by Fred Khumalo
It was confusing, these divided loyalties. Then an event in 1916 offered him an opportunity to confront these divisions head on.
CHAPTER 18
The community hall in the centre of Bloemfontein had always been, at least as far as Pitso could remember, the preserve of white people. The only black people he’d seen entering the building were the cleaning women. To Pitso, the building looked like a church which, while still under construction, had been turned into something else instead. He had never seen anything like it. The only comparison he could conjure was the church where the white people congregated.
The hall was a huge rectangular structure, with a high, pitched roof and many windows on the sides. On the few occasions he had passed by, he had seen throngs of men, with stark faces and angry moustaches, speaking animatedly outside, gesticulating with their hands, which instinctively took the shape of impatient fists. These men had made him so uneasy he had decided to avoid walking past this building, even if it meant taking longer and more cumbersome alternative routes. Over the years he had noticed that his appearance always stirred strong emotions among white people. They always stared angrily. Many blacks assumed he was white and acted accordingly in his presence. The obeisance he received from blacks only managed to drive the whites up the wall. Or so Pitso thought. Which was why he avoided places frequented by whites, if he could help it.
But over the past two weeks, the town crier, who had been hollering his message up and down the streets, and deep into the villages outside of town, had invited all black men to gather at the town hall. A Very Important Announcement was to be made this bright Saturday morning. All able-bodied black men had to be present. The white farmers who employed the majority of the black men around there had encouraged their charges to attend.
By the time Pitso arrived, hundreds of black men were milling outside the building. Fidgeting with his hat, he stood outside a circle of men, and absent-mindedly kicked some stones while he surveyed the surrounding scene with one eye. He was dressed in khaki shorts, a black short-sleeved shirt, a black hat decorated with a yellow feather, and a pair of his school shoes, complete with knee-length socks. This was, after all, an important gathering, as his teachers at school had also observed. He could see the looks of envy from most of the other men. Many of them were in sackcloth. Those who were dressed in shorts and shirts did not have shoes on. But they all looked clean and groomed, clearly showing respect for the meeting that was about to begin. It soon became clear to Pitso that the other men were as nervous as he was. They spoke in quiet tones, as people would do at the graveyard, careful not to raise their voices above a certain tone.
When he felt a tap on his shoulder, Pitso spun around. His face broke into a nervous grin as his eyes landed on Tlali, a friend he had made recently.
‘Do you have many enemies around these parts?’ Tlali laughed. ‘You should have seen yourself, almost jumping out of your skin when you felt my hand on your shoulder.’
‘My friend, you must not tap people from the back, or you’ll lose your teeth one of these days.’
They shook hands and laughed, before lowering their voices when they saw the other men’s disapproving glares.
‘So, you also want to go and fight in the white men’s war across the seas?’ Tlali said, without wasting time.
‘Ag, my friend, I just want to hear what they have to say. Can’t hurt to go to a meeting. How about you, are you ready to join up?’
‘Depends.’ Tlali shrugged. ‘They are talking good money. One is not getting any younger, so one has to think about filling one’s own kraal with one’s own cattle.’
‘True. One can’t always be one’s father’s son. One needs to take a wife.’
‘And they don’t come cheap, these women. No self-respecting father is going to hand his daughter over to a man who doesn’t own even a dog.’
‘You—’
The loud, unmistakable sound of a bugle rent the air, startling the men out of their small circles of idle conversation. When the sound stopped, a nervous silence settled over the gathered men. They looked expectantly towards the entrance of the hall, where a tall, white man in British military uniform stood flanked by two black men in the khaki uniforms and big hats favoured by Boer commandos of a few years before.
‘Oh, you great warriors of Mangaung, you sons of Bataung, you sons of Batsoeneng, you sons of the red soil of Africa, you beautiful brave Bafokeng, I greet you.’
Puzzled, the men looked at each other, uncertain as to what they had just seen and heard. The white man in a soldier’s uniform had just greeted them, in their own language, singing praises to their ancestors. When that sunk in, they roared with pride, whistling and ululating, clapping their hands, shouting excitedly at each other, ‘Did you hear the man from across the oceans showing respect to our fathers?’
A voice rang out, this time one of the black men flanking the white soldier: ‘The great captain from across the seas can’t tell his story to you brave people out here in the sun. Let us please move inside the hall, sit down on those shiny, comfortable benches, and hear what the great soldier has to say to you, great sons of Mangaung! There is a beautiful story to be heard. Let us move inside, please my brothers.’
Once they were all settled inside, various chiefs and local leaders rose to speak about the need for local men to join the war effort. The upshot of the speeches was simply that the war in Europe was in stalemate. Therefore, the King of England was appealing to his subjects to come forward and serve. The Crown, together with its Allies, needed to conquer the evil German Kaiser.
British victory up there in Europe would be victory for all concerned, for all the men gathered here and their families. After the war, the Crown would look favourably upon the black man in the Union. There would be jobs for all. The black man would walk proudly again. Besides, the Crown was going to pay all the recruits salaries of three pounds a month. This was more than generous, considering the average mineworker earned only fifty pence per month. Some of the men nodded enthusiastically at the mention of the money. Others remained non-committal.
Later in the afternoon, the floor was open to questions from the audience. One man, who from his manner of speaking – he addressed the captain directly, looking him in the eye – had clearly had some dealings with white people in bigger cities, got up to speak. He talked in Sesotho, with some English words thrown in for good measure. ‘It’s well and good that we are being asked to go over there and fight. And, yes, the salaries are tempting. But what exactly are we going to be doing over there, seeing many of us have never handled a gun before, let alone fought in a foreign war in a foreign country? How are we going to fit in? Given the pressure that the Crown is under, how are you going to prepare us for what is going on over there? Look, most of us here are farmworkers – some have worked on the mines as unskilled labour, others, quite clearly, are snot-nosed boys who still herd cattle. How, then, do you see us fighting a war in a foreign land, given our lack of training and experience?’
The captain got up and addressed the man’s concerns, although his voice had lost its earlier enthusiasm. ‘My dear warriors, we are not sending you over there to die. You will be safe. You will be protected. You won’t be on the front line. You are going there to offer support, to provide services to the fighting men—’
‘You see!’ The man who had posed the question was on his feet. ‘I told you, men. I’ve been telling you to be careful. We are being sent there to cook for the white soldiers, to chop wood for them, to carry water for their camps, to wipe their behinds, even!’
Though the meeting ended in disarray, a message was shouted repeatedly for those who were still interested in enlisting to come to the hall the following day.
‘I simply don’t get you, child of my mother,’ Pitso’s friend Tlali Mokwena was saying as they chatted excitedly in Sotho, walking away from a War Recruitment office that had been set up in Bloemfontein a few days after the meeting at the hall. ‘You have things going f
or you. You have an education, your uncle has his fingers in many dumplings. You have a trade, man, a trade. You can make cupboards, you can fix things made of iron. And, most of all, if you wanted to, you could get treated like a white man in this land. Why go and expose yourself to the dangers of war? This war is for poor, uneducated natives like myself. Not half-white boys like you.’
‘The next time you call me a half-breed, child of my mother, you are going to eat this,’ Pitso said, showing his friend a clenched fist.
‘Come off it, man. God gives you a good complexion and heritage, and you spit into His face.’
Pitso’s fist collided with Tlali’s nose, which started bleeding immediately.
Men walking from the recruitment office stopped the fight, saying, ‘Young men, you have to preserve your anger and strength for the real fight out there in the white man’s land. Store up your fury.’
Pitso and Tlali were embarrassed by what they’d just done under the full gaze of neighbours who surely would soon start laughing at them: These wet-behind-the-ears boys think they can fight the great white man’s war across the seas when they can’t even control their own tempers.
CHAPTER 19
On 28 December 1916, Pitso, Tlali and many other men from Bloemfontein and surrounding areas were at the train station, ready for their journey to Cape Town. There was much excitement, and much shedding of tears, as wives and girlfriends hugged their loved ones for the umpteenth time. Pitso kept to himself, throwing only an occasional word into the conversation that swirled around him. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure. Christine was standing there, staring at him. She started walking slowly towards him and he saw that she was crying.
Conversations stopped. People stared as the white woman approached Pitso, clearly distraught.
She said, ‘Why are you doing this? I’m sorry if I hurt you but don’t go, please. I’m begging you. It isn’t even your war.’
Even though Christine still taught at the school, Pitso had stopped taking music lessons with her. When they met on the school premises, their interactions were strained and formal. Now, here at the station, he did not know what to say or do. So he merely looked at her. When he turned to leave, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed his lips passionately. Then she let go and, eyes filled with tears, said, ‘Whatever happens to you over there, remember this: I love you, and I’m sorry if I hurt you … in the words of Horace, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.’ She turned on her heel and walked away quickly. He watched her until she disappeared beyond the hedge that separated the railway company’s property from the rest of public land.
Pitso slowly walked back to his companions. He did not bother to wipe the tears from his eyes, but no man said a word. The train staggered into the station, belching thick, black smoke and hissing like a thousand angry vipers. A festive mood floated in the air as people boarded, bundling their belongings inside the train. More tears were shed as women waved at the departing train. Others were ululating, as African women would when sharing their last words with warriors about to go into battle. Pitso saw Saartjie waving from the platform. He looked away.
There were already men from other towns inside the train. The men on board were from Pretoria, Johannesburg, Springs, Ficksburg and a few places that Pitso had never heard of. They were happy in their shared camaraderie, happy to be in the company of other recruits just like them – young, excited, scared, uncertain about what lay ahead, but committed to the cause of fighting the evil German Kaiser, or Mkize, as they had chosen to call him.
The recruits were from all over the country, from all language groups, from the Transvaal, Basutoland, Bechuanaland. Later, they would be joined by others from Natal, Pondoland, Cape Province. They spoke isiZulu, isiXhosa, isiNdebele, isiSwazi, Tshivenda, Sepedi, Setswana, Xitsonga. There were the smooth-talking city slickers from Johannesburg and its surrounds; educated, cerebral graduates from Lovedale College; tribal chiefs from Zululand and Pondoland; hard-working farmhands from the country’s rural areas who had spent their lifetimes working on white people’s properties for a pittance, people who’d never seen a train in their lives, let alone travelled on one; clergymen impelled by their consciences and a quest for justice on earth to throw in their lot with the Crown’s troops; angry young men like Pitso who saw the war as their road to salvation and self-redemption.
‘At the risk of getting my nose punched in again, what exactly makes you want to go and fight?’ Tlali asked as the train chugged on.
‘The money is good.’
‘I know the money is good, but with you it seems to be beyond the money.’
‘My father makes me want to go to fight.’
‘You are speaking in riddles. You’ve told me before that your father went missing when you were but a piccaninny. You once said you hated him …’
‘Hate is a strong word. I must have been angry when I said I hated him. It’s just that I love him so much that I hate him. I hate him for not being there when I needed him as a child, to guide me, to advise me. I don’t understand this war, but I feel I have to fight. I know he fought in the Anglo–Boer War, but did not see the war to its end. He ran away.’
‘Maybe you’re being unfair to him. You don’t know what happened there.’
‘All I know is that I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to run away from responsibility; I don’t want to run away from anything. This war is an opportunity to get out of my father’s shadow and prove my worth as a man.’
Tlali fingered his necklace made of tiny bones – they could have been the bones of a monkey, as far as Pitso could guess. Tlali’s father had made the necklace for him as an amulet to protect him from evil forces. The centrepiece of the necklace was a gall bladder from some animal.
‘That thing stinks,’ said Pitso.
‘You won’t be saying that in Europe. When Mkize comes, all I have to do is to finger this necklace, and his bullets won’t touch me. What about you, how are you going to protect yourself?’
‘I will pray.’
‘I see. And the bullets will bounce off your Bible.’
‘Tlali, I know they say we won’t be getting guns when we get there …’
‘Uh-huh, but I’ll do my best to get myself a gun. Even if it means stealing one.’
Pitso laughed. ‘Already thinking of breaking the law of the white man, even before we leave home.’
At intervals the hubbub of conversation would die down, and everyone would listen to the clickety-clack-clickety-clack music of the train.
As they rode, the recruits aboard the train began to feel superior to the rest of the South African populace. They were the Chosen Ones, the Anointed, the Untouchables. They were the ones who could change things.
Whenever the train nosed its way into a station, they would pour out onto the platform and take whatever they wanted from the rail-side stalls: fruit, food, cigarettes. The stall owners were too stunned to complain.
Back on the train, the men shared the spoils they had stolen from the traders at the previous station. In the midst of all the mayhem, Pitso noticed a group of men who sat quietly by themselves.
‘Who are those men? Where are they from? Are they sick?’ he asked.
‘They are Pondos,’ someone replied. ‘They are with their chief. Even though he’s a recruit just like everybody else, they have to defer to him. They can’t misbehave in front of him. It’s protocol.’
Pitso wanted to say something to his friend about superstitious, backward people, but suddenly remembered that Tlali believed in lucky charms that turned bullets into water.
At another level Pitso had some respect for the Pondo chief who, like some prominent figures in the black community, believed that by taking the lead in fighting against the Germans, they would gain the respect of the British. That upon their return from the war, their loyalty to the Crown would be rewarded.
Every now and then Pitso found himself receding into his own cocoon. Thoughts of C
hristine assailed him. Oh, Christine. Dear, sweet Christine. The memory of her weighed him down, dragging him into a pit of despair and depression. This was how his mother must have felt at the departure of his father. Except Christine had not just walked away from him – she had pummelled him in the middle of his forehead with the hammer of deceit.
When the train pulled into Worcester station, the recruits found a stall packed with grapes. They pounced on the cornucopia from the Cape, creating a mess. Some even dragged the boxes onto the train. But the debauchery ended when the train finally arrived in Cape Town. Then reality began to sink in.
‘Holy Modimo!’ Tlali exclaimed. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Pitso. ‘That, my friend, is the sea. We’re going to be floating on that for the next month or two, without ever seeing the land. If we ever see it again.’ Pitso himself had never seen the sea before. But he was a reader, and such was the power of the written word that beholding the sea with his own eyes was only confirmation of what he already knew, what he had already smelled, what he had already immersed his body in.
The recruits craned their necks to get a better look at this huge, endless body of water. Even though they had heard stories about the greatest river of all, they had never imagined what it would look like in real life. This was a new experience for many of them, apart from those who hailed from Zululand and Pondoland, situated along the coast.
As soon as they got off the train, they were met by a group of white officers who escorted them to waiting trucks. From the station, the trucks drove along the coast, evidently to give the recruits a taste of the city of Cape Town.