The Sunday News
“AAH, you call yourself a wordsmith,” a reader rushed forward to stop me the other day as I walked down Joshua Mqabuko Nkomo Street. “What have you done about the recent birth and explosion of this offensive word — khonapho-khonapho (there and then)? By the way, my name is Thabani.”
As if to confirm Thabani’s question, the air was suddenly filled with a recorded advert from a loud hailer. The voice was urgent and passionate: “We are selling a pesticide for rats, cockroaches and flies that kills all pests khonapho-khonapho.” Over and over, in rapid succession, the message was repeated.
“There you are!” Thabani threw up his hands in exasperation. “This advert is being screamed from every street corner. Every way which way you turn; it assaults your ears and your sense of language. When did the word khonapho lose power and needed to be repeated to make it have meaning? How dare these advertisers try to change the meaning of our words?”
For a moment I was lost in thought, recalling words whose meanings have evolved over time. Fewer words have acquired different meanings in so short a time as mkhiwa. In pre-colonial times mkhiwa only referred to the fig fruit.
With the arrival of the whites, blacks observed that the pink colour of a ripe fig was similar to that of white people. Whites were therefore nicknamed amakhiwa (plural). In time the nickname was promoted and came to be regarded as proper Ndebele.
Because most employed blacks were employed by whites, the word mkhiwa evolved to also mean employer. Today it is common for employees to refer to their employers as amakhiwa ami (my employers) even though the employers may be black.
The growth of the market economy since the early 90s has made most workers appreciate that it is the customer who pays his wages. The customer is therefore an employer. Logically, the word mkhiwa has further evolved to mean customer. How many times have you — a black person — been called mkhiwa by a kombi conductor or a street vendor?
The word has found its way into the Shona language where it is slang for whites.
Like the proverbial foot, the word has not rested on its laurels (unyawo alulampumulo). It has acquired yet another meaning. In one of his hits, Lovemore Majaivana declares — I want to marry a mkhiwa. In this context, mkhiwa means a high class lady. Majaivana wants to leave behind a life of constant struggle, move up the social ladder and enjoy life at the top.
The word mkhiwa illustrates the often repeated view that languages are constantly changing. Personally, I believe this is healthy. Changes refresh and reinvigorate a language. An increase in vocabulary and expressions makes it possible for language users to communicate with more accuracy.
For instance, sometime in the nineteenth century, the Ndebele language “borrowed” from Sotho the word isihlahla — tree. (As there is no intention of taking the word back should we not say ‘‘stole’’?) Up until then, the word muthi was used to mean both a tree and medicine. After all, most medicine came from trees. The new word — isihlahla reduced the burden on the word muthi. The latter now refers only to medicine, regardless whether the medicine is derived from a tree or not. Thus the new word brought wealth to the language.
What wealth or poverty does khonapho-khonapho bring to Ndebele? “Nothing!” declared a furious Thabani. “If the advertisers wanted to stress the quick action of the pesticide without using khonapho, they could have used the word masinyane.”
Really? I believe the words masinyane and khonapho-khonapho are not identical. For example, it is acceptable for a pastor to say Jesus will return masinyane (soon) but eyebrows would be raised if he said Jesus would return khonapho-khonapho. The word is for something that happens instantly. It would be correct for the pastor to say Jesus healed the lady with an issue of blood khonapho-khonapho.
Why make the word a double-barrelled one, you may ask? Why not just say khonapho? It would appear that at times Bantu languages stress immediacy by repeating a word. Back in the 60s, a new and aggressive type of African pop music emerged in southern Africa. It had loud electric guitars with a thumping bass line. To emphasise that the music was ultra-modern, it was called simanje-manje (now-now).
Talking about “now”, one Ndebele slang word for now is tshophasi. However, in the field of play, a footballer may scream to a teammate to pass the ball tshophasi-tshophasi. This stresses the urgency of the situation.
Back at Joshua Mqabuko Nkomo Street, I looked at Thabani and frowned, trying to think of a response. He and I share a passion for languages. We both love our language and want it to live beyond the next millennium. I am not sure how this could be achieved but Thabani and I have more similarities than differences.
“Give me time Thabani,” I said smiling. “I can’t think of an answer khonapha-khonapha.”
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