Sometimes There Is a Void (7 page)
Read Sometimes There Is a Void Online
Authors: Zakes Mda
Though my father was an African Nationalist I observed that he maintained his friendship with people who were in different political camps. For instance, his friendship with Oliver Tambo, who used to be his deputy when he was the president of the ANC Youth League, continued at this time and the two kept in contact. Another person whose ideological outlook had developed in a direction that was diametrically opposed to my father's was George Matanzima, a paramount chief of abaThembu. I remember how resentful I was when he visited our home in Sterkspruit to consult with my father. At that time he and his older brother Kaiser were getting a lot of publicity in the media as the leaders of the first Bantustan to be established by the apartheid government in the Transkei. My father had served his law articles under George Matanzima at Engcobo in the Transkei. So had another PAC leader, Tshepo Tiisetso Letlaka, who also occasionally visited and the men would debate in the living room into the early hours of the morning.
At first I was embarrassed that Matanzima came to our house; in my book he was a traitor. But he always redeemed himself with his charm, particularly with his remark when I came to greet him in the living room that I was quite a handsome fellow. He was Nelson Mandela's nephew, and like his uncle he seemed to be appreciative of handsomeness. Vanity won over the little matter of political commitment, and after that I was very comfortable around George Matanzima and laughed at his jokes, even though I had to turn my face so that the adults in the house did not see I was enjoying adult-oriented jokes.
Another regular visitor was Mr Mather, the rich white man who
owned a general dealer's store, a wholesaler, a garage with a petrol station, a restaurant and many other businesses in town. People said he owned half of Sterkspruit. Mr Mather was never received in the living room, but in the office, which indicated that he was my father's client rather than a social caller. But still his visits as a white man made us uncomfortable, especially because whenever his car was parked in front of our house township children crowded outside the gate and gawked at the car and at him when he finally left the office. Mather's visits enhanced our prestige with our peers, none of whom would even dream of having a white man visit their homes. But Uncle Owen, who thought himself a radical who once âorganised the masses' with the PAC firebrand Josias Madzunya, saw an inconsistency with Africanist ideals from the visits rather than prestige. Not only was Mather a white man; he was a capitalist exploiter of the black masses. When Uncle Owen raised his concerns in a courteous and cautious manner, as he always did with my father, my father said, âWell, O, there is something very important that I have in common with Mather. We both belong to the human race.'
owned a general dealer's store, a wholesaler, a garage with a petrol station, a restaurant and many other businesses in town. People said he owned half of Sterkspruit. Mr Mather was never received in the living room, but in the office, which indicated that he was my father's client rather than a social caller. But still his visits as a white man made us uncomfortable, especially because whenever his car was parked in front of our house township children crowded outside the gate and gawked at the car and at him when he finally left the office. Mather's visits enhanced our prestige with our peers, none of whom would even dream of having a white man visit their homes. But Uncle Owen, who thought himself a radical who once âorganised the masses' with the PAC firebrand Josias Madzunya, saw an inconsistency with Africanist ideals from the visits rather than prestige. Not only was Mather a white man; he was a capitalist exploiter of the black masses. When Uncle Owen raised his concerns in a courteous and cautious manner, as he always did with my father, my father said, âWell, O, there is something very important that I have in common with Mather. We both belong to the human race.'
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THE ONLY OTHER WHITE
people who came to my home on one occasion were three boys from the white suburb of Sterkspruit. Cousin Mlungisi and I had met them the previous day when we walked through their suburb playing a game of picking nice houses and cars and claiming ownership of them. Whenever I spotted a beautiful house I would shout, âI'm picking that house!' It would be the same with the cars that drove by, with their drivers looking at us suspiciously. Cousin Mlungisi would do the same if he saw a house or car he liked. The idea was to be fast in your picking before your competitor picked the property. At the end of the walk we would tally our acquisitions, and the one who picked the most beautiful houses or cars won the game. And of course if you were too fast to pick an approaching car only to find that it was in fact ugly, you couldn't recant. You were stuck with it and it would count against you when the tally was made. I once fought
with Cousin Mlungisi because I wanted to âunpick' a car I had picked before I saw that it was a rickety old model.
people who came to my home on one occasion were three boys from the white suburb of Sterkspruit. Cousin Mlungisi and I had met them the previous day when we walked through their suburb playing a game of picking nice houses and cars and claiming ownership of them. Whenever I spotted a beautiful house I would shout, âI'm picking that house!' It would be the same with the cars that drove by, with their drivers looking at us suspiciously. Cousin Mlungisi would do the same if he saw a house or car he liked. The idea was to be fast in your picking before your competitor picked the property. At the end of the walk we would tally our acquisitions, and the one who picked the most beautiful houses or cars won the game. And of course if you were too fast to pick an approaching car only to find that it was in fact ugly, you couldn't recant. You were stuck with it and it would count against you when the tally was made. I once fought
with Cousin Mlungisi because I wanted to âunpick' a car I had picked before I saw that it was a rickety old model.
The white boys were pushing a bicycle and they told us they were selling it. I had always wanted a bicycle but was afraid to ask my father. The last time I owned anything like that was at St Teresa when my friend Bernard Khosi and I rode our tricycles on the paved path between the houses and the school. I told the boys I wanted to buy their bike. The price seemed reasonable.
âCan you afford it?' the bigger boy asked.
âOf course he can,' said Cousin Mlungisi. âHis father is a lawyer.'
After exchanging names and addresses the boys gave me the bike. The next day they would come for the money. Triumphantly, we pushed it back to Tienbank.
I was crushed when my father told me he would not buy the bike and that I must return it to the owners. It was falling apart, he said, and was not worth the money the boys were asking for it. In any event, how did I know the boys had not stolen it, or that they had their parents' permission to sell it?
The next day the boys came to fetch their money. They were angry that I had changed my mind about buying the bike. But still they could not hide their surprise that
kaffirs
, as they called us, lived in such lovely houses, especially Mr Magengenene's house next door which was more beautiful than most of the houses in the white suburb. He was a school inspector and the father of my friends, Nikelo and Xolile. Mr Magengenene's new and shimmering Ford Zephyr that was parked in his yard exacerbated the boys' anger against me.
kaffirs
, as they called us, lived in such lovely houses, especially Mr Magengenene's house next door which was more beautiful than most of the houses in the white suburb. He was a school inspector and the father of my friends, Nikelo and Xolile. Mr Magengenene's new and shimmering Ford Zephyr that was parked in his yard exacerbated the boys' anger against me.
âYou lied to me,' said the oldest. âYou went against your word. I should be
donnering
you instead of taking my bike back. I should be forcing you to pay me for it.'
donnering
you instead of taking my bike back. I should be forcing you to pay me for it.'
âWhy don't we? Why don't we?' said the middle one.
âAnd these
kaffirs
have a lot of money too,' said the small one. âLook at their houses. Look at their cars. They should bloody well buy our bike.'
kaffirs
have a lot of money too,' said the small one. âLook at their houses. Look at their cars. They should bloody well buy our bike.'
But the oldest one had more sense than to start a war in the middle of a black township. Instead he took his bike and the others followed
him as he pushed it down our street to the main road that would take him to the town, and then to the white suburb.
him as he pushed it down our street to the main road that would take him to the town, and then to the white suburb.
I moped about the bike for a long time and buried myself in
Wamba
, an isiXhosa children's magazine with short stories and poems. I also tried my hand at writing my own isiXhosa poems. Most were about the zinnias, dahlias and snapdragons in our garden, but some were about Keneiloe. Things were getting back to normal with her and I resumed sending her letters and an occasional poem. I suppose her derrière was forgetting the hiding it got from Hopestill for fooling around with me.
Wamba
, an isiXhosa children's magazine with short stories and poems. I also tried my hand at writing my own isiXhosa poems. Most were about the zinnias, dahlias and snapdragons in our garden, but some were about Keneiloe. Things were getting back to normal with her and I resumed sending her letters and an occasional poem. I suppose her derrière was forgetting the hiding it got from Hopestill for fooling around with me.
I shared more than just letters and poems with Keneiloe. She was a reader of a story magazine called
See
and I bought an occasional issue when I had money, or got well-worn copies that my mother discarded, and gave them to Keneiloe after reading them myself. These were love stories told in photographs featuring beautiful white characters in situations of anguish. There was one for black people too called
She
, but its love stories were not as heart-rending and romantic. I still bought it, as I did the more macho story-magazines such as
Samson,
about a strongman in leopard skin trunks who rooted out evil in darkest Africa, and
True Africa
which featured a handsome crime buster in snazzy suits called Bulldog Lawson
.
See
and I bought an occasional issue when I had money, or got well-worn copies that my mother discarded, and gave them to Keneiloe after reading them myself. These were love stories told in photographs featuring beautiful white characters in situations of anguish. There was one for black people too called
She
, but its love stories were not as heart-rending and romantic. I still bought it, as I did the more macho story-magazines such as
Samson,
about a strongman in leopard skin trunks who rooted out evil in darkest Africa, and
True Africa
which featured a handsome crime buster in snazzy suits called Bulldog Lawson
.
These heroes became so much a part of our lives that when Mario dos Santos, the actor who played the role of Bulldog Lawson, died in some accident in Mozambique my little brother Sonwabo cried. This continued for many days every time anyone mentioned Bulldog Lawson.
The photo story magazine that was most exchanged by my friends, from one boy to another until it was tattered, was
Chunky Charlie
featuring a fat hobo who had MacGyver-like tools (it was decades before the television show
MacGyver
) hidden in his tattered coat. He could use them to extricate himself from all sorts of traps laid by the baddies.
Chunky Charlie
featuring a fat hobo who had MacGyver-like tools (it was decades before the television show
MacGyver
) hidden in his tattered coat. He could use them to extricate himself from all sorts of traps laid by the baddies.
There was, however, reading material that I never shared with anyone: comic books.
Cousin Mlungisi had taught me the art of stealing money from one's parents' wallets and purses in a strategic way so that no one would
be any the wiser that some money was missing. He had been doing it for years and was using the money to
bheja
â buying presents of handkerchiefs, sweets and chocolates for his many girlfriends. I learnt the trick, but instead of buying presents for Keneiloe â I would not be so stupid as to
bheja
because that would put her in trouble with her strict parents; she would not be able to explain where she got the stuff â I bought comic books from Mather and Sons. I spoiled myself with DC Comics and Marvel Comics and got lost in the world of superheroes; of Spiderman, of Batman and Robin, of Superman and his alter-ego Clark Kent, of the Incredible Hulk. The last was a newcomer in my collection, having only been introduced the year before. I never really took to this superhero.
be any the wiser that some money was missing. He had been doing it for years and was using the money to
bheja
â buying presents of handkerchiefs, sweets and chocolates for his many girlfriends. I learnt the trick, but instead of buying presents for Keneiloe â I would not be so stupid as to
bheja
because that would put her in trouble with her strict parents; she would not be able to explain where she got the stuff â I bought comic books from Mather and Sons. I spoiled myself with DC Comics and Marvel Comics and got lost in the world of superheroes; of Spiderman, of Batman and Robin, of Superman and his alter-ego Clark Kent, of the Incredible Hulk. The last was a newcomer in my collection, having only been introduced the year before. I never really took to this superhero.
But the best for me were not the Marvel or the DC Comics, but the Harvey Comics. Their characters had more fun and were more lovable. There was no heaving and grunting and fighting in Harvey Comics. No Wham! Whack! Pow! Thwip! Even devils such as
Hot Stuff
and ghosts such as
Casper
and
Spooky
were gentle. Though Spooky was an ill-tempered little ghost, he was adorable nonetheless. Casper on the other hand actually went under the title of the Friendly Ghost. These maudlin modern fairy tales appealed to me more than the manly stuff.
Hot Stuff
and ghosts such as
Casper
and
Spooky
were gentle. Though Spooky was an ill-tempered little ghost, he was adorable nonetheless. Casper on the other hand actually went under the title of the Friendly Ghost. These maudlin modern fairy tales appealed to me more than the manly stuff.
Every time I entered Mather and Sons the sales staff would have
Little Lotta
,
Little Dot
and
Richie Rich
ready for me. The last particularly, featuring the richest kid in the world, his butler Cadbury, and his mean cousin Reggie, took me to a fantasy world of splendour and gold-plated limousines and life without pain or toil.
Little Lotta
,
Little Dot
and
Richie Rich
ready for me. The last particularly, featuring the richest kid in the world, his butler Cadbury, and his mean cousin Reggie, took me to a fantasy world of splendour and gold-plated limousines and life without pain or toil.
The Mather and Sons people said I was the only black kid in Sterkspruit who bought that sort of rubbish. Only white kids wasted their parents' hard-earned money on comic books. They never got to know that my parents had no idea that I was spending their hard-earned money in this manner, that in fact I was a thief and a scoundrel who sneaked into their bedroom to raid their pockets, handbags and purses to satisfy my addiction.
Â
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THE SIGHT OF MY
parents' old house is depressing. Slowly I drive away, up the street, past Keneiloe's home. Buses used to be parked in the yard. But today there is not a single one. Only the skeleton of a truck. I drive past the Tindleni residence, and then to Bensonvale College which is about six miles away.
parents' old house is depressing. Slowly I drive away, up the street, past Keneiloe's home. Buses used to be parked in the yard. But today there is not a single one. Only the skeleton of a truck. I drive past the Tindleni residence, and then to Bensonvale College which is about six miles away.
âYou know you hate to drive at night, with the lights of oncoming cars shining in your eyes,' says Gugu.
âWe'll make it to Johannesburg, don't worry,' I say. âI just want to show you something.'
But Bensonvale College is no longer there. Only the ruins. I almost weep. The whole college that used to be vibrant with students walking up and down the paved paths is gone. Ivy still covers those walls that have been defiant enough to remain standing. I stop the car on the edge of an open field and get out of the car. Gugu follows. I can hear the voices. At first they are soft, but as if carried by a gust of wind towards me they gather volume and become so loud that I lift my arms in supplication. They are the voices of the beautiful men and women of the Today's Choir. And indeed the choir materialises in the field â women in black skirts and white blouses, men in black pants, white shirts, black jackets and black ties. My father in his black suit standing in front of them. Waving his arms, conducting the choir with gusto. The choir is composed of hundreds. Thousands more people fill the grounds, listening. Many are in school uniform â black gym-dresses and white shirts. Black and white predominates.
I remember how this came about ⦠how I was grateful that I had more time to read my comic books and to draw pictures and write stories because for a number of weeks my father was not calling his meetings or demanding that we draw water for his flowers and vegetables. He was busy rehearsing with a mass choir he had named the Today's Choir, which had been assembled from all the choral societies of the Herschel District for the commemoration of the centenary of Bensonvale College.
Although we had some respite from meetings and garden work, one thing he never forgot even when he came back home late at night was to give us our nightly doses of cod liver oil and Scott's Emulsion. That
was one assignment he didn't trust even my mother to undertake with the diligence it deserved.
was one assignment he didn't trust even my mother to undertake with the diligence it deserved.
When the day of the centenary celebrations came I joined a group of pupils from Tapoleng â including Cousin Mlungisi, his younger brother Bobby and the twins â and walked to Bensonvale, about six miles from Sterkspruit. We found a place in the open field where the rest of the multitudes had gathered. My mother, sister and baby brother got a ride from the neighbours as my father did not have a car. Speeches were made and the Today's Choir sang Reginald Spofforth's glee
Hail Smiling Morn
. My father's slim frame was dwarfed by the hundreds of singers in front of whom he was standing, fervently conducting them. There were tears in my eyes when the choir sang Handel's
Hallelujah Chorus
, J P Mohapeloa's
Obe
and
Fisherman's Goodnight.
I never got to know the composer of this last one.
Hail Smiling Morn
. My father's slim frame was dwarfed by the hundreds of singers in front of whom he was standing, fervently conducting them. There were tears in my eyes when the choir sang Handel's
Hallelujah Chorus
, J P Mohapeloa's
Obe
and
Fisherman's Goodnight.
I never got to know the composer of this last one.
There are tears in my eyes as I stand in the grounds among the ruins listening to the ghostly choir. To this day, when I hear these songs I get a lump in my throat and my eyes moisten. The void widens.
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