Читать книгу Mamphela Ramphele: A Passion for Freedom - Mamphela Ramphele - Страница 6

NEGOTIATING EXTENDED FAMILY RELATIONS CAN BE A tricky process. The fifty kilometres which separated Uitkyk No. 1, my father’s parents’ home, and our own home in Kranspoort in the Mara district did not pose any threat to the closely knit extended family network, and yet gave our nuclear family sufficient distance to develop its distinctive lifestyle. My mother’s parents were also within reach in their home in Krantzplaas, twenty kilometres due west of Uitkyk, where they had moved in December 1942.

Family ties were strengthened by regular school-holiday visits to my father’s home in Uitkyk. These trips were great occasions for all. There was never any need for my father to announce our intended arrival: there was mutual understanding that specificities such as dates were unimportant in the flow of communication within the extended family. People did not have to keep diaries – there was always time for every­thing, and no need to be uptight about schedules. Everyone relaxed in the knowledge that the visits would happen during the course of the school vacations.

My recollection of these visits dates back to the beginning of December 1953. Our mode of transport – the envy of the locals at the time – was a mule wagon. My father owned a span of six mules, which were a source of much family pride. Mules combine the elegance and beauty of horses with the sedateness of donkeys. My father’s mules were handsome animals; all but Japie had shiny black-haired skins. The journey to Uitkyk was an exciting day-long trip. We set off early in the morning laden with provisions. My cousin Oupa Phoshiwa, my father’s eldest brother’s son, whom he adopted after his own father had died in a car accident, took great delight in being in charge of the mule wagon. He loved speed and would ensure that we arrived at our destination early in the afternoon.

My brothers and sister and I enjoyed playing a game of spotting interesting things on the way, particularly the infrequent cars which passed us on the gravel road, throwing up clouds of dust. As we drew nearer to Uitkyk, we vied with each other in identifying members of our family as they milled around the homestead oblivious of our impending arrival.

The welcome opened with loud praise-singing by my grandmother who sang the family praise song as well as our individual praises. This was high-class theatre with my paternal grandmother as the lead actor generating a pulsating emotional atmosphere. She would emerge from the nearby fields, and occupy the centre stage, elegantly strutting about as she shrilly proclaimed:

Ke bana ba sebešo segolo sa Bashita-Meetse, Bakwena, ba gaModubu wa mela nokeng dikala tša okama madiba, bana ba kgomo e tšhweu Mathabatha. Ke Phjatla-dihlaka-tsetsepa tša mogatša’ Moganwa wa ga­Bosega. Lena methepa le yang mashemong le ntlele nyoba ya nkgopo le a mpona ke Letladi ke kgopame.

Ke bana ba Phoshiwa Madumetša rangwane wa Sekgopetšane, Matšhoša, ba ga Mahlo-mahwibidu a gaMathabatha a hwibila a etšwa go Ramphele, Mohlaloga. Phoshiwa ka mekgolodi ya marumo. Ke Matšhoša-dibata, Ramathiba-tsebe wa bo Mafepeng o ntše leweng la nkwe o ntše a shitisa nkwe go bopa. Mokgoši wa gabo Mmaselaelo o hlabja o lebana le Mmatšhwaana. Ke batho wa ga boMafoša ntsikitsiki kua moseo le kua monyako.

Ke bana ba Pitsi ya boMmatlala a bo Noko. Ke phoofolo ya mabalabala, Mamongwangwai wa mabaka, mesela ke metshanyelo, melomo ke metloutlo. Ke Lesetša Rabotse o tšwa badimong. Ke Motšhishi ga­toga dinose dilo tša botse ga di gatiwe otla roba mamapo. Ke papago Lehlaba o thopa di ile go fula Moeketsi, ya sakeng a thopela kgosi ke mang? Nna ke thopile gaManyoba-Tsokotlana kgomo yešu e sa retiwa Moletši’a Raphuti. Ke Seya-nokeng-ka-legata Lesetša, a be a pega ka seatla sa monna wa kua gaManangana. Ke motho wa gabo Molepo ke Matshwana’ Boshega, Tlou-setumula megala. Ke ditlogolo tša Kgetsi ya go rwala bana ba Lesetša e subela nabo Mmedike ga gabo Letlatša.

Ke ba gaNhloma-Marumo, ba gaRamphele wa Tswetla, Mohlaloga, batho ba tšwang Bodupe ba gaMmathepe-a-Polokwane. Bodupe wee-ba-­gaMmangwako-a-Molobe!!

The rules of equity demanded that she incorporate the praise song of the Mahlaelas, her son’s in-laws, as an acknowledgement of their part in perpetuating the Ramphele lineage through the gift of their fertile daughter:

Ke ditlogolo tša Mahlaela-a-Mmutele’ntotoma. Ba gaRamotse wa kgang ga o dulwe e ka motse wa mashoboro. Ke ba gaSekata-ka-pitsi wa ga boSefagwana sa boMatsiri. Ke bana ba Sethiba-dipata-tša-makgowa, Sethiba a hlabiwa mogolo batho ba dikobo ba tletše gona a be a lamo­lela Moloto kua Madikoti, thaba ya maaka, thaba e phaswa ka morago. Ke Phatola-motagwana. Ke phatela kua Maribišeng. Maribišeng go hlomilwe folaga ya go iletša ditoro. Ditoro di na le bjala ba bogale ba go taga boMatshere a boDinonyana.

Ke motho wa ga boMakgatša-ka-patla wa ga boRaisibe. Ba re o rile o kgatša ka patla wa ekiša mang le mogwera wa gago o saka wa mo tseba. Ke Lefalaolo la gaPhahla-nkgori, le le rileng kgomo, la re motho. Ke batho ba tšwang Dikgabong. Ke Matebele Makwankwane a hloka kgomo a ja motho. Ke Ditlou, phoofolo tše dikgolo. Ke batho ba tšwang Kgobadi, gaNyedimane-a-Tlokwa.

Ke bana ba Rangoato wa ga boMalesela, sa naga sa lešoka. Ke motho wa ga boMoseto, Setlogolo sa Mmankwana-a-modumo le bo Malekola a sena tšhemo Moroko wa jwala wa boMautšana. Ke ditlogolo tša bo­Masekela-a-Molobare, Bakwena Baroka-meetse-a-pula. Ke tše dithlaba-­tša-gaMabolesa, bare ga dia ripelwa bokwala, direpetšwe go hlaba tše dingwe. Ke bana ba Mamphela wa gabo dikgoši, monnyana wa ga­Ramothopo, kgaetšedi wa boSefadima sa boMontsho-ke-fifetše. Ke ditlogolo tša Raisibe, Thalala-a-tsoku, wa top a yena o humile le dinala. Ke ditlogolo tša boMaleka a dutse, Moraswi Letebele, batho ba ga bo­Sanaga sa lešoka.

Never one known for false modesty, my grandmother always ended the praise-singing by acknowledging her own central role in the extended family, as a ‘jack’ that lifted all implements, large and small:

Ke batlogolo ba Jack, tshipi ya go rwala tše dingwe. Shate-shatee!! Wo a sareng moshate o llela dilo, ore nkabe ele tša gabo! Bodupe wee--!! BaMmangwako!5

The electric atmosphere thus generated was enhanced by the ululating and dancing which went with every phrase, even the neighbours coming to join in. As Harold Scheub has correctly observed, African oral tradition in this form is able to distil the essence of the human experience and offer it in memorable form to help shape future relations and action.6

My grandmother was a true artist, adept at recasting family narratives into poetic language. The heroes of my family were for the most part predictably identified as the males in both my paternal and maternal family lines. The namesakes of Phoshiwa (my paternal grandfather), Pitsi (my father) and Sethiba (my maternal grandfather) were singled out as brave men who took on challenges in spite of the considerable odds against them. Phoshiwa’s bravery silenced even tigers (o dutše leweng la nkwe ontše a shitiša nkzue go bopa). Pitsi was the warrior who went to capture enemy livestock and carried home with him trophies in the form of a human skull, which he used as a water container, and a human hand as a balancing mechanism within the skull to prevent spillage as he carried the water home (seya nokeng to legata la motho a be a pega ka seatla sa monna wa kua gaManangana). Sethiba, on the other hand, was a handsome only child, a leader and warrior who blocked the white settlers’ way, and was killed in the process, while ugly cowards stood by (Sethiba dipata tša makgowa, Sethiba a hlabiwa mogolo batho ba dikobo ba tletse).

But some significant women received honourable mention as important sisters of the heroes, or as co-actors: Thalala, Mamphela, Kgetsi, Rangoato, and Jack (my paternal grandmother’s nickname). She had great admiration for her own mother, who saved her from an unwanted marriage at puberty to a local chief in their village. Her beauty had attracted the elders of the village. Koko Tsheola, realising that the net was closing in, had to flee and went to live in a different area where her daughter was safe.

My family’s heroes moved to the boundaries of their communities. Both my paternal and maternal grandfathers took the risk to part with traditional lifestyles and elected to become evangelists of the Dutch Reformed Church. My maternal grandfather, Sethiba, had the advantage that his own father had converted to Christianity whereas my paternal grandfather, Phoshiwa, was a pioneer in his family. It came as no surprise that my father would move even farther outwards – taking up a teaching position and physically moving to the Soutpansberg district (Mme­dike a boLetlatsa). My paternal grandmother’s creativity is demonstrated by her extension of the family praise song to incorporate new images etched by transitions into new historical realities. She expanded her text by transforming old tales, and infused them with contemporary imagery and themes.

Elaborate formal greetings of each relative, young and old, followed the emotional praise-singing, and cooled the air. These formal greetings were confusing for us children. Some adults insisted on being kissed, while others expected us to clap our hands and hold them in a clasped position for them to be kissed by the adult through the mediation of their own hands in a style intended to show deference towards adults. You were never sure what to expect.

The offloading of the provisions provided the next exciting moment for the welcoming party. The fresh fruit and vegetables which we brought from the better-endowed Soutpansberg district were a treat for the residents of Uitkyk. Young and old would tuck into the fruit as they carried the provisions from the wagon into one of the many huts around the homestead.

My father’s natal homestead was a large one consisting of a corrugated-­iron-roofed house together with several rondavels situated round an enclosed courtyard, or lapa. There were other buildings on the periphery: two rondavels, one the private room of my grandparents and the other for Koko Tsheola, and a three-roomed thatched mud house which belonged to one of my father’s brothers. A one-roomed flat on one wing of the central house belonged to my father, and this we used during our visits. The size of the homestead signified my grandfather’s success as a patriarch, blessed as he was with sons and grandchildren, and with the material means to sustain a coherent extended family.

My grandfather was a tall, strikingly handsome man, strongly built with a well-proportioned body. He was generally a stern man with strong views on many matters. His face would, however, light up when he was in a good mood. He was fond of telling us stories of his youth heavily peppered with jokes, which he told at his own or other people’s expense. As he told them he would literally roll around in fits of laughter on a goatskin under a large shady tree. This served as a gathering place for the family’s midday meals and afternoon rest away from the blistering summer heat.

Like most of his contemporaries, my grandfather was an authoritarian patriarch. He ruled his family with a firm hand. To underline his control over his descendants, he issued an edict that all his grandchildren were to refer to him as Papa and his wife as Mma, whereas their own parents were to be called Brother and Sister. This was a major symbolic statement about the lines of authority within the family. But my mother would have none of it. As a compromise, my father suggested the use of Daddy and Mommy – an interesting way of diverting patriarchal tensions through flight into another language. But my mother stood her ground. We thus grew up calling my grandfather Papa, my grandmother Mma-o-mogolo (Big mother), and my father Daddy. Having been successfully challenged by my mother, the edict was sufficiently weakened to allow my father’s younger brothers flexibility in their own family relations.

My mother fought many battles within this patriarchal family system. She walked a tightrope as she carved out space for herself to live with dignity within the extended family She established a delicate balance between challenging those aspects of the many rigid rules about gender roles, lines of authority and the conduct of relations that violated her dignity, and avoiding actions that would undermine the system and create anxiety and instability. She faithfully fulfilled her responsibilities as a ngwetsi and a lethari (newly married and young woman in the village) – no mean feat – but she would not be bullied by anyone. Young married women were often reminded that mosadi ke tšhwene o lewa mabogo, a woman’s only real value lies in the fruits of her labour, including her reproductive labour.

Newly married women had to establish their credentials as hard workers from the very first day after their wedding. The luxuries of a honeymoon were not for them. But even an authoritarian system as tough as this patriarchy recognised the limits of human endurance – a wise step in ensuring its perpetuation. It was customary for the newly married woman to go back to her natal home after two weeks, go tsholla bongwetši (literally, to pour out one’s newly married status). This was an opportunity for her to have a break from the hard work, to share experiences with her old friends and relatives, and to get useful advice about how to tackle some of the challenges of her new life. You could look at it as a retreat of sorts.

Upon her return to her in-laws, the bride was expected to fit into the routine of her new family, and demonstrate her capacity to produce goods and services for her new family, as well as to reproduce. Any undue delay in falling pregnant set tongues wagging about possible infertility. Given the level of physical exertion, one wonders how the newly­weds ever managed to make love, let alone conceive. Most women did.

My mother survived the punishing schedule of a young married woman through a combination of creativity, hard work and courage in standing up for her rights. She established boundaries beyond which she would not allow anyone to go. She tackled her brothers-in-law on many levels to let them know that she was not at their beck and call, but should be treated with respect if they expected respect from her. They were quick to blame her attitude on her professional status, for none of them had married a professional woman.

A major bone of contention was the holy of holies – slaughtering of animals, from which women were excluded because their potential for pollution was thought to pose a threat to the generative capacity of livestock. When a beast was slaughtered, the men were in the habit of delaying the process – keeping women waiting being part of the whole exercise of power by men over women. Slaughtering after sunset was quite common. This caused enormous frustration among the women, who had to wait for the meat which was to be prepared for supper. The men had little incentive to change this practice. They chose certain tender parts such as the liver, heart and spleen to cook for themselves on a makeshift fireplace, thus ensuring that their needs were catered for. They had scant concern for the children falling asleep before food was ready – it was the women’s responsibility to feed the children.

On one occasion my mother decided that the critical boundary had been crossed. She calmly walked up to the men’s fireplace and carried away the pot containing the meat with tender portions which was ready for consumption. She dished it out together with the porridge which the women had prepared. My father was placed in an invidious position – he was torn between loyalty to his brothers and the compelling logic of his wife’s actions. In the end he decided to stay out of it. His brothers were stunned! No woman had ever dared to touch a pot cooked by men. The other women, including my grandmother, were jubilant that the spell had been broken. From then on there was greater cooperation between men and women with the slaughtering. The men were still allowed to roast some liver over open coals, but gave the women more control over the rest of the meat. My mother’s transgressive act had liberated both men and women in the extended family from an archaic custom.

My mother also challenged the iniquitous practice of compelling daughters-in-law to return to domestic chores three days after delivery of their babies. After delivering her second child, she simply told her mother-in-law that she was going to stay put in her bedroom for the next ten days. My grandmother was appalled by the prospect of being laughed at by her friends in the village, who would notice that she was fetching water, cooking and doing other domestic chores, while her daughter-in-law enjoyed the luxury of postnatal recuperation. Grudgingly, the older woman came to terms with it and even defended her daughter-in-law’s position in the village.

My mother was a survivor. She endeared herself to everyone through her hard work, skilled housekeeping and, above all, her delicious cooking. Her father-in-law was particularly proud of her in this regard, denigrating other daughters-in-law who were less competent. The way into my grandfather’s heart was through special attention to his palate – a truism my mother always kept in mind. My grandfather’s favourite treats were freshly baked bread, vetkoek (deep-fried cakes) and piping hot tea, or mafisa-molomo (burner of lips). He would sing my mother’s praises as he drank one cup after another and munched the accompaniments. Because of her special culinary skills my mother was spared the discomfort of working in the fields.

* * *

Our visits to Uitkyk were mixed blessings. While we enjoyed catching up with family and the novelty of visiting the area, we found the extended family arrangements very taxing. The rigid boundaries between male and female separated me from my younger brothers during our vacations. I missed them terribly, and they in turn missed the warmth of the nuclear family.

Water had to be carried from a windmill about a kilometre away by female members of the household for all domestic purposes. This was hard water, which took some getting accustomed to for those of us used to fresh water from sparkling mountain streams. My mother spent most of her time with the other women in the household cooking and feeding the multitudes, including villagers who took advantage of our presence as visitors to share in the windfall. There is a saying in Northern Sotho, Moeng etla ka gešo, re je ka wena (Visitor, come to our home so that we can eat through you). And how! It was not unusual for my mother to feed up to twenty-five people at each meal. We found the custom of feeding men first, elderly women next and children last, very frustrating, because sometimes food would run out. We were also not used to eating out of a communal dish with so many other children, who were quite adept at tucking the food away quickly.

Children were also sent around a lot. It seemed that some adults could not bear the sight of children playing happily – it was seen as idleness, which called for action. My father’s youngest brother was the worst offender on this score. He made us pick up gravel stones in the hot December sun and stash them along the fence around the large homestead. You were not expected to argue or question such instructions. After all, children were regarded as part of the family estate – property to be handled as you pleased. It did not take long for all of us to long for our own home.

The nuclear family home stood in sharp contrast to that of my extended family. My memory of my childhood goes back to a rainy day at the beginning of 1953 when we were moving house from one end of Kranspoort to another. We used a mule-drawn cart to transport the household furniture and personal effects. It was a confusing day for me as a little girl who could contribute nothing to the process, though I was made to understand very clearly that I had to keep out of the way of the busy adults. It was strange to sleep in a new house, which was to become my home for the next twelve years.

5 Praise songs are difficult, if not impossible, to translate. The substance of my grand­mother’s words is given in the following pages.

6 H. Scheub, The Xhosa Ntsomi (Oxford, 1975), p. 1.