My First Time: Not Yet Uhuru

For the first six years of my life, my family was very close knit, and made up of very few people. Well, compared to a lot of people, I guess my family was still very big. It was made of my parents, three siblings, my mother's four siblings, three of my cousins and two of my father's siblings. There were names that floated around during conversations about abuti such and such in exile or ausi mang mang ko Zambia but it never really registered what these people were doing in exile. I thought exile was a country and these people that my family kept referring to were living amazing lives and didn't have to worry about hippos, stay aways and such on a daily basis. I thought "the struggle" was in South Africa. In Soweto. Not in Pietersburg, because my coloured family lived the life there: nice houses that were made up of more than three rooms and bathrooms in the house and nice schools. And they never seemed to be concerned about stay aways, staying out of the way of marching IFP mobs, wondering where missing family and friends are, or any of that stuff that seemed to form my environment back home in Soweto.

1991 arrived. Mandela had been released and freedom was on the horizon. Lots of MK soldiers that we never thought we would ever see again were beginning to return home, and we sensed hope in the adults' voices when eavesdropping on their conversations.
I remember the first time I heard Letta Mbulu's Not Yet Uhuru. My mother's eldest sister- whose name was just a figment of conversation between family members and never really a real part of our family- had finally arrived. She who they called Sesi. They didn't even call her by her real name. I couldn't understand why until I finally met her. She pulled everyone together, and spontaneously, there was a huge party right there in the yard. Struggle songs could be heard from the corners as neighbours came out to greet and party with the returning soldiers and people who had snuck out of the country decades earlier. This was the moment of the formation of my family as I know it now.



This was my first time. The drums combined Mme Letta's powerful commanding voice implored you to listen to her message. Not Yet Uhuru. Immediately, perhaps because I had become a product of my environment, I knew exactly what the song meant. That freedom will never be here until it is accessible to everyone in every corner in all of its manifestations. But, we stlil celebreated. We celebreated because we were alive, that we were together, that we had all found our way back to each other again. That our family had been reunited. Surely, better days were to come.

Tonight, driving through the leafy yet badly potholed streets of Bryanston en route to one of the poshest surburbs of Johannesburg- the wealthiest African city, almost eerily, the disk changer switched to Letta's CD. Of course I pumped up the volume and sang along. Four times. Then I found ened up in the middle of a conversation with myself about what it is that Africa needs in order to reach its full potential. This is a conversation I often have with myself, and it often leaves me back at square one. Without political will, meaningful public participation in governance and lawmaking, solid economic-educational-health policies, we are done for. We will never rise in the way that we can.

Phew. This is a long post. And it's late. It shall continue. Not Yet Uhuru.