‘Mamma, do you want me to make the tea? Christian might want to sit down to hear the rest of the story,’ said Sibokwe, knowing how much his mother enjoyed talking.
‘Are you suggesting I talk a lot?’ Kathleena laughed as she looked at Sibokwe and turned off the gas.
‘Why don’t I make the tea,’ said Isabella. ‘That should free you both to talk to Christian.’
As Isabella took control of the kettle, Sibokwe and Christian each took a chair and faced Kathleena.
‘The first and only job Thompson had was with Hartsburke Fabrics. He started as a carpet trimmer. He used to write to me once a week and tell me how much he missed all of us and how hard he was working. He must have made a good impression on the company, as they promoted him into dispatching and gave him a five rand a week salary increase. He had told me that he wanted this money to go into a special school fund because he was certain that Sibokwe was going to become someone very educated and important.’
‘So, Sibokwe was the favoured son from the beginning,’ said Christian, smiling at Kathleena.
‘All boys are favourites of their mothers!’ said Isabella as she poured the tea.
‘Ignore her, Christian, otherwise she’s encouraged to be even cheekier,’ said Sibokwe.
‘Go on, Mamma. I quite like hearing about how I was going to become educated and important.’
‘Well, the new position also gave Thompson more time for reading, which he loved doing, usually at lunchtimes. He worked every Saturday, which he didn’t really mind since there was little else that he could do in the township. There were also township gangs back then, and although they weren’t as bad as they are now, they were constantly breaking into people’s homes and demanding protection money; so he thought it was better if he was at work. He figured it didn’t matter if they ransacked and took everything in your house, but they couldn’t take your most important possession, your life, if you weren’t there.’
‘I thought the gangs were the product of the overcrowding after District Six was closed,’ said Christian.
‘No,’ said Kathleena, ‘the gangs weren’t such a problem in the beginning, but with overcrowding and no real employment, they turned to drugs and violence. There was no control over them because the white police didn’t care as long as the violence stayed in the black townships.’
‘And, back then, the police only really came into the townships if they thought there was a political subversive that they could find and interrogate,’ added Sibokwe.
‘And now that you do have a combination of black and white police, why don’t they control the gangs?’
‘Sibokwe,’ said Kathleena, ‘your mother is speaking.’
‘Sorry, you know how I can’t help myself when it comes to discussing what goes on here.’
‘Now, where was I? Oh yes, Thompson joined the African National Congress. I don’t think it was because he felt the need to improve the conditions under which they worked, but mainly he saw the need to change some of the really annoying things living under apartheid such as carrying a passport to identify what colour you were. The ANC would meet on Sunday, which was his only day off. He made many friends. Although a few crazy members wanted to violently overthrow the white regime, he felt the majority wanted a peaceful change.’
‘I remember reading about the Pass laws on the plane on the way over,’ said Christian. ‘They were really hated by coloured and black people weren’t they?’
‘That’s quite right,’ said Sibokwe. ‘The white government, which had institutionalised segregation from the early nineteen fifties, had become increasingly ruthless in enforcing segregation. The Pass laws were at the centre of segregation and therefore a source of major conflict. They dated back to the seventeen nineties and were introduced to try to exclude all blacks/natives from the fledgling Cape Colony, many of whom at that time were slaves. When the colony expanded to become the new South Africa, the Pass laws were consolidated to regulate the movement of blacks in urban areas and to give the white government greater control over where they could live. All blacks over the age of sixteen had to carry a “passbook” at all times stipulating what area a black could be in and how long they could remain there. Failure to carry one or produce it when requested by the police usually resulted in arrest.’
‘A passbook to indicate what colour you were really was an insult and was a reason for racial abuse, which is why it caused so much anger,’ said Isabella quickly.
‘Sibokwe and Isabella if you keep interrupting me, I’m going to have to ask you to go and stand outside,’ said Kathleena, with what Christian thought was mock indignation. But he also was unsure whether she was not a little bit miffed with her son interrupting her. However, the general affability indicated to him that interruption was a family tradition, and Christian could see the pride in Kathleena’s eyes when Sibokwe spoke with the knowledge that he had.
‘Thompson had accepted it as part of working and living close to whites,’ she continued, looking at Christian and ignoring the grins from Sibokwe and Isabella. ‘From time to time he would write about the indignity of the passbook and how some kind of protest should be organised.’
‘It doesn’t sound like Thompson was a threat in any way,’ said Christian.
‘He wasn’t. It was probably that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Mamma, can I give Christian a bit of background that may help him understand what led to my father’s murder?’
Christian saw Kathleena look at her son and beam as only a mother can when admiration overwhelms her desire to speak.
‘Well, of course you can, but only background information and don’t try and take over like you normally do,’ she mock scolded Sibokwe and got up to put the kettle on again.
‘In 1959 the prime minister of the time, Hendrik Verwoerd, extended the Pass laws to women, too, and many felt that this was the last straw. A mass protest was organised in Sharpeville—just outside of Johannesburg—which the police decided to break up by using live ammunition and killing sixty-nine of the protesters. At an emergency meeting of the ANC, a mass protest was organised to be a peaceful meeting in the centre of Cape Town. The police fired rubber bullets and tear gas to disperse the protest.’
‘So, that’s not where he was killed then,’ said Christian.
‘No,’ said Sibokwe, ‘they found out that he was living here and came and smashed the door down. They dragged him outside and then threw him into the back of a police van, and no one ever heard of him again.’
‘I received the news that Thompson died of natural causes from the local police officer in Pofadder, along with some money and a note from the Hartsburkes,’ said Kathleena when Sibokwe paused. ‘The note had many lines blacked out, but I was just able to see that he had left some money for Sibokwe’s education, which ended up being a blessing because I was able to take him to Dr Truter when he became sick. I think the rest of the story you may know.’
‘Yes, Mike and Sibokwe had told me the story about going up to Pofadder. Kathleena, I remember reading that not long after that it was realised that the police had made a mistake. Did they ever come and apologise to you?’
‘No, that never happened back then, although they wrote about it in the Cape Times. The newspaper tried to make the police admit to killing him, but nothing ever came of that,’ added Sibokwe.
‘But it did mean that your father got to hear about my wonderful Sibokwe, and then the Lord led him to us in Pofadder so that he could continue to be the wonderful son that he is.’
‘Now, Mamma, you’re going to be embarrassing Christian and Isabella and creating expectations that I won’t be able to live up to,’ said Sibokwe, reaching over and kissing Kathleena on the cheek.
‘Well, at least Christian now knows how much I love you and how good God is,’ said Kathleena, looking at Christian and then pouring another cup of tea for Isabella.
‘I think I understand both of those things,’ said Christian, hoping that his comme
nt was not seen as an opening to discuss his spirituality, which his mother had often reminded him needed some remediation. ‘Is that why you have no bitterness towards those who killed him?’
‘I have forgiven them, as God tells us we must, and back then the whites felt threatened by our lack of sophistication. They considered us as some kind of primitive race, quite incapable of integrating with them, and they thought that God wanted them to control us.’
‘Kathleena, I can understand your faith. But Sibokwe, didn’t you want to find those who killed your father and ensure that they were punished?’
‘Initially, I did, and anger really burned in my heart. However, it was difficult because all the files were deliberately destroyed and there was no trail to those who might have been responsible. Then I had my mother demonstrating that she had forgiven, and, of course, there was also Mandela’s example of forgiveness. I think my mind might have been more settled if I’d known who the policeman was, but then I may not have been able to get on with things without wanting to exact some revenge.’
‘It sounds like you need more prayer and healing then,’ said Kathleena, turning to face Sibokwe.
‘Mamma, we don’t all have your faith, and that is a wonderful thing, but we each have a different way of dealing with our pain. Mine was to accept that I’d never find Thompson’s killer, knowing that if I didn’t get beyond the anger that it would consume much of my life.’
‘That is also something that Christian is going to have to deal with,’ said Kathleena, looking directly at him to see whether there was an opportunity to discuss her faith with him further.
Sensing that his mother was looking for an opportunity to explore Christian’s beliefs, Sibokwe took over the conversation again so that he could direct it away from what he knew might turn into a Bible study.
‘Are you sure that I can’t persuade you to move and live with me, Mamma? I worry about you living here even though the “Clever Kids” make sure no one worries you. Rhys, who is looking out for the car, tells me that two other gangs—“Hard Living” and “28s”—are trying to move in and take over. If that ever happens, you won’t be protected and you’ll have to come and live with me.’
‘We’ll see. There’s so much work to be done here. And now I’m going to have to shoo you out, as it’s time for my prayer group to arrive.’
‘Kathleena, thank you again and I hope I see you again before I leave,’ said Christian.
‘I hope I see you both again,’ she said, looking at both Christian and Isabella. ‘I think it would be good to unite both the countries,’ she said, smiling as she stood up.
‘Having to put up with that accent full-time, I don’t know whether I could cope with that,’ said Isabella quickly.
‘Come on, you two,’ said Sibokwe, ‘I still want to show you the University of the Western Cape and get you home before dark.’
As they walked to the car, Christian looked behind and gave one final wave to Kathleena, who was watching them from the window. Sibokwe’s car sitters looked up to see them coming and greeted him with a complicated handshake that seemed to also be an acknowledgement of a contract well done. One of them then indicated to Sibokwe to follow him to the entranceway. Christian watched as he pointed down the street and Sibokwe looked in that direction for a minute or two before returning to the car.
‘What was all that about?’ said Isabella as they all got into the car.
‘Not quite sure,’ said Sibokwe, ‘but both of them had noticed that a car had driven past a couple of times while we were inside talking to Kathleena. Being gang members they know all the vehicles around here and didn’t recognise the white Toyota.’
‘A white Toyota,’ said Christian. ‘I thought one of those followed us back from Stellenbosch the other day.’
‘Christian, I told you white Toyotas are a dime a dozen in South Africa.’
‘Issy, you know you can’t be too careful. Anyway, one of the gang members is getting it checked out for me. Although I was thinking of visiting the University of the Western Cape, Mike and Sian will be concerned if you get back too late, not to mention your mother, Issy. Perhaps we can go later in the week?’
‘Now, don’t say, “Sounds like a plan”, Christian,’ said Isabella. ‘How about something more Australian like, “sounds great, sport”.’
‘Sounds great, sport,’ said Christian in his best Australian accent, while trying not to laugh.
Chapter 25
Christian woke early the next morning and made his way down to the kitchen. As he searched for the coffee beans, he saw an envelope with his name on it. Mike must have left it for him, he thought. He turned it over and on the back was written, ‘Much love, Dad.’ Christian sat down, thinking about how his father had written his name in his own hand, which was legible unlike many other doctors he knew. Part of him wanted to tear open the envelope to find out what was inside, the other part was concerned that he would learn something that he would prefer not to know. He decided to procrastinate by making a cup of coffee.
He watched the kettle not allowing it to boil, fearing that its whistle might wake Mike and Sian. He watched the steam rise, overwhelmed by the feelings that had overtaken him. On the one hand, aspects of his father so far seemed positive and not at all like he had been involved in anything subversive. On the other hand, he did not want what he had learned tainted by negative revelations; but in his heart he knew he had to have the whole story to be satisfied and move on.
Then, into this journey had marched Isabella. He had never met anyone like her before who had the combination of beauty, sensitivity and intelligence. The other girls he had gone out with in Adelaide were attractive and fun to be with, some intelligent and witty, but none had ever caused this feeling that he was at a loss to describe. Besides being an exciting feeling it also created what he considered was a small pang of guilt; the feelings that she was generating were interfering with the true purpose of his trip—the emotional part of his father’s history.
As he took a sip of coffee, he picked up the letter and felt its thickness. It was not the normal-sized envelope but one you would usually send a card in. When he squeezed it, it felt like there was another envelope inside. He wondered about opening it or leaving it for later so that if there was anything that he did not understand he could immediately ask Mike or Sian. However, his curiosity soon got the better of him and he took a knife from the cutlery drawer and slit it open.
Inside there were two letters in separate envelopes: the first was addressed to Mike and Christian. The second, also in his father’s handwriting, was addressed only to him. He quickly read the letter to Mike, struggling to grasp that this was his father actually writing to him. He read the details of his father’s involvement in both the chemical warfare programme and the genetic research programme into blacks and coloureds. He read the section where his father apologised to Mike for having let down everyone and become part of a government programme that sought to entrench, at any cost, white rule. As he read further he had a sense of nausea and was uncertain as to whether he should continue.
He had always considered his father a surgeon, driven by a need to help people. The racist remarks that he had seen on the websites following the terrorist attack in Cape Town he assumed to be part of a post-traumatic stress disorder. His father’s words, detailing his involvement in a world where racism was a conscious decision and where the colour of a person’s skin was linked to their destiny, disgusted him. How could his father be so involved in a system that denied them human rights? He wanted, in that instant, to disown his father and felt like tearing up the letter so that no one else could ever see it. How could someone who he had looked up to for so long have been so misrepresented?
As he forced himself to read the remainder of Mike’s letter, he started to feel a deep sense of betrayal. His father’s association with those who sought to kill because of colour tainted the memory of someone who had fought to preserve life and whose memory he wanted to cheris
h. Getting to the end of the letter, he sat staring into space for a long time, feeling not only nausea and disgust but wishing he had never come to Cape Town. He wished he had not read the letter or shed a tear over his father’s blood. He felt bewildered that his beloved memories had turned out to be something else. He was about to grasp the letter and throw it in the bin, when Mike walked in with his gym gear.
‘Do you have a fever?’ he asked empirically.
‘No, why?’ Christian asked, taken aback.
‘I thought you might have caught Isabella fever last night,’ Mike said, chuckling.
Christian felt Mike’s humour try to penetrate his sombre mood but to no avail.
‘I see you opened the letter. Judging by your mood this morning, I imagine it was similar to the one that I received from your father a long time ago. Now take this coffee and come with me.’ He led Christian out to the small table on the stoep.
‘When I first read your father’s letter, I was shocked. I felt betrayed. I knew that your father’s Afrikaner roots were deep, but I thought that his insight would prevail. Like you, I suspect, I’d revered and admired him. We’d shared many experiences, debated many issues and respected each other’s viewpoints. Never had I suspected that he was part of a system that so many of us were fighting against. Christian, many whites despised the system that was basically legalised inhumanity, with few restraints, imposed on everyone by a totalitarian regime. We tried to exert pressure for change. Ultimately, I believe your father’s fault lay not in his Afrikaner roots but in his ambition and political naïveté. I’ve read that letter many times, over the years. I think your father desperately wanted his liver transplant programme to succeed and that he felt that his involvement with the bureaucrats would be minor and a way of ensuring its success. As soon as his transplant programme was successful, it would have developed a self-sustaining momentum and he wouldn’t have needed those who sought to be his master. Christian, I think if your father was guilty of anything it was naïveté. I suspect that he realised this too late and found himself trapped. There was no way out with BOSS other than death, and this usually applied to one’s family as well. I’m sure your father fully understood that; hence his measures to protect you and your mother.’
Does it Hurt to Die Page 22