by Zakes Mda
I was also with her when I got the news that my play The Road had won the Christina Crawford Award of the American Theater Association.
The award was established by Christina Crawford, the actress who wrote Mommie Dearest in which she portrayed her mother, actress Joan Crawford, as an overbearing and cruel alcoholic who abused both Christina and her brother. In 1981, the year of my arrival in the USA, the book was made into a movie starring Faye Dunaway. With some of the royalties Christina Crawford set up the award and there I was winning it in 1984. Unfortunately, Ruth couldn’t come with me when the play received a staged reading at the San Francisco Hilton during the annual conference of the American Theater Association because Professor Christian Moe who was running the competition could only pay for one ticket. I enjoyed the experience nevertheless, especially interacting with all those hundreds of American theatre practitioners. Crawford was there in person to give me the award which was a five hundred dollar cheque and a handwritten letter congratulating me.
Every time I hear of the movie Mommie Dearest my eyes get moist with gratitude; I gained materially from its success.
After the summer of 1984 it was time for me to return to Lesotho. After teaching playwriting at the School of Theater for one quarter, I mailed my books through the post office – they still had surface mail then – packed my bags and left my close friends Simphiwe and Hatar who were continuing with their PhD studies. I suspected Simphiwe would not be returning to South Africa even after graduating. He had married Sandy, a lovely lady from Guyana, at the Galbreath Chapel and they planned to make their lives in America. Munene and Kirubi had long since departed for Kenya where they were academics.
I also left Ruth with the promise that I would see her when she got back to Botswana and we would take up the issue of marriage then.
Back in Lesotho my father was beaming with pride, telling everyone that I had returned with a double-master’s. He rented the hall at Bereng High School and organised a big party to which friends and relatives from all over Lesotho and the Eastern Cape were invited. I made a speech wearing my academic regalia and thanked everyone, ranging from the people of Mafeteng to Desmond Sixishe, the cabinet minister who had made it possible for me to get the air ticket to America. But I forgot to thank my father. And even my mother, of all people. My father had spent so much money on this feast and he didn’t get a single mention. Did I perhaps take for granted these wonderful parents without whose guidance I would be nothing?
Shame dogged me long after the feast.
CHAPTER NINE
UNCLE OWEN HAS MARRIED one of the Bee People and his daughter Nobantu is not amused. I am told she came all the way from Soweto to express her rage, not towards her father but towards the woman. She stood outside the new couple’s house and shouted for the entire village to hear that the woman was a shameless gold digger who was young enough to be Nobantu’s daughter. The elders of the village came to calm her down. They took her to Uncle Press’s general dealer’s store, known as eRestu by the villagers because – just to remind you – it’s both a restaurant and a tavern, so that she could get some comfort and sympathy from her own relatives.
I am not aware of this marriage and its repercussions when I drive into the village. Uncle Owen never warned me about it. In fact, I was not even aware that there was something going on between him and any woman since his misadventure when he was still in exile in Mafeteng: his house was once invaded by the brothers of a young woman with whom he had made a baby. They beat him up and confiscated the baby who had been in his custody for months. I wouldn’t have imagined that at his mature age his friskiness continued unabated.
I have merely come to see the Bee People as I often do when I need a break from my writing. I innocently call at Uncle Owen’s house as I usually do when I am in the village. I notice that he has added another room to the house and there are construction materials in the garden – tools, bricks, sand, and bags of cement. I find the village madman, my Cousin Bernard, pacing the ground in front of the house mumbling something to the effect that Uncle Owen now thinks he is better than everyone else since he has suddenly become rich.
‘Where is Uncle Owen?’ I ask.
‘He’s gone to Sterkspruit with that whore he calls his wife,’ says Cousin Bernard.
‘His wife? He has a wife?’
‘They’ve gone to eat his money. And he can’t even give me ten rands. You know Nobantu was here? He didn’t even give her a cent. His own daughter coming all the way from Johannesburg for nothing. And here he is, an old man of eighty-one, five months and three days, spending his money on idikazi who is young enough to be his great-granddaughter.’
He carries on in this vein and doesn’t even notice when I walk away, get into my car and drive to eRestu. I don’t know why Cousin Bernard is taking Uncle Owen’s behaviour with the woman he calls idikazi, or whore, so personally. And what are these riches that he is talking about? The last time I was with Uncle Owen his sole means of survival was the meagre old-age monthly pension that he received from the government – which couldn’t have been more than six hundred rands a month at the time.
I learn only later when I meet some of the Bee People at the gate of eRestu how Uncle Owen suddenly got rich. He received a lump sum of money from the government for being a veteran of the cadres who fought for the liberation of South Africa. Although Uncle Owen was a PAC activist and was exiled in Lesotho, I never knew him to belong to any guerrilla army. But he qualified for the pension because the Special Pensions Act of 1996 states that any South African citizen who made sacrifices for the liberation of the country, thus making the establishment of a non-racial democratic constitutional order possible, is entitled to a means-tested grant. The recipient, the law states, should have been active for at least five years on a full-time basis in the service of a banned political organisation or should have been forced to leave the country, banned or banished, imprisoned or detained, for a minimum of five years. Dependants of those who died in the political struggle also qualified. The law emphasises that this is reparation and not welfare. Uncle Owen obviously met some of these requirements to receive the pension.
I myself meet all the criteria for this Special Pension, as do my siblings. But we never applied for it. I have the means to make my own livelihood and don’t think it would be ethical to exploit my involvement in the liberation struggle for personal gain. This does not mean I do not support the establishment of this Special Pension for those who are more deserving of it than I am. I know, for instance, that my mother did apply for it and she does deserve it.
I don’t know exactly how much Uncle Owen has received but I think it is not less than two hundred thousand rands, judging from what other people have been getting. I remember he has been going to Johannesburg a lot lately, staying at Nobantu’s house in Chiawelo, one of the townships of Soweto, and she took him to Pretoria to fight for the pension. It is good that he finally got it, but sad that it has caused a rift between him and his beloved daughter who assisted him in getting it in the first place.
The Bee People tell me that Uncle Owen has bought a big-screen television with a satellite dish, a set of sofas, a dining room table and six chairs, and a gas stove with a big oven. He has even added an extra bedroom to his house. He really means to spend his remaining time on earth in comfort.
As soon as I walk into eRestu my aunt, Press’s wife, says, ‘I am glad you are here, Cesane. One of your Bee People has caused a scandal in the village.’
Cesane is one of our clan names – we of the Majola branch of the amaMpondomise clan.
I look at Uncle Press sitting next to his wife by the till, hoping he will elaborate. But he just sits there staring into empty space.
‘Which one of them?’ I ask.
‘The one called Weli,’ she says.
The name doesn’t register because I only know those Bee People who are on the committee as I meet them on a regular basis whenever I visit their project.
‘What s
candal did she cause?’
‘She married your Uncle Owen.’
I burst out laughing. She didn’t see anything funny.
‘Why would it be a scandal to marry a nice gentleman like my Uncle Owen?’
‘Because she is a child. Your Uncle Owen is an old man of more than eighty and she is only a baby in her early twenties.’
‘But why is it her scandal and not his?’
‘There is more than fifty-five years difference between them.’
That doesn’t tell me why she is to blame for this relationship and not him. But then among my people it’s always the woman’s fault.
Press just sits there silently. He is a brooder ever since he became a traditional healer. Sometimes his head moves rhythmically up and down as if it is responding to the drums of the ancestors that are throbbing in it. He adds nothing to the discussion so I don’t know if he views the marriage as scandalous or not.
As for me, I don’t see any scandal and I tell my aunt and the Bee People so. If the two people are in love and don’t give a damn about their age difference then it is their business. They are adults and their marriage is lawful. They don’t need anyone’s permission, and none of us can force them to divorce. My aunt is adamant that this has nothing to do with love. Weli is only interested in Uncle Owen’s filthy lucre.
‘Even if that is the case it has nothing to do with us,’ I tell her. ‘It has nothing to do with Nobantu either. Her father has all his mental faculties intact. If he is stupid enough to spend his money on a gold digger, as you call her, then that’s his own lookout.’
Everybody is disappointed at my reaction. They had thought that I would bring some sanity into this matter, and perhaps even tell Weli where to get off. Part of me can sympathise with Nobantu’s concerns. Her father has a history with young women. The only marriage of his that was deemed respectable and was recognised by his people was with Nobantu’s mother in the late 1940s. His wife, a nursing sister, died while giving birth to Nobantu in the early 1950s, leaving Uncle Owen with two older boys and the newborn. His life of instability began soon after that. He married and divorced many times, and had numerous girlfriends with whom he made children. He has no idea where some of his children are.
I remember that my mother used to tell us – me and my siblings – that she hoped none of us would ever make Uncle Owen our role model. ‘I hope you’ll marry and have stable families as your father and I have tried to have,’ she used to say.
But that stability has eluded me and my siblings.
AFTER MY RETURN FROM the United States I hoped to bring back stability in my life by marrying Ruth. That was why I was on a train from Cape Town to Kimberley. I was returning from a successful visit to the Drama Department of the University of Cape Town where I registered for a PhD degree. I had also met Professor Mavis Taylor who was going to be my supervisor. UCT was the oldest university in South Africa, having been founded in 1829. It was also the highest ranked university in Africa. The Drama Department was established in the 1940s and yet I was going to be its very first PhD candidate. Until I came along it had only offered certificates, postgraduate diplomas, bachelor’s and master’s degrees.
I have always loved train journeys, since the days I used to travel with my siblings and our mother from Zastron to Johannesburg via Bloemfontein where we changed trains. The grinding rhythm of the wheels on the rails never fails to lull me into a blissful sleep. On this particular journey the experience was enhanced by high expectations. I was going to see Ruth. It was almost two years since we parted at Ohio University. She had completed her Master of Education degree and had returned to the University of Botswana where she was teaching in their Primary Education Department.
When I left her in Ohio I returned to Lesotho, although initially Lesotho had not been my preferred destination. I had hoped to work for the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation instead. I was an admirer of Robert Mugabe and his progressive policies and thought working for his government would advance the liberation struggle in southern Africa. He had only been in power for four years then, and I had no way of knowing that he would turn out to be one of the most despicable and corrupt dictators in Africa.
Another thing that made Zimbabwe very attractive to me was the fact that a number of Zimbabweans who had lived in Lesotho over the years and worked at the university at Roma had gone back home to build the country soon after Mugabe took over. I knew and admired some of them, such as Stan Mudenge whose beautiful and highly refined wife was Kgokgo Mamashela. I knew Kgokgo very well because she organised a few conferences for Lesotho writers. She was also Lesiba Mamashela’s sister. You may remember Lesiba as Khomo Mohapeloa’s bandleader during my Peka High School days. So, it would have been wonderful to be with those guys in a new Zimbabwe. The country was just teeming with joyful and productive activity, and it beckoned those of us who hoped South Africa would follow its path after attaining liberation.
I was looking at my old files the other day and I chuckled to myself when I read a copy of my application to the Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Information, copied to the Chairman of the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation. After outlining my qualifications I went on to say:
My guiding philosophy on radio and television in the Third World is that these media should not only serve to inform and entertain, but should be used to attain nation building and other national objectives … Broadcasters in Africa usually claim that it is cheaper to do mass importation of American and British programs than to produce their own. That may have a lot of truth to a great extent. However I can prove that local programs can be produced very cheaply, and more so they will be more entertaining and relevant to local tastes, they will be contributing to the cultural upliftment of the nation, and to achieving political, social, economic and cultural national objectives as laid down by the government.
I was indeed a true ideologue. I instinctively cringed when I got to the as-laid-down-by-the-government part. I was actually applying to be Robert Mugabe’s propagandist.
Who could argue against lessening dependency on foreign programmes and meeting the needs of local tastes? As an advocate of the New International Information Order, I thought a progressive Zimbabwe under pan-Africanist Mugabe was the right place to put into practice some of the theories that were designed to counter Western cultural imperialism.
But I am eternally grateful that the Zimbabweans ignored my application. I would have been part of the ‘nation building’ that later smothered all opposition and killed thousands of the Ndebele people as part of the ‘national objectives’ for ‘unity’ and ‘social cohesion’ that were ‘laid down by the government’.
Having been snubbed by my Zimbabwean heroes I had no choice but to return to Lesotho and work for Chief Leabua Jonathan’s government. Though he was still a dictator who brooked no opposition, he was no longer the enemy he used to be because he was now on the side of South Africa’s liberation struggle and had built a strong alliance with the ANC. This was the year Chief Leabua declared that Lesotho was at war with South Africa, condemned apartheid at the United Nations and the Organization of African Unity, and gave succour to Umkhonto weSizwe combatants. It would not be a bad idea to work for a man like this.
His government paid for my passage from America. And I was able to ship to Lesotho hundreds of books that would become useful in my research for the PhD.
Before taking up my new job I spent a few weeks with my mother and three children at Holy Cross Mission. The children had grown quite a bit and I was very grateful that my mother had looked after them so well. I was also happy to see that on the wall in her bedroom the calendar that I had sent from Ohio with a colour picture of her and the three kids occupied pride of place. In the picture the kids are wearing the new clothes I sent them from America. My mother had the picture taken by the Catholic priest and sent it to me. I then sent it to the calendar company that enlarged the picture and printed it on the calendar. I was told the kids were very proud to be part
of a calendar and there it was on the wall, even though it was two years out of date and therefore no longer served any practical function.
My mother told me that Mpho – who had by then returned from Israel and was working at a kindergarten in Maseru with her twin sister, Mphonyane – often visited the kids, sometimes spending up to two weeks when she was on leave from her job. I loved the way my mother had a soft spot for Mpho. She told me that she didn’t care whether we chose to divorce or not, Mpho would remain her daughter-in-law for ever.
‘Because both of you will live for ever,’ I said, chuckling.
Back in Maseru I was employed as the Controller of Programmes at Radio Lesotho, a title that scared me a bit. And indeed my job involved controlling all programmes, seeing to their quality and also to their content. They had to be in line with government policy, which meant that every magazine or documentary programme had to extol the virtues of the government, to feature Chief Leabua Jonathan or, at the very least, his senior cabinet ministers. My friend who had organised the government loan for me to go to America, Desmond Sixishe, was still the Minister of Information and Broadcasting. But I only saw him when he had something to complain about; for instance, when he was aggrieved because Chief Leabua’s speech was not broadcast in its entirety, having been edited to make room for other items, or because the host of a magazine programme forgot the protocol of mentioning the guests in their proper order of importance at a meeting addressed by Chief Leabua. Most of these were sins of omission, and I was able to get the staff to correct them without any problem.
Although the news was outside my domain, I noticed that it was also governed by the same philosophy: all the news that’s fit to broadcast must have something to do with the prime minister or at the very least with one of his ministers. Every news bulletin led with ‘The Prime Minister of Lesotho, Dr Leabua Jonathan …’ He was now referred to as ‘doctor’ after some honorary degree from an American university.