Sigh.

I started writing this blog with a mediocre goal of posting weekly. With 169 hours per week, finding a couple to write a few words about somebody I like hardly seemed ambitious.

Ummm, oops.

In the past 6 weeks I have traveled on 15 airplanes to 7 cities in 5 countries, with a 1 year old child. 3 weeks ago I started an exciting new job and began transitioning out of old work. I have also conducted several riveting interviews for the big project I am working on and tried to do my part to help organize the 7th Annual SHLF Run. Throw in my most minimal duties as a  wife, mother, sister, daughter and friend as well as a semi-regular trot around the neighbourhood and about the only thing I’m doing remarkably well is spreading myself thin.

I’ve always had a talent for gathering and keeping momentum.  I like to convince myself it has, and will, allow me to lead a rich life; at least I’m not boring.

Truth is, as exciting as life can be when you stuff it full, it is actually uninspiring and rather selfish. Let this be an honest lesson to all those who may be tempted think otherwise – when something’s gotta give, it’s rarely the one you bargained for.

For many years, I have relied on the goodwill of friends to make my way around the world. For a while I think I pulled it off nicely – All I needed was something semi-soft to lay my head on, I was a sure thing for a good time and a late night soul search and more often than not had my ‘ish together to leave a token of thanks. Now, I need your whole bedroom, babysitting services, goat’s milk in the fridge and leave a trail of dirty diapers instead of a gift. Seriously, I’m super charming. Can I come over?

The good news is my life during  this blogging hiatus has been stuffed full of completely phenomenal ordinary people and I have some good ones up my sleeve. They’re right under the pile of blank thank you cards that are under the 40 page research report due Friday and above the pile of sweet potatoes my daughter just threw on the floor. (I finally understand the allure of twitter and a 140 character blog).

In the meantime, I will fill otherwise dead space with photos. Shit, it got 500 million people to join Facebook, it oughtta work here.

I know, I’m big time. Ok fine, I saw him for 15 minutes when he visited my (old) job (that I am struggling to let go of) and this photo captures the tail end of the 3 seconds I had his attention for.

Ok, this really was as cool as it looks – Either you like bacon or you’re wrong, eh?

A picture of Khaya, 12 months (left) playing with Thea, 7 months (right) as drawn by Thea’s big sis Olivia, 7. Her attention to detail is actually inspiring

What they actually look like.

3 of my favourite ladies in paradise: Mom and sister watching 8 month pregnant Tove make the most of summer days. “No regrets”

Dinner in paradise – my parent’s house, 9pm, still light.

Lil K helping Big K with another ridiculous feast, with a view and company to boot.

G-Ma in action

Big Bentley finally met his match

Straight Thuggin at the Berlin Wall. In actual fact I forgot to wash my hair and went to a super posh fashion show nonetheless. With a baby.

Our love separated by the Berlin Wall. I made her do it.

Diva Tour 2013, Berlin. After several days of fun, we realized we hadn’t taken a group shot.  Train station about to leave. Fail.  

Visiting godparents and granny in London.

Jailbreak. Causing trouble with my cousin Kuena, back in the hood (Jozi) after spending her whole life to date in Amsterdam. Welcome home Crocodile.

Home.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear – John 4:18

July 5, again.

For the 6th year in a row on this date, I found myself awake at 5am. I just travelled with a 1 year old from South Africa to Berlin to Vancouver, so it could well just be jet lag. Last year, it could have been yet another sleepless night with a 1 week old. But, somehow, for 6 years running, I have been wide awake, alone, staring at the clock at the exact time my big brother took his last breath on July 5, 2007.

From a young age I knew intuitively that time was a gift. I clearly remember thinking it wasn’t fair that Strachan, the eldest, had been given more of it than Blythe, the youngest. Since everything in the world had to be fair, it could only be that we go out in the same order we come in. Figuring out that I had 2 Grandmas but only 1 Grandpa because my Mom’s dad had died young unravelled me. Not only were we not guaranteed our equal share of time, we may not even grow old. That is messed up.

We lost Strachan in a stupid and illogical way at a ruthless and ridiculous time. He was a 30 year old doctor with a Master’s degree in cancer research. He was in great shape, would not even eat french fries and was the only person I know that never tried smoking. He was living his dream of becoming a doctor after 10 years of studying, in love with a dazzling, formidable woman and working his ass off day and night. When he lost 20 pounds in 3 months, looked like someone had punched him in the eyes and woke up every morning drenched in sweat we chalked it up to the rigour of kicking ass and taking names. Travelling around the country doing internships in a highly competitive field was hard work; he was up for it. Only when he coughed up blood did he relent, get an x-ray (that he read himself) and find a football-sized tumour in his chest. 21 months later that stupid, unyielding, piece of shit tumour won the war.

Ugliest school girl I’ve ever seen

I count myself as either lucky or wise for never seeking reason for it all. I have not looked to the skies and asked God why or tried to find an underlying basis. It simply ain’t there. I have lived and seen enough to understand that God’s justice is not done here on Earth. If it was, we could never be so inexplicably fortunate in so many ways. I have no clue why God chose Strachan and our family to walk this journey and I am not about to ask. Acceptance has allowed me to heal and move onward to a full life, but it sure does not make me miss him any less.

Siblings are your true soul mates. I love my husband deeply, have amazing friends, incredible parents and family and a daughter that turns me inside out. But your siblings are with you your entire life. That is a remarkable fact. In a life well lived, you only have your parents or your children for part of it, friends come and go and getting to know your partner should involve work.  Your siblings, on the other hand, are a part of you before you even know what that means.  Like toes or arms, they’re just there; a part you can’t imagine living without. You share everything – space, time, values, an understanding of love.

My brothers and sister are very different people with distinct personalities and diverse lives. But when it comes to the important stuff, we are mirrors. I know how they feel when they see something beautiful, experience love fully, receive exciting news or get scared, because they are my reflections. I can feel pride where Strachan would have felt it, know where bad news would have hit him in the gut and experience how he would have loved his children because it is exactly how I love mine.

I used to fear what it would mean to move on or heal. I know now that it is not difficult to keep Strachan alive within me. When he passed, part of him moved into me. I love him with the exact intensity I would if he were sitting right here. Should I live for 50 more years, I will still see his face, hear his voice, feel his laugh precisely how they were. That part will never change. A piece of my living, beating heart is carved out for my brother until we meet again.

But six years later I cannot deny there is a space between. Strachan lives on, but his story stands still. As much as I carry him with me through motherhood, to my new job and into my new house; we never get to experience his. I miss him as an Uncle for my children, but nearly as much as I miss him as a father to his own. 

I see this look on Khaya’s face daily

As I have learned to do everyday, I celebrate that we got him for 30 great years, that my life will forever be shaped by his and that I can actually see traces of him in my daughter. But today I am so deeply sorry that I don’t get to write this blog about a new, funny, terrifying or boastful story that celebrates, laughs or cringes at Strachan. He doesn’t get to love or hurt, be smart, funny or annoying ever again. We will never get to see new photos or hear new voicemails.  He will never get to see himself looking back up at him through the eyes of his kids and love them so much that he loses his breath.

So I guess, on July 5, just for a day, time also stands still for me.

Strachan Hartley, July 5, 2007. Forever still. Forever missed. Forever loved.

Halloween in my old ski suits.

With cousin Camille

No clue where we got the horse

“And if you like fish and grits and all that pimp shit, everybody let me hear you say oh yea yer” – Outkast

Name: Rito Hlungwani
Age: 30
Hometown: Cape Town by way of Giyani
Occupation: Meat Smoker, Quantity Surveyor and Rugby Coach
Hobbies: mpuluto, makwaya and walking his pet dog

The Shanganaator. Something tells me that this blog will be lorded over my head for years to come. You see, a household can only handle one alpha; Rito and I have been battling for position since we met. By writing this, I admit I revere the guy.  He will inevitably take it to mean submission and try to stake new territory. Ah well, I was bound to lose eventually.

This is normal, right?

Rito carries around a coffee mug that reads “Teamwork – a lot of people doing things my way”.  Recently, he over-estimated his athletic prowess (ie. under-estimated his oldman-ness), dusted off his rugby boots and played in a full tackle beer league game that left him crippled. In less than 80 minutes he both dislocated his shoulder and got a hematoma in his knee.  And his team lost. That evening, instead of going out, we played a sympathy board game in his living room. Neither sling nor crutch could stop him from commandeering the game. No, he shall overcome!  With knee raised and one functional arm, he held tightly to both the deck and his own card. Rather than give up control, he leaned awkwardly and painfully across himself and others every 30-odd seconds until the game was up.  Now that’s commitment.

Rito was my husband’s first love. They lived together for 4 years before I showed up and wrecked home. To ease shock for them both, we brought him along for the first 6 months before releasing him into the big bad world. He was the best man and MC at our wedding, is executor of our will, uncle to our daughter and, by all standards, a “brother from another mother”.

World Cup 2010. Without speaking a word of Spanish, became head Spain cheerleader

Rito is smart, determined and upwardly mobile. An engineer by training, he works full-time as a quantity surveyor. On the side, he is an aspiring coach with big ambitions and just custom-made an industrial sized meat smoker as his first entrepreneurial venture. He played professional ruby for a decade and a couple of years ago became the first ever black head coach at the oldest rugby club in South Africa. He is friendly, generous and loves to laugh. At a lanky 6 foot 5 and with a booming voice, he commands more presence than anyone I have ever met. Above all, he is the most principled person I know.

I once got stuck in a car with him on a road trip. He spent it telling me his family history.

Xcibelani – the reason old Shangaan men end up in wheelchairs

A purebred through and through, both his parents and grandparents hail from the Limpopo Province, cradle of the Shangaan people.  Under the apartheid government, black people were forced to live in Bantustans – independent homelands within the borders of South Africa. Each of the 9 ‘official’ black ethnicities was designated a region. When needed by the ‘real’ South Africa, men were allowed to seek work in the mines or cities. The politics of the Bantustans were horrific – puppet leaders propped up by the apartheid government. Additionally, Bantu education, the system that trained blacks instead of educating them, helped ensure progress was slow or non-existent. Despite this, Gazankulu, the Shangaan homeland, prioritized education and managed to establish a sophisticated system.

With my Dad

For fifty years, Rito’s father George was an educator, one of the few professions available to black men. Teaching in a small village outside the thriving metropolis of Giyani, he met his wife-to-be Engy, the daughter of a World War II Prisoner of War. Conscripted to the Native Military Corps and shipped to Europe to provide labour for the white troops, his Infantry Brigade was captured by the Germans and handed over to an Italian POW camp. By the time he returned to Gazankulu years later, all of his children had passed away.  He and his wife started anew and had 4 more kids.

(Yes I just told a jaw-dropping story in a casual matter-of-fact paragraph. As did Rito on that road trip, over Naija music and a greasy gas station pie.)

Soon after George and Engy were married, he lost both his parents.  Still in his twenties, he became the primary caretaker for his 5 younger siblings, one of whom was still a toddler. Over the the next 40 years, George fulfilled a promise to his own father to educate his entire family. He became a school Principal, sent Engy to teacher’s college, his 5 siblings and all 4 of his children to Universities.  It took decades and a lot of sacrifices, but from a 2-roomed house in a tiny Limpopo Village, one man had the patience and focus to raise two full generations of engineers, scientists, IT consultants, business executives and entrepreneurs.  Today, including their children’s children, over 30 people live empowered, self-determined, quality lives their grandparents could only dream of.  When his youngest daughter graduated as a phyiscal therapist, he retired and bought a Benz.

F*#k me. That’s a legacy if ever I have heard one.

I dream of having Rito’s vision, righteousness and composure under pressure. As a brand new employee he once told his angry CEO to please leave until he had calmed down. He refused to speak to someone using an angry tone of voice! When he told me his family’s history, the pieces started to come together.

I lose patience waiting in line at the grocery store and panic if I miss a flight connection. I get stuck in one moment after another and am uncertain that “the bigger picture” even exists. I get frustrated at both Rito and my husband when they promise “things will come right” and launch into a tirade of evidence to the contrary. Shitty frequently wins over righteous, and justice, if ever it may rule, it sure ain’t here.  But patience and integrity, by their very definitions, are uncompromising. They cannot promise rewards, but they always make us better people.

Next month, Rito becomes a Dad and Khaya gets a cousin. As much as I would like to download these lessons from him in one fell swoop, I do consider myself lucky to be able to absorb them as learned by our next generation.

Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil

“If Pavlov tested his cat he would have failed.” — Patrick H.T. Doyle

I want to start this entry with a big thank you to all who have provided such wonderful feedback. I am doing my best to put awkward away and accept it with grace. It still feels indulgent! That said, writing in a public space has been a big and personal step. The positive response has been thoroughly affirming and is actively pushing me toward bigger goals. So thank you, sincerely.

One such comment came from a friend of a friend who shared Ordinary Ubuntu with her network under the description “don’t be fooled by the title, nothing about this woman or this blog is ordinary”.

I reject it. Politely of course.

Again, I am truly flattered. But proudly ordinary. In case it needs to be spelled out, the premise for this blog is that we put all together way too much stock in ‘important’ people and underestimate ourselves and our ability to influence. Ordinary people are in fact the most extraordinary.

In a separate conversation last week, another friend Anna said, almost bashfully, “you really know a lot of interesting people.”

Sam casually swimming in her bikini with a whale. Average day, really.

I was referring her to Sam and Rob, two members of our extended family who live nearby. She is one of the world’s foremost shark experts, he is a ship captain, conservationist and adventurer. They moved to St Francis 2 years ago to run a sustainable seas eco-center after spending 20 building a scuba school on the Mozambique border.  They first had to live on a Zulu chief’s land to gain permission to purchase and develop.  Their two barefoot children have featured in several National Geographic films. Both were diving and and playing with sharks by age 5. By 11, son Luke was the village snake expert and had a collection of over 20 highly poisonous species in the garage. An afternoon on their boat invariably includes some of the best stories you will ever hear.

They sure are interesting. But guess what Anna, so are you.

Yep, you’re interesting.

You recently moved your whole family to South Africa from New Zealand after losing your home in an earthquake. Your eldest daughter survived it alone in  kindergarten. You opted to use adversity to reassess your priorities, let go of material comforts and choose courage instead. Your husband shut down a successful law practice to ‘Carpe Diem’ and pursue his dream of coaching rugby at the highest level. You have a sweet, gregarious 7 year old, devilishly handsome and clever 5 year old and hilarious 3 year old that tries to stick tampons in his ears. You are unpretentious, genuine and generous and have adjusted to life in a new country with beaming smiles.

The average time spent on a website is 15 seconds

Even if you have them, accolades do not make you interesting. Nor does a wikipedia page. Everybody knows at least a few miserable douchebags with impressive resumes. Ordinary people have insecurities and chubby parts. We make tons of mistakes, give in to fear and wish for things we don’t have. Finding others who share these struggles and encourage us to live funnier, smarter, better; that’s the good stuff.

One of my girl crushes is on a friend I grew up with. Kia and I met in Grade 3 French immersion. I was banned from her home soon thereafter for allegedly terrorizing a birthday party and breaking household items. In high school, I held steady to said reputation by drinking wine coolers in their hot tub and subsequently barfing them back out in the front yard.

Later still, I was there when Kia met her future husband Greig. I would love to say I introduced them, instead I told her he was gay.

For a couple of summers, I worked with Greig at a coffee shop in Vancouver with mostly gay clientele. He’s hot, so most the customers and staff – of all genders and orientations – had crushes on him. Including the repair man, Randy, who discernibly waited until Greig was on shift before fixing anything. He then spent the whole time convincing everyone within ear shot that Greig was gay and, surely, he stood a chance. I liked both of them and it was all the same to me, so I went with it.

When Kia asked that fateful night at Stone Temple, wink wink nudge nudge, if I knew Greig, I answered smoothly, “He’s definitely great; too bad for you he’s gay”.

Thirteen years and three kids later, they celebrate their 9^th wedding anniversary this summer.

In a pumpkin patch to boot

She oozes energy, happiness and positivity. I enjoy each of her updates and smile at all of her pictures. She’s gorgeous, he’s gorgeous and their kids are gorgeous. They genuinely enjoy each other and their time. They do arts and crafts, grow their own vegetables, go on family hikes and make their own ice rink in the backyard during winter.

2012 reunion. Those men are brave.

In many ways,we are opposites. She has never left Vancouver, went to community college and married a guy from the same high school. She is a stay-at-home Mom with a photography business on the side. He is a plumber. She has kept many of the same friends her whole life, lives within shouting distance of both sets of grandparents and all aunts and uncles. They vacation locally and could probably count the number of times they have left Canada on their hands. I have often used her as a benchmark in my own pursuit of happiness and purpose – one of the most interesting and content people I know has never left our backyard.

When I said this to her in 2012 she shrugged it off, “Interesting, no. But happy, definitely happy.”

Rubbish.

My father told me a long time ago that the only way to leave a true legacy is with the people close to you.

That Kia had the grace to come to my brother’s funeral after years without seeing me matters, a lot. That she regularly reminds happiness a choice and not an exotic destination simply by the way she lives, makes her super interesting. Yet completely ordinary –  I choose it any day.

On Oscar and the link between Nike and narcissism.
Kidding! I have been asked several times about my thoughts on Oscar Pistorius – I have none. Besides country code, I share a whole lot of nothing with the guy and have zero insight on what the f*#ck happened in that house.

That this bizarre tragedy followed on the heels of the brutal rape and murder of 17 year old Anene Booysen has cracked opened the dialogue on gender based violence in South Africa. According to the Medical Research Council, 27% of men recently surveyed admitted to have raped in their lifetime. The conversation is necessary. So far it ranges from insightful to asinine and even despicable. Despite myself, I still read comment sections on on-line newspapers. I must want an ulcer.

The remedy far outstrips me and this blog. For what it is worth, I unequivocally believe meaningful change requires good men raising good boys. So I’m focusing this blog on a good man.

I consider myself lucky to be involved with the Ubuntu Education Fund, a community-based organization that transforms the lives of vulnerable children. They don’t focus on how many children they reach, but how deeply they reach each child. Their outstanding staff and inspiring youth face the litany of issues that come part and parcel with living in the slums of the most impoverished province in the country. You want to learn about the depths of gender-based violence? Walk a day in their shoes.

Vice President Gcobani Zonke, husband to Nomsa and father of 3, is a school teacher by training. He has been involved with Ubuntu since inception in 1999. Like most NGO leaders, he wears many hats – fundraiser, strategist, advocate, mentor, teacher, diaper-changer…. the list goes on. He has a remarkable ability to relate to people.  Old or young, rich or poor, local or foreign he puts people at ease and makes them know he cares.

We called on him when Khaya got a birth certificate that read Khanya. Home Affairs is a nightmare at the best of times and we needed to get to Canada for a wedding.  I sat in line, appealed, ranted, raved and swore on the life of the heifer that screwed up in the first place. It would take 8 weeks and cost money. Gcobani stepped in at 8am on a Saturday morning. By 9am, the manager had apologized to our faces and promised to fix it by Monday, for free. It’s not that he knew someone on the inside, he just respectfully but firmly solved the problem. We learned a lot that morning.

This week, I was walking past his office. He stepped out to exchange niceties as per Xhosa custom. Family well, rugby good, baby growing, kids studying…

“By the way, what is Mpho’s clan name?”

Clan names are best described as family names above surnames. Xhosa people use them to trace their history back to a specific male ancestor. Mentioning someone’s clan name is the highest form of respect and it is considered polite to enquire someone’s clan name.

“Qhinebe”, I replied, a little bit proud of how my click came off.

“You are joking.” he leaned over to brace himself on the railing.

“Nope” I said with a smile, not clear what the joke was. “We call his Gran MaQhinebe.”

A single tear tumbled down his cheek.

“Everyone in Lusikisiki calls her MaQhinebe” I repeated to hide my confusion. Maybe he had an allergy?

Another tear streamed down the opposite cheek. He turned his back, walked into his office and grabbed a tissue.

I got awkward. Was I supposed to follow? What just happened? Perhaps he had a sinus infection?

“Come, sit.” His lip trembled.  This was not an allergy.

“I owe my life to the Qhinebes. Your husband belongs to a great clan.”

In 1900, his father was born in Benoni, near Johannesburg. The third born son, both older brothers died at age 3. To break the curse, his parents sent him to live with their distant cousin. He was raised far away in the rolling hills of the Transkei as the eldest of 4 Zonke sons. His father, a Qhinebe, loved him as his own. In their thirties, he sat the brothers down and said it was time to move on. He had accumulated many cows and it was their turn to create wealth. They dispersed throughout the province and each went on to live fruitful lives. Before he left, father Zonke told him he was not his biological son.

Soon thereafter, he set out for Benoni with his own infant son. They knew only that they were looking for the Mbalula family. After a short search, a door opened and he thought he was looking into a mirror. His father’s face. In that moment, his family doubled.

I spent a mesmerizing hour listening to the details of his story. His father died in 1999 at 99. He is the youngest of 8 children and has tried in earnest to recover both families’ history. Typical for that era – there are many gaps. South Africa has been shaped by internal migration more than any other country. Under colonialism and apartheid, families were pulled apart. Wives and children were forced to stay in black homelands while men were imported to work in the cities and mines. He has spent years combing the Transkei for information on the Mbalulas, only to come up empty.

When a grown man spontaneously breaks into tears, you pay attention. He repeated, with conviction, that his grandfather had no children when he adopted his father and this is reflective of the quality of Qhinebes. That his story matches my late mother-in-law’s identically sends shivers down my spine. I have already told my version of Gran’s story here; she became a mother when she picked Noxolo off her doorstep.

“There was something extra pulling me to go to Home Affairs that morning. Khaya is my niece.”

Boys need men

Two generations ago, Qhinebes in unrelated circumstance took in infants expecting nothing in return. Proof that grace endures, 113 years later their legacies live on in ways that far outstrip their intentions.  In a strange but true fact – neither of us would be here without them.

South Africa has a long history of great men doing great things. The very best know where they come from and espouse responsibility, integrity and courage. The world needs more of them. I’m happy to know my daughter belongs to a clan of the very best.