By Thobile Mazibuko

One day when I was scrolling through social media, I stumbled across Mercy’s Instagram page and something drew me to them. 

For some time, I struggled with what it was until I realised that it’s the way they portray their art. I found myself intrigued by the thick, stylish figures they painted, which tell a deeper story than what most people decipher.

What I picked up from their art was that Mercy is stylish, talented, carefree and loves love.

Mercy Thokozane Minah is a gender-expansive queer Black person who deeply cares about social justice. They are a multidisciplinary maker who makes visual art, audible art, literary art, and theatrical performance art. Living in a digital era, Mercy has participated in several virtual exhibitions, including Black*rare, Press Play (Solo auction), and Distant Relatives.

They had their first group show in a traditional gallery last year; Bkhz’s ‘If not now, then When?’

“That experience changed my life in new ways. I learned and am still learning so much about how to craft a career as a maker – how to be intentional and attentive to how I want my work to exist in the world. I’ve also made many new friends who are also makers, generous, supportive and warm. I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to the traditional art space,” Mercy explains.

Describing themselves as a gender-expansive queer Black person who deeply cares about social justice, Mercy’s upbringing was not so rosy. Although they grew up in a Christian home in Johannesburg, South Africa, life at home and at school wasn’t enjoyable. To cope with the bullying experienced at school, Mercy turned to art. 

“I was a child who was scared a lot and ashamed and not sure I belonged. My growing up consisted of surviving many difficult things. I also made a lot. I was always writing songs and stories (shorts and full-lengths), drawing or painting, singing, and acting out “movies” I

invented on the spot. I threw my full self into my creativity. That was my lifeline. Along with the love, loyalty, and friendship of my younger siblings who I still consider my best friends today.” 

From a young age, Mercy knew that they were different and speaking to AMAKA, they tell us about their relationships, art, fashion and how it’s all linked together. 

When did you discover you’re queer, and how did your family receive it? 

I think I have always had a consciousness of my queerness. I was aware that I was different as a toddler. It’s interesting to reflect and realise that my childhood was filled with messaging about romantic orientation. It was cute, in pre-school, for little 4-and-5-year-olds to joke about having girlfriends and boyfriends. I don’t remember anyone finding it weird that I had multiple girlfriends who all knowingly and happily shared sweets and giggles with me.

My first big crush happened in the first grade on an older kid who wore suits, always shaved her hair short and sang in the richest baritone I had ever heard. I only named my queerness out loud at the age of 16. And my gender identity at the age of 19. My brother and sister were immediately accepting. I didn’t get to tell my mother on my own terms. I was outed. Her response was not kind. It took many years and distance and reconciliation for her to let me be.

Please tell us about your relationship with your partner(s). 

I am non-monogamous and a relationship anarchist, so I’m going to answer this question in a way that honours those experiences. There are people who are the deep, long-term, loves of my life. The relationships I have with them are expansively soft.

One of my babes is someone I can be a baby with; we are soft and giggly and playful with one another. We talk tenderly, no matter the nature of the conversation – navigating conflict, co-regulating, unpacking our psychological reactions to the things that happen to us, and sharing a long-term practice of specific reassurance and intricate affirmation. I nick-named them Sponky, after the Jabu Khanyile song, because I’ve never been able to resist their loving.

The other babe, who I call my person, is someone I don’t have to translate myself a lot to. They get me. It’s been that way from the day we met. We are also very gentle with each other, but less like babies and more like how it feels to put on your favourite sweater or burrow into your favourite blanket. They are a soothing, comforting, sturdy love. We grow apart sometimes because life does what life does, but we find each other time and time again, and what never changes is that we continue to make sense in each other’s lives.

Your paintings are usually about plus-size people enjoying life, tell us more about that.

My paintings are usually of fat gender-expansive, queer people. This distinction is important. I am a fat non-binary, queer person. I make work that reflects that experience. I am intentional in signalling the liminality of my figures’ gender experiences. Many have tattoos affirming their 

self-determination, ‘they/them’ and other non-normative pronouns, quotes about being deliberate, and the transgender symbol. Others yet have top-surgery scars to convey how their self-determination can sometimes manifest through gender-affirming health care.

I am purposeful about this aspect of these figures' identities because the world likes to make choices about our bodies and how we name and articulate them; and for me, as a primarily self-determined person, it’s important to champion the validity of self-determination in folks who look like me.

Most figures in your paintings are stylish, giving us the impression that you love fashion. Please tell us more about your love for fashion and how it’s linked to your art.

I really enjoy this observation. And yes, it’s true. I love beautiful things, and clothes are a part of that. I haven’t always had a lot of agency over how I dress. Growing up, I had to wear clothes suitable for church, and I rarely got to shop for things that I specifically wanted to have on my body. It’s been a long and slow journey toward figuring out my style and learning how clothes are a part of my self-determination and self-expression.

I have been having a lot of fun finding items that feel and look good and reflect different parts of who I am. I think my art – even though it pulls from parts of me and experiences that already exist – makes me possible in many ways. It models ways I can exist that I may not have realised were possible for me but have always been an inevitable part of who I am. It was important for me to dress my figures in clothing that is vibrant and hot and fun and sexy, and affirming. And it’s become important for me to adorn myself the same way.

Like any other discipline, art also has its ups and downs. What are some of the challenges you face as a queer artist? 

One of the main challenges is being understood. My work resonates with a lot of people, and because of that, people tend to simplify it in ways that affirm them, even if what they are interpreting isn’t accurate. People see fat, thick bodies with big thighs, bellies and asses and sometimes big chests and immediately assume they are seeing women. Meanwhile, a visible articulation is taking place through how these folks take up space and ‘mark’ their bodies, which places them outside of the experience of womanhood.

I also experience regular, straightforward bigotry. I have often received private messages and comments that are fat-phobic, trans-phobic and queer-phobic and are directed at my work or me. It’s jarring to contend with that. To feel that the price for being visible and affirming to many kind people means also being visible to people who see me and the figures I create as vulgar. Art as a vocation requires visibility, so I can’t hide if I want to honour the work I want, and am meant to do. I feel protective about my work and the people who are affirmed by it so I try my best not to draw direct attention to the instances of violence, but it would be wonderful not to experience it at all. I think I’ve been fortunate to not have anyone tell me outright that the work I create makes them not want to support my work, but I imagine there are doors that will never be open to me because the people keeping them are bigoted.

Speaking of which, would you say your art allows you the freedom that society sometimes prohibits queer people? 

My art allows me vast space to imagine a world where queer people are completely safe and free. But the reality in my paintings doesn’t translate to real life. When I move through the world I am read as queer, or otherwise deviant, by a bigot nothing protects me from the consequences of that.

And How would you prefer society to receive queer people because as much as there are queer rights in South Africa, queer people still experience inequality and are mistreated? 

I would like people to unlearn bigotry, implicitly. Intrinsically. I would like people to feel too ashamed to hate people on the basis of their harmless gender and sexual and romantic identities. I would like every law that threatens our safety and freedom and literal lives to be repealed. I would like us to be safe enough to live loudly, quietly, and proudly and not be judged or ostracised or disowned by our communities and families. I would like us to have people in our lives who love, support and see us thoroughly. I would like us to have it affirmed, colloquially and socially, educationally and medically, scientifically and legally, that self-determination is a viable way to take up space, to be protected, studied, respected and revered.

Lastly, what words of wisdom would you give to young artists who look up to you? 

If you are going to learn anything from me, learn how to be exactly who you are. Find yourself, and treat it like the most urgent search of your life. And then learn how to make that self your best thing. Be the most precious possession you have. It’s the only way to be truly satisfied with your existence. Otherwise, don’t put me or anyone else on a pedestal.