Imfundiso yokuzixolela (lessons in forgiving myself)

On 18 August a box full of books arrived and changed my life forever (incidentially 18 August was also the birthday yabatshana bam who turned 11 and 17). In the box were two books zesiXhosa: Unam Wena by Mthunzikazi Mbungwana and Ilifa by me (published by Uhlanga Press). Yes, I published a book of poems ngesiXhosa. Nothing could have prepared me for the mixed emotions of imincili (excitement) and iinevs (anxiety). It was finally done. The book would be getting to people's hands and taking on a life of its own. I kept the moment to myself barring a short video which I've been sharing slowly with friends and family: zifikile iincwadi!

The vulnerability of writing and sharing poetry has always had a different texture from sharing prose writing. As an academic I am less precious about my other writing. I have a pretty good handle on it; by and large I do it well; I have been told I write well. I have written thousands and thousands of words. But poetry. That's different. It has a different texture. It comes from a different place whereas my academic writing emerges from a cerebral place. So why share poetry? A friend once called me a closeted poet when I shared one of the poems which has made it into the collection: "Zithuthe" but has been published as "Coconut". And now here we are: many yeas later and I am no longer a closeted poet.

The collection is a dedication to my grandmother: Vuyelwa Gladys Mashologu. She is on the cover of this collection: my first book. There are poems which have been inspired by memories of her as well as many of my mothers who have held me throughout my life. Many of the poems are meditations on what it means to be a woman in this world. Umyalelo wentombi is the first section of the collection where most of these poems are. Two of the poems are dedicated to the memory of 9 August 1956 which I first published in Kauve: The Women's March to Pretoria in 1956: "Oomama bomthandazo" and "Incoko" which were a response to images of the women's march. 

In order to locate them in this new book I decided to add the date underneath the title in order to add more context. Imagine my shock and horror when I read the book anew this morning and noticed that the date says 9 August 1954 instead of 1956 (my mother was born 1954). Luckily I was sitting outside by the beach and I had a good scream at myself. Oko ndizingxolisa. I can't unsee nor undo the error. There is no excuse for this error. The book went though numerous rounds of editing and reading from a variety of people. None of us picked it up. Amehlo ayadinwa.

So I thought let me write about here: ndizixele, ndizixolele. It's a typo which may communicate a carelessness to dates. But it's also a big humble pie for me: a whole historian whose job it is to care about dates. And somehow I got this one wrong. In my first book nogal. Me: who writes about people's "historically dubious" readings of history, got the date wrong for one of the most important dates in this country's political history. 

I expected that there would be typos (there are other typos). That's part of the process. Since Wednesday I have been going through the book reluctantly because I can't seem to read it uncritically. I feel like the error with the date is a wink from the past: a hard lesson on grace and accepting mistakes that I can do nothing about. Mistakes that have the potential of being the butt of every joke: the literary historian cum poet cum public spokesperson on women's history made a mistake. I am still learning to enjoy what it means to have a book with my name on the cover and my grandmother's pensive portrait on the cover. 

There will be another print run and the error will be fixed. But I will have this reminder and the sinking feeling of making this kind of mistake in something I care about so deeply. But I will also have a lesson on grace for myself and the process of putting one's writing out in the world.