“Does this bring food to my little table? How many times should I tell villagers here that I no longer want to hear about that name? Do you want my granddaughters and sons who are sweating it out in foreign lands to starve me after getting wind that I am attending useless meetings arranged by the same crazy and clueless fellows who ran everything down and as if that were not enough damage– chased good citizens through violence and hunger? Look at you: unemployed, starving and coming here with: Gogo, there`s a meeting. What! Wake up. You want me to vomit? Get out, out!!!” Granny Masuku`s stick landed hard and severally on an image emblazoned on the front of the visitor`s worn-out shirt.
The visitor was sent packing. For the first time, he asked himself whether over the years he had really benefited from organising and terrorising people or whether he was just being used by the big greedy officials. He felt naked, foolish and embarrassed.
That incident sent the village wagging tongues. Some people said it was because of senility or madness or both. All agreed that whatever it was there was a mantra and a method in it.
Gogo: SiNdebele for grandmother