiritual purity, red with royalty, yellow with fertility and green with new life. In my culture, patterns and colours in beadwork can be combined to convey particular meanings and messages, referencing a person’s age, gender, marital status, social role and rank in the community.

[8] There is a saying in isiXhosa, ubuhle bendoda zinkomo zayo (The beauty of a man is his many cattle) which means that even if a man is ugly to look at, if he owns many cattle, he will have lots of girls throwing themselves at him!