I must have been about seven when I first learnt that South Africa had a musical phenomenon called Trompies. At the time, I didn’t know the language for it. I didn’t know about legacies, icons or cultural impact.
I only knew what I saw and felt. My family and I were visiting my aunt in Alexandra. She lived in 4th Avenue.
That detail matters. In Alex, avenues are more than just directions; they are identity markers. People don’t just say they’re from Alexandra; they tell you which avenue.
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Space is personal. Geography is pride. I can’t remember whether we had just arrived or were about to leave, heading back home to Tembisa.
Childhood memory edits itself. He was standing near a food stall, buying what we call “maotwanadust” — chicken feet cooked over an open fire. Nothing fancy.
Nothing staged. Just township life doing what it has always done. I stared at him.
Not because I knew who he was, but because of what was happening around him. People were excited, almost animated, smiling and eager. Hands were being shaken.
Names were being called out. There was an energy orbiting this man, and even as a child, I could tell it wasn’t ordinary. My brother shook his hand and immediately announced that he would never wash it again.
I stayed quiet. Trying to understand how one person could make so many others feel seen. Maybe Jakarumba noticed my silence.
Maybe he thought I was hungry. He handed me amaotwanadust, smiled, climbed into the car he had emerged from and drove off with a friend he had been with. That was it.
No speech. No performance. Just a gesture.
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