Black Like You

by Mashaba, Herman;

  I was admitted at the University of the North – also known as Turfloop – in 1979. I was an idealistic youth, and I was set on studying law, as I hoped I’d be able to embark upon a career that would make a difference in the world. Unfortunately, during the first week of orientation at the university, my hopes were completely destroyed. I was refused admission to study towards a BJuris degree because of my poor Afrikaans matric mark – I tasted the bitter fruit of my refusal to persevere with the hated language while at school.

  As a result, I enrolled for a BAdmin degree, majoring in political science and public administration. I had absolutely no intention of ever working for the apartheid government, so I set my sights on becoming an academic. I committed myself to graduating as a political scientist, hoping that one day I would be able to leave the country and become a lecturer at a university outside of South Africa.

  The University of the North was originally conceived in 1956 by fourteen traditional leaders from the northern and western regions of the country who met under a wild fig tree in the veld. Their plan was to petition the government to build an agricultural college that would serve the sons of traditional leaders. These black leaders hoped to encourage development in the impoverished rural areas, but the government was quick to realise that the idea supported its policy of separate development. As it turned out, the agricultural college was never built, and instead the University College of the North was established in 1959. Initially it was named Turfloop, which was the name of the farm it was built on, near Polokwane. In 1970 it was renamed the University of the North (Unin), and in 2005 Unin merged with the medical university of Medunsa, when its name was changed to the University of Limpopo.

  Turfloop was under-resourced under the apartheid government, and it was derogatorily referred to as a bush college, or a tribal college; it had the reputation of being a second-class university. The government modelled many of the buildings on the traditional malapa, and so lecture halls were built with a semi-circular seating arrangement, which reflected that of traditional tribal meetings. At best, the students regarded this gesture as patronising. Turfloop was at the time under the aegis of the University of South Africa (Unisa). In 1961 the first Student Representative Council (SRC) was elected at Turfloop, which allowed students to voice their opinions and exercise their rights. They protested against the poor quality of the food and eventually resorted to throwing their food on the floor and against the walls. Whenever they tried to protest or consult with the rector at his residence, they were kept at bay by the rector’s vicious dogs, and refused entry.

  In 1968 the South Africa Students’ Organisation (Saso) was established to protect the interests of black students. In July of the following year, it was inaugurated at Turfloop; Steve Biko, a former medical student at the University of Natal, was appointed president of the national organisation. When Unisa’s academic trusteeship of Turfloop came to an end in 1970, students protested because they feared a lowering of standards. These were turbulent times, and they came to a head in 1972 when Onkgopotse Abram Tiro, a Saso leader at Turfloop, was expelled for a speech that he made at a graduation ceremony. White staff members were able to attend the graduation ceremonies, while black parents were forced to stand outside and watch from an open door or window. Tiro criticised the Bantu Education system, which taught black people to become slaves. He prophesied that at some future date all South Africans would be free, and that nothing, not even the powerful South African Defence Force (SADF), would be able to stop that. Tiro refused to apologise for his speech, which became known as the “Turfloop Testimony”. His expulsion was endorsed by the University’s Council, and both the SRC and Saso were suspended.

  The Tiro incident was an expression of a wider political activism aimed at destroying white domination. In 1977 the university council appointed its first black rector, Professor WM Kgware, believing that a black rector would restore peace to the campus and promote a general feeling of solidarity among black staff and students. But this didn’t happen, as many students saw Kgware as a mouthpiece of the apartheid government, a sell-out.

  These were exciting times, and I was glad I’d exchanged village life for the Unin campus. As a full-time student, I could no longer live in Hammanskraal, as we were expected to live on campus. Entering university was a defining stage in my life; I was embracing adulthood and leaving the waywardness of youth behind me. I accepted that I could no longer sell drugs or set up a gambling school on campus, and that I’d have to find other ways of surviving. It took some getting used to, not having the luxuries I’d become so accustomed to when the money was flowing freely. I often had to spend my last few coins on a desperate phone call to my sister, Conny.

  “Please, sisi, can you send me a couple of rand to see me through to the end of the month?” I’d ask, and she always obliged, but my life was certainly nothing like as comfortable as it had been during my last few years at high school. Sometimes, it felt as though the easier route would have been to give up my studies and start working, but I knew an education was imperative if I was to move up through life. If I did not discipline myself and make the best of my opportunities at Turfloop, there was no way I’d be able to live my life on my own terms.

  Like all bush universities, Turfloop was for black students only, and while there were a few black academic staff members, they usually held junior positions; the majority of senior academic staff members were white. I often wondered if there was a special college that bred some of the disagreeable lecturers who taught us. There was one particularly unpleasant lecturer, a Mrs Cloete, who taught us practical English with a heavy Afrikaans accent. Unkind and abrasive, Mrs Cloete took it upon herself daily to remind us all that we were useless losers.

  “You boys and girls are wasting your time; you’ll never get anywhere,” she kept reminding us.

  There was another particularly unkind Afrikaans-speaking lecturer, Professor Swanepoel, who haunts my memories. He had been seconded from the army to teach us Economics. The 1976 Soweto riots were fresh in our memories, and many townships were still patrolled by uniformed soldiers and policemen. Inevitably, Swanepoel’s army uniform did not engender any amiable feelings among us. I still wonder whether he dressed in that uniform on purpose, to intimidate us, or if he was simply too lazy to change between shifts, or whether he was compelled to wear the army uniform. Whatever the case, Swanepoel was an uncharitable man, and he failed to enrich our lives in any way at all.

  As the end of the first academic year approached, I realised that I was not going to pass Economics – our lecturer had certainly made no attempt to assist his students. I knew that if I hoped to proceed to the second year I needed to pass Economics, but I decided that if I focused exclusively on that subject, I would perform poorly in all the others. To avoid failing outright, I concentrated on the subjects I knew I could pass. When it came to the end of the year I had to repeat Economics, but I was permitted in any case to proceed to the second year. St Peter’s Seminary and Barclays Bank were satisfied that I was progressing adequately, and they agreed to extend their assistance. With my fees taken care of, I was admitted into the second year of study in 1980.

  Chapter 8

  University life suited me. I enjoyed the stimulation of the studies, the intellectual interaction with my peers, and the social contact. I had made good friends at university and usually spent weekends with them as it was too far to travel home every weekend. But still, the long vacations were the highlight of university life, and I looked forward to the leisure time that I would spend with family and friends at home.

  Occasionally, I would meet up with Louis in Soweto, or he would come to Pretoria and we would go on a shebeen crawl, meeting girls and partying. It was 1979, and the word “marriage” did not yet feature in my vocabulary – I relished my bachelor status and had no intention of settling down with wife and children until I was in my late thirties. My friends and I considered ourselves to be party animals
, believing that we could play the field for as long as we liked. As before, the respect we got from our peers was directly related to the number of girlfriends we had, and so we earned ourselves the trendy nickname “The Ivys” – after an American R&B group who lived the high life and wore trendy clothing like bell-bottom trousers and platform shoes – though these fashions reached South Africa only some time later.

  In 1978, during my matric year, I had attended a beauty pageant held at Hans Kekana High School, a popular boarding school in Hammanskraal named after a local chief in the area. I decided to go fishing for girls at the pageant with Louis and two other friends, Selby and Ntja. But we needed bait. A car was always a definite lure for females, and we wanted to arrive at the pageant in style. Ntja’s uncle was a pastor at a local church and he owned a kombi; so on the day of the pageant I cornered Ntja.

  “We’d like to ‘borrow’ your uncle’s kombi for the night,” I said.

  “Sorry, I can’t do it, I have to drive the church choir to an engagement,” he said.

  Louis and I worked in tandem to ensure that our only chance of a ride was not scuppered. “What about that girl that you liked?” Louis said to Ntja.

  “Yes, she’ll be there, Ntja. You think a pretty girl like that will just sit around at home, staring at the wall?” I added. “If you want to see her, you’d better make a plan.” I gave Louis a sideways smile.

  The promise of the girl being at the pageant was all the encouragement Ntja needed, and so he faked engine trouble, thus ensuring that his uncle wouldn’t be using the kombi that night.

  We arrived at the pageant in the kombi and the event was already in full swing. When we got to the door, the organisers stepped in front of us.

  “Sorry, no latecomers,” they said, and we had to stand outside, peeping into the hall through a crack in the door. My practised eye soon spotted a girl wearing a bathing suit and a red cape, with dainty white shoes. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Minutes later, I heard the master of ceremonies say, “And the 1978 winner of Miss Hans Kekana High School pageant is Connie Maloka.” My judgement had been validated, and I smiled broadly to myself.

  After the crowning ceremony, I went up to Connie and introduced myself, hoping that the charm I used successfully on so many other girls would impress her. She was friendly, but she had an air of detachment.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, but I already have a boyfriend,” she said. I shrugged off this gentle rebuke and went with Louis to a shebeen, where we met up with some other girls who were more receptive to our flirting.

  The next year, while I was at home during a university break, my cousin Shirley Sebopa and I were messing around. “Remember the girl who won the beauty pageant, the one that you liked – Connie – well, I heard that she has broken up with her boyfriend,” Shirley told me.

  “Oh, you have to arrange a meeting with her,” I replied.

  Connie was nothing like the other girls I knew; she was quiet and composed, but she was also lots of fun. The prospect of marriage hadn’t entered my head, but as we got to know each other better, I knew that she’d be the girl I would marry. In actual fact, Connie had not broken up with her boyfriend, but she did tell me that she liked my ambition and drive. It would be a few more months before she eventually decided to end her relationship with her boyfriend.

  My mother had silently tolerated the girls I had brought home to our house in Hammanskraal, but when I met Connie, I knew she’d be someone my mother would approve of. I did not want my mother to be under the impression that Connie was just another one of the loose girls I hung around with. So, when the next university break approached, I sat at my desk in my dorm room at Turfloop and wrote a letter to my mother:

  “Dear Mum, I would like to introduce you to a girlfriend of mine. May I bring her home for the weekend in two weeks’ time?”

  Though my sisters and mother were surprised at my formality, they took my letter seriously, and this pleased me. My mother did not send me a reply, but she warmly welcomed Connie and me when we arrived at the family home in Hammanskraal.

  From the moment I introduced Connie to my mother they liked each other, and their mutual fondness for each other pleased me. They enjoyed a close and affectionate relationship until my mother died in 1996. My mother treated Connie with the same tenderness reserved for my sisters. My sisters, too, were enamoured with softly spoken Connie. Introducing my future wife to my family in this formal way was appropriate; it let everyone know that I respected Connie and considered our relationship to be a serious one.

  Connie and I kept in touch by writing to each other regularly. I would regularly receive a “Darling Herman” letter at university, and immediately after I’d finished my studying or preparation, I wrote her a “Darling Connie” letter, which I posted the next morning. Through these letters we came to know each other. However, at the weekends that I did not return home, I was not exactly faithful to Connie. As far as I was concerned, until I had a ring on my finger I was still single, and I was not going to hide in the dorm on my own when there was so much fun to be had.

  Finances were tight for just about every student, and the only way to lure girls to our hostel room was to pretend that we were hosting a big party in our dorm.

  “Are you coming to the party on Friday night? No? What a pity, everyone will be there,” I lied.

  Of course, we only invited a couple of girls because our aims were not exactly principled. We could only afford to buy cheap box wine, and so we agreed that we’d get the girls drunk so that they’d hopefully be more receptive to our less than honourable intentions. My friends and I pretended to drink, but in fact we just shared a glass of wine, or we made one glass last all night. It was a tricky situation, ensuring that none of us guys drank too much of the one precious box of wine. Our plan invariably worked. It was a mean trick that exploited the girls, but it worked for us guys.

  During the time I spent in Hammanskraal, I was a devoted boyfriend, believing that Connie was none the wiser about my infidelity.

  Eventually, she decided I should meet her family. But my introduction to Connie’s family was quite different from her formal introduction to my mother.

  “When are you coming to my house to meet my parents?” Connie often asked.

  “When we can do it the proper way,” I replied.

  Connie was still at school when I started dating her, and she usually spent the weekend at our house after leaving boarding school on a Friday afternoon. But one Saturday morning, her father, Gilbert Maloka, went to collect her from boarding school.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Maloka, but Connie isn’t here, she’s gone to her auntie’s house in Majaneng,” he was told.

  Like any concerned father, Mr Maloka set out to find his missing daughter.

  Connie was in the kitchen making breakfast with my mother when she glanced out of the window and saw her father walking up the path that led to our house. She rushed to my mother.

  “Please, Mma, don’t tell my father I came here on Friday. He will be very, very angry with me!”

  “I have been told that my daughter is staying at your house,” Mr Maloka said, clearly restraining himself as he peered over my mother’s shoulder.

  “Yes, welcome to our house,” my mother smiled as she opened the door. “Connie comes every Friday, she spends the weekend with us; she is a wonderful child – she is just like one of my own.” My mother offered Mr Maloka some tea, and he rather stiffly sat down. I had also expected Connie’s father to be angry, but soon he was caught up in conversation with my mother. He did not seem to notice our discomfort. In time, I was invited to Connie’s home, and her family were warmly receptive towards me.

  With mid-year exams looming, I put all my efforts into studying and spent every weekend on campus; I was determined to pass all my second-year subjects. One morning I was walking up to the canteen to get something to eat when
I noticed a scuffle on a playing field. I barely gave it a glance, and the rest of that day I carried on with my daily routine. But the following morning, the campus was tense and a student stopped me on the walkway.

  “There’s a meeting at 7pm tonight, make sure you’re there,” he said.

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “It’s about the student crisis,” he said before hurrying off to pass on the news to a nearby group of students.

  “Are you coming to the meeting?” Eddie Moloto asked when I passed him in the hallway.

  “I can’t, I’ve got a test tomorrow. What’s it all about?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders, apparently uninterested. But I was curious, so I decided to attend the meeting after all.

  Anyone who has ever attended a student gathering at Turfloop will understand what frustrating time-wasters those hastily organised meetings could be. There didn’t seem to be any organised leadership as there was no longer an SRC, and students shuffled into the hall in dribs and drabs. There was certainly no fixed agenda. I made small talk with a couple of my friends, but I soon grew impatient, and I was about to leave when Oupa Mathlare called out to me.

  “Hey, Herman, don’t leave now, the meeting’s going to start in a few minutes.”

  A group of students started singing liberation songs, swaying and chanting in the cold hall while we waited for the meeting to begin. I was anxious to return to my room and resume studying, and even though I wanted to see what the meeting was about, I could stand the delay no longer. So I took it upon myself to stop the singing and get things moving.

  “Okay, guys, be quiet,” I shouted to the crowd. I stood up and faced them as the chanting died down. “Who called this meeting, and why are we here?” These were questions that everyone wanted answers to, and to my surprise I ended up chairing the meeting.

  To find out what was going on, I asked each student with a grievance to present their version of events. It turned out that the scuffle I had noticed the day before was an altercation between members of the university’s football team and disgruntled students who were opposed to its existence; members of the football team hit back at their detractors, and the meeting became quite heated and chaotic.