Why ‘imbokodo’ should be located in constitutions, budgets, everyday bystander action

MY FIRST real understanding of Imbokodo arrived at a male dialogue I attended years ago. One of the guest speakers, addressing male initiation graduates, young men who had just completed ulwaluko, the Xhosa rite of passage that confers the social status and responsibilities of manhood said this: abafazi are not Imbokodo (women are not a rock). 

They became Imbokodo by necessity when they had to fight at a time their men were being systematically silenced. Traditionally, he continued, abafazi (women) were known as imbali “flowers,” valued and protected, while a girl’s father and brothers were the Imbokodo, the “grindstone/rock,” the ones meant to anchor, shield, and enforce consequences. 

If you as a man touched a girl inappropriately or harmed her, you met the wrath of Imbokodo—those men. That framing jolted me: it repositions Imbokodo not as women’s lifelong burden to carry, but as a protective social contract others owe to women.

Of course, language evolves. In 1956, “Wathint’ abafazi, wathint’ imbokodo” (“You strike a woman, you strike a rock”) entered our political bloodstream, rightly honouring women’s courage against a brutal state. 

The problem is what happened next: a slogan hardened into an expectation that many of us wear like a yoke. Be rock. Absorb harm. Keep going. Smile. Be grateful. And when you finally break under the weight of paid work, unpaid care, community activism, and the relentless calculus of safety in a violent society—well, somehow that breakage gets narrated as personal failure, not social failure.

Enter the so-called “soft life.” Among my generation of women, the phrase signals a refusal to be the family’s permanent shock absorber. At its best, “soft life” is not champagne-and-Instagram; it’s rest without guilt, boundaries without apology, and care without a moral invoice. It is the audacity to say: I will not earn love through exhaustion. I will not confuse coping with flourishing.

But let’s tell the truth. “Soft life” has also been captured by an aspirational, consumption-first aesthetic that drifts dangerously close to dependence on patriarchal provisioning. 

We’ve all seen it: softness that is available only if a man (or a brand) foots the bill; softness that makes no demands on systems, only on women’s self-presentation. That version sells a lifestyle while leaving intact the conditions that make women harden in the first place. 

Danger in taxis and streets, precarious work, clinics without staff, classrooms without support, homes without reliable electricity or water. Softness without structure is just a filter.

So where does that leave Imbokodo? Not in the dustbin, and not on our backs either. I am arguing for a reframe: Imbokodo must move from an identity loaded onto individual women to a duty borne by institutions and allies—men, families, employers, faith communities, and the state. In other words: let systems be the rock so women can live softly.

What does that look like in real terms?

First, it means re-reading tradition with integrity. If imbali names women as worthy of care, then the masculine calling of Imbokodo, to steady, protect, and set boundaries should never be a license to control. 

It should be a commitment to intervene against harm, including harm enacted by men against women. Real manhood is not silent when a friend jokes about “disciplining” his partner; real manhood breaks the joke and the cycle. The post-initiation speech I heard got one thing exactly right: protection is not a poem; it’s a practice.

Second, it means institutionalising softness. If “soft life” is rest, then employers must normalise flexible work, equitable parental leave, and predictable hours, because burnout is not a personal time-management issue, it’s a structural design flaw. 

If softness is safety, then we invest in transport that does not turn dusk into danger. If softness is care, then clinics, shelters, and social work services must be funded as essential infrastructure, not as charity. Softness should read like a budget line, not a mood board.

Third, it means politicising pleasure. The right to joy is not frivolous; it is proof of dignity. We should insist on parks without fear, nightlife without predation, and intimacy without coercion. Our mothers’ generation fought for legal personhood; ours must fight for a life that feels like it. That is not indulgence; it is completion.

Fourth, it demands honest critique of the marketplace of “soft.” Influencer culture can inspire, but it can also lure us into performance: the candlelit bath as a proxy for a livable wage. If your softness depends on hiding the helper, you’re not liberated, you’re outsourced. 

We need a praxis: support women-owned businesses, yes; but also vote, organise, unionise, and litigate. A spa day is lovely. A safe, fairly paid, non-exploitative workplace is softness with teeth.

Finally, it calls men back into the story—not as heroes, but as co-builders of conditions. If Imbokodo once meant that fathers and brothers confronted anyone who harmed their daughters and sisters, then the contemporary reading must scale that ethic: stand up in boardrooms, taxi ranks, WhatsApp groups, and taverns. 

Challenge misogyny in the joke, in the hiring panel, in the budget meeting, in the pulpit. If you claim initiation conferred manhood, show us the courage and care that title demands.

Here is my synthesis, and my challenge. We honour the women who became Imbokodo under duress by making sure the next generation does not have to. We keep the memory of the rock as collective resolve, our unions, our movements, our neighbourhood watch groups that protect rather than terrorise, our caseworkers who refuse to normalise abuse, our prosecutors who treat GBV as the national emergency it is. And we elevate imbali from a pretty metaphor to a policy principle: women are not ornamental; they are essential, and their wellbeing is a non-negotiable design requirement for a just society.

So, no, I will not discard Imbokodo. I will relocate it. Let it live in constitutions, budgets, and everyday bystander action. Let the grindstone be the system that crushes impunity, not the woman grinding herself down to keep everyone else alive. And yes, I will embrace the soft life, the real one: the one with afternoons free of fear, evenings free of second shifts, mornings where rest is routine and care is shared. Softness is not surrender. It is the dividend of justice.

This Women’s Month and every month after, may our language be brave enough to evolve, and our structures strong enough to make softness ordinary. Let Imbokodo hold the line so imbali can bloom.

Madikizela-Theu is Social Work and Development Intervention Specialist, PhD Candidate (UFH), Master of Social Work-Research (NMU)