Johannesburg - Modernisation is inevitable, in whatever space, time or norm.
We are drawn to new technology. As a result, culture, like everything else, will morph.
We live in a generation where we clad in the garments of our people once a year, give or take a wedding here and a funeral there. But this is okay too. We have learned that, apparently, wearing your traditional attire willy-nilly is an offence – hence us celebrating our heritage has become an act of conformity.
We conform as we shine in our colours. How they dangle from our garments on our bodies. How they flare when sun rays bounce on them; it is no different to leaves dancing in the wind, and dewdrops glide off of them in a silhouette of a sunrise on a spring morning.
We conform in how our beads work their way around our printed fabrics.
It is in the cloth and how they lace themselves around our necks, our wrists and our ankles. And how they dangle when our feet grace the ground in movement, in dance. It is an art how we walk like there is gold beneath our feet. We wrap ourselves in cow skins, we have nothing to hide.
We conform while our enchanting dresses flare out into a huge train. Perhaps it is that coal train that brought us to Johannesburg. The one that took our grandfathers away from us, but put food on the table. The train we loved and hated.
But even then, we knew modernisation was inevitable.
We saw it in how the Seanamarena of the Basotho was used as forcefield shields in Wakanda.
We conform when we ululate. We conform with the whistles that we blow, while dust tickles our ankles in unison; while our hand-loomed cloths swing to the rhythm of our bodies as we stomp and sway in synchronicity, in a chant, in a mantra, on Instagram or Tiktok.
What granger stage to show off our beauty?
Our homes are not worthy. There is too much darkness there. We drape ourselves in these traditional colours when we go out there. Even if it’s once a year. If Santa Clause can do it, so can future ancestors.
I have learned that culture as heritage can be tricky. On one hand, it is a core of identity and the way of your people. On the other, we inherently know that everything changes, but no one tells us when culture does.
Therefore, we are the change of our cultures. Our languages will only be spoken as much as we speak them, written as much as we write them. Wronged if we don’t.
If the garments of our people only see light once every twelve moons, let that be a culture.
Let that be what the moon anticipates, illuminating our traditional garb in the dark before the sun rises on a spring morning, where leaves dance in the wind and dewdrops glide off of them in a silhouette of this sunrise.