Читать книгу Putco Mafani: The Price and Prize of Greatness - Putco Mafani - Страница 12

A newcomer fights anxiety

In January 1978, I left Bhofolo for Butterworth. I would never live full-time in Bhofolo again. I remember the journey was an adventure on its own. The three of us were loaded into Tat’ uMute’s Toyota Hilux with our trunks on top. Our mothers came along, too, to see us into the school. The bakkie was packed with containers of chicken, eggs, sausages, home-baked bread and an assortment of snacks.

By the time we reached the Kei River border, we were dying with anxiety about the kind of place we were destined for. To us, this signalled the beginning of another life in a place made foreign by the apartheid system because we were crossing from one country to another, the Transkei, which had been ‘independent’ for almost two years.

The Kei River border gate was hectic with security at both ends. There were long queues of people with passports in their hands. Heavily armed security forces were not only searching the boots of the cars but even demanded that suitcases be opened so they could search those, too. I would later learn that the police did this without fail, rain or shine.

After crossing the bridge to enter the Republic of Transkei, we were subjected to further humiliation and body searches, more so because our passports were ‘foreign’. The male police would frequently body search women as well. We waited anxiously in those queues as we just wanted to cross over to Butterworth to obtain our education. We were running away from a situation that looked hopeless for anyone wanting to advance their schooling.

My first impressions of Bethel College were of bird sounds, the shrilling of insects, splashes of colourful flowers, and a chorus of school farm cows bellowing. Something different was about to happen, and there was not a trace of political slogans, posters, leaflets or pictures of Nelson Mandela, Steve Biko or any other political hero.

I was thirteen, turning fourteen. When my mother kissed me goodbye and Tata said assuring prayers for us, I felt as if I was being dumped there and shed a few tears. It also felt as if some kind of COVID-19 Alert Level 5 ‘lockdown’ had just begun.

They left and the senior boys – I would later know they were referred to as AmaQoqo – took us to our rooms and helped carry our big, grey metal trunks. The dormitory had double bunk beds. A room would sleep sixteen boys. I was taken to Room Ten, where there were three other boys. I chose the bottom bed as I was worried about my peeing problem. If I had had to sleep on a top bunk, the fellow underneath might have thought it was raining kanti ndi­yamshafulela – but I am peeing on him. The bed was ideal for me as it was next to a window.

Iqoqo was any boy who was not a newcomer. They initiated the newcomers. There were good Qoqos and bad Qoqos. Umsila was anyone who arrived after us.

Generally boarding schools were known for the rough induction of the first-year students. The ill-treatment of newcomers was a well-documented and widely accepted phenomenon. Many newcomers felt the wrath of AmaQoqo during this induction. I could not escape it but was helped a bit by my talent as an aspirant radio presenter. These skills were already taking shape. I was put in a lockable cupboard, on the pretext that I was a radio. AmaQoqo would pretend to switch on this radio and I would present different sorts of radio programmes: from the news in isiXhosa and English to sports bulletins and request programmes. I would even present commentaries of the Soweto Derby matches: Kaizer Chiefs versus Orlando Pirates. Stretching my imagination, I would take the listening AmaQogo to Orlando Stadium or Ellis Park Stadium for these matches. They seemed more than happy to listen.

This happened for the whole of 1978 and beyond until I also fell in love with it and volunteered to do it even when AmaQoqo had not asked for it. I even enjoyed these enforced imaginary outings, and later this led to me commentating on the school’s football matches played on school grounds. We called the grounds the ‘Phelandaba Stadium’ even though it did not have stands. The staff and learners would line the field and watch different sports. The quality that came out of those matches made it feel as though we were at a stadium.

If my team was not playing, then my next best thing was to commentate. I would sometimes record the commentary on a tape cassette and play it back when I was alone to see where I needed to improve. Ironically, when AmaQoqo abused me as a newcomer by locking me into the radio cupboard, they were launching my radio career.

At Bethel, the only other boy I knew was my cousin Mpendulo Rojie. I clung to him and followed him everywhere he went. Soon enough I adapted to the school and enjoyed the feeling of independence, of having to take care of myself, of washing my clothes, ironing them, and packing them away neatly.

It was at Bethel College that I became close to Nokuzola. It was good to know that in Mzana – the girls’ dormitory – I had a sister in Nokuzola. For instance, when dining, she would give me things with which to season the food. Sometimes, samp and beans would be served like that, cooked with water and salt but no other food flavouring. Nokuzola would share with me iziqholo – food flavouring – to make it at least edible. We used to call this ukuyitoner, uku­yiboner – to buff it or freshen it up. This made something like umngqusho ubentubilulu kamnandi. The samp tasted better with, for instance, Holsum amafutha – Holsum pure white cooking fat and Aromat.

Sometimes when we boys got imitowno – food flavouring – we would give it to the girls to look after. I would simply go to the dining hall with my spoon to collect a helping. Some of the boys who did not have sisters there or girlfriends kept imitowno yabo – their own food flavourings. Boys stole from each other’s’ imitowno. Sometimes, even when going to class, we would carry our spoons in our pockets. Once I dropped my spoon, which landed noisily on the tiles. Everyone turned, looked at me and would not stop making fun of this incident.

My friends started dropping spoons during church. Church was compulsory on Saturdays. When we felt that a preacher was talking too long and making us sleepy with an incomprehensible message, qhwinkilili – the sound of a spoon dropped by one of us. And when the spoon dropped, the rest of amajita – my friends – said ‘Amen’. We became notorious for this.

I was the bell-ringer. The first bell I rang every morning was the rising bell at five o’clock. After this I would ring the six-thirty bell for prayers. I ran my life ten or fifteen minutes ahead of everyone else. Even when I was doing classwork, I had to make sure that I finished five minutes early so that I could ring the bell on time. I did not even have to report to the teachers, as they knew I was the bell-ringer. My watch had to be synchronised with the school’s clock. This was important to illustrate my passion for time. I was the boss when it came to time management. And this instilled in me a great sense of leadership and discipline. We had a long bell that I used to pull down with a rope. Nkqe, nkqe, nkqe, nkqe, nkqe – the sound of the bell. Five times signalled the end of the period. Then I would wait to ring the bell for the beginning of the next period. The system gave the learners and the teachers three to five minutes to get from one class to the next class. Once that was done, I would move swiftly to my class.

In my first year at Bethel I did not think about becoming a bell-ringer. I admired it from a distance because ndandingumsila – I was a newcomer. In Grade 10 (Form 3), I was elected a prefect and continued in this position. The first time I rang the bell, I was standing in for someone. I did it diligently, and the school was impressed. The principal then asked me to take over and I was a bell-ringer at Bethel for about five years.

My friends always had suggestions about ringing the bell. I never entertained these. No one would interfere with the system, not even the school’s principal. This also taught me to respect assignments regardless of how I felt, and whether I was sick or not. Neither rain nor lightning, neither heat nor wind, could prevent me from fulfilling this responsibility on the hour.

I fulfulled my responsibility even when there was a strike. From time to time the students would strike about fundamental human rights. For instance, the rights to warm water, to good food, to fresh bread. It was mainly the boys who went on strike. But I was fulfilling a role and the entire system could not be compromised.

Usually a strike involved staying in the dormitory. I would ring the bell and go back to the dormitory. Even though the bell signalled the change of periods, during a strike these were on hold. This sent a powerful message to the authorities. Only the girls would be on the move from classroom to classroom. Many times, when the issue was diet-related, the boys would go on a hunger strike. We would not go to the dining hall to eat the rubbish we were being dished up. Sometimes a decision to strike would be made at the dining hall. Then we would spill our food on the floor. Ibe­ngu­qhu saa nje! – it would be chaos! Plates upside down. Imingqusho edongeni – cooked samp splashed on the walls.

During one of our strikes, we threatened to damage some property. (Before I got to Bethel, a strike had ended in the boys burning a dormitory.) We were also singing freedom songs. The principal called the Butterworth police. When we got wind of this, a few of us escaped through the back of the campus by jumping over the fence. We could see the dust of the police cars on the gravel road.

With Clement Moya (Dube), I walked through the bushes and through amasimi – plantation fields – to the village called Rwantsana. We were wearing private clothes and not the school uniform. When we arrived at the road from Centane to Butterworth, sabetha ubhontsi – we started hitchhiking. We soon got a lift. As the car passed our school, the men in the car asked us, ‘Kwenzeka ntoni apha kwaSirayeli?’ – ‘What is happening in Israel?’ (Israel was a nickname for the school that I shall explain later.) I elbowed Clement not to say anything. He was Swati-speaking. If they heard his accent, they would realise we were from Bethel. Clement took the hint and didn’t say a word.

They dropped us off and we walked through Msobomvu High School and township, right up to the N2, where it connected to Butterworth and Idutywa. We were going to Idutywa, to the Ngozwana family. Clement and Bra Mnce (Mncedise Ngozwana) sang in the same music group. Clement played bass guitar, and Bra Mnce played piano.

Then a white Ford Sierra with no wheel caps approached. I was immediately suspicious. It didn’t have the police XP registration number but I still did not trust that they were private citizens. I said to Clement, ‘Hey hey hey hey hey, yeke idlule.’ – ‘Hey hey hey hey hey, let it go past.’ Mna ndazulisa ndajonga phantsi – I looked down trying to avoid them when I realised that it was a police vehicle.

By this time, Clement had stopped the car. In the back seat were some of our guys. When they saw Clement and me, they called out and the police realised we belonged to the school and arrested us. So much for our attempted escape. It was now late afternoon, we were hungry, and we had been arrested in this stupid way. Kwashiyeka uMzana wodwa – only girls from Mzana, the girls’ dormitory, remained on campus.

I remember a Captain Damoyi at the police station. He hit us on the heads with a stick to sit. ‘Guqa phantsi’ – ‘Sit down,’ he shouted. Among us was a guy studying theology. We called him Pastor Mukasi. When Captain Damoyi got to him and hit him on the head with the stick, he said, ‘I don’t bow before man, I bow before God.’ Yerr, uCaptain Damoyi wamshaya ke ngoku – Captain Damoyi really hit him hard on his head. And folokohlo – down he went. It was a really disturbing experience, being at that police station.

* * *

Another issue that was becoming increasingly disturbing was my bed-wetting problem. If there were times when I felt life was unfair and I was persecuted by some kind of inferiority complex I had to overcome, it was due to ukuchama – bed-wetting. I continued bed-wetting for about three to four years on campus even though I was ashamed of the daily ritual of taking my mattress out to dry in the sun. On rainy days it was a big problem.

I was not the only one. I remember another young chap from Cape Town I called Stof, who unfortunately died many years ago. We would at times laugh at our situation, and this was when we gave it the nickname: ukushafula – bed-wetting.

Stof would check when the boys had finally left the dormitory for the prayer session before he took out his mattress. One morning, he said to me, ‘I see you taking out your mattress. Have you got the same problem as me?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I will show you a place where we can put our mattresses.’

Sasidibana kula ndawo kubekwa kuyo umatrass. We met in the place where we put our mattresses to dry. The fact that there were Stof and a few others did not give me much satisfaction, as I did not regard myself as belonging to this group that wet their beds.

Let me jump ahead a year to 1979 in this bed-wetting saga. I was now a fully baptised member of the church. I’d been baptised in 1979 by a great man who was my mentor as a young boy, Professor Solomon Lebese. Even after the baptism, I continued to sha­fula at school.

My mother and elders knew about ukushafula before I went to Bethel. But iqine lento ndiseBethel – it became worse when I got to Bethel. I wrote about this in several letters to my mother.

I remember over the June holidays one year, my mom was advised by some elderly persons in her husband’s larger family. Their attempt to remedy the condition was to suggest I should go and have imbeleko done – a ceremony to introduce a child to ancestors. Dlamini, my mother’s husband, suggested that we approach the Tolo family. During the school holidays, I was taken to one of the villages on the periphery of Bhofolo, called KwaNondyola. What I remember very well is that kwakusemaTolweni – the Tolo family share my biological father’s clan name.

They had made plans for me to visit the amaTolo family in Kwa­Nondy­ola and there an African traditional ritual was performed for me. A goat was slaughtered so I could eat my portion and the bed-wetting problem could go away. Maybe, had I been a believer in the process, it might have helped. I was young and desperate to get help but still did not believe this was for me. It did not help.

However, back at school, ukushafula carried on even more. This had a negative impact on my self-esteem. I was badly shaken and although I wanted better grades between Grade 8 and Grade 12, the bed-wetting stigma was quietly eating me up inside. Those in my class did not know. Nor did those I sang with, those I played football and volleyball with, and those I socialised with. Nonetheless, it eroded my self-confidence and esteem.

Although I was active as a bell-ringer, a singer in church and eventually a prefect, the bed-wetting affected my confidence. I was always silently praying that this thing of ukushafula would not leak to eMzana, the girls’ dormitory. I salute my friends and others who knew and kept this matter to the boys’ dormitory.

One day, on a staff and student shopping day, I decided to go to Butterworth Hospital. I dodged my friends by saying I needed to be at the bank. At the hospital I got a consultation with Dr Maliza who explained an anomaly with my hormones, which was causing my muscles above the bladder to relax when I was asleep. He put me on a treatment of tablets for weeks, and guess what? Bang! Just at the doorstep of my matric exams, ukushafula went away and has never come back. I am only okay with talking about it now because I went through it and it is in the past.

There were some notorious older boys who would mock me sometimes in the dining hall in front of the girls, shouting something like, ‘Hey, don’t forget that situation,’ referring to taking out the mattress. As fate would have it, I now sometimes come across those chaps. But I am a different man now.

Putco’s padkos

I may have been a newcomer at Bethel with huge anxiety, but I was not going to shy away from interacting with others and learning as much as I could. What Bethel taught all of us was the importance of hard work through a system called ‘labour’ or ‘manual work’. During the week we were expected to work for two hours in different fields. Some worked at the carpentry workshop, some in the motor mechanic department, some with campus maintenance and gardening services, some as semi-skilled electrician labourers, some in the kitchen, some at the school farm, some as painting artisans, and the list goes on. The setback of bed-wetting was not going to define me. Don’t allow any challenges you may be experiencing to classify you.