Black Like You

by Mashaba, Herman;

  PG had contracted a consultant, who came up with the idea of the Field Band Foundation, and R6 million was allocated to the project. At the time, after the Colgate buy-out, I had my hands fairly full with Black Like Me and its own corporate responsibility programmes. So I tried to put Rod off by saying, “I don’t know if I can manage it; my time is so limited.”

  The affable Rod would not be deterred, however. “I tell you what, Herman, you just come along and see what we’re doing.” Some people refuse to take no for an answer, and Rod is one of them. I ended up agreeing to come on board. Ever since our involvement in the YPO, Rod and I had shared similar views about social and business reform, so I was optimistic that I’d be involved in a project that would be driven by men and women who were committed and enthusiastic.

  I’d tried hard to convince Rod that I was not the right person for the job. I’d told him that even though I loved all kinds of music, I wasn’t musically talented. But Rod was far too persuasive, and in the end I was made patron of the FBF. I was invited to attend the first board meeting, and while we sat around the table discussing the project, I felt my excitement growing and I fell in love with what they envisaged. Ever since, I have ensured that I am available to attend the quarterly board meetings. The FBF relies on voluntary commitment, and I have learnt from experience that when people are not paid for their participation, organisations do not always enjoy the commitment they deserve. I was determined not to fail in my commitment.

  I took my entire family to watch the first Field Band National Championships. It was a really thrilling event held at Wits University, and when we arrived at the stadium the car park was already filled with mini-buses, cars and buses that had transported the bands to the jamboree; participants were fussing with last-minute touches to colourful costumes, and carrying instruments that were sometimes bigger than the children who played them. The stadium buzzed with excitement. The memories of my own childhood rushed back, and I was mesmerised.

  In the open-air stadium, we took our seats amidst excited, clapping families and friends. It was wonderful to be out in the fresh air with Connie and the children, away from corporate demands and air-conditioned offices. The jamboree began with bands marching around the stadium. What a sight it was! Hundreds of boys and girls paraded past us, decked out in uniforms that we could only have dreamt of as children; in their smiles and cocky manner, I remembered a younger Herman – my heart beating as wildly as my drum. I watched as a variety of band members marched past us, tall and small, black and white, flamboyantly dressed or simply clothed. All of them were beaming with delight, and the spectators whistled and ululated in appreciation.

  Proud and happy, we joined in the wild applause for the talented and committed children who had come from all over the country, most of them from homes no better than the humble one I’d grown up in. Their performances were especially remarkable considering the severely disadvantaged backgrounds they came from, where many parents were unemployed, and where there was barely money for food, let alone the very expensive musical instruments. Yet there the kids were on the field that day, blowing their shiny tubas and beating kettledrums, making music as if they had been taught at a music conservatory or any one of the private schools in the elite suburbs; they danced as if their bones were elastic.

  Those children had poured their hearts and souls into their performances, reminding me that South Africans really do know how to celebrate life with dance and song – reminding me of Ipi Ntombi all those years ago. The thrills of the day had completely exceeded my expectations, and we all decided that we would definitely be at the next event, whether or not we were invited. If this spectacle was what social responsibility and upliftment programmes were about, then I was proud to be a part of it. At the end of the day I returned home with a smile and a melody in my heart instead of a corporate frown. And long after the performance, I could still hear the percussion instruments in my ears, and see the sequined costumes flashing in the sunlight. It had also been a real pleasure to be involved in something that my family could enjoy with me. But, most importantly, from a business point of view, I had seen with my own eyes that well-developed and carefully managed social development programmes are more than just struggling charities – they are strong instruments for personal development, social integration, and the future growth of communities.

  Today, the FBF has more than four thousand children participating in programmes that are run in all nine provinces. There are no criteria for participation other than commitment. It does not matter if a participant does not have shoes or has never played a musical instrument, and it does not even matter if they cannot walk – there are active members of the FBF who are physically disabled. If a child wants to participate, the leaders will find a home for their talent, whether it is acrobatics or tapping away at a triangle – everybody has to start somewhere. Many of the leaders of the programme are former FBF members who have risen up through the Foundation and been sent on leadership workshops and training programmes that enable them to teach other children.

  For the past four years I have been chairperson of the FBF, and I am happy to carry out the commitment I have made to the Foundation. The FBF does not run on goodwill alone, it runs on strict business principles and is extremely fortunate to have committed sponsors. Anyone who buys a lottery ticket automatically supports the FBF, as it is a beneficiary of the National Lottery Distribution Trust Fund. Several other companies and organisations fund the FBF, including De Beers and PG – but it’s important to say that people also devote time to the Foundation. Funds are always carefully managed, as accountability is a major consideration when I decide to get involved in a project; I want to see where the money is going, and I am not interested in participating if only 10c out of every R1 that is donated goes to the programme. If the project cannot show me that it is capable of judicious management, I am not interested in getting involved. It is simply not good enough for sponsored money to be funnelled into the project manager’s private bank account; this money has been given in good faith. Managers earn a salary, and if it is a good salary, nobody will mind – but only if the managers do their job properly.

  The FBF has been farsighted in recognising that its child members are part of a greater community, and it currently leases a property in Eshowe to house the FBF academy. The Foundation has always dreamt big dreams for its members, and many talented FBF members travel to Norway, Belgium and the United States every year to participate in international events. The Norges Musikkorps Forbund (Norway), Vlamo (Belgium), and Pioneer Drum Corps (USA) have been excellent partners in helping the FBF to achieve high standards. All of these overseas organisations have sent experienced trainers to South Africa to train local leaders and band instructors, helping to upgrade their skills. It is gratifying to attend these workshops and to see how the interaction benefits our members, with the useful spin-off of helping to develop committed and empowered local leaders.

  When our members travel overseas to perform, they impress audiences, not only with their talent, but also with their unique enthusiasm. The FBF impressed a broad range of international audiences when it participated in the 2010 World Cup celebrations during the countdown festivities. A total of 371 FBF members also performed in the opening and closing ceremonies. This memorable experience boosted the confidence of all its members, not only those who actually performed, but also those who aspire to perform in similar international events.

  The person behind the FBF is Bertie Lubner, a man I would have chosen to be my father, if such a thing were possible. Shortly after my conversation with Rod Fehrsen, Bertie and his wife, Hilary, invited Connie and me to their home for breakfast, and it was wonderful to be surrounded by their close-knit family. Soon afterwards, Bertie asked me to sit on the board of the FBF, and there was no way I could refuse a man who is dedicated to making a difference in the lives of black children. Over the years, we have met up with one another at the Field Band events, wher
e I have seen Bertie weep tears of joy as he watches the kids. A stranger would hardly believe that he is a son of the one of the wealthiest families in South Africa. Bertie Lubner gives his whole heart to projects that are creating change in South Africa. But apart from Bertie’s big heart, I have also come to admire his enormous business acumen, which I have witnessed while attending PG board meetings. Whenever I feel glum about the mouthing off of an irrational politician, to this day, a single positive comment from Bertie reassures me.

  Black Like Me has spawned an initiative called Black Like Us (BLU). It is an art initiative that works with professional artists, helping to improve their business skills so that they can earn a living from their art. BLU arose out of a phone call that I received in 2003 from Maureen Dixon of the Watercolour Society of South Africa, asking me to assist them with their arts programme. My initial impression was that I would be expected to support struggling artists, but when I met the Watercolour Society’s management team, I was really impressed with the vision they sketched of our involvement. The Watercolour Society is regularly approached by artists in need of assistance, whether by way of sponsorship of materials or exposure of their work; eventually, the Watercolour Society of South Africa came up with a plan for formalising its participation in this empowerment of black artists.

  Creative people are unique; they are so absorbed with the creative process that they do not always know how to attend to the business side of their profession. But I decided that if Black Like Me was going to be involved in the initiative, I wanted to be sure that the artists themselves recognised the need to learn how to manage the business side of their activities.

  At the first meeting I attended, I addressed the artists present and explained that we wanted to help them fulfil their potential; shortly after my address, Abe Mathabe stood up and said that, as an artist, he could also help by teaching skills and techniques to new artists. But before he finished, I stood up and said, “Stop right there! I am not a communist; I am a capitalist, and the only way of raising the status of artists is to teach them how to make money out of their art.”

  I am unapologetic in my approach: it is pointless to produce beautiful art if you cannot afford to feed your family off the proceeds. My key philosophy is that if you do not look after yourself, then you cannot look after anyone else. Also, I am a hardworking executive; and it is precisely my life-long work ethic that has freed me up to participate in and sponsor programmes such as the FBF and BLU art initiative.

  Black Like Us took my advice and, ever since, each artist who participates in the programme is provided with expert advice and a starter pack of artist’s materials. Depending on their individual needs, they are also provided with advice as to how they can market themselves, and each artist is also supplied with an order book. So when the artists deliver their artworks to a gallery, they are able to provide the gallery owner with an invoice of the art they have given on consignment. It is this kind of practical business tool that has helped to build up a team of professional artists who are properly paid for their hard work and exceptional talent. People with expert business skills are well paid, and there is no reason why excellent artists should not be equally well paid for their cultural contribution.

  Black Like Us has supported many artists in improving their careers, and today some of them have even achieved international recognition. Abe Mathabe is a typical Black Like Us artist. He grew up in Pimville, in a large family whose focus was on survival, putting food on the table, and caught up as they were in this, there was not much time left to devote to social interaction among family members – or, indeed, to recognise Abe’s budding talent. Abe had trained as a signwriter and one day, feeling frustrated and wishing to express himself on paper, he rummaged around the house until he found a Bic ballpoint pen; he used the pen to make a beautiful, delicate line drawing, and since then he has never looked back. His background in graphic art helped him to make the crisp drawings that charmed the artists at the Watercolour Society of South Africa. They immediately agreed to represent his work. A curator of the society’s arts programme, Zanne Bezuidenhoudt, saw something unique in Abe’s drawings, recognising that the delicate scale of the work lent itself to miniaturist art. She encouraged Abe to consider trying his hand at this demanding art form, and Abe’s miniatures are now internationally acclaimed. He was recently an honoured guest at the annual miniaturist exhibition in Tasmania, Australia.

  I have never had an art lesson, and I certainly do not have the expertise to recognise the potential in these talented men and women of the BLU art programme. What I do have, however, is the means to sponsor their unique talents, thus enabling them to develop their careers.

  There are many people who have been helped through programmes such as BLU. But assisting individuals and sponsoring cultural programmes should not be seen in isolation; these are integral to the broader evolution of society, which is itself the result of such cultural programmes. South Africa cannot rely for its development on political reform alone; all countries need social reform, and to progress as evolved citizens, we need to participate in activities that encourage the development of the arts and also sports. This will have far-reaching benefits for the psyche of our nation. One has only to remember the 1995 Rugby World Cup, and how at the time it united many citizens who reached over the rift caused by apartheid. More recently, South Africans joined hands to welcome foreign tourists during the 2010 World Cup.

  It is not humanly possible to be involved in every programme that is brought to my attention. I simply do not have the time and, to be quite honest, some programmes do not appeal to me. In some cases I give a donation to solve a particular problem, and at other times I am called upon to offer mentorship. One thing that means a lot to me is mentorship; I take every opportunity to do so, as I suspect that many of my childhood and university friends may have achieved more if they had enjoyed the support of a mentor – though, of course, GaRamotse was a completely different time, a different place.

  I recently received a request from the headmaster of Ratshepo High School, my old school in Temba. He asked me to pay a visit to see if there was any way I could assist with the upgrading of the school. I drove to Temba, rather reluctantly, I must admit. Going back to visit family and good friends is a pleasure, but driving through familiar streets and seeing the same forlorn faces that I’d left behind thirty years ago can be quite soul-destroying. I find myself wondering what blessed star I was born under, why I was singled out to live a successful life, and yet friends like Shakes, my old soccer pal, are still wandering aimlessly around the village. But then I remind myself of what I had to sacrifice and how stubborn I needed to be to succeed. Even so, this does not ease the sorrow I feel each time I return to Hammanskraal.

  I did not know what to expect at Ratshepo High, which had certainly never been a prosperous school. When I arrived, I was met by the headmaster, Peter Maswanganye, and the local education inspector. They took me on a tour of the school. I was concerned with the over-crowding in the classes, as some classrooms housed ninety-two pupils. My worry was that if I built the three extra classrooms the headmaster felt they needed, who would provide the additional requirements? If I sponsored new buildings at the school, that would only be the beginning; where would the rest of the requirements come from – the equipment, the books, the sports facilities? At the time of my visit in 2008, I was chairman of Stocks, and so I was in a position to try to persuade businesses to sponsor a revitalisation project at the school. But on the drive home, as I mulled over the headmaster’s appeal, I realised that, quite honestly, the project was too big for me. The government has neglected many rural schools, it is no longer putting enough energy and resources into them because urban schools are far more demanding and have higher enrolment numbers. Just because Ratshepo was my old high school did not mean that I should abandon my beliefs in good business practice.

  I refused to allow sentiment to sway my instincts, so I turned down
the request for help. It was a moment of personal regret, but a decision had to be made on feasibility. Even though I may have been able to pull it off, the project did not have the elements necessary to ensure its sustainability. Both FBF and BLU are accountable and sustainable initiatives; the money put into them is converted into projects and measurable results which ultimately outperform the sponsorship amounts. Regrettably, my old high school did not seem to have the potential to perform in the same way.

  Involvement in any social programme requires sacrifices, and it is an unfortunate fact that in most instances the sacrifices have been made by my family. While I am out mentoring or lecturing or visiting social programmes, I have to leave my family to carry on with their own lives. For some programmes demand more than money, they demand my presence and personal hands-on activity.

  In 2007, the PG group asked me to initiate a short programme for a group of their employees, which I agreed to do. The programme was well received and the participants wanted me to continue for a while, which I again agreed to – thinking that it would only last a few more months at most. Four years later, I am still meeting the group one evening every month. It’s not a SETA-approved programme, and it is certainly not designed for PG employees to increase their output so that the company makes more glass; it is much more than that. Sometimes I bring along a guest speaker, or I talk about the power of reading, and we discuss books that we have read; at other times we have discussions on a variety of topics, for example, how to resolve social or corporate issues.

  While many companies have corporate indabas, most employees do not really have the opportunity of bringing other aspects of their lives into the workplace; they generally see themselves as part of the company rather than as individuals. It is all very well to expect employees to perform at peak productivity, but employees are individual human beings who want to play Action Cricket, or buy a new home, or start a literacy programme; they dream of owning a café, or of climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. These individual needs and wants must be recognised and encouraged, so that employees have properly developed psyches. It is highly unlikely that the assembly-line worker who screws on bottle tops actually likes screwing on bottle tops, so what does he like, what are his dreams, and how can we help him to realise those dreams while he’s an employee? That is the kind of thing that real empowerment is all about.