Читать книгу Let My People Go - Albert Luthuli - Страница 8

A Christian upbringing

MY FATHER, JOHN LUTHULI, was the second son of Ntaba, and thus the younger brother of Martin. Since he died when I was about six months old, I have no recollection of him at all.

My mother, Mtonya, upon whom fell the main burden of my upbringing, spent a part of her childhood in the Royal Kraal of King Cetewayo, a descendant of Dingane, in Zululand. It came about in this way: In the Zululand of the last century there existed a custom whereby important members of the tribe would, in paying their respects to the king, offer him the custody of children. (The nearest European parallel to this which I know of was the practice of “adopting” pages into the courts of medieval Europe.) My mother’s mother was a child transferred from her own family to Cetewayo’s court in this manner. For all practical purposes she became thenceforward a part of the royal house, enjoying the status of a king’s daughter.

In time Cetewayo gave her in marriage to a man he desired to honour, Mnqiwu Gumede. My mother was a child of this marriage. When she was past childbearing my grandmother was given leave, in accordance with custom, to return to her home, the royal court. Her youngest daughter, Mtonya, went with her to minister to her needs.

But the old lady seems to have been of a restless and adventurous disposition. She found her life circumscribed, and court routine dull. She resolved to leave Zululand, and bringing my mother with her she crossed into Natal and settled in Groutville with her husband’s cousins. Had her flight been discovered before she crossed the Tugela, she might well have paid with her life.

Before her marriage to my father in Groutville, Mtonya became a Christian, and lived for a while within the mission precincts. There she learned to read, and to her life’s end she was a fluent, devoted, and assiduous reader of the Bible in the vernacular. Curiously, she never learned to write nor to decipher longhand script.

Some time after their marriage my father left Natal with a group of young Europeans from neighbouring New Guelderland, and went to Rhodesia. This was the time of the Matabele Rebellion – as it is called – and my father went to serve in some capacity with the Rhodesian forces. I can do no more than speculate about the attractions which this venture held for him – probably he was young and curious, and felt like a change.

When hostilities ended he stayed on, attached to a Seventh Day Adventist mission near Bulawayo as an evangelist and interpreter. At this stage my mother, who in the meanwhile had suffered the death of one of her two sons, took the remaining son, Alfred, and dutifully went up into the unknown to join my father. I was born a while later on Rhodesian soil. My father died not long after my birth, and his mortal remains lie buried at Solusi mission, about thirty miles from Bulawayo.

I cannot be precise about the date of my birth, but I calculate that I was born in the year 1898, and certainly before 1900. My recollections of early years spent in Rhodesia are few and vague. I can remember the cemetery where my father lies buried, and I recall my brother Alfred’s marriage and the building of his home.

Two incidents, however, stand out with sharp clarity, and they both concern discipline. On one occasion my mother sent me on an errand. I dallied by the way, and she came upon me playing happily with twigs and stones in the sand. (My mother, I should explain, came of Qwabe stock, a clan renowned for its strict discipline.) I had what was probably my first taste of Qwabe discipline that day, and I can remember at this moment the feel of the leathering my mother gave me with one of my twigs. Not going when sent ceased abruptly to be one of my habits.

My mother dealt decisively with another of my infringements of her code. It seems that I contracted the habit of hanging around the homes of my playmates – some of them little white boys – when they were being fed, and of cadging part of their food. Unknown to me, my mother came to hear of this. She made no immediate mention of it.

One evening I came to the end of what had seemed an ordinary meal of sweet potatoes.

“Thank you, Mother,” I said, “I am satisfied. The food was good.” I began to sidle away.

“No, my boy, no.” My mother recalled me and placed before me a fresh helping of food. “You are far from satisfied. You are a hungry child. You are not properly fed at home, your mother neglects you and you have to beg from the neighbours. Eat now!”

My mother came and stood over me while I addressed myself of necessity to more sweet potatoes. I ate my way into them falteringly. Each hesitation was rewarded by a light flick from a cane, and only when I was ready to choke over another mouthful did the lesson end. I got the point.

The Seventh Day Adventists wanted to begin missionary activities in Natal. They asked my brother to return in order to act as their interpreter. Round about 1908 or 1909, in consequence, we left Rhodesia and returned to what was soon to become the Union of South Africa. We paid a short visit to Groutville, and then left for the Vryheid district of Northern Natal. Here we stayed on the farm of a white adherent of the Seventh Day Adventists. My brother took up his duties. I tended the mission mules – there were no schooling facilities.

It was my mother who rescued me from my intimacy with mules. She decided that I needed education and sent me back home to Groutville to get it.

Here I became a member of the household of my uncle, Martin, who was by this time the chief of Groutville. As can be imagined, I did not see much of him. His life was taken up by the affairs of the community. He had a constant stream of visitors, but of course their comings and goings took place well beyond my horizons – the courtesies demanded that when adults came, children disappeared. And the village deliberations, which were conducted in the traditional Zulu manner in the open, were not any affair of a child.

Nevertheless, my uncle did not ignore my existence. I recall with a glow how he assigned to me the special task of preparing his fire each evening, and how he said to me once: “Son, I have not been cold since you came!”

Sometimes the cleavage between village affairs and those of the household disappeared. One incident, indelibly engraved on my memory, brought the trials of chieftainship into the house with a rush. A furious woman entered, hotly pursued by her husband. My uncle and an adviser found themselves in the middle of a “civil case” before they knew it had begun.

“She has deserted me!” shouted the man, throwing overboard all pretence at manners. “Look at her! There she stands in the very clothes I have provided!”

This was the last straw for the deserting woman. She stripped herself completely naked, rolled her clothing into a bundle, and threw it at the man. To cap it all, my uncle and his induna bolted from the scene like terrified horses. It was a revelation to us children – that a woman could make a chief run.

Had the household been a European one, I should probably have been lonely, since my cousins, Martin’s daughters, were all grown up. But, as is frequent in African society, my uncle and aunt were the guardians and caretakers of various children and relatives, and I had company enough, particularly that of a girl-cousin, Charlotte. It was a secure and happy household, and the moving spirit in purely domestic affairs was naturally my aunt. She was a woman of deep piety, very prominent in church affairs. In her dealings with the children of the house she did not distinguish in one detail between her own children and the children of relatives, either in discipline or in care. Largely because of her influence, the home was conducted as a Christian home should be. Although there was no formal religious teaching at home – this was dealt with in church – family prayers in the evening were as invariable as supper.

The children took their part in the routine work of the household. This was not irksome, and there was no great labour in it. Apart from making my uncle’s fire each evening, I was allotted such tasks as fetching water – for in Groutville the traditional Zulu distinction between male and female work tended to disappear. Over the weekends I did a certain amount of weeding in the lands, and herding.

All the time, unconsciously, I was busy absorbing the Christian ethos of home, and church congregation, and the social ethos of the community. As in earlier times, it was still (as it is today) a mixed community of heathens and Christians, of relatively well-educated people, and people with no literacy at all. Looking back, I realise that I was aware at the time of the distinction between Christian and non-Christian. But a fortunate feature of Groutville life was the fact that distinction did not mean discrimination. Somehow, we did not imbibe with our faith the sense that “Christians are better”. In spite of great differences of education and outlook, Groutville has managed to throw up no élite cut off from the ordinary life of the village.1

During this early phase of my life in Groutville, my mother and my brother and his family came home permanently. They severed their connection with the Adventists and returned to the Congregational Church as in former years. On the family site which had been occupied by Ntaba, a new house was built. I left the home of my uncle Martin, and for the rest of the time, until I went away to boarding school, I lived in the care of my mother.

Being a child, I did not then realise the extent to which my mother laboured to ensure my education. I saw her then as an extremely industrious woman. She was diligent about her small fields – a very successful vegetable gardener. In addition to her work on her fields, the lack of ready cash and the lack of capital to work the whole of the land, forced her to walk regularly five or six miles to Stanger, the nearest European settlement, in order to earn a few shillings washing clothes – a far cry from the royal household of King Cetewayo. When she had earned what she could, she returned to her garden. Over the years, although my uncle helped now and again, the sweat of her brow provided nine-tenths of my education.

Since one of my brothers died before my birth, and the other was grown up and married, I was virtually an only child. Yet my mother’s discipline did not waver any more than her devotion did – a thing for which I am deeply thankful, because without discipline I suppose I might easily have turned out a spoilt mother’s boy.

In 1914, having reached Standard 4 in the Groutville school, I continued my education at the Ohlange Institute – a boarding school. This school had been founded by Dr Dube, and at the time when I went to Ohlange he was its principal.

As it happened, I was there for only two terms, so I cannot say that the school made any particular impression on me. Wartime conditions, which brought a shortage of food to Africans, made life somewhat rough-and-tumble after the disciplined courtesy of Groutville. I remember that it was risky to close one’s eyes during the grace before meals – the food might disappear before one opened them. The monitors who brought food from the kitchen generally needed guarding.

I remember how Dr Dube dealt with complaints from the boys about the quality and quantity of the food. “Well, boys,” he said, “times are hard. Would you like me to return your fees2 and then you can look after yourselves?” The boys recognised the principal’s dilemma and left it at that.

At the end of the year, having passed my examinations, I was transferred (my uncle had intended this all along) to a Methodist institution at Edendale, near Pietermaritzburg. It was at Edendale, I think, that I began to wake up and look about me.

That is to say, I woke up and looked about after I had run the gauntlet of initiation. I had already encountered this at Ohlange, but there I was relatively protected by the number of Groutville boys already at the school. At Edendale, initiation could be unpleasant and disconcerting. I well remember, for instance, my astonishment when a menacing group of older boys surrounded me and insisted that I should be thrashed – because (so they said) I was too forward in answering questions in class. Oddly enough, I have forgotten whether they carried out their threat or not.

The main novelty of life at Edendale was that for the first time I was taught by white teachers. (There was one African teacher on the staff.)

Looking back from the present, I realise that it may seem odd that we were not particularly conscious that they were Europeans. From our point of view in those days they belonged to the genus Teacher, and our discussion of them followed the usual lines: “How far can you go with him? Is she easy to lead up the garden path? Is he harsh? Is she even-tempered?” It did not occur to us to explain their idiosyncrasies by the colour of their skins. The behaviour of Europeans did not interest us: the behaviour of teachers absorbed us. We respected justice, sympathy and understanding, and resented caprice.

One relief which Edendale brought was the end of corporal punishment. Except on one occasion, when I was among the “victims”.

In my first year there I was involved in a strike, an unusual one for those days in that it was not about food. An indifferent disciplinarian on the staff had a way of punishing boys by causing them to carry stones from the river to the school. Eventually the boys objected for the good reason that their parents could not afford to replace clothes damaged in this process. The principal came down, when the matter reached him, on the side of authority.

The boys were angry. They boycotted the classroom and talked quite seriously of leaving the school altogether. Then the “strikers” were called in to interview the principal one by one. Each boy leaving his office was taken to one or the other of two classrooms – the sheep were being separated from the goats.

When my turn came (far down the queue, for I was among the youngest) I found that the principal was being assisted by an African clergyman, the Rev. Msimanga. The principal opened with a question:

“Are you willing to carry stones, Albert? Yes or no?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you really know what you’re doing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re being misled, you know, by the older boys.”

“No, sir.”

The principal turned to Mr Msimanga:

“You’d better take this boy home with you and pump this out of him.”

When Mr Msimanga failed to change my mind, I was sent off to join the other goats. Then we goats learned that the sheep had succumbed to argument, and for a while there was confusion, until we decided to give in also. But one boy, Mavuso, stood out. When the question was put to us again, Mavuso replied, “No, I will not carry stones. I will not!”

“Mavuso,” said the principal, “you leave these premises, right away. Do you understand – right away!”

“Yes, sir.”

Mavuso went off to pack. Then the sheep were let loose among the goats. They asserted indignantly that they had not agreed to carry stones. After heated argument we all reached a common decision: “If Mavuso goes, we all go!”

We went to join Mavuso in packing. The principal was attracted to the scene by the clatter of our few possessions being hurled into boxes.

“What’s all this packing?” he demanded.

There was no reply.

“Very well. I would rather have an empty institution than boys who won’t obey me.”

Watching covertly for signs of some reaction, we finished our packing in silence and left. There was no reaction. We were rather disappointed. The principal simply stood and watched us leave in a body.

We headed for the railway station in Pietermaritzburg. On the way we stopped short, realising suddenly the hazards which governed our lives outside the institution. In Pietermaritzburg there would be a curfew. The police, no doubt, would arrest us – the principal might have telephoned them. There was a particular tone in the talk of the older boys which made me aware, for the first time in my life, of the feelings which Africans share about the police.

We slept that night in the open veld, and made our way into the town next day in small groups.

We were allowed to return in the end, provided our guardians accompanied us. To my uncle fell the doubtful privilege of taking me back. To him also fell the task of administering to me the public thrashing which all the strikers got.

I recall one further brush with authority at Edendale. Externally it was of minor importance, but the effects within me were lasting. It occurred towards the end of my time as a scholar there. I abused my position as a prefect by conniving at what amounted (in a schoolboyish way) to the theft of food by other boys. The head teacher, Dr Harold Jowett,3 detected me in this. He ignored the other boys, who were not prefects, and dealt with me.

Dr Jowett pointed out that my action was a breach of trust. In my heart I agreed with every word he said, and I can remember no occasion in my whole life when I was so thoroughly ashamed. My admiration for Dr Jowett was not impaired, especially as the incident ended there for both of us.

Still at Edendale, I went on to a two-year teachers’ course. A good deal of emphasis was placed, here, on personal responsibility, and the developing of active adult leadership. The prevailing atmosphere was thoroughly healthy, our teachers were diligent and dedicated, learning was grounded in religion, and the institution had, on the whole, a maturing effect. I was happy there, and enjoyed my time at Edendale thoroughly. Furthermore, I acquired a regard for the teaching profes sion, imbibed from the high standards of my teachers, which has never left me. I learned to love teaching.

I am angered by the Nationalist gibe nowadays that such schools as this one, or Adams College, or St. Peter’s, Rosettenville, turned out “Black Englishmen.” It was no more necessary for the pupils to become Black Englishmen than it was for the teachers to become White Africans. Two cultures met, and both Africans and Europeans were affected by the meeting. Both profited, and both survived enriched. At Edendale, at Adams, and informally at other times, I have been taught by European mentors. I am aware of a profound gratitude for what I have learned. I remain an African. I think as an African, I speak as an African, I act as an African, and as an African I worship the God whose children we all are. I do not see why it should be otherwise.

At the conclusion of my training I went to teach at a place called Blaauwbosch in the Natal uplands. I was appointed principal of an Intermediate4 School. This was not very impressive – I was also the entire staff.

It was while I was there that my religion received the jog that it needed. Up to this time I had more or less drifted along. At Edendale I had done no more than take my part in school worship.

I had done nothing about being confirmed. In fact, I was a Christian by accident of upbringing rather than by conscious choice.

But at Blaauwbosch I came under the influence of an old and very conscientious African minister, the Rev. Mtembu, and he raised the issues which I had taken for granted. I had also the good fortune to be lodged with the family of an evangelist of the Methodist Church, named Xaba, the devout and peaceful atmosphere of whose home echoed that of my own.

I do not pretend to pinpoint any moment of “conversion”, but I know that without the dutiful attention of Mr Mtembu I might quite easily have drifted away from my earlier teaching. As it turned out, I was roused. There was no local Congregational Church. But since there was a working understanding between the Congregationalists and the Methodists, I was confirmed in the Methodist Church, in which I subsequently became a lay preacher.

While I was at Blaauwbosch I had my first encounter with Dr CT Loram, Natal’s first Chief Inspector for Native Education. He came to my school with the district inspector, and the two of them spent the morning examining records and my teaching and the grounds. In the afternoon I was called in to confer about the school. All went well to begin with – and then he came to the contentious subject of “Manual Work.”5 Dr Loram was an enthusiast about work of this type. I had a greater interest in moulding the pupils’ minds. But, even if we had held the same views about manual work, there was no equipment with which to teach these crafts.

Dr Loram opened the attack.

“There’s just one thing, Luthuli. You’re a teacher. You’re supposed to be a leader in your community. But the garden at this school is a shameful sight!”

“Sir,” I replied, “I’ve tried to make some improvements since I’ve been here. The plain fact is that I’ve got no equipment. This place is sandy. It can’t be worked without implements. I have to ask the pupils to bring them from their homes, where they can ill be spared.”

“What? I don’t see that in your record book.”

“No, sir. It did not occur to me to put it in.”

“Well, then,” Dr Loram asked, “what do you do with pupils who don’t bring tools? How do you occupy them?”

“Some cut grass. Others have to spend the time doing nothing.”

“Have you started grass-work in this school?”

“A little,” I said, “but not much.”

“Why not much?”

“Sir, as you are aware, one does not just pick the grass that grows by the roadside and weave it into baskets. Most of the proper material has to come from the coastal area. How is it to get here?”

“Huh, Luthuli!” said Dr Loram. “There’s a lot of government time stolen in this school!”

There was not, but I forebore to say it. After a while the conversation mellowed, and finally Dr Loram asked me if I had anything to say.

“Yes, sir. There is one thing.”

“Well –?”

“I can’t say I’m very pleased by your visit.”

“You’re not what?”

“On the subject of manual work,” I went on, “you regard me as an evasive liar. I can see it – you accept nothing that I say.”

“Oh, no, no, Luthuli, you mustn’t take my remarks that way. You know, I’ve graded you well. After all, just suppose I’d come here and praised your work – it would have spoiled you as a young teacher. Now, tell me,” said the doctor, pointing at neat lines of children marching out of school, “how do you manage to get your pupils to keep their lines so well?”

At about this time the Education Department opened a Higher Teachers’ Training Course at Adams College. When I had been at Blaauwbosch for two years, the Department notified me that I had been recommended for a bursary (for which I had not applied) which would see me through this course. I took it as a gift from the Almighty. I also suspected the hand of Dr Loram behind the recommendation. I left Blaauwbosch, little imagining that I would be spending the next fifteen years of my life at Adams.