Black Like You

by Mashaba, Herman;

  Black organisations mobilised against the government’s Bantustan policy, and the Azanian People’s Organisation (AZAPO) visited the chiefs that represented several of the affected areas in order to drum up support against the Balkanisation of the homelands. While some chiefs wanted to record their resistance to the establishment of homelands, others were too afraid to protest because they feared brutal reprisals from the South African government. However, in spite of the protests, on 1 May 1971 Lucas Mangope was sworn in as Chief Minister of the Bophuthatswana Legislative Assembly, and he retained this position in the first Bophuthatswana elections that were held on 4 October 1972.

  Instead of the promised separate development and self-governance that the South African government assured the homelands they would enjoy, the newly appointed Bophuthatswana government began to sell land in areas such as Babelegi. Until this area was proclaimed in 1969, black residents from Hammanskraal had used this land to graze their cattle.

  My grandfather owned a sizeable herd of cattle, and he was one of those who had farmed in the area. While he had no legal tenure to the land, he had grazed his cattle there for many decades. Gradually, however, he was forced to sell off his herd, and he returned to live in the village.

  “You’re not farming any more?” his friends asked.

  My grandfather’s eyes flashed with anger as he said, “These government people, hey, they did not notify us of their intention; they did not consult any of the chiefs or anyone else; these new Bophuthatswana government officials have divided Babelegi into small industrial plots, and they have rented them and even sold some to whites who want to put up factories.” He shook his head. “These whites have forced us off the land. We had to sell off our animals or find other grazing areas.”

  But not everyone was as miserable as my grandfather. It is human nature to be optimistic when change takes place, and initially there was excitement among many villagers in the greater Hammanskraal area. They were hopeful that Bophuthatswana would mean a positive change in their lives.

  “My father is leaving his job at the mine in Carletonville. He is going to get a factory job in Babelegi.”

  “Yes, my aunt left her job as a domestic in Johannesburg. She is also going to work in the factory in Babelegi.”

  These were the common threads of conversation among people in Bophuthatswana – locals who were hopeful that the establishment of Babelegi would mean that they too could enjoy the companionship of friends and family who would now have the opportunity of working close to home. Local residents were indeed employed in Babelegi businesses and factories, but black participation was allowed only insofar as it complemented white participation; blacks had jobs as lowly paid labourers, while management jobs were still reserved for whites.

  I listened to the chatter, the hopes, and the optimism, but it frustrated me that people living in the homelands considered themselves to be free.

  “We’re not free,” I said to Louis and my friends, “all we have done is swop one restrictive government for another one.”

  Many people soon came to realise that the unilateral actions of the Bophuthatswana government merely reflected those of the discriminatory South African government. This kind of hoodwinking and repression fuelled my growing awareness of Black Consciousness, and I was determined not to succumb to white oppression – or, for that matter, oppression by anyone. I had endured an empty belly for many years as a child, and now that I was older, I could certainly stave off further pain and humiliation by avoiding interaction with people who sought to make me a stranger in my own country, South Africa. I decided that I would define myself, that I would not be defined by anyone else’s notion of what or who I should be. I would embrace a way of life in which I would not have to compromise myself or the future I wanted for myself.

  After 1974, with Percy Qoboza as editor, The World newspaper provided a view of South Africa that described the situation as most blacks experienced it. I suppose you might say that The World thumbed its nose at the government and, in doing so, it reflected the experiences of most black people.

  The effects of the Babelegi factory set-up were felt throughout the surrounding communities, and these effects were far from positive. In 1978, when I was a Grade 11 pupil, a local incident caused a stir in the community. Like many other factories, Saint John Knitwear did little to improve the lot of local people. It traded as Sweater Girl and employed local residents, but the R3 weekly wage that employees were paid was barely enough to live on.

  “How are we supposed to feed our families?” the workers complained. “It’s nothing more than exploitation.”

  News of the workers’ dissatisfaction reached mainstream newspapers, which sent their journalists to investigate the story. The newshounds tramped the streets of Babelegi and Hammanskraal, urging locals to introduce them to workers who were prepared to talk, but instead of being receptive to the journalists and welcoming their coverage of the story, the workers hid in doorways and crouched low in shebeens.

  “How can we talk to the press? If we talk about the things that are happening at the factory, we’re going to lose our jobs. We need the salaries, even though they are so low.” The workers simply did not have the luxury of courage.

  I remember watching as a group of journalists walked away, dispirited. My friend, Gilly Sebotsane, who worked for Sweater Girl, stamped his foot in frustration.

  “I know I am hiding the truth,” he said, “but I can’t afford to lose even that insulting wage.”

  “So what can you do? Or what can I do?” I asked. I was equally frustrated at the predicament the workers were in and I really wanted to do something to help.

  “Are you serious about helping?” Gilly asked, and I nodded.

  “Okay, then. Maybe you can take proof of the exploitation to the newspapers?”

  “Yes, I told you. I’ll go to Joburg and give some workers’ payslips to The World,” I said.

  Gilly gave me the payslips and I caught the train to Johannesburg that afternoon. I knew that the government did not like Percy Qoboza’s newspaper, but I was prepared to risk having the payslips in my possession. That train journey to Johannesburg seemed to take hours, and I imagined everybody’s eyes burning through my clothes into the pocket that held the payslips. Every time the carriage doors clicked open I felt certain that members of the Special Branch would descend upon me, seize the payslips, and put me in a cell from which I would never emerge.

  When I finally arrived in Johannesburg, I avoided eye contact with every policeman I passed on the streets, certain that if they looked at me they would be able to read the guilt on my face. I could barely swallow, my throat was so dry.

  When I reached the offices of The World, I explained that I had information about the situation of workers in Babelegi. The receptionist told me to wait and made a call. Soon afterwards, I was shaking hands with Thami Mazwai, the journalist covering the story at the time. I felt a huge wave of relief as I told him my story.

  “I have the proof you need about Sweater Girl in Babelegi exploiting workers,” I said, ignoring the tremble that travelled from my hands to my voice as I handed over the payslips.

  Thami Mazwai leafed through the payslips.

  “This is exactly what we need to run the story – thank you, it is incontrovertible evidence,” he said, smiling.

  It was a small triumph for the workers at the Sweater Girl factory and I felt pleased and proud that I’d been able to assist them. On the return journey, I savoured my first sweet pleasure of having done something that contributed to justice; it left me feeling far, far better than when I’d received the R300 from Moersekont. I felt liberated. There were many times when we felt frustrated at our inability to stand up against indignities suffered by our people, but there were not many opportunities where we could stand up and actually make a difference. For me, though, this was one such opportunity.

  In 1977, a
few months after the BPC had met at Hammanskraal, Steve Biko died in police detention. The response to his death was one of fury.

  “There are twenty thousand people at Biko’s funeral, King William’s Town is full of BC supporters,” my mother told me, her ear glued to the radio. But many buses and cars carrying mourners were turned away at police and army roadblocks set up around the country. The government did not allow people to grieve, and instead the police detained many Black Consciousness activists. In addition, eighteen organisations and three publications were banned, including The World; Percy Qoboza was arrested and later jailed. Soon afterwards, the newspaper was closed down.

  There was no getting away from the effects of the government crackdown, which had an impact on all of us in some way or another. It was in the midst of this political tumult that I had to prepare for my final school exams.

  Chapter 7

  The sun-bleached landscape of Hammanskraal was the backdrop to our lives, but it was nevertheless full of opportunities for entrepreneurs with ideas. When you are poor and you do not have resources at your disposal, you learn to be creative with whatever opportunities or resources are available. Necessity is very often the mother of invention, and we did our best to get on top of our dire circumstances.

  By the time Louis and I had reached matric, we were living quite well in Leboneng, which we had both moved to in 1977. We still had occasional clients stopping by at the house to buy dagga, and we sometimes brought girlfriends home. In the townships, young men were graded by their peers according to the number of girlfriends they had – the more girlfriends you had, the higher status you were perceived to hold by the community. The money I earned from gambling continued to provide for our weekly household expenses and I still had enough for Louis and me to live on. My mother turned a blind eye to all this – and though I was aware that she did not approve of my lifestyle, I nevertheless continued in this way.

  During exam time Louis and I worked hard.

  “Come and study with us; we’ve started a study group at our house,” we said to our schoolmates.

  “What’s the catch?” the sceptical girls asked.

  “We provide the place, and the rest of you can bring something to eat and drink.” I replied with a smile. The girls seemed relieved that for once our ulterior motives appeared to be no more sinister than study and snacking.

  At the study meetings we paired off and studied subjects we had in common; we worked late into the night, and sometimes into the early hours of the morning.

  Our teachers were eager for us to pass, and in support of our efforts, they provided us with past matric papers. Louis and I spent long hours working through these papers, researching and answering the questions. Once we had prepared a memorandum of answers, we invited other students to the house and then we spent afternoons discussing both the questions and the answers; by the time everyone went home, most of us felt satisfied that we had a clearer understanding of the work.

  “You guys have helped us a lot,” they’d say, but what I discovered is that I was the one who had benefited greatly. It really is true that the best way to learn is to teach.

  One day, Louis arrived at home, literally rubbing his hands with glee.

  “Hey, man! I hear that the Agriculture paper has been leaked – you can get it on the black market in Atteridgeville,” he said. After a brief debate, he decided to see if he could buy the exam paper. The crafty vendor who claimed to have the exam paper was taking money from desperate students with the promise that it would be available for collection a couple of days later. But something warned Louis that things were not quite right, so instead of handing over money for the paper, he called the vendor aside.

  “Look, here’s my address, come to the house when you’ve got the paper and then we will pay you for it,” Louis said. The other buyers queuing behind Louis were impressed by his savvy, and they too wrote down their addresses for delivery of the exam paper. Days passed, but no word was received from the vendor.

  The following week, during the mid-morning school break, Louis broke into a sweat.

  “Don’t look now, but the police are here. They’re over there, with that guy from Atteridgeville, the one I tried to buy the Agriculture paper from,” he said.

  I could hear the panic in his voice, and told him, “Just relax. We didn’t do anything wrong.” I quietly reassured him, “We haven’t got the paper; we received nothing from him. Just because the police have our address, does not mean that they can prove anything.”

  When break was over, the headmaster called Louis and me to his office. By the time we had tucked our shirts into our trousers and straightened our ties, Louis had calmed down; we felt confident that we could handle the policemen and manage an interrogation from the Education Department officials.

  “I think you boys will recognise this address,” one of the officials said as he held out a piece of paper with our address written on it.

  “Yes, it’s where we live,” said Louis. “I went to a house in Atteridgeville because I wanted to buy the exam paper. But I only left our address and told the guy to contact me when he had the paper. I didn’t buy anything; I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Though his admission frustrated the officials, they could not prove that Louis had acted illegally. But they decided to give him a fright anyway – scare tactics were regularly employed by the police.

  “Ja, Mkhethoni, you think you’re so smart. Well, you can present yourself to Pretoria Central Prison next Saturday and see if the people there find your story convincing,” the investigating officer said.

  The brutality of the guards towards prisoners at Pretoria Central was legendary and I was afraid for Louis. I organised a prayer group, and on the Friday night our friends and fellow students came to our small house in Temba and we held a vigil, praying throughout the night for Louis, hoping that he would not be charged with some obscure new law that could keep him in jail for an indefinite period. Early the following morning we walked Louis to the train station, patting him on the back and offering words of encouragement, but I admit that my heart was hammering for my best friend.

  When Louis arrived at the old red-brick prison building, he was signed in at the double wooden gate and led to an interrogation room. The streetwise Louis immediately felt certain that he was being observed and decided that his interests would best be served if he kept his cool. When the policemen sent the other “accused”, the vendor from Atteridgeville, into the room, Louis ignored him, pretending that he had never met him before; he also ignored the fellow’s feeble attempts at conversation. If anyone was watching, they’d be persuaded that Louis had had no previous dealings with the other accused. The authorities apparently decided that the blood-spattered walls and menacing sounds of the prison had given Louis enough of a fright, so they summoned him, saying, “You can go, Mkhethoni, but now we know what a skelm you are, so you’d better know we’re watching you, hey.” They allowed him to leave.

  Of course, because of all the leaks that year, the Education Department ensured that new examination papers were issued, but fortunately Louis and I had studied hard with the aid of past papers. We both passed well, with the exception of Afrikaans, which had never been my strong subject. Since the Soweto Riots in June 1976, there was a general hatred of the Afrikaans language among us because we considered it to be the language of the oppressor. The only time I opened my Afrikaans books was during Afrikaans lessons; I made no effort to master the language; I hated not only the language, but also the Afrikaners who spoke it. This was a short-sighted decision that would have a negative effect on my university experience; but it was a decision that would be revisited, and reversed, later on in my life.

  The truth about dreams is that some people get to live their dreams and others do not. Louis and I had great plans for the future, but unfortunately Louis could not afford to go to university. Pobane thought that his future lay out
side the mainstream, and so he abandoned education, but it was my abiding dream to go to university. Aware of our weak financial situation, I nevertheless confided in my family, telling them my feelings regarding the importance of education.

  “I know that we have very little money, that we barely survive; but I really believe that a university education is the only way I can escape this life-sentence of poverty,” I said.

  My family all nodded in agreement, and we discussed the situation fully, making plans as to how this might be done. From then on, they all pulled together to ensure that I would realise my dream. They were aware, of course, that this would benefit them too.

  In the late 1970s my mother gave up domestic work and got a job nearer home, at St Peter’s Seminary. She worked hard in her job as a general cleaner, and was devoted to the church. Soon afterwards, she insisted that I convert to Catholicism.

  “I hate those catechism classes,” I complained to my mother as she watched me prepare for my walk to the Seminary one afternoon. I dreaded the long hours in a classroom, listening to a priest explaining the tenets of Catholicism in preparation for my first Holy Communion.

  “Yes, well, you can hate them, but you must go,” she said.

  My mother’s insistence paid off. When it came to securing a bursary to attend the University of the North, St Peter’s Seminary came to my aid, agreeing to pay half the annual fees.

  “So, Herman, how bad were those catechism lessons?” My mother asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  Barclays Bank granted me a student loan for the balance of the fees, and Esther and her husband, Nkokoto, agreed to stand surety for the student loan.