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Like thousands of others, I have read John Matshikiza's 'With The Lid Off' columns in the Mail&Guardian over the last few years. In that time, he has become one of my favourite columnists, someone to take seriously despite, or because of, the fact that he has never taken himself too seriously. Although the things he says are often quite revolutionary, his voice is one of honesty, not of forthrightness.
And the grace and simple, sometimes clumsy humanity contained in his journalistic voice creates a non-confrontational springboard from which we may jump into his world, which is also our world. At all times, he is remarkably balanced and maintains an extraordinary pragmatism, whether he is discussing crime, race, language, the Congo or the sprawling smorgasbord of life that calls itself Johannesburg.
Matshikiza was born in Jo'burg in 1954 and grew up in exile in Lusaka and London. In London he trained in drama and worked in theatre, television and film as an actor, director and writer. In 1991, as liberation seemed to be approaching, he returned to South Africa where he worked as a writer and occasional director.
With The Lid Off is also the title of a collection of writings from Matshikiza and his father, Todd Matshikiza, whose columns, also of the same name, appeared in Drum magazine in the late 1950s. The older Matshikiza, who died in 1968, was also a seminal figure on the South African cultural landscape. His irreverent, densely sprawling Drum pieces became a benchmark for free-spirited South African writing. He also composed the music for King Kong, the stage musical, which chronicled, in faux operatic style, the rise and fall of boxer Ezekiel 'King Kong' Dlamini.
It is this closeness to history and historic figures that is part of the fuel for Matshikiza's literary fire. But this political and social viscerality would be of little use without his substantial skills. But only as I started reading With The Lid Off did I realise the true extent of his talents, his genius in fact. Compiled back-to-back in a single book, his short columns make compulsive reading material, each a delicate short story, the best of them as gripping and strangely elevating as Raymond Carver donning Hunter S Thompson's political hat.
Reading the book, despite all the violent and contradictory contexts in which they are written and in which we all live, brought a sweet smile to my face at the end of each piece, a small joyous wink at the things that make us human here in South Africa. This is the gift that was passed down from father to son. And it contains a wisdom that is a gift to us all.
Interviewing Matshikiza is not such an easy task, however. For one thing, he has written so much about his own consciousness that in a sense, all questions have already been answered. And at one point, when I asked him how he felt about the amalgamation of Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika with the old South African anthem Die Stem, I realised as I asked the question, that not only did he write a piece on it late last year, but that my very phrasing was taken almost straight from his column. It is a slightly uncomfortable moment and for a second it feels like I am brown-nosing my subject. But the fact that I can osmose it into my own consciousness is an example of how crisp and persuasive his arguments are.
Peter Machen: In the book With The Lid Off, at times your voice and your father’s sound very similar. What I'm interested in is, did you ever consciously try to do that? Or did you ever consciously try not to do that?
John Matshakiza: It was never conscious that I tried to do that. But obviously, I was influenced by the fact that from the time that I could read and could hear and could dissect and listen to the way my father spoke to his friends and so on. Of course, I was influenced by that. But my influence is, um, I guess knowing him and the way that he operated in language was quite influential. And also he and my mother influenced me to read a lot. So I read a lot and I loved reading plays especially. And so I moved in the direction of theatre and I have been very influenced by different styles of theatrical writing.
PM: Did you always, even even even when you were working in theatre, did you always did you still at that time consider yourself a writer?
JM: Yeah, I think probably Before I considered myself an actor.
PM: Okay. My next question is what do you think of the kind of current state of journalism in South Africa? Journalism and writing?
JM: Um…well…should I commit myself
PM: (laughs) Commit it yourself!
JM: Um, then let me take it from another angle. I write what I write – subject matter and style – because I had been quite frustrated by the level of dialogue and debate in South African society since I came back. So you know, I think there's some good stuff, but there’s much too much bad stuff and there's much too little analysis of where we are at, at most levels.
PM: Do you think one of the problems is that people are kind of scared to actually voice an opinion on matters?
JM: Yes. I think that is one possibility. The other one that is very important is the education system that we had here, which has meant…I mean when the few times that I’ve taught…um, you know, the little that young South Africans know about the world, about history, about politics and about how to structure a series of thought. And that is a direct consequence of the apartheid era.
PM: And do you think that that actually crosses across all kinds of racial and demographic groupings?
JM: Yes, I do – it affects black people much more.
PM: Yeah. No, obviously. I do have this kind of facetious mantra but I also kind of think it’s true that, in a way, we all had Bantu education.
JM: Yes, exactly. Yeah, because white people also had to be educated not to think about others.
Like thousands of others, I have read John Matshikiza's 'With The Lid Off' columns in the Mail&Guardian over the last few years. In that time, he has become one of my favourite columnists, someone to take seriously despite, or because of, the fact that he has never taken himself too seriously. Although the things he says are often quite revolutionary, his voice is one of honesty, not of forthrightness.
And the grace and simple, sometimes clumsy humanity contained in his journalistic voice creates a non-confrontational springboard from which we may jump into his world, which is also our world. At all times, he is remarkably balanced and maintains an extraordinary pragmatism, whether he is discussing crime, race, language, the Congo or the sprawling smorgasbord of life that calls itself Johannesburg.
Matshikiza was born in Jo'burg in 1954 and grew up in exile in Lusaka and London. In London he trained in drama and worked in theatre, television and film as an actor, director and writer. In 1991, as liberation seemed to be approaching, he returned to South Africa where he worked as a writer and occasional director.
With The Lid Off is also the title of a collection of writings from Matshikiza and his father, Todd Matshikiza, whose columns, also of the same name, appeared in Drum magazine in the late 1950s. The older Matshikiza, who died in 1968, was also a seminal figure on the South African cultural landscape. His irreverent, densely sprawling Drum pieces became a benchmark for free-spirited South African writing. He also composed the music for King Kong, the stage musical, which chronicled, in faux operatic style, the rise and fall of boxer Ezekiel 'King Kong' Dlamini.
It is this closeness to history and historic figures that is part of the fuel for Matshikiza's literary fire. But this political and social viscerality would be of little use without his substantial skills. But only as I started reading With The Lid Off did I realise the true extent of his talents, his genius in fact. Compiled back-to-back in a single book, his short columns make compulsive reading material, each a delicate short story, the best of them as gripping and strangely elevating as Raymond Carver donning Hunter S Thompson's political hat.
Reading the book, despite all the violent and contradictory contexts in which they are written and in which we all live, brought a sweet smile to my face at the end of each piece, a small joyous wink at the things that make us human here in South Africa. This is the gift that was passed down from father to son. And it contains a wisdom that is a gift to us all.
Interviewing Matshikiza is not such an easy task, however. For one thing, he has written so much about his own consciousness that in a sense, all questions have already been answered. And at one point, when I asked him how he felt about the amalgamation of Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika with the old South African anthem Die Stem, I realised as I asked the question, that not only did he write a piece on it late last year, but that my very phrasing was taken almost straight from his column. It is a slightly uncomfortable moment and for a second it feels like I am brown-nosing my subject. But the fact that I can osmose it into my own consciousness is an example of how crisp and persuasive his arguments are.
Peter Machen: In the book With The Lid Off, at times your voice and your father’s sound very similar. What I'm interested in is, did you ever consciously try to do that? Or did you ever consciously try not to do that?
John Matshakiza: It was never conscious that I tried to do that. But obviously, I was influenced by the fact that from the time that I could read and could hear and could dissect and listen to the way my father spoke to his friends and so on. Of course, I was influenced by that. But my influence is, um, I guess knowing him and the way that he operated in language was quite influential. And also he and my mother influenced me to read a lot. So I read a lot and I loved reading plays especially. And so I moved in the direction of theatre and I have been very influenced by different styles of theatrical writing.
PM: Did you always, even even even when you were working in theatre, did you always did you still at that time consider yourself a writer?
JM: Yeah, I think probably Before I considered myself an actor.
PM: Okay. My next question is what do you think of the kind of current state of journalism in South Africa? Journalism and writing?
JM: Um…well…should I commit myself
PM: (laughs) Commit it yourself!
JM: Um, then let me take it from another angle. I write what I write – subject matter and style – because I had been quite frustrated by the level of dialogue and debate in South African society since I came back. So you know, I think there's some good stuff, but there’s much too much bad stuff and there's much too little analysis of where we are at, at most levels.
PM: Do you think one of the problems is that people are kind of scared to actually voice an opinion on matters?
JM: Yes. I think that is one possibility. The other one that is very important is the education system that we had here, which has meant…I mean when the few times that I’ve taught…um, you know, the little that young South Africans know about the world, about history, about politics and about how to structure a series of thought. And that is a direct consequence of the apartheid era.
PM: And do you think that that actually crosses across all kinds of racial and demographic groupings?
JM: Yes, I do – it affects black people much more.
PM: Yeah. No, obviously. I do have this kind of facetious mantra but I also kind of think it’s true that, in a way, we all had Bantu education.
JM: Yes, exactly. Yeah, because white people also had to be educated not to think about others.
PM: One thing that is very strong in With The Lid Off is this feeling of you and your father – and especially you because you're closer to now – of you being very kind of close to the edges of history. And what I want to know is in your own life, do you ever have that feeling?
JM: Being close to the edges of history?
PM: Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, because you've grown up around important people and important events and so on. Do you know what I’m getting at?
JM: Not yet. Um…do you want to elaborate?
PM: Maybe “the edges of history” is the wrong word – actually – that you’re closer to the centre of history than most people.
JM: Well, history became my favourite subject at school, during high school. And I wish that I had followed that through in university, but I took different paths. But I've always had a very close sense of history, particularly African history. I think what was important in that development is that I grew up in Zambia in the early days of Zambian independence, when the history syllabus changed from being the traditional English colonial thing of, you know, the Roman Empire, Genghis Khan, and the Second World War, to switching to a vision of African history, which was particularly articulated, I guess, by people like Raymond Oliver. Am I right? What was the name? [It’s actually Roland Oliver].
Well, various African historians of the time, mostly based at Oxford and Cambridge, created a new African-history syllabus, which related to the newly emerging African countries. And I had a great history teacher who gave our class a sense of what that part of the world is all about – migrations, the issues but also, I suppose, importantly, the power of the kingdoms that existed, the indigenous African kingdoms that existed. And I think that I've taken it on from there because my reading has all been onward from there. And I wanted to articulate that, and then to open up in terms of undiscovered South African history – what that is all about.
PM: Have you looked much at the school syllabuses out of interest?
JM: No.
PM: I have no idea. I was wondering if you knew what kind of history they’re been taught at the moment.
JM: It’s in flux. Back and forth. Yeah.
Peter Machen: This whole question of literacy, which for me is a huge question in this country – do you think that events like Time of the Writer can have any impact on broader literacy?
John Matshikiza: I don't think that they possibly can. The last one I attended, last year, I was most disappointed that there were not more university students attending the main events. I was very disturbed by that. And there was a range of excuses given for that, which I think are plausible.
I did one or two school talks. And what is disturbing about that, is how few facilities the secondary school students in the townships, in KwaMashu and so on, have to access literacy. And at the same time, how interested the students are in having more access, but the basic infrastructure is just not there. And again, that’s a function of apartheid - very poorly equipped schools.
PM: Yeah. Apart from the kind of very obvious solution of providing resources and teachers and ensuring that they can get to school and everything, what else do you think we can do as individuals, as a country, to try to improve literacy levels?
JM: Hmmm
PM: It’s not an easy question…
JM: Not at all. But I can only refer you to examples in other parts of the world where there have been massive literacy programmes which have been part of the post-revolutionary obligation. And I don't think that we have that. China, the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia: these are all countries that had very poor infrastructure and very poor education – at the level that we are at now – and which placed education at a very high priority. And achieved that, I think.
PM: That’s a great phrase “post-revolutionary obligation”. I’ve never heard that exact phrase before but it’s perfectly resonant. Do you think that, in general, those obligations have been met in South Africa?
JM: Well, I think that the terrible problem we have in South Africa is “Are we post-revolutionary or not”? And we aren't. We’ve had a compromise. And I think it is that compromise that has obliged the new ruling party to be cautious rather than adventurous, which is what is needed.
To go back to the place I grew up in – you can't really call this a revolution. Zambia achieved its independence but there was a clear change, a clear transformation, and a clear transition from one system of government to another. And along with that – with a lot of international support – went a really detailed educational policy. The same happened in Zimbabwe. For all that we might say about Zimbabwe now, but I think Zimbabweans are very educated people, across a broad spectrum, compared to where we are at now in South Africa. The same is true of Tanzania. The same would be true of Kenya, for all of its faults, etc. etc. So, I really feel that we are kind of stuck in a limbo of not daring to go as far as we need to go.
PM: Yeah, okay. I remember in 1990, I very naively presumed that we would get a new police force and a new defence force and a new education department.
JM: Yeah. Yeah.
PM: And nothing.
JM: We still have to fight for them.
PM: Ok. I'm just interested – can you speak or write any African languages?
JM: Uh, no.
PM: I didn’t really expect so, I was just interested. You left South Africa when you were ten, is that right?
JM: Five.
PM: Five, okay. And would you like to be able to?
JM: Of course.
PM: I mean, obviously. ‘Do you think that you will?’ is my real question. Do you think you will ever learn Zulu or Sotho or Xhosa?
JM: I learn all of them every day in the street all of the time. So I can communicate to a certain degree in all of them, in some of them more than in others, because that is the nature of things. But writing is a different story because language is very complex and very subtle. And, you know, the mere process of returning to the land of your birth 32 years later, having left at the age of five, imposes a lot of things. And my main issue has been survival, literally. And understanding the environment and finding my own voice within that environment and dropping other voices.
African languages are very important. I think part of the compromise of Kempton Park [the negotiations to end apartheid took place at the World Trade Centre in Kempton Park outside Johannesburg] has been to accept that we should have 11 official languages. Which has given us a lot of question marks. I don’t think there’s any country in the world that has a situation like this. And, as I think I keep on saying in my columns, we are not a unique country, but we choose unique solutions which are quite bizarre. I don't know of any country in the world which has 11 official languages. And it confuses issues. I mean, it’s a very long discussion, Peter.
PM: Sure.
JM: It's true that in the urban areas, let's say in the Rand and the Johannesburg area, most people speak four, five, six languages. In KwaZulu-Natal, it’s not the case, and in the Eastern Cape, it's not the case, and in the Western Cape, it's not the case. So, partially because of our political compromise, there’s no clear decision has been taken about what should be an official language and what the official profile of South Africa should be.
For someone like myself, yes – I live in Johannesburg and I have to try and operate in at least four different languages every day to a certain degree. I couldn’t possibly write in all of them.
PM: Yeah.
JM: Which is a problem. But that also means that there is no written material that goes across all of those languages. So, you know, there are no multilingual newspapers or magazines. Publishing in vernacular languages has pretty much died since 1994, apart from goodwill from publishers. And that is for a number of reasons. Where is the reading public? The reading public is probably in one language, probably in English.
PM: And Afrikaans.
JM: And Afrikaans. But particularly English, across all racial groups. A country like Zambia, once again, has 72 diverse languages. I recently just came from Burkina Faso. There are 44 very distinct language groups but the official language is French. Now what are the choices? Do you reject the formerly colonial language or do you accept the colonial language as a unifying force? I don't know what to say, but I think as long as you try and give equal weight to all languages in a country, you can't really focus on what unifying the public is all about.
PM: I am interested, and maybe on a personal level, about how you feel about Die Stem being tacked onto Nkosi Sikelel’? [Die Stem was the national anthem of apartheid South Africa. Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika is a Christian hymn that was adopted as a national anthem in post-apartheid South Africa as well as in Tanzania and Zambia. It is also the anthem of the ANC. In post-apartheid South Africa, the two songs were conjoined into a single anthem, with two verses from Die Stem included, one in Afrikaans and one in English.]
JM: No, I'm appalled. Yeah.
PM: Me too. And it also cuts off the most beautiful part of the song. I think, in fact, I actually think I might be stealing those words from you.
JM: Well, I wrote about it in December.
PM: Yeah, Yeah, I am, completely unconsciously. It just stuck in my head. Do you want to say anything else about that, why you’re appalled? I mean, know why you're appalled…
JM: Well, I suppose chiefly because Nkosi Sikelel’ was composed by someone who we have belatedly come to recognise as a national hero, and have named streets after him and so on: Enoch Sontonga. It's a beautiful anthem. It might not necessarily be the right anthem for South Africa, but it has always been, since 1912, the anthem of the African National Congress and all of those who support it. And it articulates in a very broad way what we stand for, what we have stood for.
Which maybe…um…first of all, as the son of a composer, I’m appalled that a composer’s work can be tampered with in that way. I just fundamentally feel that this is wrong. Perhaps more importantly, I think the emotion and musicality of Nkosi Sikelel’, with 'Morena Boloko' [an initially separate song that functions as a counter-chorus of sorts], has a long political history.
And why are we prepared to compromise that political history in order to speed a transition and a historical compromise with Afrikaans power? Die Stem might have its merits, but I don't know any black person who knows Die Stem. And again, it’s a question about the country - what identity do we want to have? I think there are so many huge compromises that have been made, that there can't be a compromise regarding the importance of Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrica.
PM: I saw Brothers of Peace at New Year – they played at a festival round here. And they did a brilliant version of Nkosi. And then when it came to the Afrikaans part, they just went “bah, bah, bah, bah. Bah, bah, bah, bah.” Which was fantastic.
JM: At every public event, this is what I find, you know. And then at white Afrikaner events, this might be exactly the opposite. We have to take a stand and make a decision.
PM: I also saw a very nice thing, sometime last year. We had a whole bunch of kids – we were singing the anthem – it was for Children’s Day – I can't remember. But it was about seven or eight kids, and one of them was white and the rest were black. And when it came to the Afrikaans part, the white kid didn't know the words and the other kids did.
JM: (laughs)
PM: I've got two last questions. Well, one is kind of substantial. After, you know, kind of living around the world and returning here. Do you feel primarily South African or primarily African? Or do you see yourself as a global citizen? or what?
JM: Uh…I think I am now primarily South African. Ten years ago, I would have said the same thing but the reality would have been that I was primarily a global citizen who grew up in the greater African continent. So that upbringing on the African continent and, in other parts of the world, which was an important influence on who I am today – I’m a South African today because, finally, my lifelong commitment to returning to South Africa begins to make sense. And I think it begins to make sense because of the relationship that I've established with my own country, which is not easy, but which has now become much more interesting because of what I'm doing.
I expected a lot of different things when I came back and it turned out in very different ways. But I feel that when I travel now…well, actually, the whole of my life I’ve always defined myself as South African. The difference is being able, after 10, 11 years, to, um, actually be able to, really understand what that means to me and to put my money where my mouth is and really mean that to other people. So I've been a symbolic South African all of my life. Now, I’m really a South African.
PM: Last question: a simple one-answer question. What was the last great book that you read?
JM: From cover to cover? or even dipped into?
PM: Even dipped into. The one that had the most kind of impact on you.
JM: I most recently have looked into a lot of Es'kia Mphahlele’s book Es’kia, which is very influential to me and sort of reconfirmed a lot of my background.
PM: Okay, that's great. Thank you very much.
JM: Okay, Peter.
PM: I'll come and introduce myself when you’re in Durban.
JM: Good. Okay.
PM: Okay. That's fantastic. Thank you very much for your time. Have a good night.
JM: You too.
PM: Cheers. Bye.
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A rich text element can be used with static or dynamic content. For static content, just drop it into any page and begin editing. For dynamic content, add a rich text field to any collection and then connect a rich text element to that field in the settings panel. Voila!
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You can contact Peter on hello@talktopeter.com or get in touch on any of the platforms below. If you are having technical difficulties with the site, please send an email to tech@talktopeter.com
A big thank you to Kirsten Machen and Linda Leow for both suggesting, within days of each other, that I start interviewing people again, and also for the numerous feedback requests. Thanks also to Debbie Sykes for some on-point UX suggestions and to Lorna McDowell for the frequent iPhone testing. Thanks to Sharlene Versfeld and Nashen Moodley for helping me to get access to so many amazing people over the years, and to Mirah Von Wicht for all the hugs and support. Special thanks to all my past editors, especially Cyril Madlada, for his immediate faith in me, Debbie Reynolds, for some wonderful working years at the Independent on Saturday and for giving me free reign to produce such eclectic content, and to Yves Vanderhaeghen at the Weekend Witness for doing likewise. And, of course, a massive thank you to everyone who has spoken to me over the years. And finally, warm and appreciative thanks to YOU for reading, watching, and listening, and to my mother Astrid Machen for her boundless and endless love and encouragement.
A big thank you to Kirsten Machen and Linda Leow for both suggesting, within days of each other, that I start interviewing people again, and also for the numerous feedback requests. Thanks also to Debbie Sykes for some on-point UX suggestions and to Lorna McDowell for the frequent iPhone testing. Thanks to Sharlene Versfeld and Nashen Moodley for helping me to get access to so many amazing people over the years, and to Mirah Von Wicht for all the hugs and support. Special thanks to all my past editors, especially Cyril Madlada, for his immediate faith in me, Debbie Reynolds, for some wonderful working years at the Independent on Saturday and for giving me free reign to produce such eclectic content, and to Yves Vanderhaeghen at the Weekend Witness for doing likewise. And, of course, a massive thank you to everyone who has spoken to me over the years. And finally, warm and appreciative thanks to YOU for reading, watching, and listening, and to my mother Astrid Machen for her boundless and endless love and encouragement.
A big thank you to Kirsten Machen and Linda Leow for both suggesting, within days of each other, that I start interviewing people again, and also for the numerous feedback requests. Thanks also to Debbie Sykes for some on-point UX suggestions and to Lorna McDowell for the frequent iPhone testing. Thanks to Sharlene Versfeld and Nashen Moodley for helping me to get access to so many amazing people over the years, and to Mirah Von Wicht for all the hugs and support. Special thanks to all my past editors, especially Cyril Madlada, for his immediate faith in me, Debbie Reynolds, for some wonderful working years at the Independent on Saturday and for giving me free reign to produce such eclectic content, and to Yves Vanderhaeghen at the Weekend Witness for doing likewise. And, of course, a massive thank you to everyone who has spoken to me over the years. And finally, warm and appreciative thanks to YOU for reading, watching, and listening, and to my mother Astrid Machen for her boundless and endless love and encouragement.
A big thank you to Kirsten Machen and Linda Leow for both suggesting, within days of each other, that I start interviewing people again, and also for the numerous feedback requests. Thanks also to Debbie Sykes for some on-point UX suggestions and to Lorna McDowell for the frequent iPhone testing. Thanks to Sharlene Versfeld and Nashen Moodley for helping me to get access to so many amazing people over the years, and to Mirah Von Wicht for all the hugs and support. Special thanks to all my past editors, especially Cyril Madlada, for his immediate faith in me, Debbie Reynolds, for some wonderful working years at the Independent on Saturday and for giving me free reign to produce such eclectic content, and to Yves Vanderhaeghen at the Weekend Witness for doing likewise. And, of course, a massive thank you to everyone who has spoken to me over the years. And finally, warm and appreciative thanks to YOU for reading, watching, and listening, and to my mother Astrid Machen for her boundless and endless love and encouragement.
