Sometimes There Is a Void

by Zakes Mda

Unfortunately, there are things that one cannot ignore. When my friend, Tony Award winning actor John Kani, sends me the script of his new play which he wants me to critique I can’t say no. I read the script and write elaborate comments, pointing out both the strengths and the weaknesses of the play. Even these memoirs cannot stand in the way of my commitment to South African theatre.

  My routine is a simple one: I wake up at five-thirty, take a forty-minute walk in the suburb, or on alternate days go to the neighbourhood gym for an hour, take a shower, have a light breakfast of oats or cream of wheat and an apple, then start writing, but only after checking my emails and dealing with those that are urgent. Out of the blue I receive an email from Brian Kuttner, a professor at Washington University. He tells me that his daughter has been assigned my novel Ways of Dying as part of her reading for a class on South Africa and he was reminded that he was once a client of my father’s in Lesotho in 1976. He was extremely efficient and quite severe with his clients, he writes.

  I chuckle to myself because it is exactly as I remember my father. I am curious, so I write back to the professor, asking him to share with me more of his impressions of my father. He responds:

  Your father advised me on two matters. The first was a ridiculous situation I got into with the moruti [a pastor] in the village where I was teaching secondary school. The preacher was denouncing me from the pulpit [calling him an Indian, a communist and a Christ killer – Kuttner is Jewish] and your father effectively got him to cease and desist. The second was a trust he set up and administered for the benefit of a student.

  I’m sure you remember the cinder block building his office was housed in on a footpath off the magistrates’ courts. Inside, rather than having clients waiting – there was no waiting room – he saw 3 or 4 clients simultaneously – attorney client confidentiality notwithstanding. He was aided in this by a miraculously efficient secretary. He would switch from client to client, seated around his table, and the secretary would type on a manual typewriter as your father dictated, indenting when he gestured, so that a complete legal document was ready for the client’s mark at the end of a one hour ordeal, which I will now describe. I gathered from my brief experience that many of the cases were for stock theft and the clients were often illiterate peasants. Your father would cajole the facts out of one client and then leave him to collect his thoughts while turning to the next one. I’ll never forget he said to one old man, ‘The trouble with you is this: you see this thing,’ he brandished an ashtray at him. ‘Instead of saying this thing is an ashtray. You say: “The first time I saw this thing it was in Johannesburg. I was visiting my son on the mines. He’s a good boy and sends money to his mother every month”.’ Then he gave the old man strict instructions to formulate his thoughts and turned to the next client who was already cringing in anticipation. The secretary pulled multiple sheets of paper and carbon out of the typewriter and rolled in the next client’s document. I have often thought the No. 1 Exile’s Law Office would have made a much more entertaining and certainly less demeaning series.

  This last reference alludes to Alexander McCall Smith’s The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, which the professor obviously thinks is demeaning. I share his view.

  What I find interesting about Brian Kuttner’s description of my father and his methods is that it is exactly as I remember him, and the memory leaves me with a warm feeling. I get quite maudlin these days, especially about my father.

  As I write these memoirs he haunts me in other ways too that may even be dangerous to my life. I am taken aback by this email that I receive from a South African woman called Naledi Mosaka:

  I am Paul Mosaka’s last born. I was reading some of your articles on the internet in which my father’s name was mentioned. I took offence to some of the adjectives used to describe my father. I would like you to explain to me if you may what you mean by my father having no personality. Given that my father has been dead for 45 years now, and that you are only 4 years my senior, it means you were a small boy when he died and even younger when he was in Fort Hare, so what could possibly give you the right to describe my father in such terms at such an early age and continue to perpetuate this judgment even in your adulthood. This shows total lack of disrespect for an African child, for ourselves as his children as well as his memory especially when he cannot respond to such comments for himself. The self-righteous living like you should refrain from castigating the dead simply because they have no voice. As far as I am concerned my father was a man of great integrity, a great mind whose life was cut short by diabetes, that he was short did not make him ‘personalityless’. I bet you would like your family to read good things and bad things that are FACTUAL not based on opinion and personal perceptions when you are not around.

  For the life of me, I have no idea what this lady is on about. I have never heard of any Paul Mosaka, let alone written all those disparaging things about him. And I tell this lady so. In all my writing, I explain to her, I have never referred to anybody as ‘lacking personality’. When I criticise someone it is for the content of what they stand for (and what they do) rather than their personality. I hate ad hominem arguments. Most of my writing is in the realm of fiction, but even there I don’t have a character called Paul Mosaka. I am hoping that my accuser will cease and desist, but she writes me an even more threatening letter. Instead of lying, I should be man enough to apologise publicly for disparaging her dead father, she says. I demand that she shows me the document she alleges I authored, but she claims she misplaced it or can’t locate it again on the Internet. I am beginning to think that this is a scam. Only after I threaten legal action does she send me as an attachment a PDF document from some archive, an old interview that my father gave to some scholars. It turns out that Paul Mosaka was a politician in the early 1940s who was elected a member of the Native Representative Council, one of the government-created bodies through which the ‘natives’ were governed. Obviously my father would be at loggerheads with such a body and with the politicians who participated in it.

  Here I was being crucified for the sins of my father.

  I never get to see Naledi Mosaka’s face but I hope that when she realises that she has been accusing the wrong Mda she is shamefaced. She never apologises, though.

  The third haunting of the past that happens as I am winding down these memoirs does not involve my father directly, but his father, the Headman of Goodwell, Charles Gxumekelana Mda. I receive an email from a certain Dr Bernard Leeman. I learn that he used to be in the Lesotho Paramilitary Force, planted there by the PAC and its ally, the BCP, and he worked with the guerrilla wings of these parties for many years. He is now a scholar in Australia.

  I am sorry if this may offend you, he writes, but I wonder if you have ever heard any rumour that the true father of P.K. Leballo (1915 – 1986) was a member of the Mda clan, maybe your own grandfather?

  I told you about Potlako Leballo quite early on in my story. Just to remind you, he was the leader of the Pan Africanist Congress who once dispatched me to kidnap the children of the Boers in the Free State farms when I went AWOL from the Poqo guerrilla forces.

  My blood relationship to him is news, of course, and I ask Dr Leeman about his sources for this kind of information. He says that Leballo told him this himself. Leballo claimed that he was not the son of his official father. There was some hanky-panky between his mother and my grandfather while his father was busy fighting against the Germans in the First World War. Leeman writes: Leballo claimed Mda family history (the incident of the magistrate) as his own, housed with Owen Mda and was devoted to A.P.

  The ‘incident of the magistrate’ refers to the time when my people became refugees in Lesotho after Mhlontlo killed the magistrate in the Cape. Leballo was born in Lesotho.

  I know that Uncle Owen liked Leballo a lot and Leballo regarded him as his younger brother. But it was news to me that Leballo was devoted to my father. When he swore me into membership of the PAC he actually denounced my father as a fence
-sitter. My father, on the other hand, thought he was just a demagogue who had no content. He told me so himself. Scholars like Bob Edgar and Luyanda ka Msumza who have studied my father are sceptical of Leballo’s or Leeman’s story. But I guess we’ll never know the truth. All the players are dead. But this confirms that there was a lot of drama in my family. A lot is yet untold.

  Father haunts me like a song that persistently rings in my head. Like a jazz number that wiggles itself in and out of my consciousness. Like the deep and dark tone of Abbey Lincoln. I have just read in the paper that she is dead. An era is passing before my eyes. I remember her with Archie Shepp in ‘Golden Lady’. But even more significantly I remember her with Coleman Hawkins in Max Roach’s ‘We Insist’ – from the ‘Freedom Now Suite’. It was music they created in honour of our freedom struggle in South Africa and the United States. It spoke of the atrocities of the Sharpeville massacre. Overwhelmed as a young revolutionary by Roach’s drums, Michael Olatunji’s congas, and the percussion of Raymond Mantilla and Tomas du Vall in ‘Tears for Johannesburg’ from the same Suite, I composed my poem ‘A Sad Song’ – Who will bury us, we who died a painful death of the sounds of the drums of death? We whose screams were swallowed by the winds? It is not an untruth; our own shall be our own. In death and in life, We Insist! This is the last stanza. I wailed the poem out like the wind at poetry performances in the exile of Lesotho.

  Oh, how romantic it was to be a revolutionary those days! Our prophet was Frantz Fanon and jazz was the hymnal that nourished our souls. Yet there was death too. Real wars where sons and daughters of loving parents shed blood on the roadside. We were certain of victory. We were certain matundu ya uhuru – the fruits of liberation – would be enjoyed by all in a land of equal opportunity.

  Equal opportunity?

  Father haunts me in such a way that I cannot extricate myself from his ghost. I have become him for he lives in me. He shunned the limelight and was what he called a ‘backroom boy’ – a thinker behind the scenes. I am even worse in that regard; I am an ultimate outsider on a road to hermitage. Like him, I work with peasants in the villages, and despite myself I am satisfied with the little that I have, and give the rest away. We differ, though, because he was doing it for the people, as part of his commitment to the struggle. I am doing it for myself. For my own happiness.

  Yet the void widens.

  ALSO BY ZAKES MDA

  Cion

  The Whale Caller

  The Madonna of Excelsior

  The Heart of Redness

  She Plays with the Darkness

  Ways of Dying

  Acknowledgements

  Here’s to that beautiful Sculpture Climber of Des Moines, Melisa Klimaszewski, who read every chapter and gave me very useful feedback. I cannot thank you enough, dearest Melisa – Lover of the Figure 8. I also thank two of my former students, Dr Elly Williams and John Kachuba, who read the first two chapters and assured me I was on the right track. I greatly appreciate comments and encouragement by Maureen Isaacson (who flattered me by asking, ‘Are you not a little young to write a memoir?’), Isobel Dixon and another former student, Dr Spree McDonald – all three read part of the work-in-progress.

  The lines of poetry quoted here are from the book The Dead Lecturer: Poems by LeRoi Jones (New York: Grove Press Inc., 1964). (LeRoi Jones is now known as Amiri Baraka.)

  Selected Index

  The index that appeared in the print version of this title does not match the pages of your eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest. For your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below.

  Abacha, Sani

  Abok, Wilson

  Achebe, Chinua

  Adriaanse, Aram

  Aidoo, Ama Ata

  Alvarez-Pereyre, Jacques

  Amato, Rob

  Asmal, Kader

  Baholo, Selometsi ‘Maloro’

  Ball, Claire Buzz

  Baloyi, Danisa

  Battiss, Walter

  Bean, Sister Arnadene

  Belafonte, Harry

  Belasco, Steve

  Bernard, Cousin

  Biko, Philiswa

  Blake, Carole

  Boesak, Allan

  Boger, Denny

  Borger, Julian

  Breytenbach, Breyten

  Brink, André

  Brutus, Dennis

  Bundy, Colin

  Carey, Peter

  Chait, Melanie

  Chakela, Walter

  Clinton, Bill

  Coetzee, JM

  Cooper, Saths

  Cranko, Robin

  Crawford, Marc

  Daly, Ken

  Damane, Mosebi

  Dangarembga, Tsitsi

  Davids, Achmat

  Dawes, Kwame

  Devant, Teresa

  De Villiers, Jaap

  Diniso, Gamakhulu

  Dinkelman, William

  Dixon, Isobel

  Dorfman, Ariel

  Dorothy, James

  Dudu, Sis’

  Duiker, Sello

  Duncan, Patrick

  Eaton, Patricia

  Edgar, Robert

  Elie, Paul

  Ella, Aunt

  Ellenbogen, Nicholas

  Emecheta, Buchi

  Ethel, Cousin

  Eusebia, Sister

  Farber, Yael

  February, Vernon

  Fielding, M L

  Fihla, Mr

  Fincham, Aubrey

  Fonda, Jane

  Fox, Charles

  Franci, Carlo

  Fugard, Athol

  Garner, Helen

  Gerber, Susi

  Gerber, Theo

  Gerber, Ulrich

  Gerhart, Gail

  Gonzalez, Albio

  Gordimer, Nadine

  Gwangwa, Jonas

  Habi, Reentseng

  Habi, Teacher

  Hagemann, Fred

  Hani, Chris (‘Bhut’ Thembi’)

  Hani, Limpho

  Hani, Ntate

  Harvey, Terry

  Hatar, Augustin

  Head, Bessie

  Hlalele, Dugmore

  Hlao, Gift Mpho

  Hlatshwayo, Simphiwe

  Hlongwane, Ali

  Hope, Hamilton

  Horn, Andrew

  Horn, Peter

  Howard, Steve

  Hulley, Rufus

  Hunter-Gault, Charlayne

  Jafta, Nombuyiselo

  Jobodwana, Zingisile Ntozintle

  Jonathan, Chief Leabua

  Kachuba, John

  Kamlongera, Chris

  Kandji, Itah

  Kani, John

  Kathrada, Ahmed

  Kente, Gibson

  Kgositsile, Baleka

  Kgositsile, Willy Keorapetsi

  Khaketla, B M

  Khaketla, ’Masechele

  Khaketla, Sechele (‘Mr Dizzy’)

  Khaketla, Sekamotho

  Khosi, Bernard

  Khoza, Reuel

  Khumalo, Sibongile

  Khumalo, Siphiwe

  Khutsoane, Tokoloho

  Kirkwood, Mike

  Kirubi, Mike

  Klaasen, Thandi

  Klotz, Phyllis

  Kobo, Clement Sima (‘Clemoski’)

  Kohler, Adrian

  Krog, Antjie

  Krok, Abe & Solly

  Kunene, Vusi

  Kusonose, Keiko

  Kyomuhendo, Goretti

  Langa, Mandla

  Leballo, Litsebe

  Leballo, Ngope

  Leballo, Potlako Kitchener (‘PK’)

  Lebata, ’Makamohelo

  Leepa, Semenkoane Frank

  Legwale, Maswabi

  Lekhanya, Metsing

  Lembede, Anton

  Lemphane, Mafata

  Letlaka, Tshepo Tiisetso

  Letsie III, King

  Linda, Bongani

  Lo Liyong, Taban

  Lower Telle Bee
keepers Collective

  Lynn, Tom

  Maake kaNcube, Sello

  Mabathoana, Rt Revd Emmanuel

  Mabuza, Lindiwe

  Machel, Graça

  Macu, Dukuza ka

  Madingoane, Ingoapele

  Maduna, Penuell

  Madzunya, Josias

  Maes, Sister Yvonne

  Mafikeng, Elizabeth

  Mafikeng, Rhoda

  Mafoso, Adele

  Mafoso, Christina

  Mafoso, William

  Mafoso, Willie

  Magengenene, Nikelo

  Magengenene, Tapo

  Magengenene, Xolile

  Magona, Sindiwe

  Mahabier, Shane

  Mahamo, Mr

  Mahlukwana, Percy Bafana

  Maja-Pearce, Adewale

  Makeba, Miriam

  Makgoba, Willy Malegapuru

  Makhakhe, Tseliso

  Makhele, A S

  Makhele, Vincent

  Makhetha, Marake,

  Makiwane, Mr

  Makotoko, Seth

  Malangatana

  Malefane, Motake

  Malie, Mpho

  Mamashela, Kgokgo

  Mamashela, Lesiba

  Mampa, A S (‘Scutum’)

  Mampa, John

  Mampa, Moss

  Mampa, Sammy

  Manaka, Matsemela

  Mandela, Makgatho

  Mandela, Maki

  Mandela, Nelson

  Mandela, Thembi

  Mandela, Zindzi

  Manganye, Bra Saul

  Maope, Kelibone

  Mapetla, Shadrack

  Maphathe, Ben

  Maphathe, Mme Mmatladi

  Maponya, Maishe

  Maqina, Hodges

  Maqutu, Tholang

  Marapodi, Mapalakanye

  Mase, Evelyn

  Masekela, Barbara

  Masekela, Hugh

  ’Maseribane, Chief Sekhonyana

  Masiloane, Choks

  Masotsa, Peter

  Matanda, Wonga

  Matanzima, George

  Matebesi, Mr

  Mather, Mr

  Mather and Sons

  Matlosa, Sebolai

  Mattera, Don

  Matthews, Jack