The days of my youth were punctuated by domestic chores, attendance at school, and a bit of fun. Everyone in our household had jobs to do, and my main responsibility was to fetch water from the village dam, as we had no plumbing. Even though I sometimes felt overwhelmed by the tasks, I soon realised the importance of everybody carrying out their duties in the home or the community to ease the burden for everyone else. But children will be children, and when I tried to dodge my responsibilities, Esther and Florah were quick to pull me back into line. Conny and I are closest in age, and we often disagreed about trivial, childish matters. Invariably, the argument would end with her teasing me about my big front teeth: she would point at me and shout out in a derisory way, “Meno a maholo!” which means “the one with the big teeth”. This kind of teasing, taunting and sibling rivalry is normal in any family, but we never had serious squabbles; generally, an atmosphere of peace and harmony prevailed in our home. This is all thanks to my parents and my older sisters, who created a calm atmosphere for me to grow up in during my parents’ absence.
Florah was the least involved of my sisters: being in the middle of austere Esther and ebullient Conny, Florah kept to herself and went about her duties without too much fuss. Florah is still the beautiful, reserved woman she was when she was young. She was responsible for preparing the meals in the house, but she would not be dictated to by anyone. One morning, Conny and I were desperately hungry; it was almost noon and we hadn’t had breakfast yet.
“Come, let’s play on the street,” Conny said, trying to distract me – we both knew what the consequences would be if we woke our moody sister Florah to demand breakfast.
“I don’t want to play any more, I’m tired,” I said.
It is foolish to leave two youngsters unattended, and Conny and I could contain our frustration no longer. We crept into Florah’s room, knelt down at the foot of the bed, lit a piece of paper, and held it to her feet. Well, that certainly got Florah moving, but all it earned us was Florah’s bad temper – we went hungry the rest of that day.
Overall, my sisters did their best to give me guidance and stability, and I have always tried to emulate their example. On the occasions that I strayed, wilfully ignoring their caution to behave, and getting myself into sticky situations, I can only blame myself for my stubbornness.
Before I was old enough to attend primary school, I was left to my own devices while my sisters attended school or work. They left the house in the early hours before I was awake, but they were always careful to leave the front door open so that when I woke up I could toddle down the path that led to the Parkies’ house.
“Ah, you’ve woken up, Highman; come here and let me clean you up,” Mrs Parkies would say in her kind voice. She would wash my face, straighten my clothes and give me a meal. Afterwards I spent most of the day playing with the other children in the village, and we usually amused ourselves by playing soccer.
What I appreciate most about my sisters is that even though our family was fragmented, we were not a dysfunctional family. As the oldest daughter, Esther inevitably assumed the role of mother. I sometimes regret how we used to tease her about being ugly – because she certainly wasn’t – but we often resented the discipline that she meted out. Esther was a no-nonsense type of person, and circumstances demanded that she be so. Even after she married Nkokoto Parkies, the young man who lived next door, she continued to play a maternal role. When my mother was away, she’d say to me, “Herman, come and stay with us; you can continue going to school and we’ll look after you.” She knew it was essential for me to complete my education.
When I was about eight years old, my mother’s last child was born – my half-sister Nancy. I use the term half-sister, even though in black culture this is not a term that is ever used. My mother’s relationship with Nancy’s father is a rather vague memory, but I do recall that my mother met Nancy’s father while she was working as a cleaner at a school in Bosplaas. I also remember Nancy’s arrival, which my mother attributed to a helicopter delivering the baby during the night. My sister Esther’s son, Silas, was born a few months after Nancy. Suddenly I was no longer the baby in the house. A few years later, Esther’s second child, Nelly, was born. So I grew up with Nancy, Silas and Nelly calling me malome, or uncle.
Any village boy who was lucky enough to receive the gift of a ball was under no illusion that the ball belonged to him – it was a communal ball, kicked around on the streets of GaRamotse until it wore out, or worse, had a premature demise by landing on the sharp thorns of a nearby bush. Most often we did not have a ball, so, necessity being the mother of invention, we often used old rags to make a ball to kick around. Still, no sound was more satisfying to us village boys than the thud of a new ball bouncing on a dirt road.
The solid, stable foundation that my mother and sisters set for me was further entrenched by a deep religious faith that was embraced by the entire village. The Methodist Church was the spiritual glue that connected the GaRamotse community. It was a formal, disciplined church with an evangelical component that suited village residents; singing and dancing while giving praise was a natural way for us to show our faith in and devotion to God.
The Boloko family were especially keen supporters of the African Apostolic church, and regularly hosted vigils at the weekends, hosting celebrants in their modest home.
“Where are you off to?” Esther would ask, and I would reply, “I’m off to Gabo-Matlakala.” Everyone in the community referred to the Boloko family home as Gabo-Matlakala because their eldest child was called Matlakala. The villagers often fell asleep with the sound of hymns in their ears as we eager worshippers prayed, sang, danced and drummed. We carried on like this throughout the night, and the only time we broke off was when Mrs Boloko thrust mugs of steaming tea into our hands.
“Here, drink up, your throats must be parched,” she would say as she also gave us thick slices of bread.
Church provided the village children with a chance to forget our hunger and our threadbare shorts, and to yearn less for our parents; church was also a place we could enjoy ourselves.
School was far less lenient on us. Our household chores had to be completed before school started, and sometimes they took a little longer than expected. When it rained, for example, it took longer to fetch water as I trudged home along the muddy track. But school times were not negotiable. The bell rang promptly at 7.45am every day; and the teachers had an attitude of zero-tolerance towards students who did not abide by the rules.
“You are late again, Mashaba! Make sure you present yourself at the principal’s office at break time.”
We did not own an alarm clock and so we woke up when our bodies felt rested, or when the chickens scratching outside our rooms indicated that it was time to get up. My first chore of the day was to hurry to the dam to collect water, then rush home to heat it so that the family could perform their ablutions. It was hit and miss whether I arrived at school on time, and there was always the vigilant teacher on duty, waiting with the standard stern expression of straight lips and inquiring eyebrows, ready to reprimand and punish latecomers.
Those unforgiving teachers were harsh with their punishment; they beat us and often berated us: “Too poor for school fees? Can’t get up on time? It seems like a little discipline is in order to make sure you remember that school doesn’t tolerate idleness.”
The government may have been the oppressors at the top of the ladder, but on the lower rungs of oppression were the teachers who enforced discipline with an iron hand, and whether or not they were aware of our dire economic circumstances, they implemented every petty school rule with the same tenacity as the government that perpetrated the larger bulldog acts of oppression.
“Black shirts, black shoes; are you colour-blind, Mashaba?”
Black shorts, white shirts and black shoes were the only accepted uniform for schoolboys, and woe betide any learners who did not wear the correct unifor
m. School exercise books and stationery were required at the start of every school year, along with the 25c annual school fee. Collecting every cent of those fees was stressful – until we had paid our fees in full, we were either publicly ridiculed in front of our peers, or beaten by the teachers. These insensitive enforcers of rules did not distinguish between the responsibilities of parents and those of learners, and it was mostly the learners who bore the brunt of their displeasure and punishment.
When parents don’t have money, they just don’t have money – they’re not down to their last R100 000 in the bank or withholding the payment of school fees because the money is earning a good interest rate. As a result of my own experience, I believe that free education is absolutely essential to developing countries, because without access to education, the potential of a learner is significantly curtailed; many of my peers had to drop out of primary school. It is short-sighted for governments to ignore the necessity for free education. If citizens are educated, the chances of their being self-sufficient are high, but if they are uneducated they represent a loss of talent and labour, and are a permanent drain on the economy.
When I was older and moved away from GaRamotse, I left behind friends who, because of their poverty, had to abandon their studies prematurely. I left them skulking in shebeens with little more to look forward to than their next beer. Now, thirty-five years later, whenever I return to GaRamotse, I find some of my old friends sitting on the same stools, their glazed eyes still fixated on the next beer. Many of them have never ventured out of GaRamotse to see what happens in the rest of the world – their world is confined to what little they know, they have become fearful of what they do not know, and uninterested in the world at large. Other friends who were defeated after early forays into the world complain about the unfairness of life, and unfortunately alcohol and drugs aggravate their depressed outlook on life, colouring the world in a negative shade.
The Apies River cuts through the middle of Hammanskraal. It is a swirling section of water that slaked the thirst of children in search of fun. On the occasional afternoon and during school holidays, we shuffled the five kilometres through soft sand that was like hot ash in the summer heat, dodging thorn trees and the spiny malpit weeds until we reached the shady banks of the river. Once there, we shed our clothes and threw ourselves into the water, which turned our dusty skins glossy; bright droplets clung to our hair in the sunshine.
Away from home and school, lolling on the cool riverbank in the dappled shade of the languid willows, we could just be kids. My best friend was a boy called Ntshime Ramadibane, and he and I burrowed our fingers into the muddy bank, looking for wriggly pink earthworms that we could attach to our willow-branch fishing rods. Our mouths watered at the prospect of fish for dinner. Fishing is a pursuit for the patient; and while Ntshime and I sat on the muddy bank, we sang songs or teased other children splashing in the river, tossing lekgala – crabs with clicking claws – at squeamish girls, and hurling balls of clay at unsuspecting boys. In the late afternoon light, we sunned ourselves on the smooth rocks like lizards.
While certain things were beyond my control while I was growing up, there were areas where I could take control – and I did. While it was impossible for me to ensure that I had the correct uniform or the full complement of schoolbooks, and the elusive 25c for school fees, I could ensure that I did my homework each day. By having a disciplined work ethic I was able to progress well through school, and my grin-and-bear-it attitude made me a firm favourite with some of my teachers. I realised early on that a smile managed to creep into the hardest of hearts, while a grumble or a frown rewarded you with rejection. My brother’s refusal to study further than Grade 8 had disappointed my family because he had achieved high marks in the final examinations, and he certainly had the intellectual capacity to pursue his studies. Because of this, my sisters and my mother wanted more for me; but I also wanted more for myself. I had grown increasingly aware of how limited opportunities were for black people, I saw how difficult it was for my brother to find and keep a job. Early on, I realised that if there was a map on which to chart my independence, part of that route could be achieved by ensuring I was properly educated.
The Grade 8 examination was an important hurdle, and Mr Ben Khase, our teacher, made sure we knew what we were up against.
“If you boys and girls want to have the life you dream of, you’re going to have to work for it. Grade 8 is not for the idlers who think twice about coming to school, Grade 8 is for the learners who are willing to come to school – not five days a week, but six days a week,” he said. He ignored our groans, and continued. “Yes, that means extra classes on Saturdays to boost your knowledge.”
Attendance at Saturday School was never a mere option, it was expected of us, and we soon realised it was imperative that we attend those extra classes if we wanted a better future for ourselves. Mr Khase sacrificed his family leisure time to teach us, and we knew that the least we could do was reciprocate by ensuring that while our friends were going to soccer practice, we were sitting in our cramped desks listening to everything that Mr Khase had to impart. Our efforts and Mr Khase’s devotion paid off, and we passed the dreaded Grade 8.
It was time to move on to high school, but leave-taking does not only comprise moving forward, it also means saying goodbye. I had been at Lebelo Primary School for eight years and I had to say farewell, not only to some wonderful teachers and friends, but also to Ntshime. I went on to Ratshepo High School in Temba township, while Ntshime attended high school in another village.
“No, we will not say goodbye for ever. I will still visit you, and you will visit me,” we promised as we took leave of each other. In the months following the end of that year, we saw each other whenever the demands of high school permitted. But at the end of Grade 10 Ntshime found a job, and our friendship faded. My childhood had ended, and so had one of my most memorable friendships.
Over the years I kept in touch with Ntshime, but when I last saw him I couldn’t think of a single thing we had in common to discuss, other than the usual small talk. For the past thirty years, Ntshime has worked for Waltons Stationers, and he now occupies a steady, successful sales position. But it is difficult for us to recapture the easy way in which we related to each other all those years ago, which now seem a lifetime away.
Chapter 4
By the time I started at Ratshepo High School in Temba in 1974, I was living with Esther and her husband Nkokoto Parkies. It was a time of great political instability. The Soweto education crisis erupted in 1976, resulting in rioting and uncertainty as the police and army were mobilised to enforce stability in the townships.
“Thank God we’re out of it,” my mother said. For once, we were grateful that we weren’t living in Soweto. Of course, we still felt that everything exciting that happened, happened in Soweto, but we were happy right then to be away from it all. For families living in Soweto, there was great concern for their children. While parents and guardians understood their children’s frustrations with the apartheid system and the Bantu Education system in particular, they feared for their children’s safety. Friends from the townships visited us in our rural area, verbalising their concern for their families.
“I’m too scared to send my kids to school. The police are on the streets, they’re heavily armed. They’re ready to shoot, their fingers are on the triggers,” were some of the things they said.
Many families decided that the best way to protect their children was to remove them from Soweto and send them to families who lived in rural areas; in this way they could reduce their children’s exposure to the dangers in the township and protect them from indiscriminate police attacks.
Louis Mkhetoni was one of those township children who came to live in GaRamotse, and his easy-going manner and tendency to risk-taking appealed to me; in Louis, I recognised aspects of myself.
Perhaps because I had grown up surrounded by adults, I seldom hung abo
ut with children my own age. Instead, I sought out adult company, and with Louis being a township boy, he seemed to me to be more streetwise, more adult than my peers. We hit it off immediately, and our friendship endures until today; he is my brother.
During my early high-school days, my mother was working at the Hepkers’ home in Sandown. On her insignificant salary, she was not able to meet her family’s financial demands for fees, books and food. The cost of transport was high in relation to her monthly salary, and so she could rarely afford to visit us.
“I’ll try to come at the end of the month after next,” she would say, her eyes holding the regret she could not afford to admit to us.
Nothing teaches survival skills better than starvation does; there were some days that we woke up not knowing if we would eat a substantial meal that day or the next. During break time at school, when most children unwrapped their lunches, I smelt their food and was barely able to control my salivating. I watched as more fortunate students raced to the tuck-shop. Often, Louis and I had nothing to eat.
“Mashaba, did you smell that pap and stew?” Louis once asked as a boy opened his lunch. A gnawing hunger ate away at us, and at break Louis raced out of the school gates and ran to the nearest house, praying that the occupants would be away at work so that he could drink from their tap. Ignoring a chained dog that protested at his trespassing, Louis positioned his mouth under the tap, then turned it on and drank deeply, as he temporarily alleviated the ache of hunger. An hour or two later in class, wedged into the desk next to me, Louis’s dissatisfied stomach would complain loudly at the trickery, but his was not the only growling stomach in that wretched classroom: mine also complained – rudely and often.
When adults gathered in their small kitchens or on narrow porches, they discussed the daily happenings of their lives. Theft was common, and most adults made unashamed admissions to having stolen any manner of items from their employees.
Black Like You Page 4