by Dan Doyle
Born in a shanty in the Triomf section of Johannesburg and raised by a single mother who worked as a domestic, Albert Tshewete had experienced a far different dimension of apartheid than most other black South Africans. His mother, Sophie, had been employed by the Nishes, a family of five who lived in Orange Grove, an affluent suburb of Johannesburg. William Nish had made considerable money as one of South Africa’s most successful diamond traders. His work involved extensive travel, including frequent visits to the States before the Congressional ban on trading with South Africa.
During his many journeys, Nish had received a full dose of the anti-apartheid sentiment that prevailed in most other countries. At first, he was defensive about apartheid, in particular rejecting the comparisons made by many Americans between the apartheid system and slavery.
“We did not import slaves,” Nish would counter. “The blacks came to our country when they needed refuge from countries such as Zimbabwe and Botswana. Apartheid was established by Prime Minister D. F. Malan in 1948—not to enslave the blacks but to create a system that would work for both sides—recognizing that we had a significant problem.”
Nish held to this point of view for many years, until he came into contact with John Jenkins. Jenkins, an African American, had, in his own words, “studied his way out of the South Bronx.” His intellect and diligence had earned him full academic scholarships to Choate, Harvard, and the Wharton School of Business at UPenn.
In his early thirties, and having achieved significant wealth as an investment banker, Jenkins decided to relocate to London because, as he explained to the Wall Street Journal, “I want to be part of the European Union economic explosion.”
In London, he became involved in the import/export business and took a particular interest in diamonds. He met Nish through one extremely profitable deal, which soon led to other ventures involving the two.
As Nish and Jenkins became better acquainted, the South African found that he liked the American expatriate, a somewhat surprising development inasmuch as Nish had virtually no black friends in South Africa. As the friendship grew, Jenkins would cautiously raise the issue of apartheid. This caused Nish consternation, for defending his country’s policies with other whites was one thing— but trying to justify apartheid to a black American was quite another.
Rather than being contentious on the matter, Jenkins followed his blueprint for all thorny issues. He did his homework so that when the subject was raised, his points would be logical and valid.
“I have read extensively of the history of South Africa, including Michener’s The Covenant. My first point is that I do not subscribe to the notion that all South African whites are evil. In fact, in many ways, I now consider myself a Brit, or, at least, an Anglophile. God knows that the Brits have a long history of unconscionable oppression in many lands.
“Having said that, I’m also of the view that a system such as apartheid will prevent black South Africans from growing—intellectually or professionally. For example, I’ll bet that if you took some time to find a young South African of color—and of great promise—you know, a motivated kid with high intellect and leadership qualities—then I’m quite certain you’ll find that this youngster cannot advance in your system.”
“I don’t agree with that,” replied Nish.
“Well,” said Jenkins evenly, “may I respectfully suggest that you seek out such a young person and test my theory. Find someone who is bright and ambitious—and who wants to successfully move through the South African system of education and, ultimately, perhaps into the business or legal community.”
“I will,” said Nish in a decidedly firm and resolute tone.
Ironically, when he returned to South Africa, he found this person right in his own home on Christmas Day.
Albert Tshewete, then fourteen years old, came with his mother to the Nish house that Christmas for a special servants’ dinner and gift ceremony. While the other staff children were eagerly opening their presents, Nish noticed young Albert sitting off in a corner reading, of all things, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. He approached the youngster and said, “Do you like Mark Twain?”
“Very much,” replied Albert.
“What do you like about him?” asked Nish, quite innocently, he thought.
For a moment, Albert appeared reluctant to answer, and with good reason. But something inside him suggested that he should tell this man, his mother’s employer, the truth.
“I like Mark Twain because his books offer interesting insights into black America in the nineteenth century.”
At first, Nish was taken aback—not only with the cogency of the comment, but with the derring-do of the subject matter. For a fleeting moment, he even considered a mild rebuke to the boy for bringing up a topic that was generally off limits in conversations between blacks and whites in South Africa.
But Nish thought about his friend’s challenge and decided instead to invite the boy into his private study for a discussion. Only minutes into their talk, Nish was amazed at Albert’s depth of knowledge on a variety of subjects. Clearly, the youngster had read extensively. As the result of tutoring from a Mormon preacher, he had a firm grasp of math and science. In addition, Albert spoke four languages: Zulu and Sotho, both black languages; Afrikaans, spoken by both whites and blacks; and English.
Nish was also struck by the boy’s physique. He was already 6’1”, his legs were sturdy and muscular in the calves, and his upper body, while still wiry, looked as if it would soon ripple with muscles. His face was unusually handsome, with light, caramel-colored skin, unlike the much darker complexion of the Sotho tribe of his mother.
William Nish was a man accustomed to spending considerable time ruminating over important decisions. But in this case, as soon as the two finished their discussion, Nish decided to take on the challenge presented to him by John Jenkins. He would facilitate young Albert’s application to some of the finest private schools in Johannesburg.
In making this decision, Nish knew that his actions would go against the wishes of his wife and, quite possibly, that he would face ostracism from others in his community. Yet, somehow, the successful white businessman had a strong sense that his black servant’s son was worth the risk.
Within just weeks, William Nish found regrettable truth in the pessimistic forecast of John Jenkins. Despite testing higher than most white candidates, Albert Tshewete had been rejected at all four private schools in Johannesburg. While a variety of explanations had been given by the headmasters, Nish was well aware of the only pertinent factor.
“When you brought the subject up,” he said to Jenkins, “I was confident that any qualified candidate would be accepted to at least one of these schools. My confidence related to the public statements of various educators about the importance of providing talented blacks with educational opportunities. But the fact is that Albert was rejected solely because of his color. I am as embarrassed as I am disappointed.”
Nish then raised a calculated solution to the problem.
“Might there be an opportunity for Albert to study in the States?” he asked, knowing that Jenkins was a trustee at his prep school alma mater, the Choate-Rosemary Hall School in Connecticut.
“Send me as much information on the young man as possible. I’ll see what I can do.”
Four weeks later, Jenkins called Nish with good news. “Choate will give Albert a full scholarship.”
Before Jenkins could add his personal offer of helping with the cost of airfare, Nish bellowed, “I’ll take care of the flight.”
What Nish did not say was that his philanthropy would remain a secret in South Africa. Weeks earlier, when it had become known that he was promoting a black candidate for acceptance into traditionally white private schools, he had received several threatening phone calls, one of which had been taken by his daughter. Alarmed by the calls, his wife Beverly had initially chastised her husband for “placing your family at risk.” Yet, upon righteous reflection, she had softened
her position. When Nish told her about the offer at Choate, she had agreed that paying the airfare was a proper gesture.
“But let’s remember, William, that there are still many people in South Africa who would be angry about your support. If we’re going to do this, it must be kept quiet.”
A few weeks later, the fourteen-year-old packed his things and nervously awaited the day of his departure. The night before, Mr. Nish came to speak to him in an effort to calm his nerves.
“Young man,” Mr. Nish said. “I’d like to tell you what my daughter’s high school commencement speaker told her about going away to school, particularly because this speaker drew upon the written words of your favorite author, Mark Twain. Over the next week or two—or even month or two—it is likely that you will be lonely. As my daughter was reminded, loneliness can be your ally—it can help you grow up. Remember when one of your favorite characters, Huck Finn, lit out for the ‘territory,’ by which, of course, he meant the wilderness?”
“Yes,” Albert replied.
“Well, Huck would soon find out what you will find out as well—you cannot be immobilized by loneliness—or fear. There will be many wildernesses in life, Albert—within and without; don’t be put off by any of them.”
At Choate, Albert shined in the classroom and also became an outstanding basketball player. His hoops career took root only days after his arrival, when the coach, taking note of the new student’s height, convinced him to give the sport a try. A natural athlete, Albert easily adapted to the game. By his senior year, he had become a coveted recruit of many of the Small Ivies like Trinity, Wesleyan, and Williams in New England.
Albert chose Bates College, received a full academic scholarship, and blossomed into a top New England Division III performer. More importantly, his grades were exceptional, and, upon graduation, he was accepted into a joint program at the Harvard Law School and the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts. Four years later, he graduated with honors, armed with a degree in international law and diplomacy that would allow him to return to his native land and take on apartheid. He never considered another career path; he wanted only to help the cause.
When Albert returned to Johannesburg, his achievements in America were the subject of a feature story in The Voice, a new black-owned newspaper. Nelson Mandela, months out of prison and soon to be elected South Africa’s first black president, read the piece and summoned Albert to his office. Mandela was so impressed with Tshwete that, pending his imminent election, he offered him a position as a legal assistant in the Justice Department. Over a twelve-month period, Tshwete earned several promotions and finally the appointment as Director General of Home Affairs.
During this period, Mandela took a personal liking to the young scholar. The president was struck by Tshwete’s brilliance, and he also observed another important quality: Albert Tshwete had acquired the licit, logical skills that could help to forever immunize the virus of apartheid.
“Rather than raising our voices or our machetes,” Mandela had said to his protégé, “we must use a far more potent weapon—our divine faculty for sweet reason.”
And, of course, the two also shared another common interest—a love of sport. When the newly elected president decided to form the South African National Sports Council, he appointed Tshwete to the board of directors.
“We want this council to make sure that the old apartheid practices do not persist on the playing fields or in the gymnasiums,” Mandela had said. “Now, please understand that I’m not worried about basketball, for I see a more advanced level of fairness in your game. Also, over a period of time, I sense that we will be able to field competitive teams. In fact, you may be interested to know that an old friend of mine in the states, Richard Lapchick, will soon bring a group of NBA stars to South Africa—including Patrick Ewing.”
“This will surely help,” Albert had said, too modest to add that it was he who had first contacted Lapchick about the trip.
“On the other hand,” the president continued, “there are sports such as rugby that seem very reluctant to open their doors to blacks.”
“So what do we do, Mr. President?”
“What we do is force them to open their doors,” Mandela replied. “Through our court system, let’s try to pass new laws that will, for example, mandate that a national rugby team select a fair percentage of blacks.”
“You know, of course, Mr. President, that this policy will mean that some of the best players will not be chosen.”
“That is true, but what we must also remember, Albert, is that for decades, some of the best scholars, the best doctors, the best attorneys were not chosen—or even given a chance. Leveling the playing field in rugby is, unfortunately, just one measure of the retributive justice that is part of ending apartheid. So tell me, Mr. Attorney, can this be done through the courts?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Finbar, spellbound by Albert’s story, was disappointed when Tshwete said, “Okay, enough about me, tell me about yourself.”
As soon as Finnegan told Tshwete that he worked for CNN, Albert responded, “Ahh, you looked familiar, but I could not place your face. I’ve watched many of the reports on Operation Deliverance, and you know something? My instincts still tell me that there is much more to the story.”
“Mine, too,” laughed Finnegan. “And that’s putting it mildly.”
“Well, in any case, regarding your assignment to put together a series on sport in post-apartheid South Africa— it’s a great topic—and obviously one of interest to me. As I think you can sense Finbar, I can help you with your stories. In fact, within the next day or two some important things may be happening in the rugby union.”
“I’d appreciate any help you can give me,” said Finnegan. “And by the way, this William Nish—he sounds like a courageous man. Can I get to meet him?”
Albert Tshwete’s expression immediately turned grim. “I’m afraid not, Finbar. Only months after I left for the States, William Nish was murdered. The case has never been solved. It’s another reason why I came back to South Africa.”
55
Two days later, Finnegans phone rang at 7:00 AM.
“Sorry for the wakeup call, Finbar, but remember when I told you about the possibility of some major happenings with rugby?”
Finnegan grunted what sounded like a yes.
“Well, I just got word that the Rugby Union will hold a 10 AM press conference, supposedly to address their racial problems. Louis Luyt may resign. I have to be there to represent the NSC.”
Tshwete’s urgency ushered Finbar to coherence. “I’d like to go with you.”
“Thought you might. We’ll have to leave early because we may run into some veld fires. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
Veld fires were an odd practice that Finnegan had never heard of before his Johannesburg assignment. In late autumn, government workers would, in the words of Tshwete, “ignite any state-owned property adjacent to a road with grass on top of it.” The process would char the grass so that, by early spring, the knolls and meadows that abutted South African highways would be lush and green.
“But what about the environmental implications of these fires?” asked Finnegan as he settled into the front seat of Tshwete’s Mercedes 230. “I mean, in Europe and in the States, burning grass and leaves was banned years ago.”
“We know that,” Albert replied, “but the veld fires are a tradition in our country. Even though some of our environmentalists raise a stir each year, it’s not likely to change. We like the green springs the veld fires produce.”
Finnegan wanted to point out that there were modern, environmentally safe techniques to ensure green grass. But sensing Tshwete’s firm viewpoint, the Irishman held back, fearful he might harm a relationship that was still budding. But there was another topic that Finbar Finnegan could not hold back on.
“Albert, you mentioned that William Nish had been killed. Can you tell me more about that?” For a moment, there wa
s silence.
“One evening, in my first year at Choate, just before the American Thanksgiving, John Jenkins, the friend of Mr. Nish who I told you about, came to my room. I was to stay at his family’s home over the holiday, and at first I thought Mr. Jenkins might have mixed up the pick-up date. But as soon as I saw tears in his eyes, I knew that his visit must be related to Mr. Nish.”
Tshwete paused for another moment and took in a deep breath.
“The autopsy stated that Mr. Nish died of internal i njuries—the result of a car accident in which, allegedly, his brakes had failed. But I have never believed that. Mr. Nish’s home was on top of a hill in Orange Grove. Each morning when he would leave for work, he would drive down that rather steep hill. Now remember, my mother had told me many times that Mr. Nish always took good care of his automobile, which, by the way, was a brand-new Mercedes—hardly a vehicle that would have brake problems.”
He continued. “Anyway, on this particular morning, his car crashed through a guard rail at the bottom of this hill, and he died instantly. There is another thing about it—something typical of Mr. Nish. At a certain point less than halfway down the hill, he could have turned into a cul-de-sac and likely found his safety. But he had to know there were school children at that corner waiting for their morning bus. I think he didn’t take the turn in order to save their lives. Instead, he went on and was killed.”
Finbar could see a wave of emotion beginning to overtake his new friend, but Albert remained composed enough to finish his story.
“You know, Finbar, when I was a child, before I met Mr. Nish, I hated all white people, the only exception being the Mormon missionary who taught me to read and write. But after I got to know Mr. Nish, I realized I was wrong about whites. My hatred toward them turned to a hatred of the system of bigotry that so overwhelms this country. As you may be able to sense, my life’s mission is to crush this system. Yet I also came to realize that to be a leader, you must think with compassion about the other side—you must get into their heads, try to think as they do.”