Walking on a knife edge

Men who don’t eat meat

In SA, in my world, a plate generously embellished with meat is often seen as a form of culinary privilege, a signifier of being higher in the pecking order.

When, as a black man who for various reasons has decided not to eat meat, you are presented with such a plate (worse if it’s brought to you on a tray), declining is no easy task. I have felt my eyeballs swell the way a cow’s do at the slaughterhouse, so dreadful is the prospect of having to explain, publicly, my decision and its ramifications for my manhood.

It is not only the giver of meat who is shocked at this rejection of their generous offering. The eyes of those within hearing also grow wide with the horror of witnessing an offence to another’s sensibilities.

After my first semester at university, I was taken to my grandparents’ home, partly to thank my ancestors for a successful academic period and to ask for their guidance in my studies.

Up to that point, my mother was the only one who knew about my recently adopted dietary preferences. She wanted to share this burden of knowledge with the family, to demonstrate to them how this academy of learning, with its strange philosophies and unsavoury influences, was unravelling generations of respect for our long-cultivated cultural and spiritual practices.

Concerns for my health and my manhood dominated the conversation among the older men and women of my family as they chewed the fat of my decision. They still do. But some years on, as the adoption of meat-free and vegan diets has increased globally and locally, there is less fear and more resignation in the voices of aunts, uncles and grandparents who learn about my “condition”. They shake their heads and shrug their shoulders as they would if surrendering to the incontestable fact of someone being mentally infirm.

The sourcing, preparing and serving of meat are cornerstones of the South African culinary experience in many cultures. In mine, these things are also tied to cultural identity and the spiritual realism of cultural practice.

The cost and consequent rarity of meat in SA’s poorer homes make its wilful shunning an act of identity delirium. And on a more technical note, it’s a conundrum for both the man and the person who usually cooks — family members and partners of black South African men who have chosen the culturally atypical vegetarian diet — as to whether or not vegetables picked out of a meat stew comply with these dietary strictures.

Choosing not to eat meat is not only to interrogate the entrenched representations of manhood, it also shakes the foundations of traditional hunter/homemaker gender roles.

Gleaming warriors

I am far from the only one faced with these difficulties. Gauteng IT professional and postgraduate philosophy student Thulani Ntuli, 44, thinks that many people in his various circles do not take him seriously because of the choice he made in 2014 to become vegetarian. The father of a “near-carnivorous” 12-year-old boy said he often felt bloated, sluggish and heavy after eating meat. What started as a lifestyle change for health reasons grew legs and became the ethical belief he now holds.

“When you’re male and you decide to be vegetarian, that throws you slap bang into the middle of gender, race and ethnicity politics,” Ntuli said. “When you think of a Zulu man, what comes to mind is probably a tall, dark stud, a warrior gleaming with testosterone, a symbol of brute force.

“This narrative is problematic because as a Zulu man you’re supposed to be an impi, not a thinker, a philosopher or a mathematician, let alone someone who cares about the welfare of nonhuman sentient beings. Vegetarianism and veganism especially are associated with skinny, tree-hugging white women.”

He frequently encounters puzzlement from family members, friends and even some clients, who find it hard to grasp the fact that a Zulu man could choose vegetarianism out of his own reasoning and agency.

“Senikhohliswa ngabelungu (you are being deceived by white people)” is a censure he receives often. “That statement means you are not intentional about what you are doing, you didn’t think this through, it’s just an outside influence.”

As the eldest male among his siblings, Ntuli is put on a moral knife edge when his cultural role requires him to participate in the slaughter of an animal.

“Like in every other family, someone will pass away or there will be some cultural practice that you need to do for yourself and the rest of the family. I’ve been doing these things from early on. More and more I am moving myself out. But I am also aware of my traditional responsibilities. I am very conflicted.”

Catching the wave

Things might be slightly easier for the younger generation, but there are still obstacles. Professional surfer Avuyile Ndamase, 25, grew up in Port St Johns in the Eastern Cape. He caught his first wave in the summer of 2002, and went on to surf for the then Border surf team before going pro.

“All the older uncles we looked up to were lifeguards,” he said. “StProRng black men who appreciate and understand the ocean. That’s all we aspired to as kids: strong black men.”

As is customary for Xhosa boys in his community, Ndamase attended an initiation school when he was 15 to mark his transition to manhood. He said the process “provides a sense of direction in knowing yourself and choosing what you want to believe in. That catalysed me into being strong in what I want to do and what I stand for.”

At the tail end of this rite of passage, his family held umgidi, a celebration of his return from the school and his new adult identity.

“I had to eat all the meat,” he said. “Even though I had already lost my attraction to it. When you’re under your parents’ control you don’t have much choice but when you live by yourself you can start figuring out your own diet.”

The vegetarian Rastafarian community in Port St Johns influenced Ndamase as a boy. This rubbed up against his dominant Xhosa cultural upbringing, but he sees value in both systems and thinks they can co-exist.

“Port St Johns has a healthy influence from the Rastafarian culture. I-tal eating [the customary diet of various groups within the Rastafari movement] is based on the idea that if you eat clean, you will perform better. ”

Although he has sometimes had to up his vegetable-protein intake for muscle growth, Ndamase said his surfing performance has benefited from his diet. “As an athlete I have never struggled since going veggie, for real. You’re super light and never heavy in your stomach, which is the worst thing you can be in the water.”

A reason to slaughter

If you examine traditional attitudes to meat, they are not all that different, he said. “If you look at Xhosa culture, umngqusho was a staple, mixed up with beans, pumpkin and other vegetables. In both our cultures, we have always been shown in many ways that the way to go is really vegetarian.”

He acknowledges that some of this was economically dictated, which fostered more respect and awareness. “For us, livestock used to be our world. Meat wasn’t something you could just chow every day. There was always a reason to slaughter, you didn’t just wake up and decide that today would be a good day to kill a chicken.

“Now we don’t even need any reason to eat meat. If you can afford it you just go to the fridge and get a steak. It’s a very weird direction human beings have gone in.”

Whether they intend to or not, the growing number of vegans and vegetarians — particularly those “strong black men” who turn away from meat — are raising a whole new conversation about manhood in the home, community and nation. It is something we should speak about more often around the table.

As an athlete I have never struggled since going veggie, for real. You’re super light and never heavy in your stomach, which is the worst thing you can be in the water Surfer Avuyile Ndamase, above Picture: Supplied

When you’re male and you decide to be vegetarian, that throws you slap bang into the middle of gender, race and ethnicity politics Thulani Ntuli, left Picture: Alaister Russell