Читать книгу Mamphela Ramphele: A Passion for Freedom - Mamphela Ramphele - Страница 5

HELEN FRANTZ HOSPITAL IN THE BOCHUM DISTRICT OF what was then northern Transvaal – now Limpopo Province – was a desolate set of buildings, most of which are hidden from the lazy gaze of passing motorists by thornbush. A lethargic stream which more often than not struggled to justify its status because of the perennial droughts, trickled across the road under a narrow bridge, a few metres from the hospital. It was here that I was born at two o’clock on the afternoon of 28 December 1947, having inconvenienced my mother in no small measure.

A pregnancy in the summer heat was no small feat. The Bochum district has a harsh climate and only hardy species survive. The vegetation tells the story of repeated long droughts. Sparse thornbush and an abundance of morula trees cover the flat countryside, and villages provide the only relief from the monotony of the landscape, which stretches all the way towards the Botswana border. There is hardly a wild animal that thrives there: only occasionally would one see a frightened hare scurry across the gravel road at night. Temperatures range from the upper thirties at the height of summer to the lower teens in mid-winter. Late December and January present the greatest challenges.

My mother had more than simply the burden of pregnancy to deal with. For a woman to be able to deliver in Helen Frantz Hospital during those days of poor transport and communication, she had to book in as an expectant mother and manage under difficult conditions, catering for herself in the antenatal section for a few weeks until she went into labour. My mother had to forgo Christmas celebrations to ensure the safe delivery in hospital of her third child.

Both my parents were primary school teachers – a position of relative privilege in their social environment at the time, which placed me in a better position to survive and thrive than most of my contemporaries. My mother had no reason to anticipate the problems which lay ahead. The midwife who attended to her at my birth was, according to my mother, most unhelpful. She disparaged any request from my mother for help during labour as the cry of a spoilt schoolteacher seeking special attention. As a result my mother delivered me without any assistance from the midwife. She only came in later to cut the umbilical cord, heaping more scorn as she tidied up. I was to bleed heavily from the improperly tied stump of cord that night and, according to my mother, nearly died over the next few days from a combination of neonatal jaundice and the aftereffects of blood loss.

But my mother was not an ordinary schoolteacher. Born on 19 February 1919, the third in a family of nine, she leaned more towards her own mother in both looks and personality. Her father, Sethiba Michael Mahlaela, born in 1885, was a tobacco and corn farmer who was also an evangelist of the Dutch Reformed Church. He was a short, gentle man with soft, keen eyes and a sharp intellect. His wife Matlala Aletta, born Masekela in 1887, was a remarkable woman, tall and beautiful with an incredible intellect. She was better known by her praise name, Mamphela.3

Mamphela was a teacher before her marriage. Her extraordinary memory was an asset to the largely illiterate people among whom she lived, for in those days births and deaths were not registered by any authority. She was a mobile archive for the region. She could recall most birthdays, deaths and other important events in the life of the people of her village and surrounding areas. Children born in the locality used to come to her to find out when they were born, before going to register at school. She would enquire who their parents were, where they lived, and would make a connection with some event and say, ‘Oh, you are so-and-so’s child, you were born on this or that date, because I remember that this or that happened just before you were born.’

Mamphela’s talents were numerous: a facility for communication and organisation, traditional healing learned from her mother, and efficient management of the household supported by many practical skills. She mastered the art of roasting pork and preserving it in its own fat for up to three months – a useful skill in an environment where there was no refrigeration. Her own personality balanced the kindness of her husband, whom unscrupulous people often took advantage of. She called him ‘kgwebeane’, the easy one to cheat. She spoke her mind openly, sometimes to the embarrassment of her kindly husband. She was aware of her capabilities and was full of self-confidence. Her most determined statements were always prefixed by ‘Rare Serogole’, a reference to her father’s praise name (Serogole). She did not suffer fools easily.

My mother, Rangoato Rahab, had fond memories of her childhood on a communal farm in the Moletsi district, about thirty kilometres due west of Pietersburg – now Polokwane. They lived in a seven-roomed house with a corrugated-iron roof, the first in the area. Both her father’s and her mother’s relatives lived within walking distance, and it was accepted that she could stay in the homes of other family members whenever she wanted to. This multiplicity of abodes came in handy. Whenever she had been naughty at home she could escape punishment by going off somewhere else to avoid repercussions.

Naughty she was indeed. For example, when she was about ten, she climbed a very tall blue-gum tree in search of birds’ eggs, a feat which was the preserve of boys who used it to test their climbing skills. My mother was not one to be outdone by anybody, boy or girl. A particularly small bird known in the area as lentshwarelele had made its nest right at the top of the tallest tree. My mother climbed the tree to get to the nest, but lost her nerve once she reached the top and could not summon the courage to climb down. Her younger brother, Malesela Thomas, went to call for help. Her father came and put a long ladder against the tree and gently coaxed her down. Her mother, Koko4 Mamphela, was not one to let a child get away so easily. As soon as she stepped down, my grandmother went at her with a stick which had been produced during the anxious moments before her descent – a tension-breaking tactic my mother used regularly at our expense as we grew up.

Shortly after this incident, my mother was bitten by a spider while searching for birds’ eggs. She had taken her baby brother, Moseto Moses, to be breastfed by their mother, who was doing the family laundry by the river. As she carried the baby home and shepherded Malesela, she saw a bird’s nest on the side of the footpath. She sat the baby down on the path and went over to get the eggs. It happened suddenly: a bite and then immediate swelling of the hand, face and every part of the upper body. My mother put Moseto on her back and hurried Malesela along, crying all the way back to their mother at the river. My grandmother rushed her to an old man who was a healer, known as Rakgolo Ngwanamorena (Son of the king) to all the children. He gave her a mixture to drink, incised her swollen blue finger and sprinkled some permanganate of potash, or makgonatsohle (cure for all ailments), onto the wound. She felt rapid relief.

My mother’s passion for independence bordered on stubbornness. She recalled an occasion when she was beaten, pinched and abused verbally by older girls, mostly cousins of hers, with whom she was playing kgole. This is a game similar to hockey, but it is played over long distances, hence the name kgole, which means ‘far’. The device used as a ball was a rounded, polished piece of wood. On this particular occasion the older girls were using my mother’s ball, which one of her male cousins had made for her. She became frustrated at losing repeatedly, and just before the seniors could score another goal, she grabbed the ball, sat down and held it tightly between her legs, refusing to budge. Her concerned elder sister, Ramadimetsa Salphy, a much gentler soul, pleaded with her, but to no avail. In the end they all gave up, to my mother’s delight. She often reminded people that it was not insignificant that an extension of her praise name was Nkgakgathu nama moshifa (The tough one who is like the ligament supporting the neck muscles of a beast).

My parents owed their meeting, courtship and eventual marriage to Bethesda Normal College, where they both trained as teachers in the late 1930s. My mother’s eyes sparkled as she recalled the time she first set eyes on Pitsi Eliphaz. He was smashingly handsome, tall and strongly built, with well-proportioned facial features. She was envied by all her friends for having captured his attentions. Pitsi was the top student at the college and a crafty soccer player, Columbia being his cheer name. My mother remembered him as a quiet, reserved and shy person at college. Pitsi was born in July 1916 at Stofberg Bible School in the Free State, where his parents, Phoshiwa Nicodemus and Ramaesela Christina Ramphele, were living at the time to enable Phoshiwa to complete his training as an evangelist of the Dutch Reformed Church. Pitsi was his parents’ third son in a family of six boys. Coincidentally, I share with both my parents place number three in terms of order of birth – a not insignificant factor in shaping one’s life path.

The Ramphele family was supported during the three years of Phoshi­wa’s training by Ramaesela’s widowed mother, Ramaesela Ruth Tsheola, who had also been married to a Ramphele. After her husband’s death she was left to fend for herself and her only daughter. She took up employment as a domestic for a white farmer in the district of Moletsi. She also farmed on her own account and could regularly send corn, beans, dried meat, spinach and other food for the upkeep of her daughter’s family while my grandfather trained at Stofberg Bible School.

My great-grandmother was illiterate. In order to send the produce to her daughter, and undaunted by the obstacles placed in her way, she would catch a ride on an ox cart, known as sephumamagapu (breaker of watermelons) because of the bumpiness of the ride, and get to Pietersburg railway station. Here she would request the officials to help her fill in the requisite forms for railage.

She told my mother a story which best demonstrates her resourcefulness. Early one morning she was on her way to work when she came upon a big trunk, which must have fallen from a passing ox-wagon. Having made sure that there was no one in sight, she decided to push it off the road and conceal it under some bushes. She spent an anxious day wondering if her employers would mention that some traveller had made enquiries about lost property, or fearing someone else would come upon her treasure. At the end of the day, she deliberately finished her chores later than the other staff members to secure the privacy she needed for the task ahead. Under cover of darkness she carried the heavy trunk on her head all the way home. Once there, she found that it contained clothes for a whole family. What a gift from the gods for her needy daughter’s family! She buried the trunk in her backyard, having satisfied herself that the owners were unlikely to reclaim it, selected some clothing for both her grandchildren and their parents, and sent them off in the usual way. At intervals she returned to the treasure chest, which remained in its hide-out, and sent instalments of clothing to her family until the trunk was empty. By this time she was confident enough to use it for storing her personal effects.

My grandfather completed his training at Stofberg and was posted by the church to Uitkyk as an evangelist. He was a strong leader of his church and was sought after for his wisdom. He established himself as an important member of the local community of peasant farmers, and made a comfortable living for himself and his family.

When my parents married in 1942, my great-grandmother, Koko Tsheola, was assigned as a baby-sitter for my father’s children. In 1945 she moved from Uitkyk No. 1, the communal Ramphele home, to join my parents at Kranspoort Mission Station, which nestled comfortably at the foot of the Soutpansberg range of mountains, about fifty kilometres from Louis Trichardt in the then northern Transvaal. The Soutpansberg district stood in stark contrast to Bochum. Besides the beauty of the landscape with its rugged mountains and gentle valleys, the lush vegetation bore witness to the abundant rainfall, and the gurgling streams and rich variety of birdlife sang the praises of mother nature.

My father had been transferred from his home village to this area in 1944 on promotion to become the principal of the Stephanus Hofmeyer School. My great-grandmother looked after all of us except Molepo, the last born, a laatlammetjie, who arrived on 10 October 1961. Koko Tsheola died in 1964, then over a hundred years old, according to the estimates of my maternal grandmother, Koko Mamphela, the mobile archive. The two knew each other well as they were distant cousins. I remember Koko Tsheola as a kindly old woman with a face etched by a pattern of firmly set wrinkles and graced by her kindly soft eyes, which were given to watering. My memory of her dates back to 1953 when she supervised me in my role as caretaker of my younger brother Phoshiwa, born on 25 May 1952, thereby enabling my mother to resume her teaching post at the local school. I was six then. Koko Tsheola carried out a great number of household chores for her age. She walked with a slight shuffle, supported by a walking stick. The shuffle became more pronounced as she got older. She meticulously swept the mud floor of our three-bedroomed house and its surroundings, and washed dishes and pots. My responsibility was to mind the baby and to play with my toddler brother, Sethiba. I carried Phoshiwa on my back to encourage him to sleep, which then freed me to play.

Koko Tsheola spoiled us rotten as children. She was the embodiment of a fairy godmother, though with limited means to cater for our childhood fantasies. She divided up among us most of her old-age pension, which amounted then to a little less than £5 per quarter, starting with my eldest sister, Mashadi Ramaesela Ruth, born on 27 March 1943. Mashadi, who was named after her, was her favourite great-grandchild. The next allocation would go to my elder brother, Mathabatha Alfred, born on 6 February 1945.1 was the third in line and would get an allocation to suit my status. Next would be my younger brother, Sethiba Michael, born on 28 March 1950. We used our spoils to buy sweets at a local store run by an Indian man, known as Makana, who had a large family living on the property. The only unpleasant memory I have of my great-grandmother was of the pinching she once gave me because I had not responded to her repeated calls to go on an errand for her. She told us stories about her childhood as well as many riddles and folktales in the warmth of our kitchen, in which stood my mother’s efficient black coal stove with the proud label ‘Welcome Dover’.

* * *

There is more to names in our family tree than a casual observer might notice. Naming of children among the North Sotho people, where my roots lie, is a major part of the process of incorporating new arrivals into the extended family. The name you are given also signifies your position within the lineage, which has major implications for access to scarce resources. Your namesake often looks after your interests in vital ways. Women play an important role in this system as partners to their brothers, who are the heirs in the family. Women partners are regarded as female husbands (borakgadi) and without them important rituals in their partner brothers’ families cannot be carried out successfully.

Central to these rituals is the naming ceremony, which takes place at the end of a wedding feast. The bride is introduced to the ancestors by the presiding female husband as Ma-So-and-so (Mother of So-and-so), according to the line of succession. For example, the wife of the first-born son is given the responsibility of perpetuating the name of her father-in-law, and therefore receives a title with his praise name attached, such as Matlou, Matshwene or Mangwoatshipa. Her own first-born son will then be known by the father-in-law’s name but, given the reverence attached to it, women are only allowed to use the praise name. If the first-born child is a girl, she is named after the mother of the man, unless special arrangements are made by the woman’s family to ‘ask for a name’ (go kgopela leina). Such an ‘asked-for name’ was customarily that of the woman’s mother.

Sons other than first-borns name their own first-born sons after their immediate elder brothers. If the first-born is a girl, she is named after the partner female husband unless the latter indicates otherwise, as when another family name is in danger of becoming extinct, because of a couple’s infertility or some other unforeseen circumstance. The next son has to keep his immediate elder brother’s name alive, and so on down the line. If there are more than two children, then alternate children are named after members of the maternal family, starting with the mother’s parents, then her siblings and other important relatives.

The names of children in an extended family within this system are not only predictable, but also pregnant with meaning and pulsate with the tensions embedded within each patrilineage. With knowledge of the naming system one can deduce the family tree from a set of names. Children born out of wedlock can also be easily identified by their names, which are out of kilter with the system, unless some agreement is reached between the two families to ritually adopt the child ‘who has come with his mother’. In most cases such children are adopted by their mothers’ brothers and brought up in their households to avoid the conflicts which often occur in families with children ‘who came with their mothers’.

My mother was Matlou, thus my elder brother’s praise name was Tlou, as he was named after my father’s immediate elder brother Mathabatha, with the same praise name. My sister, Mashadi Ramaesela Ruth, being the eldest daughter, was named after an important female in the Ra­mphele lineage. Because he had no sisters my father had greater freedom in naming her, so he chose his grandmother’s name, Ramaesela. Mashadi, her first name, was given to her by my maternal grandmother, Koko Mamphela, in honour of the German woman who was the founder and matron of Helen Frantz Hospital at the time of her birth. Helen Frantz was given the name Mashadi by the locals, because she could not pronounce the Sotho word for ‘women’ (basadi), referring to them instead as mashadi.

The European names which occur in my family deserve comment. They embody the legacy of the missionaries, who saw it as their duty to give Africans ‘Christian’ names as part of the sacrament of baptism. African names were regarded as heathen and unacceptable to God. Considerations of convenience were thus turned into a theodicy – for most whites did not, and still are unwilling to, learn African names, some of which are tongue twisters for foreigners. The ease with which most whites shrug off attempts to pronounce African names is a logical consequence of the low status accorded Africans historically: there were no incentives to learn to pronounce their names properly nor sanctions in the event of failure. Thus even those Africans who were not baptised were given ‘slave names’ by white employers for their convenience.

3 Praise names are important linkages with one’s clan and are used both as endearments and as a mark of respect among Sotho-speaking people in Limpopo Province.

4 Koko is the Northern Sotho designation for grandmother; and Rakgolo, for grandfather.