It makes perfect sense that the debate is heated. Single women are frustrated, and frankly, they are squaring up over something that for generations was considered the preserve of married women.
Traditionally, izibazane — that revered status accorded to the mother of an initiate — was rooted in the foundation of a “proper” Xhosa family unit: husband, wife, children, cattle, order.
Marriage was the key that unlocked legitimacy.
But what happens when the lock no longer fits the door?
Let’s pause and ask the uncomfortable question: are our traditions breaking down, or are they simply telling the truth about who we have become?
Historically, izibazane marked a transition. As her son entered initiation, she entered a new social stage — ukuzila.
She was acknowledged, supported, and celebrated through a gifting ceremony.
Neighbours and family brought blankets, bottles, food — practical items wrapped in symbolism.
It was the community saying: we see you, we thank you, we will help you carry this new responsibility.
Over time, like all living traditions, the ceremony evolved.
What was once modest became elaborate. What was once purely symbolic began to carry social currency.
But here’s the plot twist: the society that produced these rituals has shifted dramatically.
In May, Stats SA released the General Household Survey 2024, and the numbers tell a story no amount of nostalgia can silence.
Reliance on government funding has grown steadily, with people receiving social grants rising from 12.8% in 2003 to a staggering 40.1% in 2024, fuelled by the Covid-19 Social Relief of Distress grant.
More tellingly, 42.4% of households are now headed by women.
In rural areas, that figure jumps to 47.1%.
In the Eastern Cape — the heartland of many Xhosa traditions — it stands at 48.8%. Nearly half.
Almost half of households in the Eastern Cape are led by women. Not “wives of”. Not “stand-ins until a man arrives”. Women. Full stop.
Dig deeper and the picture sharpens. Only 31.4% of children live with both parents.
A striking 45.5% live with only their mothers.
In the Eastern Cape, this figure is even higher than the national average.
More than one in 10 children are orphaned. Nearly one in five live with neither biological parent.
So, when we insist that izibazane must only be bestowed upon married women, what are we really saying?
That nearly half of mothers raising sons are culturally invisible?
That they cook, discipline, pray, save, borrow — but must stand outside the circle when tradition comes knocking?
It is common that during the initiation season, women and friends whisper during the homecoming ceremony.
The whispers follow the host like a shadow: “Uyintoni yena?” What is she, really? Not married, yet fully responsible. Not recognised, yet indispensable.
What is clear, undeniably so, is that there are more single women raising the boy child.
They are the ones ensuring the rules of seclusion are followed, meals are prepared, visitors managed, and teachings respected.
They are the ones learning, sometimes on the fly, how to conduct themselves during this sacred period.
To deny them the status of izibazane is not cultural preservation; it is cultural amnesia.
Culture has never been static. If it were, we’d still be using stones to grind maize and walking days to consult elders.
The essence of izibazane was never a marriage certificate — it was recognition, support, and communal accountability.
If anything, today’s realities demand that we extend this status more deliberately, not restrict it.
So perhaps the real question isn’t “Who deserves to be ibazane?” but “Who is doing the work?”
If tradition is meant to hold us together, then surely it must make room for the women already carrying the weight. For supper. For dignity. For learning. For continuity.
It’s only right. And in today’sSA, it makes perfect sense.
Vukile Pokwana is a creative writer, television producer and a creative industries consultant