Читать книгу Being Chris Hani's Daughter - Ferguson Hani - Страница 12

On Friday, 2 February 1990, news broke that the ANC had been unbanned and Nelson Mandela was to be released. This could only mean one thing for our family … As I walked down the passage towards our flat on the second floor after school that Friday afternoon I heard a huge commotion. Sounds of jubilation could be heard all the way down the stairs. I rushed inside to find Mama screaming, “Daddy is coming home, Daddy is coming home!”

I could not contain my excitement. Stumbling over my words, my first question was, of course, “When?” Face gleaming with joy, Mama didn’t yet have any details. All she knew was that the ANC had been unbanned, Mandela was to walk free and my father’s freedom would soon follow. That day will forever be etched in our psyches. Just as the Americans have their “Where were you when Kennedy was shot?” or “What were you doing on 9/11?”, we have our “Where were you when Mandela was released?” Little did we know at the time that within just three years, “What were you doing when Chris Hani was assassinated?” would become the refrain.

Nine days after the ANC’s unbanning, on 11 February, we watched on TV as Madiba walked out of prison, which we recorded for prosperity on our old VHS machine. I remember the palpable joy radiating from all the grown-ups in the room, glued to the events unfolding on the small screen. Up until that moment, I don’t think I quite realised the enormity of the occasion.

For impatient me, now almost 10 years old, change did not come half as quickly as I had hoped it would. Although the laws had changed in February, in real time we only moved back to South Africa with Daddy at the end of the year, in December 1990. During this time I finished Class 5 in Maseru in July and began Class 6 in September. I was livid with my mother, who insisted that instead of following all my friends into Mrs Bean’s class, I was forced to follow in Khwezi’s footsteps and go to Mr Ramsey’s class. He was a tall, balding, intimidating man who still referred to Zimbabwe as ‘Rhodesia’ – need I say more? Mama’s reason for what seemed to me a highly unjust decision was that my friends were a distraction because, in her eyes, all we ever did was talk. Mr Ramsey’s favourite instrument was a wooden metre ruler, which he used to smack the shit out of you. Alternatively, he would make you stand on the table and force you to sing. I felt isolated and extremely lonely during that period, away from all my friends whom I had been with since Class 1. Once again, due to our circumstances, I was separated from that which others considered ‘normal and safe’, something I would have to deal with a lot in years to come.

During our year of uncertainty, Mama and I made several trips to South Africa to find ourselves a new home and school for me. They were exciting times, tinged with a breath of hope. There was no longer any need to hide, no squeezing into the boot of a car to get over the border undetected. We could literally smell the sweet scent of freedom in the air.

My parents decided to settle in Dawn Park, near Boksburg, in what had previously been a white suburb, mainly inhabited by conservative Afrikaners. I didn’t notice any of that. The first time we drove into Dawn Park I was blown away by the beauty of the place: neat houses, green grass, a picket-fence paradise, all safe and suburban – not unlike my fantasy of the Huxtable home.

The first time I saw the house we were to move into I immediately fell in love with the facebrick perimeter walls. The fact that it was nestled into the tail end of a cul de sac made me feel all safe and cosy. Walking through the security gate into the house, huge open spaces with arched doorways welcomed us. When through the sliding glass I spotted a swimming pool in the back yard, I literally yelped with joy. But the deal was sealed for both Mama and me when we encountered the kitchen. It was like one you might see today on a cooking show on TV. It was certainly the biggest kitchen I had ever seen, with white cupboard doors with tan wooden handles, plus an island-type butcher’s block in the middle of the L-shaped room. It seemed to ooze with master-chef potential. Of course, to me, having grown up within the confines of a flat, everything looked enormous in that house. Without hesitation, my mother and I agreed that this would be our new home. The fact that it wasn’t even up for sale did nothing to deter Mama, who quickly convinced the owners to accept her offer.

I realised I had very little choice about where I was to attend school: it was either Saheti, a Greek school, or King David Linksfield, both in Linksfield, near Bedfordview. But at the last minute we were informed that King David was a no-go because I was not Jewish. I had suspicions, though, that it had more to do with my surname being attached to the man who until recently had been one of South Africa’s most wanted terrorists. Suddenly the choice had been narrowed to no choice at all, so Saheti it was.

Driving through the school gates, to meet the principal, my nerves were on edge. The school seemed enormous, much bigger then Prep and even bigger then Machabeng High School in Lesotho, which was the biggest school I had ever seen. Both my parents and I walked into Mr Armstrong’s mahogany-wooded office. The three of them discussed me as though I wasn’t there – especially my academic history at Prep. Then the headmaster’s piercing eyes framed by little spectacles finally settled on me. Quite out of the blue, he said, “So, young lady, what is 7x7?”

For a moment that stretched into eternity, I went completely blank and froze. I began to furiously calculate the numbers on my fingers under the table – a method I still use today! I finally blurted out, “49!” The entire room sighed with relief but not as loudly as I. Mr Armstrong promptly said: “Welcome to Saheti.” That was it. Two numbers timed by each other – my entrance exam to my new academic life.

Once all the excitement of a new school, new country, new home settled down, it suddenly became real that I would have to leave Maseru and all my friends. I was well and truly devastated. There was some small part of me that believed that we would continue living in Lesotho, except that Daddy would join us. Now we were moving to South Africa – actually, to be clear, I was the only child moving to South Africa. Momo was already studying in Cape Town and Khwezi, as usual, dug in her heels and insisted that she stay at Machabeng High, where she would become a boarder. I was devastated that I hadn’t been afforded a choice like my older sister had. I mean, what fuckery was this?