Читать книгу The Lyndi Tree - JA Ginn Fourie - Страница 13

I have clear memories of the pecking order when playing with friends under the huge morula tree in the front of our house; within earshot of the elders drinking their beer.

The preparation for weddings is when everyone practises the song and dance in the moonlight,

‘Dikuku di monate, lenyalo le boima – the cakes are delicious, but marriage is difficult,’ they sing, and the women ululate. Among those early songs, one rings continuously in my head,

‘Afrika lefase la bo ntat’arona le tserwe ke makgowa – Africa, our fathers’ land, has been taken away by whites.’ With the clarity of hindsight, this song is to shape my life.

Visits with my father, Radikubu, to Pietersburg (now Polokwane) introduces the young me to the crowds: the confusing bustle, the noise and finally the room that my father rents in the backyard of a house in the township (a Black suburb). At last, I get to know where my father goes on weekdays. The place he stays to be near his work as a driver in the town. I am impressed by the opulence of the city where there is meat instead of morogo (wild spinach) to accompany our porridge. There are fish and chips, and a visit to the supermarket leaves the young me with the impression that what we take from the shelves is free.

My paternal grandmother earned the name Ntate, Sesotho for father. Which I assume is given her because of her resourcefulness and fighting spirit. Great-grandmother Tsokoane has no doubt passed on the battle spirit in her fight for an old-age pension from the government. Although she had received one for many years, one of her daughters-in-law burned her dom-pas - identity document during a quarrel. When Tsokoane goes to reapply for one, she is advised to return tomorrow… and tomorrow – which continues until her death in 1970. After watching her struggle and accompanying her on several occasions, I am put off of the pass system and vow never to carry one.

I will not be the first in this fight against the pass laws: adult men run to the mountain at the sight of the police van, rumoured to be the result of their documents not being in order. The women who brew tototo (illicit drink) also flee when the khwela-mahala - free ride puts in an appearance. The children are the first to spot the van and whistle the alarm. The women hide their drums of liquor in holes and cover them up, or if the van is too close, they pour the alcohol out and destroy any evidence the police might hold against them.

At nine years of age and in standard two, I am returned to Rosenkrantz to look after my grandfathers’ livestock. I admit I am not the best goatherd and one day a jackal gets one of the herd. Grandfather is livid and gives me a-devil-of-a-hiding, but worst of all are grandmothers’ comments; for I admire and love her, and she shames me badly.

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