I had always dreamt of owning a car, and at last I decided to make the dream reality. White South African theatre audiences had been captivated by the 1974 musical Ipi Ntombi, which featured the velvet-voiced Margaret Singana. The show went on to become an international hit, and in 1980 it returned to South African stages after a sell-out season in New York. Although blacks were barred from attendance at theatres in white areas, some theatres had begun to relax their attendance criteria, and I so I was able to see the show at the Alhambra theatre in Johannesburg three times. I was captivated. “Ipi Ntombi” means “where is the girl” and the musical tells the story of a migrant worker living in the city and his girlfriend in a faraway village.
I phoned Louis and said, “Louis, you’ve got to come and watch Ipi Ntombi; I’ve got an idea.”
My idea was to take the show to the townships, and I decided on Soshanguve as the place to start, to test the waters.
“Where the hell do you think you’ll get enough money to put on a show like that?” Louis said, visibly appalled at what he saw as my recklessness.
“I’m going to make a plan: this is a big opportunity,” I said.
I remembered Ismail’s cousin who hired out halls for entertainment, and I decided take my own shot at the big time. I made an appointment to see the manager of the Alhambra Theatre, where Ipi Ntombi was playing, and tried not to show my surprise when he agreed to meet me.
Next day, when I walked into his office, my suit felt too tight and my mouth felt too dry to say the words that needed to be said. I swallowed, smiled, and stuck out my hand to shake his.
“I have watched Ipi Ntombi, and it’s a story for the townships. It’s been a huge success with white audiences, but it’s time that black audiences got the chance to see something they can identify with,” I said.
The bemused manager pointed at the chair opposite him, and motioned me to sit down.
“Look, Herman, I admire your initiative. But I need more motivation if I’m going to uproot the whole cast and pack up the set and send it all out into an untested market.”
I leaned forward and looked hard at him. “Sir, where I live, people are starved for entertainment. And if there’s one show they deserve to see, and that I know they’ll love, it’s Ipi Ntombi,” I replied.
To my astonishment, the manager stood up and shook my hand. “Okay, we’ll give the show a trial run of three nights at a hall in Soshanguve, and once we’ve gauged the response from the audience, we’ll discuss further engagements.”
We clinched the deal without any paperwork or contract of any kind. Just the promise of a R3 000 deposit, which was the sum total of my savings. I felt as if I was floating as I left the theatre; I was filled with confidence, amazed that I had simply asked, and my request had instantly been granted.
Ipi Ntombi would be performed over the Easter weekend. I employed Louis as the production manager, and the first night – Good Friday – opened to an appreciative, yet very modest, audience. But on the second night there were barely enough people to fill the front rows. The cast were furious, and we cancelled the rest of the performances. I realised that my enthusiasm for the project had got in the way of efficiency. I had not managed the project properly: instead of overseeing the project every step of the way, I had delegated duties and hoped for the best. I had paid people to put up posters to advertise the event, but I had done very little else in the way of marketing the event. I had nobody but myself to blame for the disastrous experience, and I lost the entire deposit. Worse than that, I felt humiliated. I decided that the next time I undertook a project, I would take full control of all the stages, without relying on others to ensure its success.
But there were other things that preoccupied me at the time – and foremost among them was Connie. The primary reason for wanting to marry Connie was simply because I loved her. But I also knew that my partying could not continue; by marrying Connie, I hoped that my life would calm down, and that I would no longer be caught up in such a fast, unstable lifestyle. Though Connie may have hoped for a husband who was content to live an average life – a husband who had a steady job, at a bank or somewhere similar, where there were prospects of gradual promotion – she soon realised that I would never embrace mediocrity. I wanted a big life, and I needed Connie to be the stabilising force of our marriage.
Although I was engaged, my friends still perceived me as an untiring party animal, and while Connie never objected to my socialising, I felt that I had outgrown that delinquent stage of my life. I was ready to embrace adulthood and its responsibilities. But my friends refused to let me off the hook so easily.
“Come on, Herman, what’s the matter with you, aren’t you allowed to go out and have fun with us any more?” they asked. “Is Connie the one who is boss in your house?”
I was happy to agree that Connie ruled our relationship, because I had a plan. With Connie earning an income, the time seemed ripe for me to break away from the nine-to-five, mind-numbing work at Motani Industries. I hoped to find a job in sales, where my earnings would reflect the effort and number of hours I put in; the allure of big commissions was tempting. But to be a salesman, I knew that I needed transport. And almost nobody in our village owned a car.
I started saving again. I was well aware that my partying friends would commandeer any car I cared to buy, so having Connie at my side was the perfect excuse. Every man knew that once you were in a relationship, the woman called the shots; I would be expected to calm down and spend more time at home instead of partying.
Feeling confident of my plans, I shared my ideas with Connie. “I want to look for a job where I can earn commission.” I took her hand in mine, and said, “I could earn high and I know that the work I put in will show when I get my cheque at the end of the month.”
Connie looked at me a while before saying, “Ja. It sounds like a good plan. But what sector are you thinking of – cars, insurance, direct clothing?”
“I am not sure,” I admitted, “but I know something will come my way.”
Connie listened carefully as I outlined my dreams of being properly rewarded for hard work, and she eventually agreed that I should leave Motani. I was careful not to share everything with her, though. I feared that her common sense would prevail, and that she might try to delay my plans.
One Saturday morning, I woke her up early.
“Get yourself dressed, Connie, we’re going shopping,” I said as I leapt out of bed.
We enjoyed regular trips to Pretoria, where we usually did some window-shopping before having lunch at Captain DoRegos. However, when we arrived in Pretoria that morning, I steered Connie away from the city streets and shop windows, and led her towards the taxi rank. There, we caught a taxi to Laudium.
“Why are we going to Laudium?” Connie asked, a frown of disappointment on her face.
“We’re going to look at some cars,” I said.
“Isn’t that premature? You can’t even drive yet,” she said, doubt narrowing her eyes.
I didn’t allow Connie’s practicality to dissuade me, though, and after some gentle cajoling I was able to persuade her to accompany me to Laudium.
A while before this, I had mentioned to Sattar Motani that I wanted to buy a car. At the time, I relied on trains and buses to travel to and from work, and the fixed transport schedule made it impossible for me to work overtime.
“Herman, I can get you a special deal. When you’re ready, let me know. I’ll put you in touch with a friend of mine who owns a Toyota dealership,” said Sattar Motani.
“I’m ready right now,” I said.
He wrote out his friend’s dealership details: Kharbai Motors, Laudium.
“Okay, take this and go and look at the showroom. If you find a car you like, my friend will give you a good deal,” he promised.
That Saturday, Connie and I stood in the forecourt of Kharbai Motors, where sunlight glinted
off the windscreens of new cars. Holding hands, we walked up and down the rows of new cars, our eyes scanning the price tickets displayed on the windscreens. We couldn’t resist running our hands along the striped or checked blue, grey or brown car upholstery, with its brand-new smell. Inside the showroom we stopped. In front of us stood a shiny blue Toyota Corolla – priced at a whopping R6 800.
The salesman was attentive, and when I told him I worked at Motani he disappeared for a while before returning. Then he sat down at a desk and informed me that he had instructed the onsite finance company to work out a payment schedule based on my salary, which he had verified with Motani.
Connie looked agitated and pulled me aside. “Why did you let him do all that work, Herman? You should tell him we’re only browsing,” she said, clearly embarrassed that the salesman had put in so much effort when we weren’t even there to buy a car.
“Look, we can afford it, and with a car there is no limit to what we can achieve,” I said, determined to own that brand-new car. Not entirely persuaded, she walked back to the salesman.
In less time than it had taken to travel to the dealership, I had signed the purchase documents and the car licence application. The salesman handed me the car keys.
I had never driven a car in my life, although I had often watched taxi drivers changing gears, while thinking, “That looks easy, I can also do it.”
Connie’s eyes darted about with anxiety as she softly pleaded, “Herman, please, let’s catch a taxi into Pretoria and pay a taxi driver to take the car back to Hammanskraal for us.”
Ignoring her, I climbed into the driver’s seat, inhaled the new smell of the car, and switched on the ignition. The car jerked forward, and it took a couple of minutes and a bit of manoeuvring before I managed to engage the clutch and put the car in first gear.
The salesman rushed across the floor and said, “Mr Mashaba, are you sure you can drive?”
“Yes, of course, I’ll be fine,” I smiled.
The Corolla hiccupped out of the dealership like an old drunk. My palms were sweating, my mouth was dry, and Connie yelled and wept alternately; the tension was terrible as I struggled to engage gear. Every time we approached a stop street or a robot, Connie stiffened as I tried desperately to hit first gear, so that we wouldn’t have to judder across another intersection in fourth. My shoulders ached with tension.
By the time we reached Hammanskraal we were able to converse without clenched jaws. I knew that Connie was proud of our new purchase when she suggested we visit my sister, Conny, who was a nurse at nearby Jubilee Hospital, to show off our new car. My sister was shocked and delighted. “A new car! Hey, Herman, how did you manage this?” She sat in the driver’s seat, held the steering wheel, and adjusted the rear-view mirror – just as I had when I first got into the Corolla. When Conny’s tea break was over, we said goodbye and prepared for our journey home.
I had never reversed a car. I stared at the gears, located the reverse position, and engaged the clutch. I was over-enthusiastic, though, and applied too much pressure to the accelerator. So we reversed – right into a tree. When we arrived at my mother’s house, she was as pleased with the car as Conny was, though her delight was soon tempered when she saw the ugly dent in the shiny chrome rear bumper.
Once the afternoon’s tensions had been smoothed over with a cup of tea, Connie turned to me and calmly said, “You need to take driving lessons, Herman – and the best place would be one of the driving schools in Pretoria.”
“But why should I pay them all that money?” I said. “You know that my cousin is a bus-driver. He can teach me.” And so my unfortunate cousin, who was also conveniently a neighbour, spent the rest of the weekend teaching me to drive.
When I thought about the traffic on the road to Koedoespoort, I did not feel confident enough to drive to work on the Monday. But by that Tuesday I felt I had practised enough to take the car to work. From then on, during the long daily trip to Motani, I spent my time thinking about my next step towards independence.
Two months after buying the Toyota, I passed my driver’s licence and managed to get insurance, which was just as well, because I was involved in an accident in a few months later, in November 1982. We had to spend Christmas without the Toyota, as the panel beaters were closed over December.
During this time, I reassessed my future. Soon afterwards, I made an appointment to meet Sattar Motani.
“I wanted to hand in my notice personally. I am leaving Motani,” I announced. “I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to work here.”
Sattar Motani looked surprised. “Are you unhappy?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that at all,” I replied, not quite knowing how to explain.
“Has someone been unkind to you?” he persisted, puzzled that I was leaving if I wasn’t unhappy.
“No, Mr Motani, I think I’m just too hungry to settle into the comfort of an ordinary job; I want to pursue my own business career.” I said.
He nodded his head and said, “I wish you well, Herman. You deserve good luck.”
It was extremely gratifying that Sattar Motani and most of my colleagues wished me well. Leaving the company in such a dignified way allowed me to maintain an enduring relationship with the Motanis, one that remains strong to this day. Many such long-lasting business and personal relationships have stood me in good stead down the years.
During lunch breaks at Motani, I regularly scanned the newspapers and perused the adverts. I often wondered what the advertisers meant when they posed the question: “Do you want to be a millionaire?” Of course I wanted to be a millionaire – but I also wanted to know what I needed to do to earn that kind of money. The insurance industry was renowned for opportunities it offered to earn big bucks, and I decided that I wanted my share of it all. So, after twenty-three months’ service at Motani Industries, I left and joined a well-known insurance company, hoping to increase my earnings significantly.
“Please remember that I only earn R400 a month. This only just covers our basic expenses,” Connie said. We weren’t yet married, and I could understand her need to remind me of the reality of our situation. I could always rely on her to keep my head from floating too far above the clouds but, still, I refused to consider the option of a dead-end job for the rest of my life.
“Connie, I know you’re anxious about our financial security, but a sales job is the only way I can set my own salary. I don’t want anyone else deciding what we’ll achieve for the rest of our lives,” I insisted.
While Connie had grave doubts about my decision to resign from Motani, she nevertheless stood behind me. Her own dreams for our future were as big as my own, yet she seemed instinctively to know that there was room for only one maverick in our relationship; and that one of us had to feel the ground under their feet.
Chapter 10
A wedding is a joyous event, and Connie and I took great pride in planning our own. Connie spent weekends choosing her bridal gown, her bridesmaids’ dresses, and deciding on the formalities of the day. A few days before the wedding, I decided that if I were to do one thing to look like a respectable groom, I should try to do something with my crazy wild hair, so I decided to have a perm. My hair had always been coarse and unmanageable, and I wanted to look my best for our special day.
I entered the hair salon with trepidation, but the place was alive with excited chatter among the hairstylists and the clients, and filled with the pleasant scent of lotions and shampoos and conditioners. When the stylist had completed the perm treatment, I was delighted with the silky texture of my hair; I never imagined that my unruly hair was capable of being tamed.
Our wedding was eventually held in February 1983 in Seabe, the village where Connie had grown up, and all our friends and family were at the celebration. Connie wore the white dress that all brides dream of; she glowed, and I felt privileged to be marrying my beautiful best friend.
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It was our plan to pay a visit to my village to introduce Connie as my wife, but we were so heartily welcomed when we arrived in Majaneng that we changed our minds – also, this gave Connie a chance to wear her beautiful wedding dress for a few extra hours. We enjoyed an impromptu second party with my family and friends, who provided great music and platters of beef, chicken, salads and vegetables. Alcohol flowed as we all partied. Little children ran up to Connie and touched her dress, her veil, her gloves; their dusty toes touched her white shoes, and as Connie indulged them, the children reminded me of the time I was a member of the marching band that played at weddings, a time when we were in awe of any bridal couple and their retinue.
Once the wedding was over, we turned to planning our life together. Home ownership was almost impossible for black people at the time, however. The government was not building new houses in townships, and even if a piece of land was for sale, we had to pay cash as financial institutions had redlined black residential areas.
Before Connie and I got together, I used to sleep in the dining room in my mother’s house. There were only two bedrooms in the house, one of which was my mother’s. Nancy and Florah slept in the other one. I realised that I could not take my bride to a bed in the dining room, so Connie and I purchased a small ZoZo hut that we erected at the back of my mother’s house. It was only about four square metres in size, but that little wood-and-iron hut was our own private place – an adequate arrangement for a newlywed couple who were content simply to be alone together.
We had planned to go to Durban for our honeymoon, and one day Connie came home from work glowing with excitement. “Guess what? I’ve managed to book a room for us at the Maharani Hotel in Durban at a reduced staff rate!”
As soon as we had saved enough money, we drove down to Durban in our blue Corolla, and spent a week there. This was not the kind of thing village people did back then, and my family just shook their heads. “First a car, and now a honeymoon in Durban! What’s next, Herman?”
Black Like You Page 10