Читать книгу To Survive and Succeed - Mkhuseli Jack - Страница 8

Hell, damnation – and salvation

As there were not many believers in our rural area, there were few church services. When a priest visited the area four times a year, we attended. I found the sermons meaningful and began to understand and like the Bible, but it was a luxury. Although we could not afford to own one, I started to nag my mother to buy a copy. I was in Standard 2 (Grade 4) when she gave in and bought the gospel of St Matthew. It cost four cents. That was the first time in my home that money had been ‘wasted’ on reading material. Within two weeks I had read the book from cover to cover and could not wait to raise enough money to get copies of the other gospels. I bought the next one using money I had earned from selling redbait and white mussel to holidaymakers, who used them for fishing bait. It was the book of St John.

I was reaching the age where I was able to do piecework, casual jobs that were not too strenuous – to avoid bringing on an asthma attack. Jobs such as working in the gardens of holiday homes belonging to wealthy white people were relatively well paid. This meant that I managed to acquire the other gospels, St Mark and St Luke. But there was always a heated argument at home about why I was spending my money without consulting others. Were these books a priority? I was asked.

The Bible and its stories were sometimes a double-edged sword; one minute it was telling me about social injustices and the unfairness of men towards men; the next minute it was frightening the hell out of me. Mntuyedwa Sixhayi Sotyelelwa, also affectionately known as Maxhayi, was a great-uncle through marriage (the brother of my mom’s uncle’s wife). He was an elder in the Dutch Reformed Church, the version for black people, and was a proponent of the frightening side of the Bible. He had never gone to school but he could read the Bible and quote from it, chapter and verse. Maxhayi worked on Mr Bellingham’s farm, where the school was, and he also owned a general dealer store selling groceries to farm labourers.

Maxhayi and his wife Nobantu stayed in their mud-and-corrugated iron house on Mr Bellingham’s property, as was customary for labourers. The family relationship through my mother was sufficient for us to spend a night at his house because of its proximity to the school. He was also close to farm fields with delicious watermelons. Of course the watermelons were to be stolen. Another attraction was the possibility of getting stolen mutton, since a known sheep thief was active in that area. Dlamnana was a legendary sheep thief, with a reputation that some boys argued could not be challenged by anyone. Some in the local criminal community said that cats did not escape Dlamnana’s voracious appetite. The local farmers knew that when Dlamnana was out of prison the task of counting sheep had to be doubled – something they did not bother to do when Dlamnana was in jail.

When a sheep is stolen, slaughtered and cooked it has to be eaten and no evidence should remain. Dlamnana, it was said, needed a few young boys to clean up the meat. This ‘privilege’ was not automatically extended to all young boys. There were a few trial runs the boys had to perform before graduating to this club of little thieves. Stealing guavas at Meyer’s farm was not deemed a qualifying job, nor was the stealing of an egg or two. You had to be able to steal a chicken and pluck its feathers without leaving a trace. According to the big boys, Dlamnana had a huge appetite for meat: they even claimed that when he failed to steal livestock from farmers’ kraals he resorted to hunting porcupine. A catch like that he never shared with anybody; he would cook it and eat it by himself, quills and all.

Dlamnana did not achieve fame by distinguishing himself in acceptable acts of bravery like stick fighting or hunting. It was said he had frequented rough townships where he qualified in knife fighting, a popular skill of hardened township tsotsis. Nobody could trace his background or knew who his parents were. He was not only the concern of farmers; young girls also had to exercise extreme caution on the occasions that he was a free man for he was rumoured to be a rapist. Dlamnana was generally what is called a tronk-voël or jail-bird.

Some boys disputed Dlamnana’s reputation as the top thief in the area. They contended that he may have been undisputed in stealing sheep, but not in the other areas of theft. In defence of their assertion, they pointed at other known criminals such Thobile Williams, who specialised in vehicle theft and was generally known as a violent thug. His career had started with stealing tractors and local farmers’ vehicles. But he seriously enhanced his position as a car thief when he rocked up at Oyster Bay in a Humansdorp undertaker’s hearse. It was at that time that he was acknowledged as the reigning vehicle thief.

I was intrigued by these stories. However, when I stayed over at Maxhayi’s house, he put the fear of God into me with regard to stealing. It was the norm that after eating our simple supper, we would sit around the fire and listen to him narrating some of his favourite Bible stories. He started by quoting text from the Old Testament that belched fire and bellowed damnation. There was little redemption and when it did come down, it was harsh. He loved the Ten Commandments, especially the injunction ‘Thou shalt not steal’. He hammered his point home by telling us in no uncertain terms that we were bound to have scary nightmares about what would happen to us on the ‘Day of Judgement’. He would paint the picture so vividly that you would seriously believe that Maxhayi had already been there on that day and had witnessed it all!

According to Maxhayi, we had only two roads to choose from – one ascended to Heaven, and the other went straight to Hell. The road to Heaven might be boring, and strewn with thorns, he would say, but once you got to Heaven you would bask in eternal happiness and an abundance of everything. Another advantage of going to Heaven, said Maxhayi, was that all the trials and tribulations of the earth (in our case, the brutality of farm labour and miserable living conditions) would be left behind. In Heaven we would experience no pain, sickness or hunger. Every man and woman would be rewarded according their deeds on earth. The way Maxhayi spoke, you would swear that he was already guaranteed a comfortable spot in Heaven.

In his teachings, Maxhayi made sure to remind us about what the Bible had to say regarding our so-called ‘cheekiness’ towards white people, meaning that we should obey ‘those in authority’. The Bible was a novelty to me and its apparent support of white power threw me into doubt and confusion: I slowly began to accept that the white man was ‘die baas van die plaas’ – the boss of the farm. And yet, somewhere in the back of my young, impressionable mind, I still felt resentful about the status of white people. I thought that maybe after death black people would change and become white and start living the good life Maxhayi was always talking about.

As a child, a world of superstition surrounded and overwhelmed me. Whilst at church, I was confronted by salvation and damnation and back at home we had our traditional healers and witches. I was enveloped in threats through which I had to negotiate my way.

If we had lived our lives according to ubuqaba (unenlightenment) I would have had to deal only with superstitious beliefs, but since we had become Christians the burden became heavier. We would hear stories of a creature called uTikoloshe, which we were told was the only acceptable name for this being. He was referred to by other names, but to avoid his wrath we were not allowed to use his proper name. We were also told that weak and inexperienced traditional healers were afraid of serious repercussions to their person if anyone should dare to address the creature as uHili. Small children were advised to call him ubhuti omfutshane (short man).

Tikoloshe was not visible even if he was walking alongside you. It was said he was an old man, but always very short in stature. His body was naked but very hairy. From the description given to us, it was difficult to decide whether he was an animal or a human being. It was also said that he had a marble that he hid under his tongue and this was what made him invisible. His favourite occupation was to play with children among the reeds by the riverside.

Tikoloshe was seen as one of the most dangerous weapons in the arsenal at the disposal of witches. According to myth, he was good at doing the dirty work ordered by witches because he was not visible to his victims. He was scared only of white people and guns and he hated salt, especially in food. Apparently he was a nuisance when boys were taking part in the rite of passage called ebakhwetheni (Xhosa initiation). The explanation for his love of the initiates’ ibhoma (huts) was because abakhwetha were prohibited from eating salted food for the greater part of their stay in the bush.

Witchcraft was a big deal in my early life. A lot of money was spent protecting our home from possible harm caused by witches. At the time our family had two traditional healers on a financial retainer. They made their twice-yearly rounds to our house to conduct a number of rituals to ensure that we were protected from witches. Our house was under the watchful eye of an experienced sangoma (senior medicine man) called Mzobe. He was one of the most respected sangomas operating in the area but I have never established where he came from, nor managed to research anything about him.

Mzobe carried a bag made of ingxungxu (duiker) hide, which contained everything he needed to perform his rituals, including his clothes, tobacco, roots, raspy snake skins, many medicinal mixtures and the menacing fanged skull of a baboon. He liked to arrive at sunset and set up his bivouac under a tree about 30 metres from the house. He spent the first night there without approaching our house. He would rise at around three in the afternoon the next day and disappear into the bush, forests and fields to dig for roots and carve off tree bark, which he would spread out across his animal-hide blanket.

On the one hand, I was being terrified by Maxhayi’s threats of Hell and Satan, and on the other I had to contend with witches who were intent on making our lives hell on earth. In isiXhosa witches are called amagqwirha and they are spoilers of the good work of amagqira (healers). They were blamed in times of death and pain and if a sudden or inexplicable death occurred they were the first to be suspected. Amagqira, on the other hand, were visible and acceptable in society because they treated people when they were sick, and were also able to remove spells cast by amagqwirha. They carried out other tasks, such as helping an accused in court to get acquitted, getting a lover for you or making someone become attracted to you. Besides witch-proofing the home, they were entrusted by the community to officiate in serious and complicated family customs and rites.

When my brother Buyile died in the year he was supposed to go the bush, I heard it whispered that he had died of idliso, bewitchment. Idliso could mean anything at any given time. Others said he died of natural causes and in later years I realised he had probably succumbed to tuberculosis (TB).

In about 1966, my oldest brother Bonakele was convicted for assaulting someone and served six months in the Patensie prison. That episode brought huge shame to our family. The day he came home from prison he had to sleep outside until he had bathed in sea water to wash away all bad luck that is associated with prison. Our sangoma was quickly summoned to cleanse the whole household and strengthen it against evil spirits.

Perhaps it worked because less than two years later Bonakele got married. Shame turned to pride and joy in our family. Bonakele had worked hard to pay for his lobola and two of our brothers had undergone initiation into manhood. By all accounts this was the first time the community acknowledged my mom’s achievements, as reflected through her sons.

Then, without warning, at the age of eleven I became seriously ill. I was always asthmatic, but sometimes the doctor would say I had bronchitis. I must have gone to the white doctor six times. On one occasion my mother ran out of money to take me to Humansdorp or to pay the doctor’s fee. She found us a ride on the back of an ox wagon owned by one of the local black families who made the trip every three months to sell wood, bottles, animal hides, vegetables and live chickens. The journey took two days on the gravel road that wends its way through Klein Plaas and links up with the national N2 highway on the western side of Humansdorp. At night we pulled off the road, a fire was made and the oxen were released to graze on the side of the road. The next morning we made it to the outskirts of the town. We first had to try to sell a few items to raise money for the doctor.

When we got back home four days later I was worse than before and my mother had to devise another plan to get me back to the doctor. We had earned a small sum from the sale of our hides, chicken and eggs on the ox wagon trip. Mr Msizi, the local school principal, was asked to take me to the doctor; we told him he would be paid for his petrol when we had money. Dr Delport was already leaving his surgery when Msizi pulled up outside. He gave chase and managed to flag him down as he was driving off. The doctor immediately returned to his rooms, examined me and gave me medication but refused to take payment for the consultation. He put the money my mother offered him in the front pocket of my shirt, and said: ‘Happy Christmas to you!’ We were delighted and used the money to pay Mr Msizi. For many years, Dr Delport was a most highly respected doctor in Humansdorp. I have followed his life ever since because I really believed that he saved me at the most critical moment of my life.