JULY/AUG 2015 ISSUE 04 R25

THE TRAGIC TALE OF BEN CARRIAGEPETER MLUNGU GOES BACK TO HIS ROOTS

CHOOSING A DIFFERENT WAY

THESOUTHAFRICANSHORTSTORIESISSUE

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Y O U R C O N T E M P O R A R Y T O U R O F C U LT U R E & D E S I G N

E D I TO R I A L T E A MEDITOR-IN-CHIEF JONATHAN JUST CREATIVE DIRECTOR MICHAEL JUST

COPY EDITOR JANELLE ARNOLD PROOF READING DARLINGTON MUSHAMBI DISTRIBUTION RHONWIN MILESSALES & MARKETING DANE LING WEB MANAGER WATIPASO KALIWO

C O N TA C T39 EDNAM ROAD, NEWLANDS, CAPE TOWN, 7700

CONTOURMAGAZINE.CO.ZA / INFO@CONTOURMAG.CO.ZACONTOUR MAGAZINE @CONTOURMAG

Welcome to this special issue of Contour Magazine!

Everyone loves to read stories, right? Why do you think that is? I think that it’s maybe because once we as the reader have been granted access to something real that happened to someone else, even if it’s just a snippet of a life-changing event, that could perhaps be the eye-opener we need to challenge a similar issue in our own lives.

In this edition we read the three unique vignettes of Romano Isaacs, Peter Mlungu, and Ben Carriage. Around the same age although from starkly different backgrounds, they are each faced with a big life decision to make and varying contributing factors which influence the making of their decisions. It was heart-rending for me to hear each one of these guys share something so personal about the choices that they made which set off a chain of either positive or negative consequences. I’m sure it will touch your heart as well.

Contour Magazine is all about creating a platform for young (and older!) creatives to explore the mysterious connection between culture and design. It would be true to say that as much as culture shapes design, design also shapes culture. The two go hand in hand. The decisions people make in real life can be triggered by an image or symbol that they associate with a particular cultural norm. Take gangsterism, for example. All gangs have an emblem or ‘coat of arms’ by which they are identified with. The way that image is designed stems from a culture of gangsterism, with certain colours intended to symbolize what sort of message that gang will try to perpetuate in the community.

We hope these three stories will paint a richer picture of the cultural diversity that we as South Africans are so blessed to have. May this just be a little window into the powerful forces of good or evil at work around us, wherever we may be, that shapes us into who we will ultimately become.

Hey you,

Stay golden,

MESSAGE FROM THE EDITOR

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

D E

DISCLAIMER: THIS MAGAZINE MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED OR COPIED. ALL OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN THIS MAGAZINE ARE NOT NECESSARY THOSE OF THE PUBLISHER, PRINTER, ADVERTISERS AND CONTOUR MAGAZINE.

ON THE CO

VERALL THE REST

04 | JUL/AUG 2015

SYMBOLISM & THE POWER OF PAINTING PICTURES

BECOMING A CULTURE-MAKER

NTOBEKO MJIJWA: RISING TALENT IN PE

DESIGN AND THE DIGITAL DIVIDE

KEEPING KIDS OFF THE STREET THROUGH PAINTING

WINNERS OF THE SCETCH PAD COMPETITION

15

21

25

29

33

36

CONTEN

TSROMANO ISAACS /03

PETER MLUNGU /07

BEN CARRIAGE /1121

O N T H E C O V E R

R O M A N O I S A A C S

C O N TO U R M AG A Z I N E . C O . Z A 0 4

“R omano! Hoe lyk it? Today’s the day you follow in jou pa

se footsteps, hey my boy?”

Tensely bent over on the frayed single-seater couch, eyes fixed on the cross that I could see dangling from my neck. I looked up nervously towards the skinny, tattooed man standing over me, a wry smile accentuated by his gold tooth glistening in the early morning sunshine.

“What dchu mean, daddy?” I muttered hesitantly, knowing exactly what he was asking me to do.

“Dsay! Don’t play dumb wif me!” The cold flat side of his knife blade pressed against my cheek. “The West Siders sit kring this afternoon and we’ve already planned your initiation tonight. You better not let me down, Romano! You don’t show, you dead!”

Watching him reload his 9 mm handgun and tuck it behind his

shirt in the back of his jeans, I knew he meant it.

***

“Hey Romano, aweh aweh!”

“Hello Alfredo, nee dinge is heavy may bru.”

“Hoe so?” Alfredo looked inquiringly at his best friend lying flat on his bed nervously rubbing his hands together with a dejected look upon his face.

“My pa is meeting with the West Siders in a couple of hours and he said I mus come. Tonight is my initiation and you know what that means?” Alfredo nodding fearfully, “I have to kill someone from the Americans! Nee, I can’t do it Alf!”

“Ag a no man! You mustn’t go then.”

“They’ll kill me if I don’t! Don’t chu see?”

“Rommie, you can’t be like your father! Remember how we spoke about leaving Mitchells Plain all those years ago?” walking over and shaking me reassuringly, “Hey! What

0 5 I S S U E 4 , 2 0 1 5

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are we waiting for? Let’s go. Both of us.”

I was mulling it over in my mind, turning on my side for a few minutes. I always imagined what it would be like to escape this world of gangsterism and drugs – now was my chance. I could start over somewhere else, but what if the West Siders found me? I know it would be taking a risk, but ever since that preacher from Holy Trinity Church spoke to me on the streets and said that God loves me and created me for more than what the West Siders could give me, I believed him. I don’t need to be another statistic. I can choose to escape the evil around me.

“Alf!” I said, sitting up more confidently, “If we’re going, we mus go now!”

“Where?” Alfredo asked, looking curiously above my head at the map of South Africa I stole from the Geography class at school.

“Joburg may bru. My cousins are there and we

R O M A N O I S A A C S

I ALWAYS IMAGINED WHAT IT WOULD BE LIKE TO ESCAPE THIS WORLD OF GANGSTERISM AND DRUGS – NOW WAS MY CHANCE. I COULD START OVER SOMEWHERE ELSE

could start off by jus helping them sell fruit and veg at the traffic lights. Wat seh jy?”

“Where we gonna get the bucks to somma net hop on a plane to Joburg?”

Standing up and turning my back to Alfredo, I answered his question by flipping my mattress around so that he could see for himself. Thousands of rand in cash lay neatly hidden on the metal frame, stashed away for an emergency getaway that I had tentatively been thinking about for over a year now.

“That enough?” I asked him, his eyes wide in stunned disbelief.

“Yas! What are we waiting for? Hahaha!” slapping me on the shoulder.

A combination of excitement and shock overtook us. We were going. We were really going.

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O N T H E C O V E R

P E T E R M L U N G U

C O N TO U R M AG A Z I N E . C O . Z A 0 8

B eeeep! Beep beep!

Panting heavily in the thick Durban humidity, I hurried over to a young mother and her toddler standing patiently under the Morningside

bus stop sign.

“Eish, sawubona sissie. Do you know where I can catch a taxi to Amanzimkulu?”

“Yebo! But wena must hurry! The last taxi for the day is over there and she is almost going!”

“Ngiyabonga!”

Darting in-between fruit and curry vendors and cutting through lines of

disgruntled workers returning home after a long week in the city, I

just managed to step inside the taxi before its steel

sliding door closed for the five hour journey.

“Sho sho! Haw, close one, neh?” I let the driver

know, breathless, taking my seat

against the

window in the front as we pulled off.

“Hahaha! Heita, you were at Charlie’s Tavern last night!” he piped up, “I was at the shebeen across the road. I saw you coming out!” Turning towards the other passengers, everyone in the taxi watching him bob his head and act like a drunk man, “How’s the babbelas mfethu? Hahaha!”

Everyone thinking that was hysterical, he turned up the Kwaito music on the radio and ran a red robot, completely unperturbed.

He’s right. When I received a call last week from dad about gogo on her death bed, I had to make plans to come back. It was ten years since I was home. I could go to the sangoma to get some muti for my throbbing headache, but there was no quick remedy for the pain I left behind after running away all those years ago. I was supposed to champion our culture of ubuntu, but what did I do? I up and left Rebecca. I left Zizi. Durban and all her charm lured me away from my responsibility of helping dad take care of them and mama. But it was time to return to the fold and seek reconciliation.

***

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0 9 I S S U E 4 , 2 0 1 5

The taxi started to break away from urban civilization and edge closer into the rural Natal Midlands, the green hills rolling on and on for as far as the eye could see. Looking to my right, the lush sugar cane fields seemed as if they were smiling at me, like two long-lost friends reunited after many years. Opening the foggy window, that old familiar smell filling my lungs, I felt infused with new hope and reassurance that what I was doing was the right thing. I was going back to my roots.

The diski was on the radio. Amazulu versus

Chiefs with a lightning quick commentator capturing every moment of this epic derby, exuding some of the electricity we could feel pulsating through the stadium on the other end of his microphone. Despite the “laduuuuuma!” not long after the second half whistle and everyone in the taxi going absolutely berserk as Amazulu went one nil down, my eyes were getting heavier and heavier until I drifted off into a deep sleep.

***

“Hayibo! Einaaa!” came the unanimous cry

P E T E R M L U N G U

C O N TO U R M AG A Z I N E . C O . Z A 1 0

from everyone inside the taxi after the driver hit a donga in the gravel road. Idiot. Rubbing my head, I feel the tension rising.

“Amanzimkulu, five kilometres!” he bellows, everyone annoyed.

“Where did you get your license – out of a lucky packet?” a lady at the back snorts.

“Hey! Shut up wena! Do you want to get out and walk the rest of the way? Mxa!”

“Aikona,” she whimpers.

Bumping along for a few more minutes, we neared the top of the hill, heart beginning to swell with inexpressible joy. And there it was. Amanzimkulu as if I was here only yesterday.

The taxi driver stopped at the spaza shop, not wasting any time, he turned around and left all of us in a cloud of dust.

“Hayibo!” everyone infuriated.

I walked over to the counter and immediately recognised the old man who was busy watching a soapie on SABC 1.

“Sawubona nkhulu.”

“Sawubona!” Looking a bit more closely, “Peter, is that really you?”

“Yes, I’ve come to see gogo. I heard she’s not well.”

“Yebo, she’s staying in your old room. It’s a big indaba! Your family needs your support now more than ever.”

“Ngiyabonga.”

And before I could say good-bye, a fat shongololo just happened to crawl along the wall past my hand as if to reemphasize the old man’s sentiments.

I COULD GO TO THE SANGOMA TO GET SOME MUTI FOR MY THROBBING HEADACHE, BUT THERE WAS NO QUICK REMEDY FOR THE PAIN I LEFT BEHIND AFTER RUNNING AWAY ALL THOSE YEARS AGO.

O N T H E C O V E R

B E N C A R R I A G E

C O N TO U R M AG A Z I N E . C O . Z A 1 2

“H ey Ben! Howzit boet?”

“Howzit Jeff! Watsup?”

“Listen, I heard about this sick jol going down in Rivonia – you game?”

“Sounds kif, tell me more.”

“Ag, do you remember Rick? You know, Phil’s friend?”

“Oh ja.”

“Well, this oke is turning 21. And it’s going to be pretty standard – booze on tap, hot chicks. Chase is bringing his weed and maybe even something a bit stronger. It’s going to be a lekker vibe man.”

“Ja no, I’m flippin amped bru!”

“Fetch you around 9 from your place then?”

“Cool, check you then my man.”

How am I going to convince mom and dad to let me go later after what happened last weekend? I can’t miss out on this party. They better let me go!

“Knock knock! Ben, can I come in?”

“What do you want?”

“There’s some supper in the microwave if you’re hungry sweetie,” opening my bedroom door.

“Ag, thanks Ma, I’ll have it a little bit later. Tell me, what are you and Dad doing tonight?”

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1 3 I S S U E 4 , 2 0 1 5

“Your father has made reservations for the two of us at that new restaurant on 7th Avenue.”

“Cool. I know you guys said I was grounded for a month, but is it still chilled if Jeff comes round and we hang out here?”

“Ben, are you sure Jeff is the best influence on your life? I know he’s been your friend since junior school, but I just don’t like him. He’s the reason why the police caught you last weekend and why we had to bail you out.”

“I can’t believe you’re blaming him! Why can’t you just admit that maybe I’m not the picture perfect son you and dad hoped I would be?”

Mom recognising the sarcasm in my voice, “Ag, come on Ben! I don’t want him coming round here anymore and that’s final. If you dare leave this house tonight, we will not come looking for you again!”

***

Ding dong!

Seeing Jeff on the gate camera, “Hey bru!”

“Howzit china! Buzz me in brotha!”

“Jeff, the rents don’t want you coming round anymore hey. They reckon you’re a bad influence on my life.”

“Isit hey? You know what I have to say to that?” hearing his engine running in the background, “Stop being a sissie! Rivonia is calling your name…Bennie boi…hahaha!”

“Hahaha! Okay, give me a minute.”

I know Mom said I shouldn’t go, but it will be all good. Jeff’s got my back.

Jumping into his Mini Cooper convertible, “Ah, my G! What you think of my new wheels?”

“Na, they proper hey,” wondering how he managed to afford a car like this.GLANCING AROUND THE

ROOM, I HAD NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFORE IN MY LIFE – TEENS YOUNGER THAN ME SMOKING CRACK AND SNIFFING COKE. I DIDN’T COME HERE FOR THIS.

B E N C A R R I A G E

C O N TO U R M AG A Z I N E . C O . Z A 1 4

“Well, Rivonia can’t wait for us all night! Haha!”

***

“Rick’s place should be one of these houses here,” thumping drum n bass music intensifying, “I think we’re here,” growing excitement in his voice as we made our way through the front door.

“Hello handsome!” I hear a beautiful blonde giggling. “Hi,” moving towards her, Jeff blocking me off and chasing her away.

“Hey bro! That girl was into me!” I said disappointingly.

“Dude, let me show you where the real party’s at!” Taking me upstairs, we soon found Chase who led us into a room at the bottom of the corridor.

“Now this is where the party is maan!” Chase said invitingly.

Glancing around the room, I had never seen anything like this before in my life – teens younger than me smoking crack and sniffing coke. I didn’t come here for this.

Turning around, “Hey Bennie, where you going?” Jeff asked.

“I’ll be back now-now. Just going to grab a beer.”

“Wait Ben, do you want to experience a high

like you’ve never felt before? Hey?”

I followed him towards a circle of guys and before I knew it I was down on the ground in a state of absolute euphoria. I wanted more. And more.

“Ben, stop!” Jeff tried taking the crack pipe from me.

“No, Je Je Jeffy! Pahaha! I thought this is what you wanted?”

“Stop now, you’ve had enough!”

But it was too late.

“Someone call an ambulance! Nooo! Someone call an ambulance!” trying to shake me awake, to no avail. “Ben’s OD’d!”

The next time I was awake I was lying in a hospital bed, drips in my arms, Mom and Dad overcome with relief.

[ALL 3 OF THESE STORIES WERE WRITTEN BY JONATHAN JUST]

While processing, I was thinking about how artistic story-telling using colorful imagery and symbolism has the power to shape or influence the way we live and therefore shape culture. This is the reason why I

chose to call this publication ‘Contour Magazine’.

Mentally, it’s possible for certain ideas to be triggered off because of what we associate with a particular image and I wanted this to be

evident as one reads real life stories first through the visuals and then more fully in the text. I tried to make these stories ‘come to life’ and seem more realistic by sketching the images with more shading and

‘contours’ than normal, overall attempting to provide the reader with a storybook feel as they peruse this publication.

Interested in culture, but even more when it comes to varying South African sub-cultures, I tried to emphasize how culturally diverse we are as a nation. And despite our differences that could separate us, it is possible to learn from one another. There are valuable lessons that can we can teach through sharing our stories like I did in the

fictitious vignettes of Romano Isaacs, Peter Mlungu, and Ben Carriage. What they shared from their differing cultural experiences is a helpful springboard to help us face the bigger cultural ills that affect all of us

as South Africans, whether you live in the Cape Flats, rural Kwazulu Natal, or middle class Johannesburg.

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