There are not all that many advantages of being taller than almost everybody in the whole country. You stick up above the crowd, and tho you can see farther around you, you can also be seen by any of the shorties. I rarely noticed me much, sticking up there. I was as tall as the bus ceiling, and could feel my hair brush against it when walking back the aisle.

One day I was heading into town, and as we were a couple of miles from a school along the way, students started getting on the bus. In Swaziland, students in uniform got a cheaper fare, but they had to ride in the back of the bus, because that was the dustiest bumpiest part of the bus to ride in, and nobody went back there unless the bus was jammed. The students were funneling to the back seats. I noticed a hubbub back in the middle of the bus, and turned to look. There were two young men halfway back, sitting on either side of the aisle. They appeared to be drunk, even at that hour of the morning. As the girl students were passing them, they were grabbing at the school girls, and sticking their hands up their dresses. The girls would hesitate, and then try to rush by the men. I became furious immediately. The men were yukking it up while molesting the girls. I could see that the riders sitting near them were upset, but Swazis were normally very passive people, so the young men were getting away with it. I felt like it was a job for Slightly Taller Than Average Man, and I got to my feet, and walked back the bus. The men saw me approaching, and were poking each other, and laughing. Without saying a word, I reached down to the most obnoxious of the two, and grabbed him by the hair, and yanked him up from his seat, and dragged him by the hair, stumbling up the aisle to the front of the bus. We were between stops, and going about 20 mph, and I kicked the door lever up, and the doors popped open, and I flung the drunken young man out the door, where he hit, and rolled among the thorny shrubs beside the road. Then I walked back the aisle again, with every passenger staring at me, and I stopped by the other young man. He leaped to his feet, and raced up the aisle, and flung himself out the door into the thorns. It was over in 30 seconds. My job done, I walked back up the aisle to my seat, and sat down.

For the next couple of miles, as people passed by me while getting off the bus, they would murmur, “Nkhosi.” And smile a small smile at me. Nkhosi was the praise name of the King of Swaziland. 

In Swaziland, when you wanted to thank someone, you didn’t say, “Hey, thanks a lot.” Instead you would speak their praise name. If you knew it. Every clan has their own collection of praise names, mine included. The praise names for the Maseko clan were “Ncamane Lakaluhleko”, and “Khubonye Wandlovu”. They meant, loosely, He of the dusty kilt, and, Those who know where the elephants go to die. The Ag teacher at my school, Mr Simelane, had my favorite praise name, Afraid of the goat whose tail points up.

If you didn’t know someones praise name, you could use Nkhosi (Hail Ruler!) Or, Wena Wekhunene (You of the left hand), which were the praise names of the King, and of the Dlamini clan which was the Kings clan.

I felt that the people exiting the bus were honoring me for having done the right thing. 

Doing the right thing Matters