One shouldn’t wait until one’s friends are dead to document admiration for them. With this in mind I thought I would schedule some praise singing for my friend, Neville (front right of photograph). Although, as will become clear, the actual praise singing is directed more at his mentor, guide and teacher: Khansile Ndyawe (middle back of photograph).
I have known Neville for a decade –I got to know him initially over a period of 2 weeks when a tight group of us ran 600km from Grahamstown to Knysna along the cattle paths and wagon trails of the original South African pilgrimage, Indlela Yobuntu. (But that is another story entirely and involves other friends most worthy of admiration). Running together all day every day for 2 weeks and sleeping on the floor within reach of each other fast-tracks friendships (or doesn’t- but not often) and by the end of this time together I knew almost everything about Neville and felt prepared to go to war with him (or stage a drama production in 3 parts.) Neville is not easy to describe without video footage but here goes my first attempt:
He is compellingly uncool. He can fix anything from a diesel engine to a goat uterus with a suitable length of baling twine and he (unwittingly) makes poetry out of farming. (Think Wendell Berry/Boet and Swaar maybe). I am drawn to him for many reasons. He reminds me of my father with his unapologetic Eastern Cape accent, his astonishing levels of exuberance, his unwavering principles, his square, capable hands. He is possibly the most authentic person I know and unquestionably in my top 3. He looks a lot like Frodo Baggins (piercing blue eyes, hardy, compact frame, usually on a proper mission). He is uncommonly philosophical. He and I and our various brothers in arms have spoken about many deep things in the 100’s of running miles we have shared but there are some particular stand-out conversations: how to recognize the elements that guarantee elegance in a she-goat, how to make your way from Upington to Adelaide in 24 hours without a motor vehicle, his astonishingly radical sustainable farming methods. But over and over again he circles back to a conversation in which he describes his gratitude to and his admiration, respect and love for his mentor, Khansile (Council) Ndyawe. He is retrospectively awed by the significance of Khansile. And so am I.
This is how Neville describes him (with a lot of energetic hand gestures for emphasis):
“Looking back with the perspective of 50 years it is clear to me that Khansile, an unassuming Xhosa man from the rural Eastern Cape, who owned almost nothing and never wore a pair of shoes, was the most influential person in my life. He is and always has been my guide.
Khansile was chief herdsman on my father’s farm and lived closer to nature than anyone I have ever encountered. He was connected to the soil and the dust, the rocks and veldt of the Eastern Cape in a way that defies belief. He read the earth with his calloused feet, his rough hands and his sharp eyes like a blind man reads braille. He not only knew every indigenous plant by name, he breathed life from them. (I think of him relishing the breath freshening leaves of the wild pepper tree every time I encounter it.) His own dogs and cattle, the farm stock and the wild animals of the veldt were his clansmen in every sense – there was a sacred intimacy in his ability to connect with them. He was the original animal whisperer. Khansile had a unique way of affording respect, (even reverence) to every life form, whether plant, human, animal, or insect.
Although I am mindful of never romanticizing poverty, he was rich and wise and generous in his capacity to embody and impart minimalism and mindfulness. He carried his meagre property (tobacco, a traditional pipe, salt, a few coins) in a goat skin bag slung across his chest and whenever he put it down his dogs (his lieutenants and constant devoted companions) would take responsibility for guarding it with their lives. And yet I recall him bringing a heifer calf as a gift for my sister on the day she was born. He possessed a largeness, a generosity of spirit that defied his lack of material possessions. He owned almost nothing, but he had much to give. And he gave abundantly and at every opportunity.
His personality was charismatic, charming, magnetic. His exuberant energy attracted everyone and everything like bees to wild honey. His voice charmed the cattle down from the mountain, the rock doves from thickets, domestic staff from the kitchen (they would leave their work hastily, tumbling out the back door in their urgency to greet him).
Khansile taught me to understand and appreciate the unspeakable value of home, that place that we occupy on this earth. He took consistent joy from truly simple pleasures that are there for the free taking every day: the satisfaction of tired muscles after a worthy day of work, the aspect of the distant hills at dusk, the wonder of every unique sunrise, the rain, a simple meal or a mug of cool water, the unexpected gift of a leguaan sliding into a pool in the otherwise dry riverbed. He taught me how to see. He was contented and positive in the most authentic sense and he sucked the marrow from every one of life’s experiences.
Khansile trained me in everything I know. He created fertile soil for everything I have come to know. He instilled his nature into me by osmosis as I followed him barefoot along the footpaths of my childhood. I am who I am because of who he was. He is my forefather who gifted me a legacy beyond worth. I am unable to articulate my indebtedness to him. I honor him.”