When I envisage my birthplace, these words echo in my head. Even though I wasn’t actually born in Ixopo. I was born 50 miles away. In a city called Pietermaritzburg. Named after two chaps Piet Retief and Gert Maritz who were Voortrekkers – farmers from the Cape who, in 1840, went in search of new land. Greener pastures and all. They found it. A place nestled in a picturesque valley at the foot of range of spectacular mountains. With flowing rivers and good soil. The whole shebang. A veritable real estate jackpot. If we were talking New York, Donald Trump would’ve been all over it. In between polling for presidency and pissing off a whole lot of Islamic folk.
Piet and Gert weren’t the only fellas to find this lush posse. The Zulu people did too. First. The Zulus named it Umgungundlovu, which means “Place of the Elephant”. I must admit, I prefer the Zulu name; it rolls off the tongue a little better. Also I like elephants. Majestic, empathetic and beautiful creatures they are. To me, elephants are blessed with the wisdom of all of Africa’s deepest secrets.
Whatever the name, this place holds the memories of my childhood.
Running in the veld. Plotting alternate realities in my mind. The long, dry grass whipping at my knees. Skittish of the snakes and wild animals that my mother warned me were lurking behind the koppies.
The warm Berg wind that rushed from the stately Drakensberg Mountains through my hair, whispering a story. Omniscient and reassuring like an old friend who knew me well.
Sundays at Midmar Dam waterskiing until my body ached and I fell asleep in the car on the way home, sunburnt but sated.
Watching the mysterious Umgeni River, a thick brown snake of water making her way to the sea, confident of the journey she would face. Never missing a turn.
Afternoon thunderstorms, the air charged with anticipation at the welcomed release of rainfall to cool and revitalise.
Green hills in the summer, turned golden in the autumn and winter.
Blue skies as far as the eye could see.
My view framed by hills that stretched far and wide into the mountains.
Warm starry nights filled with promise and magic. Upon which I launched all my childhood hopes and dreams.
Pietermaritzburg, Umgungundlovu or Sleepy Hollow as the locals call it.
Whatever the name, this place to me will always be a one-word description.
No matter how many continents, oceans or miles separate us.
To me, this place is home.
The home rooted in my heart.
* The opening sentences of the novel Cry The Beloved Country, written by Alan Paton, 1948.
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