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The Story of Khwezi Is the Story of All South African Women Silenced by Patriarchy

Redi Tlhabi's new book on Kwezi is a real wake up call for all South Africans to finally address the perpetuation of rape culture.

The official major launch of journalist Redi Tlhabi's book, Khwezi: The Remarkable Story of Fezekile Ntsukela Kuzwayo, took place yesterday in Hyde Park, Johannesburg. South Africans came out in droves to show their overwhelming support, not only for the courageous journalist and her stirring work, but more so to commemorate the woman whose story has finally and wholly been told.

In 2005, Fezekile Ntsukela Kuzwayo or 'Khwezi' as she became known to the rest of the nation, accused then deputy-president Jacob Zuma of rape. The infamous rape trial that ensued concluded the following year with the judge ruling in favor of Zuma's version of events wherein he insisted that he and Khwezi had engaged in consensual (albeit unsafe) sex. Although Tlhabi's book makes use of information which was revealed during courtroom proceedings, it also unearths the very uncomfortable and intimate details which Zuma and his camp attempted to keep hush-hush during the trial itself. It speaks about the betrayal that Khwezi experienced at the hands of men she trusted, the likes of Zweli Mkhize, the current ANC treasurer-general who attempted to manipulate her into dropping the charges against Zuma. It speaks to how male privilege and power like a cocoon, protected Zuma as he told his side of the story whilst demanding that Khwezi not only prove that she had been raped but also account for how she'd had the audacity to be raped. The book goes on to detail her difficult journey after the trial ended, how South Africa vilified and ostracized her as well as her eventual death in October of 2016.

The timing of this book, could not have been more apt. This book comes during a turbulent time in our country where we are still not willing to reckon with the horrific reality under which too many South African women have been forced to survive. This book confronts our fervent denialism not only around our alarmingly high femicide rate but the 'corrective' rape that queer women experience but never receives the media attention it deserves. This year alone has elucidated the terrifying reality where raping a pregnant woman in front of her young son in a taxi or abusing and murdering a young woman has become commonplace and the only question our society will ask is how those women provoked their perpetrators such that they would commit those crimes.

In a society where rape culture has become the norm, where women cannot report the crimes committed against them because we are more concerned about not 'tarnishing' the good nature and character of the men who have perpetrated those crimes—this book is a reality check. It speaks to how the story of a single woman has given voice to thousands of other women who are forced either to carry the deadweight of their trauma on their backs daily or who have tragically gone to their graves because of it. This book is a mirror for a South Africa that failed its women back then and is still failing them today and how we cannot allow this to continue being the status quo.

Most importantly, this book is an act of tremendous defiance. It is a huge middle finger to the powerful male figures in this country—not least our president—who feel they can violate women and walk away without so much as a slap on the wrist. This book points to how we will continue to shout on mountaintops the stories of those women who have and are suffering at the hands of toxic masculinity even long after those women cannot do so themselves.

I recall how those four brave female students, a few months before Khwezi passed away, stood with their placards as Zuma spoke at the election results announcement. Their passionate #RememberKhwezi protest fought to remind our nation that ten years later, justice had still not been served. As they were shoved out of the room by security guards, it felt as if their attempts had been somewhat futile and quickly forgotten. However, with the release of this book, I am certain that that will not be the case. It is a thorn in the sides of all who have fought to quash Khwezi's story over the years and will remain so until they have all claimed their stake in that injustice.

Every South African, especially our men, needs to read this book. We need to sit in its discomfort and its tragedy because that is what will eventually lead us to a place where we not only acknowledge but understand both the gravity and urgency with which we need to act.

Those of us not willing to do so, well, will continue to be a part of the problem.

Rufaro Samanga is an intellectual, aspiring literary great, feminist and most importantly, a fiercely passionate African.

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Collage by Ta'Ron Joyner

I Would Rather Breathe Than Think Outside the Box

South African artists were already working for little to no pay, but the pandemic has unleashed a flood of exploitative work requests right when we need money the most.

This essay is part of OkayAfrica's SA Reframed series, featuring personal writing from some of South Africa's best young writers edited by Verashni Pillay.

On the radio the other day, I heard a small business owner of a costume design company being interviewed and asked how they have managed to:

a. Reinvent themselves during this period, and

b. Think outside the box while doing so.

Their conversation made me think about how I have not managed to wrap my head around any sort of future, or reinvention outside any kind of box—beyond the one that wraps itself around my immediate reality. When the lockdown was announced, three friends and I withdrew to a remote area where internet access was dubious and, most times, simply not available. I would need to walk a bit of a distance to locate a spot under a tree or up a mountain to be connected for thirty minutes, or so.

Then I would do a basic comb through my emails and respond to work or requests that were already underway pre-lockdown. I only responded to new requests that either afforded me the opportunity to earn an income or those that allowed me to be productive on my own terms.

I was tired, lowkey grateful for the global pause, and no longer interested in the overly productive, overloaded nature of my previous normal. Something about the forced halt made me realise that I was on the edge of everything—myself included. I turned down anything that required me to join the endless online festivals, zoom panel discussions, Instagram takeovers and live readings. I refused all opportunities that needed me to grapple with any sort of forced normalcy. The ones that offered data or airtime or solidarity as compensation or assumed that I had gone pro bono. I needed a moment. I needed the space and time to re-bargain with the point of it all.

The pause was both useful and scary. It brought to the surface fears and revelations about the shortfalls of our industry and how creatives are positioned within the productivity machinery and economy of South Africa, or rather all the ways we fall outside of it.

As Minister of employment and labour Thulas Nxesi mentioned in a briefing two months ago, "On the issue of freelance workers—unfortunately with the current legislation they fall outside. Maybe what we are going to do is that after this we will have to re-look at it in terms of our legislative amendments and start a debate about that." Why are there laws that have gone unchallenged? Who should be challenging them? Why are artists hearing, out loud for the first time, of convenient loopholes that render us outside of an economy that taxes us like everyone else, and consumes us and our work. Yet, in times of crisis, this same economy engages with our art and our productivity and our products, but still deems us on the margin, outside, and non-essential. If we are not assisted financially, how can we be productive, how can we acquire the resources to produce? How can we apply our minds to anything else outside of survival and scrambling to stay afloat.

Pandemics do not mean that artists have gone pro bono

When you approach an artist with the assumption that they have gone pro bono during this time, when you draft an email to request a collaboration, a commission, a participation, a productivity of any kind, please bear in mind that artists are up against an unconcerned and corrupt government that has failed to provide aid and assistance to their sector during this time.

Theatre critic Sara Holdren says "Art is hard and most of it fails—either in small ways or catastrophic ones." In South Africa, the process of making art is hard, sure, but more than that, the conditions and the context in which we make work fails us in catastrophic ways that will require more than a debate and amended legislation. It will need, for starters, a minister who cares about the arts and understands its soul and mechanisms. This pause has brought about more questions and concerns for me than inspiration to reinvent or think outside the box. I have questions about the box itself and why I feel asphyxiated and trapped by its design.

I would rather breathe than think outside of the box

This pandemic has made me question what my career, livelihood and stability have been built on; what has been propping them up all this time, and what has been allowing me to appear valued and valuable in this economy? What does and will the spectrum of value look like in a normal that has been disrupted and now sits in a near distant future that may or may not be near?

Then I find myself vacillating between hope and concern. My hope is that when the pandemic is no longer with us, artists can have a come-to-jesus conversation about what has contributed and exacerbated this attitude and disrespect toward our practice and industry, I hope we can challenge the legislations that we have been dared to challenge, I hope we can be productive in ways that serve us and make sense for our well-being, that we will be paid our worth and that our society will realize that without the artist producing, there will be no art, or music, or films, or books and things that have kept people entertained and creatively nourished during this time.

My concern is that the "free"content artists are currently creating and the free access to art or performances, will not make this realisation possible, and that this kind of access, that was already undervalued and exploited, will be irreversible. The exploitation dialogue is tiring. Being treated as non-essential is tiring and terrifying too, and while most of the world can slowly start going back to work, most artists will probably have to hang tight until 2021, maybe even 2022.

While artists deal with a hoax of an arts and culture department that is dead to us and a minister who tweets more than he does his job, in an ideal world, I wish that artists could afford to indulge uncertainty, and fear, and pause, in ways that allow them to heed the call made by Nicholas Berger in his piece The Forgotten Art of Assembly [Or, Why Theatre Makers Should Stop Making] "We must lean into this pain. We must feel the grief. We must mourn. Mourn the loss of work, the loss of jobs, the loss of money, the loss of life. Mourn the temporary loss of an art form that demands assembly. Lean into the grief. Lean in. Lean in. Lean in. We must remind ourselves that mourning is a human act, not a digital one."

Koleka Putuma is an award-winning poet, playwright and theatre director. Her bestselling debut collection of poems Collective Amnesia is in its 10th print run and her play No Easter Sunday for Queers Sunday for Queers won several awards.

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