Leisure travel was unheard of in those days – few black people owned cars, and even fewer went honeymooning on the Durban beachfront. Mostly, people only travelled long distances to attend to family matters – lobola negotiations, weddings and funerals; they certainly weren’t in the habit of heading for whites-only beaches.
The Maharani was one of only a few hotels that admitted black guests at that time. The pristine Durban beaches were officially off-limits to blacks, except on Boxing Day, but there were no racial restrictions on the beach directly opposite the Maharani. Hand in hand, Connie and I crossed the road and strode onto the beach. We stared out across the rolling waves of the Indian Ocean, feeling the warm water pulling at our ankles. We had only ever seen photographs of the ocean, and we revelled in the feeling of the sand between our toes, the loud rushing of the waves and the foam that spread across the beach. Connie blocked her ears. “It’s so loud!” she shouted.
Although it was rare at the time for restaurants to serve black patrons, a nearby restaurant did allow black diners, and we were on our way there one evening when an elderly white woman stepped in front of us and said, “Why don’t you people stay with your own kind?” Connie and I sidestepped her without replying; we refused to allow the racial prejudice of strangers to ruin our honeymoon.
We took advantage of all the Durban sights and experiences that we could afford, including, of course, the few activities open to blacks. We stood at Durban harbour amidst the squawking gulls and drank in the salty smell tinged with fish and diesel from tugs chugging around larger boats. We stood in the queue next to the Dick King statue on the Gardiner Street Jetty at South Beach and bought our tickets for the boat trip on the Sarie Marais, thrilled to be enjoying the experience in each other’s company. Our honeymoon trip may have been instrumental in our becoming ardent travellers; that visit to Durban opened our eyes to the extent of our country, and we realised that perhaps, after all, GaRamotse was not big enough to warrant a dot on a map.
I soon landed back in reality, and realised that I had made an error of judgement in taking the insurance job. I did not receive adequate training from the company but, still, I followed up on every lead that I was given. One day I arrived at a woman’s house in Mamelodi township, Pretoria.
“Welcome, Mr Mashaba,” she said. While she made some tea, I looked around her modest dwelling – the basic furniture, her brood of children – and as I sat there trying to convince her why she should part with a large percentage of her limited earnings, I had a revelation. I did not believe that the insurance policy was what she needed at that moment in her life, and I felt as though I was taking food out of the mouths of that woman’s children. The woman reminded me of my own mother, and when she sat at her tiny table, listing all her expenses, I knew that every cent she earned was badly needed by her family. In good conscience, I could no longer sell insurance, I did not feel connected to the product and I did not have the passion to be enthusiastic about it. And without the passion, I instinctively knew that my chances of being a successful insurance agent were slim. It was an enormous setback because I had bought into the hype that surrounds the insurance sales industry without fully considering the product.
Once again, I turned to the newspapers. I went through each advertisement, circling sales positions, and phoning to enquire about the products or services offered by the companies. After talking to one of the telephonists, I learnt that a company in Pretoria North called Lessan was looking for a crockery salesman. A state of emergency existed in almost every big township in South Africa at the time, and PW Botha was the dictatorial State President. Black men were routinely stopped by police.
“Where are you going?” they would demand. “What are you doing here? Are you here to cause trouble? Where did you get that car?”
The harassment was intimidating – I knew it was inevitable that at some time I would be stopped and interrogated. Freedom of movement was severely restricted, but I minimised the risk of arrest by dressing well and knowing which big corporate companies had offices in the areas where I worked. Whenever I was stopped by the police I was pleasant and always called them “baas”; this generally placated them and, if it didn’t, I told them that I was employed at Barclays Bank or the biggest company in the area. When they glared at me in disbelief and disdain, or sniggered, I offered to take them to the company, where they could verify my employment. Of course, this intimidated them and, like typical bullies, they usually backed off with a weak warning.
Despite the emergency conditions, the crockery and cutlery sales went well. But, still, I felt that I was capable of more.
“I’ve had enough of this crockery and cutlery. I’m going to look for other products too,” I said to Connie.
“Why not try selling linen?” she suggested, giving me a smile. “I’ve seen for a while now that you need a new challenge.”
I took her advice and signed up with a linen manufacturer. Soon I was selling a bedding bale as well as a full set of crockery and cutlery to my clients, and my earnings were climbing steadily. But once I had sold a linen set or a set of pots to a person, that was it, they were not repeat customers: I was not offering a product that people needed to replace every few weeks or months. This meant that I had to constantly travel to new areas, find new customers and generate new business. Because of the pass laws, my movements were restricted, and I could only operate in areas where there was a familiar police presence.
In addition to selling crockery and cutlery, I branched out even further and started selling fire-detection systems for a Swedish couple, Steve and Heather Gustafson. It was while working for them that I learned the art of salesmanship – techniques that ensured I got the sale. During the day I had to be disciplined and make appointments, because the more appointments I made, the better my chances of success were. I travelled the townships during the mornings and afternoons, stopping off at houses and making appointments to return in the evening to do a presentation. It was pointless making a presentation without the whole family present, because it was necessary to sell the benefits of the fire-detection system to the whole family. The crucial thing was the fears of the family – if parents thought their children might be in danger of dying in a fire, they wanted the system installed. Even if homes did have electricity, many people relied on cheaper products such as paraffin for cooking and coal for heating, so the risks of a fire were very real in many homes. Connie often accompanied me on those appointments in the evenings; we worked well as a team.
I targeted primarily the more affluent township dwellers, and I was cold-canvassing in Mamelodi one morning when I arrived at a four-roomed house where a pregnant woman was scrubbing the floor.
“Good morning, I’m selling fire-detection systems,” I said, closing the gate behind me.
The woman stood up and dried her hands. “Good morning, I’m Mary Itsweng. My husband is at work; it’s no use showing me,” she said.
“Maybe I can make an appointment to come back when he’s home,” I said, refusing to be put off. Mary seemed reluctant, but I persisted until she agreed to an appointment on the Friday evening.
Soon afterwards, Connie and I went along and we made the presentation; we did not sell the Itswengs the fire-detection system, but we did have dinner with them, and we subsequently became good friends. During that time, I made friends with a lot of people I met, and many of these friendships developed, and have endured. The crockery and linen sales were our bread-and-butter money, but the very successful fire-detection sales provided us with the jam.
Steve Gustafson was a generous man who became more than just an employer. To be able to work in other areas, I needed my work permit signed. Steve did so without hesitation or fuss, giving me peace of mind and allowing me greater mobility. I continued in this way, representing three or four companies at any given time; but my big break came one morning after I had dropped Connie off at work in Sandton City in Johannesburg.
I was poring over the real estate section of the newspaper, looking for a house to buy in Soshanguve, near Pretoria. My eyes were blurring from the same boring two-bedroom-one-living-room ads. I turned to the Employment Offered column and noticed the advertisement for a sales representative for SuperKurl, a company that manufactured black haircare products.
I remembered how pampered I’d felt when I had my hair permed for my wedding and I knew that black hair products were products that I could sell. I hurried to a local café, where I changed a banknote for some small change; then I dialled the number in the cramped public phone booth.
The company owner’s wife introduced herself as Mrs Thompson, and said to me, “Mr Mashaba, we were actually advertising for a white salesman.” I felt disappointed, but thanked her anyway. Then, after a pause, she continued, “But come and visit our factory anyway, and my husband can interview you.”
On the drive through to Malvern, Johannesburg, I passed through the busy centre of Johannesburg where taxis hooted and dodged their way in and out of traffic. This was unfamiliar territory, and I felt apprehensive about working for a company south of Johannesburg while I was living in Pretoria. There was not a morning I left home that I did not carry the risk of being arrested for a pass offence; it was exhausting, as the risk was so great. The last thing I wanted was to land up in jail! I had never been locked up, and the horrors that my friends had told me about were too nightmarish to contemplate – the brutality of apartheid jails, where blacks had no rights.
Once I arrived at the factory, though, my misgivings were forgotten. The place was a hive of industry, with machines spitting out lotions and potions, threaders sealing bottles, and conveyor belts delivering different-coloured bottles to packaging stations. Colleen Thompson introduced me to her husband, Leon, the owner of the company. He took me on a tour of the factory and then invited me into his office for refreshments. Over a cup of tea, he explained SuperKurl’s areas of operation and I realised that I had at last found products that offered sustainable sales. But, most importantly for me, SuperKurl was a brand I believed in at a time when salons were mushrooming all over – in villages, townships and cities.
No further mention was made of the fact that SuperKurl were looking for a white salesman. Colleen said they wanted a representative to operate in Tembisa on the East Rand, and Leon invited me to join the company on a commission-only basis. My commission represented only 30% of the wholesale price, but I accepted his offer because I felt comfortable with the arrangement and knew that to a certain degree I was in charge of my own destiny – whatever effort I put into selling the product would be rewarded.
The following day, I accompanied one of SuperKurl’s reps to Germiston and Katlehong to learn more about the haircare industry. The experience was overwhelming. Both black and white entrepreneurs were part of the new and exciting industry. Every salon we visited was packed with customers waiting to have their hair permed or relaxed. Later that afternoon, we returned to the factory and Colleen gave me product information and tips; she also handed me some order books so that I could hit the road on my own.
I was soon so involved in SuperKurl that I did not have time to juggle all the other products I was selling, so I decided to focus fully on my new job. In less than a year, I was SuperKurl’s top salesman. If the white staff had any reservations about the new black salesman, they kept their feelings to themselves. I was punctual for sales meetings and presented my daily orders timeously. I was committed to the job, and I formed strong relationships with my customers. I was also assigned a full-time professional hairdresser – Sheila Setshedi, from Tembisa – who worked with me.
With my Corolla loaded up with samples, I visited salons in the area and found that I was quite comfortable in the world of black beauty. The rate of repeat business astounded me; I had no sooner delivered a product than I would receive a call to deliver another order. I’d got into the industry at the right time: black haircare was burgeoning, and informal salons were springing up on every street corner. Hairdressers are gregarious by nature, and I was always welcomed into the ammonia-scented salons with a smile and a cup of tea or coffee.
“Herman, what have you got for us today? Come and sit down, let me give your hair a treatment.” This really was a very pleasant environment to work in.
There was more than enough business to go around, so I recruited an old workmate, Joseph Molwantwa, to join me at SuperKurl. I’d met Joseph at a time when we were both trading from the boots of our cars, I selling linen and crockery and Joseph selling clothing. Joseph and I became friends, and I regularly encountered him on trips into town as we sold to the same customers. He was also an impeccable dresser, and we had the same work ethic. But our sales approaches differed: where I turned on the charm, Joseph turned on the pressure – and it worked for him.
SuperKurl had many white sales reps, but the white market was small in comparison to the black market. Things went really well for Joseph and me, and eventually I became the top sales guy in the company, with Joseph a close second.
The sales environment suited me very well, and I was returning home each month with an ever-increasing pay cheque. Leon Thompson seemed to be impressed with my diligence, though he was possibly even more impressed with the fistfuls of money he was earning. As a result, he and I embarked upon a road trip to neighbouring African countries to introduce SuperKurl. On the long stretches of road we discussed business matters, and Leon mentioned that he was concerned that his chemist, Johan Kriel, might be planning to go into business on his own.
Johan Kriel was a respected chemist in the beauty field, having developed beauty products for Reeva Forman and Avroy Shlain, two large direct-marketing beauty companies in South Africa. He had also worked for Revlon South Africa for many years. Not only was he a highly competent chemist, Johan Kriel was also a gentleman who engaged with all the staff at SuperKurl.
It had become clear to me during my working experience that some white employers didn’t have any allegiance towards their black staff, and had no compunction in firing them. And although I was successful at SuperKurl, it bothered me that Leon had invited his brother-in-law to join him in establishing a new brand called Magic Curl. I realised now that I’d have to carefully consider my future at SuperKurl.
Connie and I were living very comfortably, and she must have breathed a sigh of relief that I had at last found my niche. But although I was content with my life, I knew that there was something more for me. I didn’t just want the gold watch when I retired from SuperKurl in twenty-five years’ time; I wanted to own the gold mine.
Chapter 11
Christmas 1984 was approaching. December is the month when South African businesses traditionally close down for their annual break, and many white employees escape to coastal towns where sea breezes revive their spirits – Durban, Port Elizabeth, Plettenberg Bay and Cape Town. It is also a lucrative time of year for retail business and, like many employees, I looked forward to receiving an annual bonus so that I could pamper my family during the Christmas festivities. As usual, Leon Thompson and his family went on their annual vacation, and he left his brother-in-law to take care of the business.
During this busy period, the SuperKurl range of products seemed to walk straight off the assembly line onto the salon shelves; production could barely keep pace with the demand from consumers. I spent those long summer days in my unairconditioned Corolla visiting township salons, taking orders or delivering them. Then, squinting against the sunset, I returned to the company with fistfuls of cash, handing it over to the admin personnel, who in turn handed the money over to Leon’s brother-in-law. SuperKurl was making between R100 000 and R200 000 a day in cash sales.
Like me, most of the SuperKurl employees had to forgo a vacation. We had to work to ensure that we could fulfil the Christmas orders. In appreciation of our loyal service, Leon arranged a braai in his absence – a party to thank his employees and t
o ensure that we felt some measure of festive spirit.
I had slotted into the black haircare industry with ease, and I felt confident that I now had a good understanding of the industry. I had already mentioned to Joseph that I felt we could create our own black haircare company, but he was financially comfortable and had doubts as to who we might employ to create our product range. Connie and I were enjoying a lot of socialising and travelling, and so money was not the sole motivator for me. I wanted to own my own company – and in the back of my mind, Leon’s misgivings about SuperKurl’s pharmacist, Johan Kriel, lingered.
Unlike Joseph, I was not content with just being comfortable, so I pulled Joseph aside one day and said, “Leon suspects that Johan Kriel may be leaving SuperKurl to develop his own business interests.”
“So? How will that affect us?” Joseph asked.
“Well, if we can persuade him to join us rather than going on his own, we’ll solve our problem of finding someone to formulate products for our own range,” I replied.
In 1984, blacks and whites very rarely had any kind of social interaction, and it was certainly unheard of for a black man to approach a white man to join him in a business. But I knew that if Joseph and I had any hope of succeeding, we needed Johan. Joseph and I had many discussions on the matter, and Joseph was generally rather sceptical.
“Instead of Johan joining us, I think we should approach the black production manager,” Joseph said. “He works with the product – he must know how to produce it,” Joseph said. He was afraid that if we poached Johan, it would cause problems between Leon and us. I agreed, and we had several meetings with the production manager. Very soon, though, we realised that he was merely a mixer and had no technical expertise or knowledge about what chemicals were used in the formulas. So we had to exclude him from our plans as he could add no value to our new enterprise. By this time, we knew that the only person who could help us was Johan Kriel, and the end-of-year SuperKurl braai would be the perfect opportunity to approach him.
Black Like You Page 11