My journey as a not so South African-South African

My journey, well, it's not your typical South African tale.

I was a child of the '90s, coming of age at the dawn of a new era in South Africa. Back then, Johannesburg's CBD was a place filled with hope and dreams, a place where the promise of a new South Africa shone bright, brimming with opportunities for the everyday folk like us.

My father, he hailed from Mozambique, a descendant of the Ronga tribe down south. They spoke in dialects intertwined with whistles that made their language sound like a rendition of that popular amapiano track, 'The Whistling Song.' He had journeyed to South Africa, crossing the perilous Crocodile River, seeking refuge from the brutal and life-threatening chaos of the 15-year-long civil war that had torn apart the land he once called home.

He arrived in the '80s, in search of a new beginning, a fresh start. My mom would often joke about how, when she first met him, my dad didn't know a word of English. Their conversations must have been a delightful mix of laughter and sign language.

My mother, on the other hand, was a celebrity hairstylist in the City of Gold. She worked her magic on the tresses of legends like Brenda Fassie and Yvonne Chaka Chaka, basking in the glitz and glam of South Africa's newfound independence. She was a blend of Cape Malay and Malawian heritage, a mix of colorful spices and the warmth and kindness of the people of Malawi. Even though it's been almost 20 years since she passed away in 2004, her memory lingers in my heart as if she left us just yesterday.

With my Ronga (Mozambique), Cape Malay (South Africa), and Chewa (Malawian) roots, I consider myself a rich mosaic of cultural diversity and deep lineage. I now stand tall, fully embracing the tapestry of life and the people who shaped me. I speak the languages of my ancestors with pride, proclaiming my South African identity even though my parents hail from different corners of our beautiful continent.

Yet, growing up wasn't always this harmonious. I recall the confusion I felt, the nagging questions of who I was and where I belonged, amidst friends who could easily identify with a single tribe, usually taking after their father's heritage.

The most perplexing moments of my early years came during the national census at school, where they asked us to raise our hands to record our home languages, ethnicities, and cultures. Zulu kids raised their hands for Zulu as their home language, colored kids for colored ethnicity. I, on the other hand, raised my hand for English as my home language, much to the bewilderment of my white classmates who found it odd. And when it came to ethnicity, sometimes I'd raise my hand for black, other times for colored, depending on how I felt that day.

All this confusion led to a constant struggle to fit in. To belong. So, I adapted. I spoke and acted like a Zulu girl to fit in with my Zulu friends and transformed into a Sotho girl to be with my Sotho friends. It was both exhausting and exhilarating, a journey through other people's cultures and ways of life. But it wasn't easy when your own roots felt uncertain, when you didn't quite know who you really were.

There's an African proverb that says, "When the root is deep, there is no reason to fear the wind."

Now, 33 years down the road, I can confidently say that I've found myself, my true identity, and where my roots belong. It might not be the most conventional coming-of-age story, and it certainly doesn't mirror anyone else's journey. But I've arrived at a place of self-assuredness, embracing the diversity of who I am meant to be. I'm different, and that's perfectly okay.

I'm 100% South African, shaped by the landscape, history, and pop culture of this vibrant nation. I groove to kwaito and lose myself in the rhythms of South African house beats. I'm also 100% Mozambican, my cooking infused with the flavors of home, donning a capulana (African fabric wrap) around my waist on scorching summer days.

Speaking with my Mozambican family and friends feels just like home. And yes, I'm 100% Malawian too, spending precious time with my maternal side, swapping stories in Chichewa and giggling at how our Malawian parents would mix up their R's and L's (most of my Malawian relatives and friends endearingly call me Lozalia – it's quite amusing to hear).

In each of us, there's a beautiful blend of cultures, diversity, lineage, and heritage, uniquely crafted to make us who we are. Our essence isn't defined by the tribe we belong to or the way we cook our pap. Our true essence comes from acknowledging the multitude who came before us, contributing to the tapestry of our existence. Regardless of your culture or ethnicity, always remember this: "You are fearfully and wonderfully made."

Happy Heritage Day!