COVER PAGE
Xavier Livermon
Assistant Professor
African and African Diaspora Studies
University of Texas at Austin
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ABSTRACT
This article examines the relationship between African customary practices and queerness
in post-apartheid South Africa and the role of the law and cultural labor in regulating
these practices. I argue that black South African queers reconstitute African “tradition”
and customary practices through various forms of cultural and discursive labor that
function to contest the un-Africanness of same-sex sexuality and insist on visibility and
communal belonging. I reveal how the law in the process of expanding “rights”
reconstitutes particular forms of exclusion that black queers contest through their cultural
labor. Examining customary practices ranging from circumcision to lobola and
traditional African religions, I argue for African “tradition” as a set of living practices
constantly in formation. The contestation between queerness and African custom reveals
a set of practices that are reconstituted. These set of reconstituted practices form “usable
traditions” for black South African queers and their allies. Usable traditions forge an
important space for understanding how black sexual autonomy is formed within
communal understandings of self and works against exclusionary interpretations of
African custom in both societal and legal frameworks.
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USABLE TRADITIONS: CREATING SEXUAL AUTONOMY IN POSTAPARTHEID SOUTH AFRICA
“The practice of same-sex marriage is against most of African beliefs, cultures, customs
and traditions, and this in turn goes against the mandate of traditional leaders which is to
promote and protect the customs of communities observing a system of customary law.
Traditional leaders have vowed to make it their mission for the coming five years to
campaign against this wicked, decadent and immoral Western practice.” i – National
Annual Conference of Traditional Leaders.
“When I was growing up an ungqingili [a gay] would not have stood in front of me. I
would knock him out.”ii – Jacob Zuma
INTRODUCTION: YIZO YIZO AND PROBLEMATIZING AFRICAN CULTURE
AND “TRADITION”
In July of 2004, local South African newspapers led with provocative headlines
such as “the kiss SA TV has never seen before.”iii The “kiss” was to be featured on the
television series Yizo Yizo. Created by SABC Education, the series, then in its final
season had provoked considerable debate in previous incarnations with depictions that
pushed the boundaries of what was considered acceptable television, particularly for a
youth audience.iv While the series’ intention was to create a national debate about the
inequitable education system in the townships and the decreased options this created for
young black people, commentators have noted that much of the focus of public debate
surrounding the series bypassed this important national discussion. Instead, commentary
about the series, including a debate in the South African Parliament, focused on the
“morality” of the depictions presented that emphasized graphic violence and explicit
sexuality.v One wonders, what was so special about this ‘kiss’ that it warranted advanced
media publicity, titillating headlines, and public discussion.
Two young black men kiss in a moment of tender passion. They’ve been repressing their
feelings for each other, but they cannot hold back anymore. It’s a beautiful moment
coming up on TV next week, but there’s a chance this latest ground breaking plot in the
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award winning Yizo Yizo will cause controversy for the series, which has stirred debate
many times before…Thiza, played by Tshepo Ngwane, has experienced something of a
change in character on his journey toward discovering his sexuality. And he and the
artistic African literature student Thabang, played by Makhoala Ndebele, engage in an
on-screen first for South African television – a kiss between two black men.vi
In post-apartheid South Africa depictions of queer characters have been quite
common as television seeks to play a role in nation-building and construction of a liberal,
tolerant, progressive country where people of all backgrounds live together in harmony.vii
Yet, up until this point, few of these queer characters had been black. And as the quote
above suggests, by marking the first ever queer kiss between two black men, even when
black gay characters were on screen they were often asexual.viii Certainly, Yizo Yizo
proved groundbreaking in that it provided the first popular depiction of same-sex
intimacy between black men (or women) on popular television. Yizo Yizo provided a
public, recognizable representation of same-sex desire that was explicitly erotic and
sexual. Yet, perhaps even more important, and the subject of this essay is the way that
Yizo Yizo presents discussions of same-sex sexuality in black communities, exposing a
complicated relationship between black cultural practices and queerness.
The idea that same-sex sexuality is somehow un-African and alien to African
cultural traditions is one that haunts queers of African descent globally. If tradition is
represented as that which is authentically and un-problematically African, then same-sex
sexuality is its direct opposite—its constitutive outside. Under this formulation, black
queers cannot exist as part of African cultural practices represented by tradition. They can
only be some manifestation of cultural loss and ultimately alienation from African
subjectivity. As a result, Black queers become visible manifestations of cultural taint
which exist to be excluded at best, or as the quote from Jacob Zuma indicates, subjected
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to forms of bodily violence at worst. Therefore, in this essay, I explore the contestation
between tradition and queerness in post-apartheid South Africa by examining the ways in
which black queers put “tradition” to use. If there is some recognition that the new
political dispensation creates possibilities for people to choose, and if this idea of choice
is uncomfortable for some, then the question is on what basis are claims to sexual
autonomy made? I suggest that for black queers one important site for making claims to
sexual autonomy rests in accessing forms of African tradition and redefining what
constitutes African culture. In the examples that follow, black queer engagement with
African tradition is one way of creating a politics of belonging in their communities that
cannot be conferred through the discourse of human rights that presently underpins the
Constitution. Furthermore, in reworking and revising tradition, black queers offer a
critique of the ways that tradition has been selectively appropriated to reinforce
heteropatriarchy.
In making this argument, I am not suggesting that black queers
completely overturn the heteropatriarchy inherent in many of these traditional practices.
Rather, I argue that black queer engagement with forms of tradition reveals tradition to be
a set of practices that are fluid and constantly in process, and therefore able to
accommodate difference. While prominent traditional leaders cited in the epigraph argue
in favor of preserving a static understanding of African cultural practices to suggest that
black queers have no standing within African cultural contexts, black queers “use
tradition” to show the flexibility of customary African practices and insist on their rights
to exist within explicit African cultural frameworks.x
WHY AFRICAN TRADITION?
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In the post-apartheid moment, issues of “Africanness” have become increasingly
prominent in a world defined by postmodern neoliberalism. As Jyoti Mistry notes,
“Afrikaner hegemony contrasted with the lived experiences of the black majority. The
new South African government is at pains to celebrate the diversity of the nation.”xi
Furthermore, during apartheid, aspects of African culture, particularly as represented by
forms of tradition were often seen as divisive tools of colonial oppression.
Political activists, influenced by theories of modernization and African Marxism
were often skeptical of appeals to African tradition.xii They were aware of the ways in
which colonial, and later apartheid authorities misused aspects of African culture to
solidify racialized inequality. Furthermore, traditional rulers and the separate and distinct
cultures they promoted were often viewed as collaborators with apartheid. However, in
the post-apartheid moment, there has been more space to actively reevaluate the role of
African culture in general and customary practices in particular in the constitution of the
post-apartheid state. This desire to reevaluate African custom has also been combined
with a discourse of liberal multiculturalism that respects cultural difference. This has
been exemplified most publicly through the governmentality articulated through the postapartheid discourses of “the Rainbow Nation” and the “African Renaissance” and given
prominence in the South African Constitution that includes language aimed at
“acknowledging and compensating for the imbalances of the past.”xiv Ostensibly, African
customary law is based on the culture and traditions of African people. The Recognition
of Customary Marriages Act (No. 120 of 1998) passed by the South African parliament
defines custom using the following language, “customary law means the customs and
usages traditionally observed among the indigenous African peoples of South Africa and
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which form part of the culture of those peoples.”xv This definition remains vague as to
which people constitute “indigenous” African peoples of South Africa. Furthermore, it
fails to distinguish between the traditions, culture, law, and religion of said indigenous
peoples. As a result, both political and popular representations of African tradition tend
to un-problematically substitute terms such as “African custom,” “African tradition,” and
“African culture” for one another. The interchageability of these terms has meant that the
heteropatriarchal chieftancy has been able to claim a monopoly not only on the creation
and designation of customary law, but also on the definition of what constitutes African
culture and tradition, all of which are often represented in tautological terms. In this
schemata, African tradition and culture become what the chieftancy says it is creating a
delimited vision of customary law that often serves to expand their power and reinforce
heteropatriarchy. However, for black queers and their allies, the interchangeable nature of
these terms also present a space of flexibility through which they contest restrictive
definitions of African culture and tradition and with it provide a space for the
reimagination of African customary law. Indeed, black queers argue for the expansion of
voices with respect to the delineation of African customary law and hence understandings
of African culture and tradition. In its landmark decision (Alexkor Ltd. and Another vs.
Ritchersveld Community and Others) the Constitutional Court delineated the difficulty of
defining customary law. Nevertheless, the Constitutional Court suggested that whatever
its definition, that customary law (and I would argue the African culture and tradition that
ostensibly informs custom) is far from static. The justices wrote,
In applying indigenous law, it is important to bear in mind that, unlike common law,
indigenous law is not written. It is a system of law that was known to the community,
passed on from generation to generation. It is a system of law that has its own values and
norms. Throughout its history it has evolved and developed to meet the changing needs
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of the community. And it will continue to evolve within the context of its values and
norms consistently with the Constitution.xvi
The Constitutional interpretation provides the space for black queers to challenge the
self-evident and static nature of African culture and tradition trumpeted by traditional
leaders.
Ultimately, what this contestation means is that a productive tension, mitigated by
the South African Constitution exists between a culture of individual rights and the right
of each individual to practice his or her culture. Thus, the evaluation of African tradition
and custom must also take into account the centrality of performance, cultural labor, and
the representational, all of which reveal the significance of cultural politics.
In the post-apartheid moment, African tradition has been freed from its
connection with apartheid collaboration and now works to connect and reconnect
increasingly urbanized black South African populations to a post-apartheid notion of
difference that is acknowledged and celebrated. While an in-depth discussion of the
formation of customary law in South Africa is beyond the scope of this essay, it is
important to note the role of colonial figures in the creation of customary law,
particularly in the manufacturing of customary law and tradition as singularly situated in
male chieftancy.xviii
However, simply because a practice, in this case customary law and tradition is
heavily imbricated in the colonial imagination does not mean that Africans lack agency in
relationship to how they engage these practices. To reiterate, custom and tradition have
historically been infused with colonial and apartheid politics, but have emerged in the
post-apartheid period as important sites of belonging. The blurriness that exists in social
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usage regarding African tradition has not been adequately resolved through the law.
Nevertheless, what matters is how the ideas concerning tradition are deployed and what
they make im/possible. Mamdani asks, “even if the communities [and practices] in
question were wholly constructed by the colonial state, did not the outcome unleash the
agency of particular sections and muffle that of others?”xix Contestation over the
meanings of customary practices are attached to how these practices are enacted in postapartheid South Africa where “life as a national citizen and life as an ethnic subject are as
likely to run up against one another.”xx This tension creates what Jean and John Comaroff
describe as “increasingly irreconcilable, fractal forms of political being…seek[ing] to
open up possibilities for themselves, in pursuit of their passions, principles, ideals and
interests.”xxi
POLITICAL EMBODIMENT AND BLACK QUEERS
I am particularly concerned with black queers as embodied political beings that
seek to find cultural belonging for themselves through their engagement with custom and
tradition. In the “fractal terrain” that is post-apartheid cultural politics, queerness is both a
part of and apart from this celebration of difference. On the one hand, queerness enters
into an easy celebration of multicultural diversity and respect for difference ostensibly
promoted in post-apartheid South Africa, along with the set of policies and ideologies
which reinforce the Constitution. On the other hand, however, queerness occupies a
space that challenges heteronormative and static formations of African cultural tradition.
It is this interstice, this in between discursive space, that black queer South Africans seek
to navigate in contemporary South Africa.xxii As Mamdani reminds us, this interstice is a
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fecund site for politics and for engaging “the varying gap between principle and
practice.”xxiii
The following scene from Yizo Yizo characterizes the tension between the two young men
as they grapple with the meaning of their growing attraction to each other in the context
of the tension between African queerness and a sense of African tradition that expels
notions of queerness.
As the scene begins, the rooftop of the building glows in the fierce Johannesburg
sunlight. Thabang, shirtless and carrying a bucket of wet laundry comes to the roof to
dry his clothes and the camera pans to Thiza who appears to be sulking in the corner.
Thiza’s expression shows both deep contemplation and sullenness. The awkward silence
suggests that the two friends have avoided one another since the playful moment between
them crossed the normative lines of homosociality.xxiv Thabang attempts to engage Thiza
in conversation but Thiza answers Thabang’s inquiries with aloofness. Finally unable to
take the awkwardness any longer and perhaps hoping to reset their friendship, Thabang
begins haltingly,
“About what happened the other day….I don’t see anything wrong with it, we were just
playing around, so what?” The intonation in Thabang’s voice suggests that he is
attempting to put Thiza at ease.
“I’m not like that.” Thiza responds fiercely.
“Not like what?” Thabang asks, “I’m not asking you to be like anything.”
Speaking in township slang, Thiza says that guys shouldn’t touch each other.
Thabang looks intently at Thiza, and challenging Thiza to express himself responds,
“How did you feel?”
Thiza replies, “Like ama-gay (gays); Mfowethu (literally brother colloquially man) two
guys touching, it’s not our culture, you know that, being gay, it’s not ipart (part) of
culture yethu (our culture)”
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Irritated, his patience tried by Thiza’s repetition of the overdetermined African culture
argument, Thabang testily responds,
“Culture yethu (our culture)? You are always saying culture this, culture that, culture
omang (whose culture)? Culture yakho (your culture), culture yami (my culture)? What
culture are you talking about?
Thiza fumbles over his words as he tries to refine his explanation arguing for the
impossibility of queerness within African cultural constructs, and thus the impossibility
of a black queer subjectivity in South Africa.
Thabang defiantly responds “Thiza, I’m gay”xxv
Later, we learn that Thiza’s reaction to Thabang is bound to his own desire and
fear. New forms of self-fashioning, perhaps previously unavailable, cause Thiza to
question his preconceived notions about his own body, his desire, and his sexuality. He
admits to Thabang that their homoerotic encounter was not only something that ignited
feelings of fear and disgust, but that the encounter intrigued him. He was able to answer
Thabang’s question about how he felt, not by hiding behind African traditions, but by
stating that he felt “excited,” yet “scared.” Eventually Thiza and Thabang begin a
relationship and we are led to believe that Thabang now understands himself as a gay
man. For my purposes, what is noteworthy about the series and the interaction between
the two men is the way in which it explicitly uses queerness through these characters to
disturb definitions of black bodies connected to a notion of timeless traditions and static
sexualities. Their black queer bodies force a re-examination of the assumption that
queerness and black South African cultures are mutually antagonistic by revealing the
constructed nature of African culture and its mobilization in the service of
heteropatriarchy. Thabang and Thiza’s ability to choose their sexual partners, to use their
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bodies as they see fit to create pleasure and a degree of sexual autonomy despite powerful
cultural arguments that suggest otherwise reveals the ability of black queerness to
complicate and problematize notions of African custom, culture, and tradition.xxvi
In order to explore how black queer South Africans navigate African cultural
traditions, I have chosen to focus on three aspects of African tradition that have particular
salience in the post-apartheid black public sphere, because these practices have served as
sites of intense media debate vis-à-vis queerness. Furthermore, these particular cultural
practices have been spaces where black queers have been vocal in forging a black queer
identity linked to African customary cultural practices.
First, I focus on male
circumcision. Circumcision ceremonies serve as rites of passage that usher the gendered
male body into adulthood. Secondly, I focus on same sex marriage and the issue of gay
lobola. Lobola is an essential part of African customary wedding practices that represents
an acknowledgement of wealth transfer within the heteropatriarchal family. Lastly, I
investigate the practice of isangoma. Isangoma regulates the field of spirituality, yet it is
also strongly connected to Western notions of psychological, emotional, and physical
well-being and health. In each instance I perform two related but distinct interrogations.
First, how does queerness fundamentally alter these practices? Secondly, can these
practices accommodate queerness? As a precaution, I acknowledge that the practices that
I describe have embedded within them a set of limitations, and my discussion of these
cases is not meant to suggest that the majority of black queer people in South Africa
engage these traditions. Instead, these three examples serve as vignettes designed to
elucidate a set of possibilities that reveal the importance of cultural politics as a site of
struggle that animates social change. In each instance, I am sensitive to the agency of
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black queer South Africans in providing possible answers to these questions. I examine
how black queer South Africans mobilize various forms of the black public sphere,
particularly through media and literature, to create forms of sexual autonomy in the
service of forging lives worth living.
CULTURAL CIRCUMCISION AND THE CURIOUS CASE OF LUNDI
TYAMARA
Cultural circumcision for black men in South Africa typically occurs in late
adolescence or early adulthood. Not all ethnic groups practice traditional male
circumcision, also known as “in the bush” circumcision. The decline of initiation schools
after the imposition of colonialism testifies to the fact that initiation schools also connect
with practices of traditional religions that colonial authorities worked to eliminate. Yet
the persistence of the practice is related less to its role in traditional religious and ethical
systems and more to the ability of the practice to ensure “rites of passage,” to create the
next generation of men. Traditional “in the bush” circumcisions have particular salience
among Xhosa speaking men, for whom the circumcision marks the transition from
childhood to adulthood.
In Xhosa culture, one cannot take on the rights and
responsibilities of adulthood if one has not been through the initiation school. This has
significant implications, because not only is the individual not allowed to join the
company of “men” within his community, but he is also subject to forms of ridicule. He
can be addressed as a boy and excluded from communal practices that require men’s
participation.xxviii While men are the primary enforcers of this exclusion, women play an
important role in reinforcing the societal division between the circumcised and the
uncircumcised.xxix
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The ceremony itself involves the initiate being sequestered from his environment
and held in isolation with other initiates. These initiates go through the process of
initiation together and are expected to share a life-long bond. Initiates are expected to
leave everything that marks boyhood behind as they learn aspects of Xhosa
[heteropatriarchal] culture. There are particular sets of knowledge that can only be
learned through the process of initiation. Those who have been through the process can
determine who has and who has not based on specialized vocabulary learned in the
process of initiation.
The initiate is expected to have their foreskin cut without
anesthesia, while they yell out “ndi ndoda (I am a man).” Being able to endure the pain
without crying and endure the process of healing is part of the process of initiating the
individual into manhood.xxx
Much like other practices that will be discussed in this essay, circumcision has
become increasingly commodified. However, “in the bush” circumcision is prized as
being more culturally authentic.xxxii While there are instances of men who undergo
hospital circumcisions then follow up these hospital circumcisions with a trip to the bush,
they are still considered as having not gone through the process in a culturally appropriate
manner.xxxiii
For many Xhosa men, the controversy surrounding the practice is related to its
coercive nature. Because so much of black sociality and status for men is connected to
circumcision, there is often little choice in undergoing the practice.xxxiv Men who refuse
to undergo traditional circumcision forfeit status among men.
Some queer Xhosa
speaking men do not desire this status.xxxv However, for some black queer men not
undergoing circumcision is not an option. How then, do they reconcile this traditional
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cultural practice with their sexuality? The case of Lundi Tyamara reveals the
contestations that emerge when queerness and traditional circumcision interact.
Lundi Tyamara is the famous celebrity gospel singer, whose voice has been
considered by many in the South African gospel music industry to be one of the best to
come along in a generation.xxxvi His albums have always sold well and he is a prominent
fixture on the lucrative gospel celebration circuit of concerts held throughout the year in
South Africa. Given that gospel music is the largest selling genre of music in South
Africa, Tyamara’s status as an icon in the black community cannot be underestimated.
However, Tyamara could not escape the glaring media spotlight into his private life. It
was revealed that he was battling serious alcohol problems and the tabloid press delighted
in exposing the gospel singer as someone who abused alcohol. In addition to this, rumors
began to circulate concerning his sexual orientation. Tyamara kept the company of
several prominent black gay men in the social scene.
More controversially, Tyamara was also known for publicly claiming that he
would not undergo his circumcision ceremony, contrary to expectations based on his
Xhosa ethnic identity. Thus, it was a surprise to many when Tyamara not only confessed
that he had been “in the bush” and circumcised, but also that his circumcision ceremony
had given him the courage to come out of the closet as gay. What is important to note is
that the case of Tyamara becomes about more than an individual celebrity’s struggle with
his relationship with “tradition.” As the headlines in a variety of media reveal, his
decision becomes a fertile site for the discussion of the relevance of this cultural practice
in contemporary South Africa. I also argue that it becomes a space for examining the
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complicated relationship between these cultural practices on the one hand and a
constitutional respect for diversity and difference on the other.
Tyamara outraged traditionalists within the Xhosa community when he suggested
that going through the life changing event of initiation and circumcision into Xhosa
manhood gave him the tools to accept himself as gay and the courage to speak openly
about it. The fact that Tyamara would insist that it was this very process of circumcision
that formed the basis of his cultivating a public gay identity did not sit well with those
who imagine tradition in static and heteronormative ways. Fellow entertainer, kwaito star
Doc Shebeleeza stated that Tyamara came back from the mountain (a euphemism for
undergoing traditional circumcision) as a woman. xxxvii
Subsequently, Tyamara had distanced himself from the coming out narrative. He
eventually married, had a child and now sees his “coming out” as a youthful indiscretion
that was a marker of immaturity.xxxviii Tyamara’s “true” sexuality is not of interest here.
Rather, I am intrigued by the possibility that someone queer would use forms of
traditional African cultural practices as the basis for publicly claiming queer sexuality. If
the idea is that the circumcision ritual produces men of character by instilling in them a
respect for self and others and the courage to speak truth then certainly queerness and
traditional circumcision are not mutually exclusive.
However, I suspect that for
heteronormative traditionalists, the purpose of the circumcision ceremony is not only to
produce character, but to reproduce heteropatriarchy. As such, queerness could not be
compatible with this cultural practice.
Certainly, those who were against Tyamara
constructing his queer identity from circumcision must be pleased by his subsequent exgay status. I suggest that if cultural circumcision is to have any meaning in post-
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apartheid South Africa, it has to be open to the possibility that some of its participants
might be queered in the process of undergoing the practice. The ephemeral nature of
Tyamara’s public queer identification does not change the cultural labor done to open up
the practice to queer possibilities. As such, the queer body destabilizes the presumed
heteropatriarchy of this practice. But it is precisely the rise in gay identity that allows
this practice to be queered in this particular way. Previously, masculine men who formed
relationships with other men might not consider themselves gay, given that gay was
typically a marker of feminine gender performance rather than sexual practice. Similarly,
feminine men who formed relationships with other men might not have considered
themselves men, rather they adopted various “third gender” type of identities if any at all.
The possibility of explicit queerness within these practices would be muted. However,
with the rise of sexual identity categories (especially gay and lesbian) attached to specific
constitutional rights has shifted forms of queer identification.xxxix The rise of public
queer identity, as well as the change in who takes up these identity markers shifts the
possibilities inherent in these practices. Commenting on Tyamara’s sexuality in an
editorial piece entitled “Let Tyamara Live His Life the Way He Chooses” Dimakatso
Mokwena critiques the comments by Doc Shebeleeza. Mokwena states, “As far as we
can see, Tyamara is a man. Or do we have to redefine what the word woman means?”xl
The insertion of individuals such as Tyamara into traditional practices such as
circumcision requires a rethinking of gendered binaries and exclusions based on
sexuality. What the editorial argues is that even as a queer subject, that if Tyamara has
undergone his traditional circumcision he is then in fact a man. And as such, Tyamara
forces a rethinking of definitions of manhood. This is a redefinition that does not require
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an interrogation of the ability of circumcision to confer “manhood” on bodies regardless
of their sexuality. Yet, Tyamara’s queer circumcision requires a redefinition not only of
these practices of tradition but the forms of gender and sexuality produced from them.
THE (IM)POSSIBILITY OF GAY LOBOLA:
Lobola, often translated into English as “bride price” or “bride wealth” is a
practice common in Southern African cultures. Lobola is the recognition of women’s
economic contribution to the household. The expectation is that the bride, once married
into her new family will contribute her labor toward the benefit of her husband’s family.
Therefore, the wife’s family should be compensated for the loss of labor. The process of
lobola traditionally involved lengthy negotiations that cemented the bonds between the
two families involved. This reinforced the notion that black South African marriages, in
contrast to marriages contracted by white South Africans were not about the union of
individuals but instead about the union of families. Lobola, traditionally paid in cattle,
represented a symbolic and material transfer of wealth between the two families. In more
recent times, the length of the negotiation periods have decreased substantially and the
practice of lobola itself has become increasingly commodified with cash payments and
material goods substituting for the cattle of old.xli As Nonhlanhla Mkhize explains:
Lobola was, and still is a transfer of wealth from one group of men to another. … With
the introduction of civil unions or same-sex marriage it is a bit difficult to comprehend
how these social arrangements would wok….xlii
In South Africa, any discussion of same-sex marriage is complicated because of
the recognition of customary marriages and attempts to modernize the lobola practice.
Customary marriages are often contracted within African communities and involve
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negotiation and lobola payments as well as recognition in communities. Customary
marriages can be polygynous unlike civil marriages.
However, under colonial and
apartheid law, customary marriages were not recognized. This often left poor and rural
based African women and the children produced from their unions with little or no rights
or protection under the law. To remedy this problem, South Africa recognized customary
marriages in 1998 as having legal standing.xliii Currently, only heterosexuals are allowed
to contract either customary or civil marriages, both of them having standing before the
law but same sex marriages can only be contracted under civil law.xliv
In light of the gay rights movement and the subsequent legalization of same-sex
marriage in South Africa, the nation has had to grapple more publicly with exactly what it
might mean to have “gay lobola” and how African customary practices regarding
marriage might or might not make sense for same-sex partners. Some of the most
spirited public debate concerning this issue occurred when Albert Mokoena, the former
head of the South African Football Association (SAFA) was exposed as being involved
in a gay sex scandal. Apparently, his male lover left him for a woman, and in a fit of rage
he trespassed onto her property, beat his male lover, and threatened his male lover’s
female companion.xlv
During this argument, Mokoena demanded his R 20,000 lobola
back from his male lover. Mokoena denied ever making such a statement or paying
lobola for his male lover, but this nevertheless started a contentious debate around the
politics of queerness and lobola.
I spoke with a gay friend of mine shortly after the scandal broke, he had this to
say:
This whole business about paying gay lobola is ridiculous. I mean who paid lobola for
whom? I think the whole thing was just done to make a scandal, to find something
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salacious that could be used against Mokoena since he was unpopular at SAFA, and they
wanted to get rid of him.xlvi
In the case of Albert Mokoena, many people including black queers themselves,
dismissed openly any suggestion that lobola could be paid for by a man for another man.
In most of the commentary, debates about same-sex marriage were intermixed in the
discussion. The idea was that lobola referred specifically to the payment the family of
the bridegroom made to the family of the bride. In the case of two men or two women,
no such arrangement could be possible. Same-sex marriage was thus impossible within
an African cultural construct. Amongst the black queer community, the debate was also
raucous, for there were those who wished to consider the possibility that cultural
references could evolve over time to include and make legible queer relationships within
a specifically African cultural matrix. The 2002 documentary film My Son of the Bride
revealed a contemporary instance of a same-sex marriage between two men that involved
the payment of lobola and recognition of the union within African customary
constructs.xlvii What the film demonstrates is that lobola, like other cultural practices in
the black community would change over time and that there is no reason to suspect that
lobola itself could not evolve out of its connection with heterosexuality solely. Is it
possible to queer this particular practice or is the practice so sufficiently connected to
heteropatriarchy that any attempt to queer it leads to an African form of
homonormativity?
Despite my friend’s incredulity at the possibility of same-sex lobola, the fact
remains that black queer South Africans practice same-sex marriages in which lobola is
exchanged, both historically and contemporarily. While historical same-sex marriages
20
are not the focus of my concern here, it is important to note that instances of African
customary law providing space for same-sex marriages to occur (particularly between
two women) are ample and that these same-sex marriages often did involve the payment
of lobola.xlviii In this section of this essay, I explore what the meaning of same-sex
customary marriages have for black queers, and how African customary marriage
practices, such as lobola become an important site of struggle for black queers. As
Wendy Isaack explains:
Legislation was drafted that acknowledged relationships that were negotiated around
customary rules and traditional values. Unfortunately, the process has been limited to
protecting heterosexual relationships. I think the Constitution gives potential to open up
debate on customary marriages to include lesbian and gay people… It’s time to be more
challenging, and to say that we have multiple identities. I am a lesbian. I can access the
Civil Union Act. But I am also a black Zulu woman, and there is a law in this country
that makes provision for Zulus in terms of recognizing marriage. Why should I not have
that?...I believe that it’s not only a legal institution- it’s also about social recognition and
communicating certain social values. So I would like to do it properly. I might take the
Zulu aspect of my tradtion: the lobola needs to be paid, and there needs to be a
negotiation around how it is done. I know of lesbian couples who talk about paying
lobola for each other- they pay the same portion to each other’s families One can work
around these things. But what we have so far is not enough. I want to have all the options.
I want to have the option of using the Customary Marriages Act.xlix
Isaack suggests three issues that are important for understanding the relationship between
African traditional cultural practices and queerness. First, she hints at the inadequacy of
the Civil Union Act to account for the ways in which black queers might experience
same-sex marriage.
Secondly, she acknowledges the important role that social
recognition plays in understanding black queer desires for acceptance of their
relationships within customary frameworks.
Lastly, she suggests that for same-sex
couples the conundrum of two men or two women enacting lobola, while presenting a
challenge to African customary practices is not prohibitive. Gender plays an important
21
role in understanding how lobola practices might differ between same-sex couples that
are male and female. One mother who was offered lobola by her son’s boyfriend
remarked, ‘I just said R100 for buying cool drink because I didn’t know what was
marrying [between two men] I did not take it seriously. l
Because lobola is an explicitly gendered practice, parents do not expect to receive
lobola for male children and do expect to receive lobola for female children. In male
same-sex couples then the practice of paying lobola may not be taken seriously by the
family. Within these male same sex partnerships, the provision of lobola may take on
specifically gendered overtones, with parents of feminine gendered queer men desiring
lobola payments. Furthermore, for many feminine gendered queer men, receiving lobola
confirms their status as “wife” or partner to their masculine gendered partners.
Therefore, while their parents may not desire or expect such payments, feminine gender
performing queer men desire them since these payments confer a form of visibility and
legitimacy to their relationships. Conversely, some men whether masculine or feminine
gender performing may balk at the idea of lobola payments. The fact that they are in
relationships with men ostensibly frees them from the financial and societal burden of
coming up with what are increasingly arduous payments for marriage.
In one case in my research, a masculine gender performing gay man had this to
say about his impending wedding to his feminine gender performing partner:
Thami is from a rich family. I am a poor township boy, but I am a gay boy. I am not
doing it for the money. But his family has decided that we should get married and they
have decided to pay Thami’s lobola for me. I guess they see me as the “man” in the
relationship and they know that I don’t have the money for lobola. So the way I
understand it they will provide the lobola money to my family so that my family can pay
for Thami the right wayli
22
On numerous occasions, my interlocutors mentioned the need to do things “the right
way” or in accordance to “tradition” even if that meant, as described above, revising the
customary practice substantially to suit their needs. Similarly, Graham and Kiguwa found
that their respondents felt it was “important to uphold the tradition of lobola.”lii This
underscores the point that for many people, while marriage surely is about love and the
union of two people and families, there also is an important goal of social visibility,
acceptance, and recognition that is central to the desire to meld African tradition to
queerness.
For black queer women, the issue of lobola is complicated by the fact that unlike
men, families have the expectation (or at least the desire) that they would receive lobola
for their daughters.
In the case of two women marrying, this becomes extremely
complicated. Isaack suggests that one creative way in which black queer South African
women have revised tradition is to pay lobola for one another.lviii In some cases, given
the existence of butch-femme relationships, lobola negotiations would follow
conventional understandings of public gender performance, with the masculine
performing queer woman paying lobola for the feminine gender performing queer
woman.
One of the most salient critiques of South Africa’s civil union partnership law has
been the way in which it left intact customary law practices that are exclusionary. This
has had two problematic effects for black queer South Africans. First, it reiterates the
notion of same sex relationships as un-African, and African customary practices as static
23
and unchanging in contradistinction to the reality of lived African cultural experience.
As Nonhlanhla Mkhize details:
This stark separation in law between civil unions and customary marriages serves to
reinforce the idea that same sex relationships fall outside of African culture, customs and
traditions, and undermines the recognition of same sex relationships and practices in
Africa. It also inhibits the need for further development of African customary traditions
so as to embrace same sex-marriage.lix
Secondly, the development of the civil partnership law privileges a particular kind of
queer subjectivity. This is a queer subjectivity possessed by few black South African
queers and ultimately linked to a form of racialized homonormativity that grants queer
subjects admission provided that their relationships and lifestyles approximate a
heteronormative bourgeois ideal.lx Many black queer South Africans form relationships
simultaneously with men and women and possess a set of sexual identities that are not
built on the model of immutabilitylxi. The current same-sex marriage law has the effect
of admitting same-sex couples:
…to the companianate, voluntary, monogamous civil marriage based on Judeo-Christian
moral values…[and] reaffirms the paramount status of civil marriage, by implying that
this form of marriage is the template to which all hitherto excluded relationships must
conform in order to receive social and legal recognition.lxii
As Wendy Isaack points out the Civil Union Act forecloses on the possibility of
polygamous same-sex relationships.lxiii It also, I might add forecloses on the possibility of
queer polygamous or polyamorous relationships that might allow for a person to form
long term relationships with both a man and a woman simultaneously that might be
recognized and protected by communities and the state.lxiv Surprisingly, as the legislature
moved forward to radically alter aspects of family law with the Civil Union Act of 2006,
the retention of heteronormativity in the Customary Marriages Act reveals both
24
traditional leadership and the South African legislature to enact restrictive and
heteropatriarchal interpretations of customary law.
SOUTH AFRICAN BLACK QUEERS AND USABLE TRADITIONS
These two cases outlined above interest me because they strike at the heart of two
practices that in many ways have come to define the discursive realm through which
black South African cultures measure their relationship to ‘tradition’ – circumcision and
lobola. In addition, both cultural practices exist to define norms of behavior within the
realm of sexuality, in the case of initiation schools and circumcision this marks a coming
of age for the men who participate in the ceremony and in the case of lobola it regulates
and disciplines the structures related to marriage and family. What the debate about
culture, tradition, and African-ness brings up is precisely the role of the queer body in
negotiating these constructs. The evolution of a discourse on culture becomes one of the
ways in which the queer body is the constitutive outside of heteronormativity.
Borrowing from Dwight McBride, I suggest that the practices I have outlined
above constitute a usable tradition for black queers in contemporary South Africa. In his
essay, “Straight Black Studies” McBride identifies “the heterosexist strain inherent in
much of African-Americanist discourse.”lxv As McBride argues elsewhere, such
heterosexism precludes who can speak for, or represent the African American community
in public cultural spaces.lxvi What this means is that black communities must constantly
reproduce themselves in static, fixed ways that eviscerate queers from any contribution or
standing to the community. Black queer studies, as an intellectual and political project
works to recover and reinterpret a usable past that complicates the representation of
African Americans as already always heteronormative.
This usable past is not created
25
for the purposes of rescuing an ahistorical, essentialist black queer subjectivity from the
archive. Rather the idea is to reconstruct how particular black historical figures used
their cultural labor (in the case of McBride the cultural labor of literary production) to
create the possibilities of a contemporary, more explicit black queer subjectivity. As
McBride explains, this project then is not “just one of intersection—as we have thought
of it for so long—it is one of reconstitution. That is race is already more than just
race.”lxvii
In the South African context, I have already detailed previously the ways in which
African cultural discourse has been predicated on similar if not synonymous forms of
heterosexism that mark the creation of black subjectivity in a United States context. I
argue that tradition becomes a necessary and important cultural reinvention. Because
these traditions are not in the past they constitute a present and a possible future that
make them available for reworking. Despite the homophobic and heterosexist
denunciations of traditional leaders, community members, and political figures black
queers and their supporters make use of tradition to situate their queerness in African
cultural contexts. In doing so, they insist on combining African cultural tradition with
queerness and forcing a reconceptualization of both terms. These reconstituted and
reconfigured African cultural practices I refer to as usable tradition. Black queer South
African cultural labor reveals tradition to be the opposite of stasis, to be a set of living
practices. Black queers demonstrate how customary cultural practices can retain their
importance and salience through reconceptualization and the importance of black queer
bodies in testing and pushing the limits of black cultural subjectivity.
26
UBUNTU, SEXUAL AUTONOMY AND ISANGOMA AS FLEXIBLE AFRICAN
CULTURE
In the earlier sections of this essay, I alluded to how black South African queers
create usable traditions. I suggested that these usable traditions reference the contingent
and complex lives that contemporary black South Africans experience and serve as a
necessary space of reconstitution that reveals African custom and culture to be in a state
of being rather than an already accomplished fact.lxviii In this last section, I would like to
reinforce the ideas of African custom and its attendant cultural practices as flexible and
contingent. It is the flexibility, not the stasis of African customary practices that allow
for them to be usable.
To further explore the connection between queerness and African tradition I offer
the possibility that African traditional practices are in themselves fluid. To do so I rely on
a reading of African healing practices provided in Nkunzi Zandile Nkabinde’s
autobiography Black Bull, Ancestors and Me.lxix Nkabinde describes her experience as a
lesbian sangoma. Sangomas are traditional healers who provide forms of spiritual,
emotional, and physical healing. They perform the work of a pastor, psychologist,
psychiatrist, and physician. For many black South Africans they are a primary form of
healthcare, particularly in matters relating to the spiritual and the emotional realm. lxx
Sangomas are chosen by their ancestors whose spirit enters into the bodies of their
descendants. They must go through a rigorous training process in order to be certified as
a sangoma. Those who practice as sangomas typically see themselves as being called
into the practice. It is generally considered dangerous to ignore the call of the ancestors.
27
Nkabinde argues that isangoma as a practice is sufficiently fluid to allow for the
transgression of gender and sexual norms that might not be possible outside the space. lxxi
She states:
In traditional Zulu culture, a man must be a man and do male things and a woman must
be a woman and do female things but with sangomas it is more flexible. I can dance like
a woman and wear a woman’s clothes and dance like a man and wear a man’s clothes. I
can do the work of a man, like slaughtering a goat or a cow, although in traditional Zulu
culture a woman cannot slaughter. lxxii
Nkabinde suggests that it is through her male ancestor that she came to be a sangoma and
that this male ancestor exerts a strong influence on her sexuality. She conceptualizes her
sexuality as an extension of her spiritual work. In fact, she understands her same-sex
sexuality as intimately connected with her ability to communicate with her male ancestor:
If Nkunzi (her male ancestor) did not want me to be a lesbian I don’t believe that I would
have had those feelings. He would have given me a male partner and I would have been
happy with that. Nkunzi accepts me as a lesbian. He understands my feelings. Nkunzi
knew he was going to use my body long before he died.lxxiii
Nkunzi loves women, especially young women. If I am with a woman of 21 or 22,
normally Nkunzi will want to have sex with her. I will feel his presence as if someone’s
touching my shoulders and sometimes I see the legs and genitals of a man.lxxiv
Nkabinde suggests that her understanding of her body is influenced by the role her
ancestor plays in manipulating her emotional and spiritual state. She even conceptualizes
her body differently viewing herself as a partially transgendered subject as her lower
body transmogrifies into that of a man. This transmogrification simply reinforces the
power of her male ancestor to shape her erotic attachments and desires. For Nkabinde,
her sexuality cannot be formed in contradistinction to the explicit wishes of her ancestral
spirit. Same-sex sexuality rather than being un-African is linked co-productively with
African cosmology and belief systems.
28
Nkabinde suggests that this ability to transgress boundaries of gender and
sexuality is inherent in this form of African culture and customary practice. What makes
her claims destabilizing of heteronormativity is the discursive and cultural labor she does
to articulate her feelings and practices under the rubric of western terms such as “gay” or
“lesbian.” More significantly, the ability to transgress these norms were not previously
articulated and made visible in this way. Nkabinde reads the flexibility of isangoma and
does the work of translating this practice into an understanding of herself as lesbian. For
her, this interpretation of the relationship between traditional practices and her queerness
was anticipated by her ancestor.lxxv This different way may be precisely the labor that
Nkunzi has taken up to reconfigure isangoma as queer. For her this was necessary as a
practice that allowed her to live a non-schizophrenic existence. “I wanted to live my life
as a sangoma and a lesbian – as one person- not divided into pieces...”lxxvi She sees
herself as a sexually autonomous subject that has the choice of articulating her queerness
through lesbian identity. Commenting on the relationship between the new political
dispensation of post-apartheid South Africa and increasing visibility of particular kinds of
black queer subjects, one woman in Mpumalanga had this to say “Even under the
previous government the same-sex relationships were in existence. It does not happen
now just because we have democracy. Democracy made it possible for people to
choose.”lxxvii
Nkabinde and other black queers specifically choose a form of sexual autonomy
that roots them and their practices within a specifically African cultural matrix. While
many have alluded to the presence of same-sex African queers in the archives of black
South African life, what sets these black queers apart is the use of sexual identity
29
markers, such as gay or lesbian to describe their forms of sexual autonomy. More
importantly, they insist not on the incompatibility of sexual identity markers with African
cultural constructs, but of their mutual constitution and concordance.
In discussing sexual autonomy, performance theorist Judith Butler suggests that
autonomy is always relational.
lxxviii
Therefore, black queers must negotiate any form of
sexual autonomy within the black communities that they primarily occupy.
Although we struggle for rights over our own bodies, the very bodies for which we
struggle are not quite really ever our own. The body has its invariably public dimension;
constituted as a social phenomenon in the public sphere, the body is and is not mine.lxxix
While Butler grounds her thoughts about the relational nature of sexual autonomy in
western thought, her understanding of the human and its relationship to forms of sexual
autonomy bears a striking resemblance to the African philosophical concept of ubuntu.
Ubuntu, typically translated as humanness, is an African philosophical concept based on
the proverb “Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu” or “Motho ke Motho ka batho” both of which
loosely translate to saying a person is a person because of other people. The forms of
sexual autonomy that I delineate here emerge from this concept and from a nonheteronormative view of ubuntu. In contrast to those proponents of traditional African
culture who would deny the humanity of the black queer subject, black queers insist on
their right to exist through the very cultural discourse of tradition that would deny them
recognition. In doing so, they exhibit a form of sexual autonomy that understands itself
as relational and forged out of struggle and contestation. As they struggle for the right to
“choose” they realize implicitly that this choice already occurs within a matrix of
discursive and material realms that are not their own making. Forming usable traditions
becomes central to exercising their rights. Usable tradition becomes more than simply an
30
oppressive normative discourse of exclusion. If traditional leaders represented by the
National Conference of Traditional Leaders can insist that the queer subject is an unreal
one, then the formation of usable traditions by black South African queers brings the
unreal into reality.
CONCLUSION
One may critique the salience of cultural markers such as initiation and lobola to
confer African-ness onto bodies, and desire a more radical queer politics. While these
attempts may not necessarily overturn the logic of exclusion, they are an important way
to negotiate visibility and acceptance in black communities.lxxxi Some black queer people
clearly desire methods of inclusion that ground their queerness in African cultural
constructs.
The connection of these practices with exclusive heterosexuality must be
actively rethought by the reality of queer participation in them.
I insist that black queer South Africans work to counteract Africanist cultural
discourse that configures their lives and experiences as un-African.
Instead of the
constitutive outside, they insist on the coproduction of African identity in relation to
sexuality and alternative gender and sexual formations. Rather than completely rejecting
African customary practices, black queers create forms of sexual autonomy making
usable traditions. These usable traditions function to reconstitute the ways in which
African bodies are understood. Rather than anachronistic, these battles over African
custom, culture, and traditions are an important and fruitful site for contesting what the
meanings of the post-apartheid state will entail. Black queers remake these traditions that
reveal interconnected forms of sexual autonomy. In turn they create the possibility that
31
the very customary practices pre-figured as static and heteronormative can be actively
expanded and changed through queer re-imagination. As Butler explains, “Possibility is
not a luxury…we should not underestimate what the thought of the possible does for
those for whom the very issue of survival is most important.”lxxxii Black queer South
Africans usable traditions provide the antithesis to a fixed immutable understanding of
African culture and its articulation to racial, sexual, and gendered identity.
i
Graeme Reid, “The Canary in the Constitution: Same-Sex Equality in the Public
Sphere,” Social Dynamics 36, no. 1 (2010): 44.
ii
Staff Reporter, “Zuma Earns the Wrath of Gays and Lesbians,” Mail and Guardian, 26
Sep. 2006, http://www.mg.co.za/article/2006-09-26-zuma-earns-wrath-of-gays-andlesbians .
iii
Riazz Palmer, “The Kiss SA TV Has Never Seen Before,” IOL Online, 2 Jul. 2004,
http://www.iol.co.za/news/south-africa/the-kiss-sa-tv-has-never-shown-before-1.216199 .
iv
SABC, The South African Broadcasting Company is a state owned broadcasting
corporation that operates radio and television. It has a dual mission as both a public
service and commercial provider.
v
Litheko Modisane, “Yizo Yizo: Sowing Debate, Reaping Controversy,” Social
Dynamics 36, no. 1 (2010): 122-134.
vi
Palmer, “The Kiss SA TV”
Queer is used in this essay as an analytic to describe a variety of non-heteronormative
gender and sexual practices. Following the earlier work of Marc Epprecht, queer refers
not to a sexual identity but to a way to think through how “nonnormative [genders] and
sexualities infiltrate dominant discourses to loosen their political [and cultural]
stronghold.” Marc Epprecht, Hungochani: The History of Dissident Sexuality in Southern
Africa (Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 2004), 15. In his later work, Epprecht
suggests that queer functions as “an antiessentialist approach to researching gender and
sexuality that is open to the whole range of human sexual diversity.” Marc Epprecht,
Heterosexual Africa? The History of an Idea from the Age of Exploration to the Age of
AIDS (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2008), 13. Gayatri Reddy’s discussion in With
Respect to Sex: Negotiating Hijra Identity in South India (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2005) also informs my use of queer in this essay. Reddy argues
convincingly for rethinking hijra subjectivity away from a dichotomous division between
western subjectivities such as “gay” or “lesbian” and local subjectivities such as hijra and
koti. Instead she reveals how both forms of subjectivity coexist “blur[ing] the the
boundaries that define gay identity, both in India and in the imaginary location of the
vii
32
‘West’ ”, 222. In a 2010 article, Andrew Tucker discusses how the term ‘gay’ in
township settings in Cape Town comes to take on a variety of meanings far more
expansive than those generally assigned to “gay” identity in western contexts, see
“Shifting Boundaries of Sexual Identities in Cape Town: The Appropriation and
Malleability of ‘Gay’ in Township Spaces,” Urban Forum (2010) 21: 107-122.
viii
One exception to this was the depiction of a black gay couple in the television miniseries first broadcast on SABC entitled In A Time of Violence, VHS, Directed by Brian
Tilley, South Africa: Afravision, 1994.
x
This research is based on ethnographic and media analyses conducted between 2003
and 2005 as part of a project of post-apartheid popular culture.
xi
Jyoti Mistry, “Conditions of Cultural Production in post-apartheid South Africa,”
Extraordinary Times, IWM Junior Visiting Fellows Conferences 11 (2001): 2.
xii
For more discussion on the views of black liberation leaders toward traditional
leadership please see C.R.D. Halisi, “From Liberation to Citizenship: Identity and
Innovation in Black South African Political Thought,” Comparative Studies in Society
and History 39, 1 (January 1997) : 61-85; See also Ineke Van Kessel and Barbara Oomen
“ ‘One Chief, One Vote’ : The Revival of Traditional Authorities in Post Apartheid South
Africa,” African Affairs 96, 385 (1997): 561-585.
xiv
Mistry, “Conditions of Cultural Production,” 3.
xv
Republic of South Africa, “Recognition of Customary Marriages Act,” (1998): Act
120.
xvi
Alexkor Ltd. and Another v. Ritchersveld Community and Others, 54 (CC, 2004)
www.saflii.org/za/cases/ZACC/2003/18.html.
xviii
Mahmood Mamdani, introduction to his Beyond Rights Talk and Culture Talk:
Comparitive Essays on the Politics of Rights and Culture (New York: St. Martin’s Press,
2000), 5.
xix
Mamdani, Beyond Rights Talk, 10.
xx
Jean and John Comaroff, “Reflections on Liberalism, Policulturalism, and ID-ology:
Citizenship and Difference in South Africa,” Social Identities 9, 4 (2003), 447.
xxi
Comaroff and Comaroff, “Reflections on Liberalism,” 447.
xxii
In 2012, the National Council of Traditional Leaders renewed their call to end
protections on the basis of sexual orientation enshrined in the South African Constitution.
The leader of the National Council, Patekile Holomisa, who is also an ANC member of
Parliament, stated “It [same sex-sexuality] is not a part of our culture.” For more
discussion see Chris Barron “So Many Questions: Congress of Traditional Leaders
President Patekile Holomisa,” Sunday Times, 13 May 2012,
http://www.timeslive.co.za/opinion/commentary/2012/05/13/so-many-questionscongress-of-traditional-leaders-president-patekile-holomisa.
xxiii
Mamdani, Beyond Rights Talk, 13.
xxiv
The awkwardness between the two characters is a result of the kiss since the kiss
forced Thiza to acknowledge the growing erotic tension between himself and Thabang.
xxv
Yizo Yizo, VHS, Directed by Barry Berk et.al., Johannesburg: SABC Education, 2004.
The dialogue quoted here is my transcription.
xxvi
For a discussion of queer exclusion from African custom, culture and tradition see
Rachel Holmes “White Rapists Made Coloureds (and Homosexuals) The Winnie
33
Mandela Trial and the Politics of Race and Sexuality,” in Defiant Desire: Gay and
Lesbian Lives in South Africa, eds. Edwin Cameron and Mark Gevisser (New York:
Routledge, 1995), 284-294; Margaret Aarmo “How Homosexuality Became Un-African:
The Case of Zimbabwe” in Female Desires: Same Sex Relations and Transgender
Practices Across Cultures, eds. Evelyn Blackwood and Saskia Wieringa (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1999), 255-279.
xxviii
Louise Vincent, “Cutting Tradition: The Political Regulation of Traditional
Circumcision Rites in South Africa’s Liberal Democratic Order,” Journal of Southern
African Studies, 34, 1 (2008): 77-91.
xxix
For a discussion of the role of rejection, particularly rejection by the opposite sex in
encouraging participation in initiation ceremonies see Thandisizwe R. Mavundla et. al.,
“How Boys Become Dogs: Stigmatization and Marginalization of Uninitiated Xhosa
Males in East London, South Africa,” Qualitative Health Research, XX, X (2010): 1-11.
xxx
Louise Vincent, “Male Circumcision Policy, Practices and Services in Eastern Cape
Province of South Africa,” http://www.malecircumcision.org .
xxxii
Andile Mhlalo, “What is Manhood?: The Significance of Traditional Circumcision in
the Xhosa Initiation Ritual” (M.Phil. Thesis, University of Stellenbosch, 2009).
xxxiii
For an audiovisual exploration see Siyayinqoba (2004) to watch this episode see
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yic_mRea31A.
xxxiv
Pumza Fihlani, “Why South Africans Risk Death and Injury to be Circumcised,”
http://www.bbc.co.uk .
xxxv
For a fascinating discussion of a queer Xhosa man and his rejection of traditional
circumcision see the film Umgidi, DVD, Directed by Gillian Schutte and Sipho Singiswa,
San Francisco: California Newsreel, 2004.
xxxvi
Max Mojalepo and Sello Galane, Beyond Memory: Reading the History Moments
and Memories of South African Music (Somerset West, South Africa: African Minds,
2009), 334.
xxxvii
Dimakatso Mokwena, “Let Tyamara Live His Life the Way He Chooses,” Sowetan,
31 Mar. 2008, http://www.sowetanlive.co.za/sowetan/archive/2008/03/31/let-tyamaralive-hislife-the-way-he-chooses?filter=all_comments.
xxxviii
Interestingly, even years after marriage and fatherhood Tyamara still must answer
questions about his sexuality. For more on this discussion see Zenoyise Madikwa “Great
Album From a ‘Mere’ Believer,” Sowetan 6 Feb. 2009, www.sowetan.co.za.
xxxix
For a discussion of the shifts in queer identification and specifically the various ways
in which particular identity markers do or do not become adopted by black queer men in
post-apartheid South Africa please see Tucker “Shifting Boundaries”; Donald Donham
“Freeing South Africa: The Modernization of Male-Male Sexuality in Soweto” Cultural
Anthropology 13, 1 (Feb 1998): 3-21; Tim Lane et. al. “High HIV Prevalence Among
Men Who Have Sex With Men in Soweto, South Africa: Results From the Soweto Men’s
Study,” AIDS and Behavior 15, 3 (April 2011): 626-634; Xavier Livermon “Queer(y)ing
Freedom: Black Queer Visibilities in Postapartheid South Africa” GLQ 18, 2-3 (2012):
297-323.
xl
Mokwena, “Let Tyamara Live”
xli
For a discussion about the changing nature of lobola in modern South Africa see
Nonhlanhla Mkhize, “(Not) in my culture: Thoughts on same-sex marriage and African
34
practices” in To Have and To Hold: The Making of Same Sex Marriage in South Africa
(eds.) Melanie Judge, Anthony Manion, and Shaun de Waal (Cape Town: Jacana Media,
2008): 99-100.
xlii
Ibid, 98-9.
xliii
Republic of South Africa, “Recognition of Customary Marriages”
xliv
For more discussion on the tension between the Recognition of Customary Marriages
Act of 1998 and the Civil Union Act of 2006 please see Elsje Bonthuys, “Possibilities
Foreclosed: The Civil Union Act and Lesbian and Gay Identity in Southern Africa,”
Sexualities 11, 6 (2008): 726-739; Nomthandazo Ntlama, “A Brief Overview of the Civil
Union Act,” Potchefstroom Electronic Law Journal (PER) 13, 1 (2010): 191-212.
xlv
Pule Mokhine, “SAFA Boss in ‘Love’ Fight,” City Press, 23 Oct. 2004,
http://www.citypress.co.za/SouthAfrica/News/Safa-boss-in-love-fight-20100614 .
xlvi
Conversation with author, October 2004.
xlvii
My Son, The Bride, VHS, Directed by Mpumi Njinge, South Africa: MNET New
Directions, 2002. It should be noted that at the time of the documentary’s filming samesex marriages were not legal in South Africa.
xlviii
For a discussion of historical same-sex marriage between men see Robert Louw
“Mkhumbane and New Traditions of (Un)African Same-Sex Weddings,” in Changing
Men in Southern Africa ed. Robert Morrell (London: Zed Books, 2001): 287-296. For
further discussion of historical same-sex marriages between women see Elsje Bonthuys
“Possibilities Foreclosed,” and Zethu Mathabeni “ Blissful Complexities: Black Lesbians
Reflect on Same-Sex Marriage and the Civil Union Act” in To Have and To Hold, 249257.
xlix
Wendy Isaack, “Interview with Wendy Isaack,” in To Have and To Hold, 47.
l
Tonya Graham and Sarah Kiguwa, Experiences of Black LGBTI Youth in Peri-Urban
Communities in South Africa, (Cape Town: IDASA (Institute for Democracy in South
Africa, 2005), 12.
li
Conversation with author, October 2004.
lii
Graham and Kiguwa, Experiences of Black LGBTI, 12.
lviii
Isaack, “Interview with Wendy Isaack,” 47.
lix
Mkhize, “(Not) in my Culture,”102.
lx
Elsje Bonthuys, “The Civil Union Act: More of the Same,” In To Have and To Hold,
171-181.
lxi
For more on this discussion please see Lane et. al. “High HIV Prevalence”; Tucker
Queer Visibilities.
lxii
Bonthuys, “Possibilities Foreclosed,” 729.
lxiii
Graham and Kiguwa, Experiences of Black LGBTI, 12.
lxiv
It would theoretically be possible for a man to marry a woman through customary
marriage, then contract a civil union with a man. Note however, that it is the civil
marriage that would have to be conducted with the same-sex partner as customary law
would not allow for this kind of arrangement even as it would accept polygyny. Consider
as well that customary marriage makes no provision for polyandry. Archival evidence of
same-sex customary marriage between women notwithstanding, there is no current
provision for a woman to marry a woman under the rules spelled out by the Recognition
of Customary Marriages Act.
35
lxv
Dwight McBride, Why I Hate Abercrombie and Fitch: Essays on Race and Sexuality
Kindle Edition (New York: New York University Press, 2005), 36.
lxvi
Dwight McBride, “Can the Queen Speak? Racial Essentialism, Sexuality and the
Problem of Authority,” Callaloo 21, no. 2 (Spring 1998): 363-379.
lxvii
Ibid, 377.
lxviii
Stuart Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Theorizing Diaspora: A Reader eds.
Jana Evans Braziel and Anita Mannur (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2003), 233-246.
lxix
As is typical of most sangomas, Nkabinde adds the name of her ancestor, in this case
Nkunzi to her own. I will distinguish between Nkunzi (her male ancestor) and Nkabinde
as necessary throughout the text.
lxx
Threethambal Puckree et.al., “African Traditional Healers: What Health Care
Professionals Need to Know,” International Journal of Rehabilitation Research 25, 4
(December 2002): 247-251.
lxxi
Isangoma might be best translated here as the practice of being a sangoma.
lxxii
Nkunzi Zandile Nkabinde, Black Bull, Ancestors and Me: My Life as a Lesbian
Sangoma (Johannesburg: Jacana Media, 2009), 73.
lxxiii
Ibid, 67.
lxxiv
Nkabinde, Black Bull, 68.
lxxv
Nkabinde, Black Bull, 53.
lxxvi
Nkabinde, Black Bull, 79.
lxxvii
Reid, “The Canary in the Constitution,” 43.
lxxviii
Judith Butler, Undoing Gender (New York: Routledge, 2004).
lxxix
Ibid, 21.
lxxxi
Tucker, Queer Visibilities.
lxxxii
Butler, Undoing Gender, 29.
36