New Valley lost in translation
lost in translation
Issue 3
Contents
“come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.� - Lucille Clifton, 'won't you celebrate with me?'
a new religion by Mosa Rabannye [@meisie_fleisie]
the mirage camouflages all that his eyes could see and i stand dead in the lonely of his embrace that remind me of the dark winters in the chambers of his soul that smell of nicotine and lust here i learn how to make a sacrifice of myself for a man who will call out his lover's name when he is on top of me a man who will put his tongue in places where it does not belong he will unearth the shrine and realise all the holy that makes me ghost here he learns that i am more than woman that in between my legs lie a deadly weight of secrets that will turn a monster out of me when my loins become aggressive and like an eager disciple he obliges and devours at the sacrifice with a repenting resilience like it is his last supper and refuses to call them out for what they are because man only eats with his eyes even when he unearths a new religion. 2
“There are many forms of exile.” - Akwaeke Amezi
Letter to a former lover from: Nkcubeko [@freetownnoir]
Still from Kelsey Lu's video for 'Shades of Blue' - YouTube
This letter was written [redacted] years back, and recovered toward the end of 2018. Names and dates have been censored to ensure some level of confidentiality. Dear [redacted], I know I should have written this to you earlier. Perhaps I was afraid of what I wanted to say, or I had no idea what I wanted to say. I think I do now. The process of knowing you, and getting to know you, was beautiful. I recall fully being – as a person, as a lover. To be honest, at the time I was not aware what that meant for me, and what that meaning held in relation to you. I recognize that in my time with you I lacked a sense of myself – although you gave me an assuredness (is that what to call it?) of myself, of love. As I sit typing this, I know that you are the first person that I have ever come close to letting know me. You had taken me apart when I had let you, and that was refreshing for me. I tried to be the same for you but I remember feeling you felt an inclination to remove yourself from that feeling – or was it an unreadiness? A refusal? Was I compelling you to an un-understandable modus operandi? Regardless, you let me shower you with affection and care. And I tried my best to, because that was what I had learnt was to love another. In the time that followed the affection and care, I felt a deep neglect between us – coming from me, and, although I think you would refuse to hear this, from you as well. The fractioning and arguing that went on between us was hurtful. At the same time, it felt for me as being near knowing [something] – only a side that I had learnt to differ with. It felt in contrast to our moments of affection and care and stood as an enemy that had to be removed.
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“Technology is not neutral. We're inside what we make, and it's inside of us. We're living in a world of connections - and it matters which ones get made and unmade.” - Donna Haraway I want to talk about loving someone, or being love, or just ‘love’. Were you loving me or were our shared moments love as we had been taught – through moments of care and affection? I don’t believe care and affection can be sufficient for anyone. For me it is only an initiating step, or fragments, within loving someone. I say ‘loving someone’, or ‘being love’, so that I understand ‘love’ as it is: not a mythical, obscured element in livelihood but as something that is precious, definable and adamant; sharing in one’s personal and spiritual growth – enabling that while simultaneously enriching yourself. When we spoke for the last time, I realised that I felt so much pressure to act out ‘love’ as we had been taught that I felt disconnected when I could not. And in those moments, I would want to know what you expected of me. How did you expect for me to act now that I had said that I love you? (And granted that I felt surges of emotion and longing in being ‘in love with you’). I would fall apart in myself without you doing the same. Without you enriching me in being loving, and would descend into a terrible alienation. I was without love despite my circumstances insisting that I was in love.
How did you expect me to act now that I had said I love you?
I refuse to hurt and neglect you as I have done in the past. What I say here is a process of me trying to understand myself, or to make peace of what we felt for each other. This is a hard thing to do because I still feel like I am on trial with you. Regardless, I would have loved to have shared an imbuing manifestation of being loving with you. In the mess of us being in a romantic relationship, however, a true chance for this got lost, and in the horrifying loneliness of the moment we used the little that we had with each other to thrush out the ugliness. That was not love. It could have been the little that family and other influential forces have come to teach us about loving another person. It might have been an anxious need to evacuate the neglect and still have each other. Friday, 10/11/[redacted] (21: 38) My laptop says it’s 9:38pm, although it’s actually 9:28. Merely one of the faulty things in my life, I guess. I’m continuing with this letter, after I couldn’t finish it on the preceding Sunday. If I’m being honest, I am constantly trying to learn the environment for what I want to say to you. Or the language. I find myself missing you deeply, it consumes my day. And to compensate for that (because we have broken up) I’m trying to teach myself how not be with you. It isn’t that I refuse to be with you.
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I am constantly trying to learn the environment for what I want to say to you. Or the language.
“We're only here briefly and in this moment I want to allow myself joy.” - 'Amy', in Her (2013)
I wonder if you want to be with me. If my deepest desires would not burn our bridges after we mend them. It scares me to be both within and without in that sense. It is scary because I want to be loved, and I want you, or someone like you to be there, here. Am I grieving and should let that take it’s time? Am I foolishly following my head when I should be trusting my heart? Sometimes I blame myself for pushing you away and being overwhelming. Sometimes I want to believe you never learnt, or were reluctant to take me [entirely] as I was. This is overwhelming. Sometimes the overwhelming parts of myself say you pushed me and used me to fulfil your own desires. That when you saw my incapacity to realise those, you discarded me with neglectful behaviour and entrapment. That was not love. (22: 47) I hate that you have made me feel like this. Maybe I made myself feel like this, or have contributed to it. Often, I lament my barriers being flattened by my own doing. In letting you love me, I made myself an emblem of fragility. I walk and I can see the pain in others’ eyes. I can sense the silences between people; those silences have become me. I commute with them and realise my own loss. I am in a constant state of unknowing. You made that. It is said that love takes two people but it only took you. Emptying me took your own doing.
It is said that love takes two people but it only took you. Emptying me took your own doing. In the same way that you looked at me that first night and I looked you in the eyes. And then you looked over my shoulder, as if conversing with my devil and pleading with him if your eyes should follow back to look into mine and for your hand to move gently forward. For your lips to squirm unnoticed by my eyes – but longed for by my lips and my nether parts – and for them to finally mouth the words: “can I kiss you?” You undid me in that same way. It was gentle but unforgivable. I learnt a story of two people who undid each other in that same way, the day that they met. They were both in high school. One of them was a black boy from a dysfunctional family. The other too. Both their mothers were held in deep throngs by depression – the enemy that is never named. They undid each other when they decided they were in love with each other. They undid each other further when they got married in an empty church – none of their family from both sides there to witness to their union. They were a shame to both sides.
Often, I lament my barriers being flattened by my own doing. In letting you love me, I made myself an emblem of fragility.
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“When you grow up, your heart dies .” - 'Alison Reynolds' in The Breakfast Club (1985)
A little boy, four years old, sat in the front pew, unaware of the weight of what was before him. The pastor turned to both of them and let them exchange their vows. Then he turned with glee to the little boy in front. His face held a bountiful smile; hopefully that smile betrayed him as he fell asleep that night. Their undoing would birth a boy who would feel their undoing drag on him as he grew up. It would not drag as her shawl did on her wedding day. Its melancholy made him cry when he was alone. He would watch them fight and understand how helpless he was in a matter of two souls – a union of undoing. And when the time came for his undoing, it would end up in this letter to you.
The end.
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“Everything wanna be loved. Us sing and dance, and holla just trying to be loved.� - Alice Walker, 'Shug' in The Colour Purple
spiritual and existential translations
by [@fame.effect]
The God that I serve is Unlimited Unfathomable Untitled, Us, I. We ... All ways, Always, All is love The God that I serve is Unlimited Unfathomable Untitled, Us, I. We ... All ways, Always, All is love
The God that I serve is Unlimited Unfathomable Untitled, Us, I. We ... All ways, Always, All is love The God that I serve is Unlimited Unfathomable Untitled, Us, I. We ... All ways, Always, All is love
note from the author:
The text reflects a personal - and not so personal - challenge we share in interpreting beliefs and religion at large ... There are two parts to it, the first is a summarisation of I what I believe God ought to be. From an abstract to a more personified sense; we are the singular God ourselves! The Universe (the cycle of Us, I, We is a reflection of uniqueness between similarities on three levels).
The second part is a summary of a personal belief and daily mantra to assist me in the execution of my being, my spirit, God. To remember that all is love and to show it in all ways and never forget it always. I have come to internalise peace and authenticity.
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“The emotional, sexual, and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says: 'It's a girl'.� - Shirley Chisholm
the femicide by Mamello Makhetha [@mamelzz]
It was war. It was genocide. It was forcefully ripped apart lips, clits and souls. It was pleasure for the devil and death for angels. It was boys from Braam posting, #NotAllMenAreTrash. It was so scary it created painful stones in the throats of young girls. It was so normal, yet it created wet skin on the cheeks of grandmothers. It was hardened womxn, left by the world to protect themselves. It was rape. It was empty intestines ripped from the insides of Anene Booysen. It was children stolen and dragged down the streets of Belville to Cape Town. Stolen in taxi's Stolen in bedrooms Stolen at schools Stolen on streets Stolen by men Stolen by the world It was being forced into corners by friends of my father's, on a Saturday night out in Taboo, in Cubana, by the rank, in Edenvale, in my kitchen. Men that have vowed to break apart my sanctuary, to tear apart my body, to violate my space, my pshye, my peace. It was being catcalled from the gate before you left your home.
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“There is no such thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not live single-issue lives.� - Audre Lorde
My breath went silent My hands began to shake I began to run I ran from my home into my mother's soul. I cried for help I prayed he wouldn't catch me I prayed he would stop telling me not to be scared. I prayed he would stop grabbing my hand. I prayed that God would hold me. I can't walk down that subway late at night I should turn around to check I'm not being followed It was paranoia It was fear It was femicide
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“If they don't give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.� - Shirley Chisholm
elevated practices by Mamello Makhetha [@mamelzz]
I wonder what the world feels when they see a resistful black womxn? Forced to fight a war with only pieces of bones. Can they feel that she is made of sunlight? She gives you no room to breathe, like a December hot summer day.
Can they hear her resting, repeating clan names under the burning clouds of engulfing imphepho? elevated practices she sung she danced she prayed she praised she clapped she cried then she was silent. Can they hear her laughter, light and powerful, easy and unashamed. Do they know she is our Messiah, our Saviour, our warrior, our queen and our king, born to cut the soil of the earth open and squeeze it of all of its pain? Do not pity her relentless sacrifice. For she works for the dawn of a new day. She marches forth for her children. She hangs up all the stars so they can see at night. She carves the past of her ancestors to restore their future. She clears away the darkness to make the path for her daydreams.
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“Straight people didn't like being called strtaight for the longest time. You still hear a lot of white people whine about getting called white. People with unmarked identities want them to remain unmarked.� - Twitter user: @weel Her sweat is the rythm of the revolution. It rings loudly in her ears, it is the roar found in the stillness of change. She will not apologize for being black and being a womxn. She will not apologize for when she is soft. She will not apologize for when she is hard. Struggle has been injected into her consciousness, like a fate or destiny fortold from birth. She knows the world will try to break her floor again, but she also knows, that those that hold her underneath her feet will be sanctuary of healing. She is tired of crying for all her bloodshed. She is tired of fighting for all of her victories. I choose to congratulate her. For her courage To stand naked infront of the fists of violence, completely unafraid. She carries the day of reckoning. She brings forth the misdeeds of the past to burn in the sunlight. elevated practices
she prayed
she cried
she danced
then she was silent
she sang
she praised
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she clapped
“My desire to write is connected with my homosexuality. I need the identity as a weapon, to match the weapon that society has against me.” - Susan Sontag
Not another healing manifesto by Nkcubeko Balani [@freetownnoir]
“Those who are present will know.” - me A performance begins with visuals flashing vividly and leaving. A holy grail carefully tracing itself and setting its terrain. Out walks Fatima, braids swing to the back, dressed in isigcebhezane; red. Fatima moves to a microphone in front, and begins, as I attempt to be steady, to recite words which flow and fill the whole field. She uses “fuck” and then “blessed” as words joined together by a seamstress weaving a garment.
“Blessed are the boy-dykes.” For they’re nothing outside of this psalm. For they too breathe - in and out - fuck - in and out - patriarchy. This is meant to be isbhilivano written after a weekend of seeing some of my favorite musical acts: a love letter or a doctor’s sick note - reason for me to be both within and without. It’s treading between both; I might end by tearing it up, allowing it to humanely take up the space my being inhibits: within but without.
“Blessed are you, when they mock you, and persecute you, and say all sorts of evil against you falsely.” Fatima moves back as the the sounds from “Isifundo Sokuqala” begin. It’s a five-minute message initiating with what sounds like showers of rain. At the outer edge, you can hear cricket-like sounds gradually growing, engulfing welcoming Fela saying:
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“Concepts are no less practical than images or sound. And theory does have to be (de)constructed as it (de)construes its object of study.” - Trinh T. Minh-Ha
“Yheyi” “Yheyi” “Musani Ukusaba Lesipho lesi Esininika sona Asidalwanga ukunilimaza” They wear a luminous green design, their tops clad with a cow or goat skin covering, dyed green. My heart skips a beat as “Isifundo Sokuqala” melds through the crowd, becoming their EP Bottoms Revenge, becoming sounds I surround myself with in an inner comfort.
“Yheyi” “Yheyi” I’m penning this letter because it’s stands in contrast to the one on page 3. Both letters consider and are grounded in love: its embrace and its difficulty. The earlier letter is me grappling with a love which has deteriorated. The present letter is not meant to be in service of that. It is a liberated letter - my letter of cleansing.
“Lesipho lesi ... Sidalelwe ukunikhulisa” I realise that my virtual and sonic reality has birthed itself into life. I initially encountered FAKA through the corridors of the internet. A liminal space, if any. I was, and continue to be, surprised at how a space which can become volatile has tiny nests which find their way to me. Which often warm me up to be present in a non-virtual life.
“Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.” A cleansing manifesto: - Shave off all hair - Wash twice a day with love; once every week with flowers of love or an edible sage of love - Erase your browser history -We do these things that we may be one with each other. - Wake up at 6am; meditate to “Unicorns in Paradise”, in love - Love a chapter’s worth of text; eat at 7am
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“A character with no agency is no character.” - Chigozie Obioma
- Accept love; but love alone is not sufficient The performance edges closer to another song: “Isende Lendlela” - a play on words, but only for those who are present, for they will know. My love reaches out of me and back into me. It travels through me and decides to leave only in dance. There is no wall when one of your favorite musical acts takes place along with you. I promised that I would tear this letter up. If some version of censorship was not necessary for ourselves, would we not parade our diaries? A voice said we do. Web pages live through a tab being closed. Web pages cannot be burned down. Have you ever fallen in love with someone online?
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“If you are silent about your pain, they'll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” - Zora Neale Hurston
END SCENE : DYING LANGUAGE ON MY TONGUE by woody
Ext. Garden. Ebende. Afternoon. It’s not only a garden but the burial ground. The sky is grey, there’s a light drizzle, and the grave is shallow. There are people and near the burial ground is the family and two or three pastors. Siwe, in a black dress and multi-colored poncho is with the funeral goers. Her older sister spots her and tells her to come to the front. The pastor instructs Siwe to read the headstone. They're both on opposite sides. Siwe faces her sister and the pastor.
Ex t . G a r d e n . E b e n d e . A f t e r n o o n . Siwe (V.O.) I can’t remember what was on the headstone aside from her name: Nonkululeko Myataza, date of birth, sometime in June, I think 17 June date of death...I remember I had exams soon so probably May? Ext. Garden. Ebende. Afternoon. Siwe reads the headstone. She doesn’t stumble. It’s drizzling againPastor: Khawu sifundele ngesiXhosa Siwe freezes. People wait. Her older sister notices. It physically feels like the earth is doing its orbiting around the sun for the whole year before her older sister comes to rescue her. She confidently translates what’s on the headstone. Siwe is mortified. In t . R h o d e s l i b r a r y . G r a h a m s t o w n . A f t e r n o o n .
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“i survive on intimacy & tomorrow.” - Ntozake Shange, for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf
Siwe (V.O.) I can’t tell you the exact moment I realized how turbulent my Xhosa is. Maybe it was in grade 10 on the netball court when Iviwe and Vuyo expressed surprise at me responding to something in Xhosa. Or maybe it was me, sitting on the couch at home, watching the news and not having understood much of what was being said. I buried all that inside because I didn’t want to admit my Englishness. That somewhere in time, my first language became English. Not knowing my mother tongue in the new age of consciousness was embarrassing. Maybe, it was because I’d attached much of my blackness to knowing Xhosa…
Int. Rhodes library. Grahamstown. 1pm.
Siwe pauses on the writing. Looks at the progress of her downloads. Jams to Rico Nasty. She has a tummy ache. She drinks some water. Siwe (V.O.) Thinking about it now, it really doesn’t matter. I understand and know how much I assimilated to this Englishness but it doesn’t say anything about my blackness. END SCENE
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“Everytime I walk I bring some drama to the floor. You know? I'm coming to do a show ... and carry on.� - Tati (007)
Play our version of the adolescent love-calculating game, i-beach-film, with a current lover, a former lover, or anything outside of that limitation. Have fun!
Instructions: Converting the statement to numbers 1. Add your and the other person's name above and below "loves". e.g. Hlumelo loves Siphosethu 2. Starting with the first name, cross out recurring letters in the statement. 3. Place the letter's total at the bottom and move on to the next letter in the word. 4. Convert the entire statement to numbers.
Calculating the % 5. Once only the numbers remain, add (+) these in pairs from back to front. 6. If a single number remains in the middle drop it to the row below. 5. Add until only two numbers remain. This is your %, and how much you love the person. 22
“Some people could look at a mud puddle and see an ocean with ships.� - Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God
i-Beach film
Play our version of the adolescent love-calculating game, i-beach-film, with a current lover, a former lover, or anything outside of that limitation. Have fun!
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meet the contributors meet the contributors themthemmeet the contributors the contributors them meet them @fame.effect Fame.effect is a poet and a girl in a shell, from the depths of the ocean of confusion.
Mamello Makhetha In 2018, Mamello performed an acting production entitled Madi Iphidisa Madi: Menstruation as Ritual and Power for a Black Womxn. She has also participated in a work called Nguvu Ya Mbegu: The Cleansing for the 2018 UCT Decolonisation Festival. Her acting catalogue also includes Nguvu Ya Mbegu, directed by Mandla Mbothwe; In His Quest, directed by Mandla Mbothwe (2018), and Raising Sunflowers (2018) at Baxter's Masambe Theatre. Last year, she took part in Body Politic 3: Pathology, performing in a group-piece entitled UMGOWO. She will be exhibiting photographs from Madi Iphidisa Madi in ANON. Pop Up Art Show in February 2019.
Mosa Rabannye Mosa Rabannye is a South African-based artist who spent most of their young years living in Klerksdorp. They briefly lived in Johannesburg, where they studied live performance and film. They now reside in Bloemfontein, and they are studying towards a degree in language practice. A film enthusiast, a lover of words and performance, Rabannye is a calabash of melting personalities; they define being non-binary as having a plethora of identities. 24
meet the team them meet the team the teamthem meet the team meet the teamthem eet the team Nkcubeko Balani (or user: @freetownnoir) makes visual art, and writes. They are the co-founder and editor of New Valley. Occasionally, they blog at middayinthesouth [.wordpress.com] using various mediums of expression. They read more than they're capable of loving people. Nkcubeko uses they/them/their as pronouns.
i'm [woody], a multimedia artist who's constantly interested in many things: color, coming-of-age films, and books. i'm co-founder of new valley and in charge of ensuring nkcubeko doesn't fall of a cliff's edge with editing.
Credits: Nomphumelelo Babeli (Camera assistance in 'Seeing Through the Gaze' Photo courtesy of Libreshot in 'End Scene: Dying Language On My Tongue' 25
02/2019
