always here,” he said. Khanyi pretended everything was fine in the morning but never went back.
Surrounded by blondes and brunettes with piercing blue eyes at the crèche, she noticed there was something different about her. “I hated my hair,” Khanyi says. She couldn’t stand that it was hard and didn’t billow in the wind like the hair of the women she saw on TV. She especially wanted long hair, so her mother got her braids. “At least they could fly in the wind like my classmates’ hair,” she says.
Her blackness meant she stood out sometimes. “My classmates would say they loved my skin and Gabriella, a blonde with blue eyes, once asked if I tasted like chocolate. Then she licked my face for a ‘taste’ and said, ‘You taste salty’. I asked her if she tasted like vanilla ice cream and then licked her too. She also tasted salty.”
Khanyi lived in contrasting worlds – in the city where she was comfortable and in the township amidst poverty. But still she had a far easier life than most.
The Mbaus lived in an eight-roomed house on Mzoneli Street in Mofolo Village and her grandmother drove a Mazda 626. They made hug-a-bug cupcakes and listened to jazz. Township kids would pull her hair and called her “Khanyi, mlungu” (Khanyi, the white person).
“I watched them eat out of cans with their bare hands and pretended it was normal,”Khanyi says. “I played along so I could fit in.” But she played in brand-new Woolworths clothes and shiny shoes, outfits the township kids would only ever wear on special days – if at all.
She became friends with Portia who lived across from the Mbaus, a chubby girl who didn’t quite fit the mould of a township girl either. She also spoke English far too well and her parents worked at good jobs in town, like Lynette did. “We became friends out of necessity,” Khanyi says. “We were both the odd ones out.”
Khanyi enticed Portia over with Zippy Toys, stoves and pots her Aunt Nikiwe had brought from overseas. Khanyi hid them from other children because she was convinced they would break or steal them.
Life was good in the Mbau house. There was always fancy fare like spaghetti bolognaise and lasagne, French toast, poached eggs, croissants and koeksisters. She lived on home-baked brownies, gingerbread men and chocolate-chip cookies, drinking glass after glass of Nesquik. She tasted expensive chocolates like Ferrero Rocher, Lindt and Kinder Joy at a young age, thanks to her aunt’s duty-free shopping sprees at European airports.
“I’d lie on the couch drinking Coca-Cola,” she says and explains that most township kids are banished to the floor. “I could never understand the normal black child’s upbringing. I never understood how eight people could sleep in a four-roomed house with only two bedrooms, a kitchen and a lounge. It overwhelmed me that so many people could share such a small space. I was like ‘Geez, how do they do it?’”
In Khanyi’s privileged little world, every girl had her own bedroom with a bed and a mirror to gaze at herself as she brushed her hair.
But life was strict, too. During the week, the rule at her grandparents’ house was to be home before the curtains were drawn at 5.30pm. On weekends, Khanyi could only leave the house after midday. She could never play hide-and-seek with the other children because she arrived late and by then the teams and alliances were formed.
She would get a beating if she broke the rules. Her grandparents were strict and old school about discipline. Portia’s much younger parents didn’t mind if she got home late in the evening. Khanyi thought it was very unfair. She and Portia spent endless hours avoiding the scary township streets, watching old black and white movies and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, with the mansions and cars owned by Hollywood stars. It was all so glamorous and magical to two lonely township girls.
Khanyi spent hours watching her favourite TV shows like The Smurfs, Gummi Bears, Mina Moo and Power Rangers. She also loved Kideo Kids, Galubi and Swartkat.
When her granddaughter was not lying on the couch, Grandma Gladys ensured that she was exposed to the best popular culture had to offer – the music of Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday and Harry Belafonte. Khanyi knew every word to their songs. The sound of trombonist Dixie Lindt filled the house. Her grandparents also told her about Martin Luther King and the momentous achievements of the African-American civil rights movement.
The Mbaus were big on church. It took up every Sunday. “My family was heavily involved at the Faith Ways Church in Orlando East. My grandmother was a hostess and my mother sang in the choir. Religion was huge in my grandparents’ house and swearing was not allowed. My grandmother still thinks I don’t know how to say sh*t or f*ck.”
Khanyi jokes that she went to church so much growing up that even after all the years of absenteeism, God still recognises her! “I still know every scripture in the Bible,” she says. “I even quote from it on Twitter.”
The family had a punishing schedule of devotion. They reported for church duty from 6am till 6pm on any given Sunday. They arrived early to clean the building and pray with the pastor. They stayed for the 8am to 10am service, then the 10am to 12pm service, and finally the 12pm to 4pm scripture services that included premarital counselling. Khanyi attended all the teen and young adult classes. Then they’d clean up from 4pm to 6pm.
Khanyi lived a morally correct and sheltered life growing up. She was very religious by virtue of her environment. It meant she was an easy target.
“I never knew there were bad people who could visit pain on you,” she says. “Or even that people lie. I thought the world was a warm, safe place where we all sing ‘Khumbaya’. I was always in tears when other kids were horrible and said mean things, especially when they teased me about my deep voice and called me ‘Khanyi mlungu’.”
She would go on to develop a thicker skin and learn how to stand up for herself. She learned by fighting her mother’s battles, for instance, by telling her not to sit next to a particular taxi passanger because he “looked funny”. “When we had to wait for a taxi and it took long to arrive, I would tell my mother: ‘Don’t worry, Mommy, I’m going to buy you a taxi that goes straight from town to Mofolo’. I would always say, ‘I love you, Mommy, thank you, Mommy’. Other passengers in the taxi would ask my mother why she was raising me like a white person.
“Looking back, I realise that I fought my mother’s battles. She is naturally timid and soft. Whenever there was a clash, I would be next to her shouting: ‘Leave her alone, leave her alone!’ I stood up for her all the time.”
Khanyi wanted to be on TV from a young age. She knew she could do it.
In a way, she was born ready for her “discovery” at Cresta shopping centre at age eight. Discovered during an emotional moment just like Charlize Theron (who reportedly had a tantrum in a bank), Khanyi was overexcited about a hat her mom had just bought her. Apparently the innocent joy she displayed jumping up and down while singing a Care Bears song caught the eye of a passing talent scout casting for Red Pepper productions. They invited the Mbaus to an audition.
By then Lynette had already signed up her daughter with the Professional Kids agency in Melville – and here was her child’s big break. When she arrived, the first thing Khanyi asked was, “When do I start to work?” Everyone laughed at the cheeky little number but she meant it and her bravado paid off. She was instantly cast as one of the Galubi children. Later she became a Kideo Kid, then a Sasko Sam presenter, visiting schools to give away hampers and bread. Khanyi had crossed the threshold from reality into television. She was through the looking glass and on screen. Brand Khanyi had begun.
Her first salary cheque was for R600. She
