It’s Not All Black and White
In an unsentimental memoir, South African journalist Thuli Nhlapo shows how colourism is a spectrum.
I spent the majority of 2020 wallowing. I had to leave a dynamic life I was enjoying in London to come back to lockdown in South Africa with my parents. I became — and still am — intensely addicted to my phone and just leaned into it. I let social media posts on mental health and self-care in the time of COVID lure me into nurturing my self-pity to the point of inertia. Yes, there are millions of people so much worse off than me (and I saw those posts too, and they broke my heart, and they depressed me even more), but self-care influencers insisted that I am allowed to feel bad for what I lost. I am allowed to accomplish nothing under the circumstances. It’s a PANDEMIC for Godsake! But, this book managed to crack through my wall of self-indulgence and gave me some much needed — dare I say it — perspective. In some form or another, people live under terrible oppression and yet, in one way or another, they push forward because they have no other choice.
Throwing Shade
General knowledge about apartheid in South Africa is close to universal and Thuli Nhlapo does not waste much space in her book telling us what we already know. But she does challenge the basic notion that it was a system of discrimination between Whites and Blacks. Rather, the toxicity of the apartheid regime was in its nuances. It built on the formidable legacy of colonialism to divide races into colours and colours into shades, so that every body had somebody to feel superior over and nobody had time to fight the State. This is where colourism comes from — discrimination against people with darker skin tones, often within the same ethnic or racial group.
In Colour Me Yellow: Search for My Family Truth, Nhlapo deftly and unceremoniously explains what it was like to be “yellow” in her Black community. While dealing with apartheid racism, Nhlapo recounts facing rejection and suspicion from her own family for being the wrong shade. One of the book’s most jarring lines comes from her mother:
“I hated being pregnant with you. I used to cry the whole day. I hated carrying you in my stomach.”
Throwing Punches
Simply called “Yellow”, Nhlapo never heard her real name uttered growing up. Bullied by classmates and teachers alike, she didn’t find respite at home, where she was treated even more cruelly by her parents and extended paternal family. She was often physically attacked and then blamed for being fragile. She never expected pity or concern, nor did she receive any. It’s heartbreaking how matter-of-factly Nlhlapo tells this part of the story, showing how accustomed she was to the harsh treatment. While she never questioned the justification of this treatment, she did start to ask why she looked different. After attempting to confront her hateful mother to no avail, this book is her search for that answer. While she uncovered some things out about her genealogy, many answers remain vague.
Throwing Bones
Why is our past so important? Why can’t we just forget it and move on? For some cultures, that link to history, identity and ancestry is a matter of medicine. Nhalopo’s childhood rejection and resilience inevitably built her up to an ambitious, hard-working, successful journalist and working mother. But she often fell into bouts of weakness and unexplained illness. After finding no diagnosis or permanent cure, she turned to traditional medicine. In their search for an diagnosis, traditional healers asked Nhlapo for the names of her ancestors and she gave them the ones she knew. It is when she is told that those names could not be correct that we as readers can finally understand how identity is linked to healing. What does it mean when we are told our ancestors are not our real ancestors? If the question of life or death depends on calling upon the right name, what happens if the names you were given were falsified?
“If you have been lied to about your life by the very people who were supposed to have been honest with you, one thing you avoid as an adult is telling lies.”
Nhlapo’s matter-of-fact writing about what was essentially her abuse and isolation still manages to be touching and heart-wrenching. Her account leads the reader, particularly a BIPOC reader, to familiar themes about the culture of silence in oppressed and vulnerable communities, the complexities of discrimination and post-colonial self-loathing and identity. Not to mention the oh-so-damaging Black Tax, the obligation of seemingly successful Black people to take care of their needy family members, toxic or not. While some parts of the book seem repetitive and workaday, the suspense about Nhlapo’s identity is always there and unfortunately the climax is not treated with the depth it deserves. She understandably spends so much time detailing proof of her resilience that when the identity of her father is revealed, it is towards the end of the book with little time given to processing the revelation. Still, you’ll be thinking about this book for years, hopefully as a reminder that with the right type of help in whatever form, human beings are built to make it through the worst.
