“Madams in the suburbs don’t want to hear stories about sick children, family funerals, weddings, or meetings with the school principal in the village,” our mother would tell us when we bemoaned her long absences. Instead, she visited us on the quiet, and I think the reason for her clandestine mid-week visits was a combination of feeling deprived of time off and fear that her creative shopping expeditions in her employer’s pantry might be discovered – hence her escaping into the refuge of her own home for a short while.
My mother had to time her departure from her employer’s house with caution and in silence. She would wash, dry and pack away the family’s dinner dishes, feed the family pet and wait until the sun slipped away. After the family had settled down for the evening to listen to the radio or read their library books, and the family pet had relieved himself of his dinner at the top end of the garden, my mother would quietly unlatch the gate at the servant’s exit. Sticking to the shadows cast by the trees planted so pedantically by the parks department on the paved sidewalks, she hurried to the main road, where she caught a taxi to Park Station in Johannesburg. There she could relieve herself of her anxiety and her parcels and relax on a bench as she waited until the train to Pretoria pulled into the station. When she arrived in Pretoria, she changed platforms, boarded the train to Hammanskraal, and then travelled on to GaRamotse.
Anyone who has spent time in the African bush, isolated from electrification of any kind, will know how impenetrable the darkness can be, especially in the absence of a moon or stars. Usually, my mother arrived at GaRamotse at about ten in the evening, only to be greeted by an enveloping darkness. Weighed down by her parcels, she would trudge the sandy paths, dodging thorny bushes and ignoring scuttling animals until she reached our house.
I have a wonderful and vivid memory of one of my mother’s visits when I was about five or six years old, and hadn’t yet started school. I remember my mother walking through the door one evening and scooping me up into her arms and whispering my name into my ear, “Highman”, and I recall being carried around by her for a long time that night.
My mother’s weekend visits were especially precious occasions. After she had greeted all of us individually, she gave an indulgent smile as we inspected the supplies she had brought with her. “Yes, I managed a couple of tins of tomato this time,” she said once as she stood next to my sister at the paraffin stove balanced on the kitchen table and cooked for us. During that meal and many others like it, we licked the gravy and pap from our fingers, our mouths busy with all the eating and talking, as we caught up on each other’s lives.
“Has that spider bite on your arm healed yet, Highman?” my mother asked. “Come, let me have a look at it.”
She held my hand towards the dim light cast by the candles and then turned to Esther and examined one of the dresses that she had altered for Conny. Holding the thin fabric in her hand, she looked up suddenly and said, “Florah, did you replace the cup of sugar you borrowed from the Parkies family?”
These were such ordinary, though precious, family moments and, like any child, I did not want them to end. I could have listened to my mother’s Lexington voice for hours – though it was thick and raspy from years of smoking, it was also warm and maternal. The excitement that accompanied my mother’s visits exhausted me, and though I tried as hard as I could to keep my eyes open, they would close without my being able to stop them, and gradually my mother’s voice faded away as sleep overcame me.
Early the next morning, while I was still sleeping, Esther, Florah and Conny would link arms with each other and accompany our mother back to the train station. Sometimes I tagged along with them, as they all laughed and talked together about things that mostly concerned girls and women.
“Mme, don’t forget Herman needs new shoes – size 6,” Esther would remind her. “Try to bring some sachets for ginger beer next time; and the sugar, don’t forget the sugar, or it will be terrible!” Florah would urge, pulling a face.
My sisters frantically recalled things that they had forgotten to share with my mother, jostling with one another to tell her before the 4am train arrived and took her back to Johannesburg. After my mother left and I was unable to sense her presence any more, a post-visit hollowness would descend upon the house for a few days.
In the Sixties, several Johannesburg and East Rand suburbs were “white-by-night” zones; this meant that black people were not allowed to be on the streets during the hours of curfew that usually fell between nine in evening and five in the morning. The tree-lined streets of the suburbs were patrolled by police in vehicles that we called Black Marias. These Ford F250s were used to transport lawbreakers to police cells for curfew infringements or pass transgressions. Shouts of “Haai, wat maak julle hier!” could be heard as the heavy vehicles chased lawbreakers. Often, there was a spare tyre that rolled around in the back of the truck, which slammed into offenders as the driver took an unnecessarily sharp turn, or screamed to a sudden halt.
By 1962, the apartheid government had quelled all protests and opposition, and so all black people from the age of sixteen were compelled to carry a pass. Each individual’s pass stated personal particulars, and named the geographical location in which the pass-holder was allowed to live and work. Black people were also required to carry work permits, signed by their employer or the relevant Bantu Administration officer, which were affixed to their passes. The pass and the permit were expected to be carried at all times. My mother was constantly aware that if she was caught infringing upon any of these restrictive laws, or in fact any law at all, she might be beaten or imprisoned, and might consequently lose her job. But with no alternative, no structures that allowed her to act within the law, she was forced to take the risks that hundreds of thousands of black people took daily, and to bear the possible consequences. From personal experience, I know what it was like to go to work every day in the oppressive shadow of those laws, so I can imagine how stressful it must have been for my mother who was caught between a needy family and laws that prevented her from having easy access to her children.
Despite the difficulties of life under apartheid, my mother did all she could to take care of us, and provided not only food, but also the clothing we needed as we grew bigger. New clothes were a special luxury that we did not take for granted. As a rule, we were only presented with new clothes at Christmas, and then only when we were lucky and there was money to spare. Fortunately, we were not the exception; the situation was the same for many village families. It was not uncommon for siblings to share a pair of shoes, or for boys to wear their older sisters’ T-shirts; if the clothes and shoes fitted us – and sometimes even when they did not – we had no option but to wear them without complaint.
Our extended family in GaRamotse did what they could to supplement items for our family, but other families were experiencing the same economic hardships as ours, and resources could stretch only so far. In the middle of each month our food supplies would invariably run out, and in desperation we would borrow a cup of sugar or some mealie meal from a neighbour, and then at the end of the month, or when my mother sent us money, we would return the borrowed items. We lived from hand to mouth, and I could understand my brother’s decision to remove himself from that environment; however, as I eventually discovered, all Pobane had succeeded in doing was swapping one dysfunctional, poor environment for an equally impoverished lifestyle. Things may even have got worse for him: by distancing himself from the strong support of family, he would certainly have felt isolated and vulnerable.
After the harsh, cold winters, life usually improved in the village. Summer’s natural bounty relieved the pressure on our family’s food larder. The rains came and the vines swelled; yellow, green and small black pellets plumped into juicy grapes, paw-paws weighed down the branches of the trees, and our mouths watered as we impatiently watched mango skins change from green to orange. Peaches hung from the branches of trees that we climbed during games of
hide and seek.
“Be careful of spiders hiding in the branches,” Florah would shout up at us, giving us away as she passed below us on her way home from school. And then, of course, there was the maize, chewy white mielies that we roasted on fires, barely able to stop ourselves from snatching them off the embers, they were so tempting. GaRamotse was reasonably self-sustaining, and growing one’s own produce was satisfying, rewarding, but also absolutely necessary for many poor families.
The sunny days of summer alleviated the hardships of village life. As the days grew longer and the weather warmed, children spilled into the open spaces of the village, kicking balls, teasing dogs and smaller siblings, and running errands for older family members. Summer was also the time when practice sessions for the marching bands began, as children formed groups that performed music at social gatherings.
None of the villagers owned a radio when I was young. Prime Minister Verwoerd had declared that television was the devil itself, and it would never be allowed to entertain South Africans while he still breathed. So without radio or TV, the possibility of performing in the marching bands was an exciting one for all the youngsters in the village.
Anyone with enough enthusiasm was welcomed into the marching band. The only condition was that each participant had to make their own drum, and in the spirit of camaraderie that was a feature of village life, the younger, less-experienced drum makers were assisted by the older, more capable boys.
It was a great affair to decide what hide we’d use to make our drum – a black-and-white cowhide, or a russet brown one. Once the choice of hide was made, we carried it down to the dam, small boys like me struggling under the scratchy weight of the untreated hide. It took hours for us to wash and treat the hide, and once we’d done so, we left it out to dry for a couple of weeks. We could barely contain our excitement as we waited, and when the hide was eventually ready, we eagerly began to make our drum. We stretched the hide over a wheelbase and fastened it with cow sinew. As we worked, our fingertips were rubbed raw and bled, but the older boys usually helped those of us who could not manage the task.
At night, you would often hear the odd drumbeat. Boys in possession of their very first drums could not resist the temptation to beat them, for the pure joy of hearing the hollow sounds echo through the quiet village.
During the week, we dashed around completing our chores and getting our homework done so that we could participate in the band practice that took place every night, often in preparation for a wedding or some other village function.
“Please Esther, can’t Conny fetch the water tonight, I want to get to band practice?” I pleaded, hoping to be let off my chores so that I could fully enjoy the events. At wedding ceremonies, the bride and groom were generally from neighbouring villages. Most weddings took place during December, or over the Easter holidays, as these were usually the only times when people were able to arrange time off from work.
Weddings were grand occasions; adults dressed up – men in their suits and hats and shiny shoes, women in two-piece outfits with stockings, hats and gloves. The women of the village prepared an assortment of foods that were served as a buffet. But the star of the meal was always the freshly slaughtered cow or goat or sheep – depending upon the family’s financial means. As we watched the meat being cooked on the glowing coals of a fire, the fat sizzled and spat and everybody was happy if they received just a sliver of crisp skin or meat. The marching bands took great delight in leading the bridal couple through the village streets; neighbours joined in the singing and dancing until the couple reached the house where the reception was to be held.
We practised hard for our band, hoping that by Christmas we’d be good enough to be chosen to march in one of the neighbouring villages. These joyous festivities provided an opportunity for everyone in the village to participate. At night, when the practice was over, or after an event that ended in the early hours of the morning, the villagers went home. Then, across the landscape, another kind of music rang out – the deafening choir of frogs calling from the dam. Music was, and continues to be, a pleasurable and important part of my life – and that of most people who grew up as I did.
When I compare my formative years to those of Pobane, it seems to me that our lives were very similar. The only real difference was that he had grown up with a father, while I had not. Pobane had surely kicked a ball with my father, been carried on his shoulders when my father ran an errand, and had probably discussed with him details of arguments that he may have had with his friends. I had never enjoyed that father-son bond; however, if you know no different, you do not brood about things you have never experienced. I had never known my father, and unfortunately I did not have the benefit of the consistent guidance of an older brother. If Pobane had continued to live in Hammanskraal, might he have filled that parental gap for me? Perhaps urged me to hurry as we walked to the local soccer ground, or encouraged me to practise Afrikaans, even though I detested the language?
In the absence of a male figure in our home, our next-door neighbour, Mr Parkies, and my paternal grandfather offered me advice. Both men were either gentle or firm with me, depending on what I needed in each situation. My paternal grandfather favoured me over his other grandchildren – to the chagrin of my grandmother, who was fairly harsh with me and gentler with the other grandchildren. Clearly, she felt she had to make up for my grandfather’s unabashed favouritism.
The village soon welcomed a new resident, someone who would introduce the wider world to the children of GaRamotse. This man would show us that the world stretched far beyond the short section of coal-line that ran between Hammanskraal and Pretoria.
Chapter 3
Poverty restricted most of the villagers to the confines of Hammanskraal, and so we had to rely on activities that we generated ourselves to provide entertainment. Whenever my mother visited, I would tug at her arm and beg her to bring a radio next time she came. The wildest dream of children in GaRamotse was for their parents to own a PM9 battery-operated radio.
Then the Baloyi family arrived. The family had been forced to migrate to our village because the government had taken over their land to establish an industrial area. James Baloyi brought with him a wind-up gramophone. We were awestruck by the music machine. The arrival of that gramophone changed the lives of the youngsters of GaRamotse. The first time we saw it we stood, wide-eyed as geckos, watching James wind up the machine, our breaths caught in our throats and our fingers plugged into our ears, unsure what to expect.
And then the box came alive. Through the scraping needle and the scratchy speaker, the people of GaRamotse were introduced to musicians, not from our village, not even from our country, but international black musicians whose honey and gravelly voices and orchestras set our hips rolling, our knees pumping, and our minds dreaming. The songs that came out of that brown beat-up gramophone hinted to us, the children of GaRamotse, that there was a world beyond the place where our sun rose and set every day.
Singing and dancing was no longer confined to the festive season or wedding celebrations; now, on weekends, we tapped our toes to the tunes of great singers as we listened in the Baloyi’s open house. We enjoyed international bands such as Diana Ross’s Supremes and other Motown favourites, stars like The Temptations and Marvin Gaye, and Booker T and The MGs. We were also introduced to the music of South African musicians who were living in exile at the time, including Miriam Makeba, Hugh Masekela, Letta Mbulu, and Caiphus Semenya. Ladysmith Black Mambazo with their traditional Zulu isicathamiya, and the Mahotella Queens with their mbaqanga soon became firm favourites. The village rocked to the Motown sound that was typified by simple melodic songs where orchestras highlighted the backbeat. At these parties beer flowed, pap simmered in wobbly pots on primus stoves, thick wedges of bread were handed around, candles glimmered, and the air was hazy with cigarette and dagga smoke. These musical evenings were a refuge from the humdrum of our daily lives. In the main, l
ife was difficult, but when we made our own fun, things did not seem so desperate.
The new soul music with its distinct pop influence mesmerised my friends and me, and my body responded to its allure; I loved dancing. Before I started smoking and drinking, I used to hang out at James’s house just to enjoy the dancing. I was never a shy kid, but in that tight living room I really found my feet. I was a mover and shaker on the dance floor, and I was often the centre of attraction, with a small audience gathering around and cheering me on. New music was released every couple of months, and with each new song there was a new dance to go with it.
“Come on Highman, do the ‘Hitch Hike’ for us!” my friends called out whenever Marvin Gaye’s hit came on, or “Hey, it’s ‘Where Did Our Love Go’ by The Supremes!” And I would dance the “Baby Baby” during the chorus. There were also the “Camel Walk” and “The Popcorn” dances that accompanied James Brown hits of the same name.
With my spirits buoyed by my love of music, I was a cheerful person and a fairly popular kid at school. Teachers always singled me out to deliver a speech or to be the leader of a group when we had group activities; this is probably because I have always been comfortable and confident in the limelight.
I was fortunate to have teachers who liked me and made time for me. I remember two primary school teachers in particular: our neighbour, Mrs Parkies, who was my Grade 1 teacher, and Mrs Padi, from the Free State, who spoke Sesotho. Although most villagers in GaRamotse spoke Northern Sotho/Sepedi, my father’s family spoke Shangaan. My paternal grandparents spoke to each other in Shangaan, but they spoke to their grandchildren in Northern Sotho/Sepedi. Although my surname is Shangaan, I still do not speak the language, even though people often expect it of me.
Black Like You Page 3