All this is not to say that I have not made mistakes, or that I have no regrets; there is surely not a man alive who can honestly make such a claim. However, I have never allowed mistakes or regrets to keep me shackled to a safe path where opportunities may be hidden from view. There is no room for over-cautiousness or the desire for safety in entrepreneurship. Entrepreneurs are, by definition, risk-takers; over-cautious circumspection kills the vitality that lies at the heart of entrepreneurship, its opportunistic impulse.
Because defeatists continually lament the failures in their lives, they usually lurch from one failure to another. They use past failures to justify their refusal to take risks, and so they trap themselves in the blame game and are unable to lift themselves out of the morass and into a new venture. Achievers seldom consider the possibility of failure, because their minds are utterly focused on their visions and plans for the future. When I sold Black Like Me to Colgate-Palmolive, I did so because I believed that my company’s objectives would be enabled by Colgate’s strength. But the opposite proved to be true: Colgate suffocated Black Like Me. However, I do not consider the sale a failure; I see it as a learning experience. I remained committed to the pursuit of the company’s goals, and subsequent to the buy-back from Colgate, I achieved those goals.
If I’d been a defeatist, the fire at the Black Like Me premises would have been the perfect excuse for me to throw up my hands in the wake of all the ugly rumours that surfaced at the time. But I refused to give in to the crisis; instead, I turned to Louis and said, “This won’t get us down – it’s just another challenge, and we’ll get on top of it.” Not once did I ask, “Why is this happening to me?” I instinctively knew that becoming self-absorbed would demand too much energy. In spite of all the odds, I had to show a dogged determination to my employees, I had to make important decisions, and take proactive steps to literally rebuild the company from the ground up. So I persevered, taking one step at a time in rebuilding Black Like Me.
The longer I live, the more convinced I am that education does not stop when you step outside a formal learning institution: education is an ongoing process. Achievers seek out opportunities to acquire and learn the skills they need. I could not complete my university studies, but that did not stop me from listening to the ideas of people I met during my working experience, and eventually trying out some of those ideas myself. Many of my schoolmates at GaRamotse went to school merely to conform; they failed to see the real purpose of education – a springboard to achieving one’s goals. When I started reading books – biographies, autobiographies and personal profiles, in particular – I realised that the information I needed to improve my skills was there for the taking. I did not have to attend university; I simply had to read about people who had educated themselves, and who were willing to share their experiences and skills with me in the pages of a book. Defeatists bemoan the lack of learning opportunities or access to them, believing that education opportunities exist only in formal institutions. My experience has shown that education in its broadest terms is developed by interaction with others, by engaging with ideas, by educating oneself through reading or mentorships. These things mostly cost nothing; books, for example, can be borrowed from a library for free.
Some people work for their money, while others make their money work for them. Few people realise the true value of money. Most people throughout the world treat money as if it is something that is earned in order to be spent; they spend their money on designer clothing with trendy labels, or on fine furniture or luxury cars – they feel they have worked hard for their money and so they spend it to make themselves feel good. But there is another way of feeling good about money – by making it work for you.
Judicious investment makes money grow, thereby helping investors to accumulate the wealth necessary to afford the lifestyle they aspire to; wise investments also help people to avoid incurring debt. A responsible approach to money has nothing to do with one’s position on the economic ladder – rather, it is an attitude that one develops. We have all read stories about people who have lived modestly and accumulated millions because of prudent spending habits and sensible investment practices.
Achievers are by nature people who try to find solutions to problems. My entire village lacked exposure to whites-only pursuits; we had no cinemas, no dance halls and no proper sports fields, but I refused to surrender to my circumstances. I played soccer with the rest of the kids on the dusty patch of ground that was GaRamotse’s soccer field, but I wanted more than this. I also wanted to play tennis, so I ignored my abhorrence of the policemen who intimidated us and learnt to play at the Hammanskraal Police Training College tennis courts.
I told myself that I had the opportunity of learning to play a fun game normally denied to township kids, so I took full advantage of the situation and solved the problem of a lack of facilities. Tennis is a great social game, but it also taught me a useful skill that I later transferred to my business dealings: it taught me about strategy. In the game of tennis, players use different strategies to gain advantage and to exploit their opponent’s weaknesses with the purpose of winning more points and eventually winning game, set and the match. Strategy consists of the overall plan, and tactics are the detailed manoeuvres in each game, whereby players work towards winning the set, and eventually achieving their overall plan – winning the match.
Each tennis player develops a specific style of play, focusing on individual strengths to beat an opponent. A baseline player plays from the back of the tennis court, favouring ground strokes rather than approaching the net; a volley player works best at the net, hitting hard shots that put pressure on the opponent; and all-court players have a good balance between these playing styles. But the most important aspect of tennis is learning to read your opponent and to play according to their weakness. These principles also apply in business. When I bought a share in the ferrochrome smelter in 2002, I played on the other party’s weakness in order to negotiate a good deal for myself. I knew exactly why Samancor was dragging their feet over doing a deal with their ex-staff – they didn’t fit the BEE profile. And long before this, during the Black Like Me days, in negotiating with suppliers I had to strategise carefully. With some suppliers I negotiated like a volley player, getting up close and putting pressure on them, while with others I negotiated from the baseline, proceeding cautiously, especially if the supplier was likely to become aggressive.
The key to being an achiever is using every possible experience to enhance your business. When you play chess, for example, you have to think two moves ahead of your opponent, pre-empting the person’s moves. Incorporating these kinds of skills into your business is useful and rewarding. Achievers seek solutions from a diverse range of possibilities, and they don’t settle for second best.
Successful people are a combination of the talents they are born with and those they learn from their environment. I had an economically disadvantaged start, but fortunately my caregivers were people who encouraged and nurtured me, helping me to become a productive person. My youthful interaction with people generally involved discussing politics, religion, community issues – even music. Everyone was allowed to participate, and this created a thirst for more interaction and information. I was an inquisitive child; I wanted to learn. I listened to stories of triumph and tragedy, power and subjugation, and through these stories I made choices regarding the kind of life I wanted to live. My brother had an almost identical childhood, with the additional benefit of knowing our father; Pobane had access to the same education that I did, and there were fewer demands placed on him in terms of supporting our family from a young age. I refused to work for white people; Pobane, on the other hand, worked for anyone who paid him. I decided to complete my high school education; Pobane decided that it was a waste of time. The nurturing we received was almost identical, our fighting spirit may even have been similar, but the one area in which we differed greatly was that of choice – Pobane and I chose dif
ferent paths.
By what yardstick does one measure the success of an individual’s life? My mother thought I was a success when I had enough income to marry Connie; Connie considered me highly successful when I bought a car and started Black Like Me; my friends considered my lifestyle to be the outward sign of my success; and today the media rate me as a success in terms of my board memberships and company assets. But this is merely financial prosperity – these things do not measure the real success of having lived a good life.
To me, genuine success has a social dimension. In my own case, it has meant engaging meaningfully with my family, friends and colleagues; it has meant enjoying a game of tennis with Connie, spending a pleasant afternoon with Nkhensani and Rhulani, enjoying a holiday in Dubai with my sisters and their families, poring over old family photographs on a Sunday afternoon, or relaxing in the clubhouse after a game of golf at Killarney with Louis. Whether success is measured on a social, personal or professional scale, its significance ultimately lies not so much in one’s personal achievements, but rather in one’s relationships with other people, especially one’s family and friends.
Chapter 21
I have often had to be absent from home, when work has demanded more of me than seemed fair, but I have always had the luxury of home and family to return to. My family comprises not only Connie and Nkhensani and Rhulani – it also includes my extended family, my sisters, in-laws, nieces and nephews, friends, and even some colleagues. Without these people to share it with, my success would be worth nothing at all. Losing my father at a young age, having a mother who was absent for most of my formative years, and losing my brother Pobane, have meant that I take no one at all for granted. I am very grateful for the time I was able to spend with my grandparents – cooking pap for my maternal granny, and walking and talking with my paternal grandfather as he wheeled his bicycle along the sandy roads of Hammanskraal.
During the latter part of her life, my mother was able to spend a lot of time with Connie and me. I think back on her with much affection, but I also remember her stubbornness, especially when it came to smoking. We all tried very hard to explain the health risks, but she would have none of it. “Your father sang in the church choir, and he never smoked a day in his life. And look what happened – he died when he was still a young man!” She refused to heed our warnings and often referred to the longevity of my granny, who had lived to the age of 96; my mother took it for granted that she’d make old bones too – but this was not to be. She was only in her seventies when she took ill and I sent her to our dear friend, Dr Komati, in Pretoria. He was a specialist physician, and discovered that my mother was in the advanced stages of lung cancer. I will never forget his words, “I’m sorry to tell you that your mother is at a stage where not even chemotherapy will help.”
As ill as she was, however, my mother continued to smoke, and though I didn’t want to be harsh on her, at times it was hard to restrain myself. I hated the fact that she was dying because of something she was doing to herself. Shortly after the diagnosis, she moved in with our family. We took her for regular check-ups, and I recall one occasion when Dr Komati reached across for her hand, but my mother clenched her fist and refused to open her palm. With great patience, Dr Komati slowly unfurled her fingers, and there, clutched in her palm, was a cigarette. She tried to hide her smoking from us, but eventually Dr Komati said to us, “It’s no use trying to stop her, and in any case, it doesn’t matter any more whether she smokes or not. It’s best to leave her in peace.”
Six months after she was diagnosed with cancer, my mother died; in accordance with her wishes, we buried her in GaRamotse, next to my father. It was 1996, and with both parents gone, another chapter in my life had ended. I am grateful that my mother died owning a house of her own, and that she had at last enjoyed the right to vote, and, most importantly that she’d been able to welcome our daughter, Nkhensani, into the world, and to spend a little time with her. My younger sister, Nancy, bears a remarkable likeness to my mother, and whenever we spend time together, I am happy to be reminded of my mother.
Many people say that when the matriarch dies, the family disintegrates, but this was not the case with us. When I book a family holiday, it usually includes my entire family and as well as some friends and their children. This is because I want to spend all my leisure time with the people I love most. I don’t want Nkhensani and Rhulani to know their father mainly through newspaper reports and TV programmes on entrepreneurship; I don’t want my family to know me only as the uncle who pays school fees. I want them to know me as a father, a brother, an uncle, a husband, a friend. I want them to know the Herman who can’t help dancing whenever his favourite music plays; the Herman who wants his whole family to see the White House, instead of looking enviously at our holiday photographs. “It’s no fun if you can’t share it,” I always say.
In spite of my heavy work schedule, I try to spend as much time as I can with Connie and the children, though during the week Connie manages to spend more time with Nkhensani and Rhulani than I do. She makes a point of picking them up from school and regularly takes them on outings – often by themselves – where they can enjoy lunch together and chat or watch a movie. Some weekends we play a round of golf together at Killarney or River Club, or else the four of us play a game of tennis. We also regularly enjoy dinner together at a restaurant, although the children’s preferences are not always the same as ours – they still shout “Spur!” when I offer to take them out. But I enjoy the casual lack of fuss at the steakhouse, so I don’t really mind; I have enough black-tie events without having to dress up for dinner with my wife and kids.
But there are times when I like to escape and just have a day out with the guys. Then I’m usually to be found on the Killarney golf course with my old friend, Louis, and Noel Machingawuta and Alex Darko. I play off an 18 handicap, and I just love the game. I’m often a bit of a joker, and sometimes I think my golfing companions would like me to be a bit more serious – but my whole work week is serious and usually stressful, and golf is an opportunity to relax.
In spite of my great love of music, I have never learnt to play an instrument other than the drums I banged on as a child in GaRamotse. In the late 1980s, when Connie and I bought the house in Heatherdale, a wooden-cased organ was included in the purchase. This beautiful organ travelled with us from Heatherdale and it stood in the formal lounge of our current home in Atholl for many years. I’d always intended to learn to play the organ, mainly because I love the sound of it; but it also brought back the past, reminding me of the music I enjoyed in the late 1960s, when the organ was a popular instrument. Unfortunately, though, I never seemed to find the time to take even a single lesson – and I never considered giving up a game of golf in favour of music lessons.
Towards the end of 2010, though, I took a firm decision – to learn to play the piano. A new Yamaha Clavinova piano replaced the organ in our living room and I started lessons, and in just over three months I was able to play most of my favourite tunes without the sheet music. It has been a wonderful experience, and I now spend many happy hours making music at the piano keyboard – a welcome relief from sitting in front of a computer keyboard. One can learn a new skill at any stage of one’s life, as I have discovered. And while not everyone has the resources or the time, it is probably fair to say that our only real limitations are the ones we construct in our minds.
My quest at the beginning of this book was to find out what got me to where I am today, and why my life has been so blessed. In the end, I have to say that it is a combination of good decisions and choices – and the one thing that all successful people have in common: damn good luck.
My parents, Matinte and Mapula Mashaba, on their wedding day in 1946.
A family celebration, mid-1960s; me (3rd from the right bottom row), my sister, Conny (2nd from left) and Esther in the background (right) in a jaunty beret.
My paternal grandfather Koos Mashaba
, who named me Highman, with Aunt Elsie and her two daughters, Nurse and Nonnie.
My paternal grandmother Letta Mashaba (right) with her daughter Elsie and grandchildren Koos and Nurse.
A young Connie, years before we met.
It was 1979, I was in my first year at university, posing against a BMW which I one day aspired to drive.
The first time I saw Connie was at the 1978 Miss Hans Kekana beauty pageant. I thought she was lovely, and was proven right when she went on to win the competition.
One of the weekends that Connie visited me at Turfloop in 1979.
1982. On the day I paid lobola to Connie’s parents we had our engagement party at their house in Seabe. That’s Esther celebrating in the background.
1982. The Bad Boys on the night of our engagement.
March 1983. Our official white wedding in Seabe. Posing with my new wife.
Posing with my best man Louis at the wedding.
March 1983 in Esther’s kitchen, having a post-wedding celebration. Top left to right – Kate, my sister Conny, Louis, my sister Flora, my brother Pobane and my sister Esther. Seated: Left to right – my cousin Shirley and my sister-in-law Salome.
Black Like You Page 23