A few years ago, the Abantu Book Festival was established by one of the most brilliant writers of our time, Thando Mgqolozana. His debut novel, A Man Who is Not a Man, is unarguably one of the most important books to have ever been written in SA.
It details the unimaginable trauma of a young initiate whose circumcision, a critical rite of passage in many African communities, goes awry. The book challenges our ideas about what it means to be a man and of the toxicity we hide in the name of culture. I was in high school when the book came out in 2009 and it changed my life.
When Thando established the Abantu Book Festival in 2017, the black community was ecstatic. This was a period during which incidents of racism were flaring up in our country. After two decades of being allowed to get away with so much by the ANC-led government, white people in our country had become emboldened.
They were shooting at us on farms and claiming they thought we were baboons. Afrikaners were openly running training camps for their children, claiming to be preparing for war. It was a difficult time, and so when the idea of Abantu Book Festival came along, black people could breathe a sigh of relief.
For the first time in this psychologically bruising country, black people had a safe space to think, to speak, to feel, to be. For the first time, we could exist as human beings in a space where we didn't need to beg to be accommodated, assimilated, accepted.
Abantu was hosted in Soweto, a township that holds great meaning for black people. It was held among our people, in a space where we were comfortable. We could be black people. More importantly, as black women, we could show up in our authentic selves. We were given a platform to share our struggles, our pains. Mgqolozana gave us that and we thought he was an ally.
But a few days ago, the mother of his child posted on social media that she had endured unimaginable abuse in his hands. She posted images of her burnt body, saying it was the result of paraffin being poured on her body. She shared a story about the terrifying day Mgqolozana threatened her life and someone had to intervene.
For us, black women who had held Mgqolozana in such high regard, this was the greatest betrayal imaginable. Central to the story is the woman who was hurt, and others who we have since been informed about. But this is also a story of the many ways that black men find comfort in our sacred spaces and use that as a shield to hide.
We grew up being taught to be careful of strangers outside who could come in and harm us. But increasingly, it is becoming clear that the men we need to fear are our fathers, brothers, lovers, colleagues and friends. The strangers who hurt us are not outside, they are inside the spaces we regard as safe.
And increasingly, it is becoming clear that the idea of black men being our allies is questionable. Men like Mgqolozana are not outliers, they are the norm.
In activist spaces, it is the men who are the most vocal against the violence of whiteness and patriarchy who turn out to be perpetrators. I no longer believe in the idea of black men being my allies. I have accepted that my liberation is dependent on me and other black women.
It hurts less than depending on allies who turn out to be monsters hiding in plain sight.
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