Читать книгу Putco Mafani: The Price and Prize of Greatness - Putco Mafani - Страница 8

Born in Bhofolo, will he rise above?

The first question people ask me is: does your name have anything to do with the bus company? Let me tell you straight off: it has nothing to do with the bus company. It’s a nickname that my creative amajita – friends – extracted from my name, Mputumi. I’m still not quite sure how.

Abazali baseBhofolo, apho ndizalelwe khona, kodwa babesirobha ekuthiyeni abantwana. – Parents in Bhofolo, where I was born, really cheated us when it came to naming children. They would just throw names together without thinking. A name can get you far in life. With a good name, you can go even further. Many of my childhood friends disowned their nicknames when they grew up. They demanded to be known by the names in their ID books.

I was lucky to get the name Mputumi from my grandfather. I recall in my neighbourhood were ladies like Nomhontso; Pinkisi, my sister; the late Nomanyhwebenyhu; sister to Nomalhese, Hanana.

But, classics, imasterpieces, were boys’ names. Just hear: Qekwana, cousin to Mpukwana, the older brother of Snutu and Stekana. Yho, Rhabaxana, Maqwili, Vondoyi, Tsetse, Nopliplipli, Notsukumetse, Mazantsana, Ngiphi, Khalakanqosi and Maxuku! There was Bhut’ Wende’s family with Star Bonza and their sons were Xolani, Noqhwi­tsinini, Jubhulu, Mpuku and Ngada. At the back was the family of Bhut’ Bhevana and Mphakamisi.

Not far from our house, kwaGontsi, was my close friend and classmate Cingo’s home and that of Bhut’ Nogwaja, a great rugby player who starred with Ntsholweni, Naderi, Cipoti, Nke­nke, Makade, Dlekhwina and Madwans.

Sis’ Nomanzithinzithi held high the spirit of true township entrepreneurship in my neighbourhood, selling the best ginger beer. Pastor Magalela and Tat’ Gavi owned shops that competed with others like Sxikixiki, Ntlonyana, Srhetshe, Qeqe, Maneli, Phuthumani and Mazembe.

My relatives who lived on the surrounding farms had great but strange names: Nokineri, Nothonqo, Mbishe, Bhekreza, Dabawo Nonjini, Magundu, Parafini, Qokobhe, Manqatha, Makhulu Nomga­gase, Nomayephuyephu, Nontelezi, Ngqendeva, Dikidane, Rhabane, Nanqotho, Rhuza, Gqam, Sinyewunyewu, Nontshaba. I loved them all. There was also Nontakumbana owayaengumlumkazi – a white girl – and Katana and Kati, my uncle’s twins.

I grew up among these people, sharing the same values. Their language was my language, and their names depicted the kind of place we came from – Bhofolo. It was not far from Komani, formerly Queenstown.

Bhofolo is my home. We affectionately call it MaBhofie. Another name is Fourteen. Fourteen because it is the fourteenth station from Port Elizabeth. A station with its own sound. The sound of rushing footsteps. When I was growing up, travelling by train was just about the only reliable and safe mode of public transport. Bhofolo was far from the developing city of Port Elizabeth and very far from the bright lights and city life of Johannesburg. But even those in Jozi probably knew about my small place, ‘indawo yama­geza’ – ‘a place of mad people!’

This description also occurs in the late Zim Ngqawana’s song, ‘eBhofolo’. A line goes: ‘Kukude eBhofolo indawo yamageza’ – ‘Bhofolo is far, a place of mad people.’ Actually, he was singing about the mental health hospital for which Bhofolo is known: Tower Psychiatric Hospital. But in the streets you did not see mad people. Maybe a few crazy ones, especially after they’d had a few drinks.

One of the things about Bhofolo was that it had a number of big hospitals: the Winterberg Santa Centre Hospital for tuberculosis patients being one of them. It was there where my mother, whom I referred to as uSisi or Oulady, worked as a nurse. Part of the reason for these hospitals was the link with Fort Hare University in nearby Alice. Staff and students, especially health sciences students from the university, used Bhofolo as an external residence.

These days every time I walk past the Fort Beaufort Hospital – formerly the General Provincial Hospital – in Bhofolo, I am reminded of Mama’s stories about my birth. About how I voiced my entrance into this world.

* * *

Let me go back to the beginning. I was born on 5 August 1964 at the end of a gruellingly cold winter. Temperatures had dropped below 10°C – as they do most winters – and there was snow on the mountains of Nkonkobe. In summer, of course, there are heatwaves with temperatures soaring to 38°C?

I am the third child. My older siblings are my sister Ntombentsha Mafani, known as Ntshantsha, and my brother known as Doctor Mafani, someone who once dreamt of being a medical doctor.

Once my mother and I left the hospital where I was born, we lived in my grandfather Mlungwana’s house in the township, kwa­Dudu (formerly Dorrington). My grandfather had inherited indlu kaNdabangaye eselokishini – Ndabangaye’s house. To me this has always been significant. Ndabangaye was of the Bawana family, emaTshaweni – his clan name. His mother was from the aMacirha clan. He kept his mother’s surname, our surname, Mafani, and his father’s clan name, Tshawe. He built his huge family a house in a small, semi-rural village called Drayini.

Ndabangaye was a man with an incomparable entrepreneurial spirit. He aspired to rise above his circumstances. In fact, he was the first black man to buy and own a motor vehicle in the area, a maroon Dodge bakkie.

Ndabangaye had eleven sons. The irony of ironies was that although I grew up away from my biological father, I never felt any emptiness from his absence. The Mafani family was, and is still, rich with father figures, role models and inspiring achievers, from my string of grandfathers to well-groomed uncles. From each I learnt a valuable life lesson.

Almost all my grandfathers had little Western education. They had a different kind of education, ingqondo nolwazi lwemveli – naturally or traditionally smart – and were entrepreneurial with a great sense of family pride. For this reason, much was expected of a child coming from the Mafani family. And it meant that we were easily recognised.

Culturally, the birth of a boy means a lot to the Xhosa. And by all accounts I came into the world and wouldn’t stop crying. I’ve used my voice ever since.

My biological father did not experience the excitement of my birth. He was not there. A declaration was made by my proud grandfather, Mlungwana, the first-born of ubawo Ndabangaye: ‘Lo mntana uba phuthume bonke abantakwethu noodade bam’ – ‘This child has fetched all my brothers and sisters. His name is Mputumi.’ And that was how I got my name. His reference to my fetching my brothers and sisters was because all my grand-aunts and grand-uncles had returned home from their places of work in Port Elizabeth and East London to celebrate my birth.

I need to tell you about the families that shaped my early years. It is important to know these things before I begin the story of my schooling, my career and my life.

Throughout my youth I enjoyed the benefits of a wide and extended family. I enjoyed walking eight kilometres to Nxukhwebe to my mother’s new house and family, kwaMahlanyana, amaZizi amahle. This was a warm and welcoming family with modest values and deep roots in African traditions.

My mother and Tat’ uMbuyiselo Phillip Mahlanyana were blessed with two boys and two girls: Ntombebhongo, Mncedisi, Luntu and Siyambongela.

My stepfather, Dlamini as we called him, was a loving man. I refer to him as stepfather for the benefit of my non-African readers, yet he loved me like no one else among my blood relatives. To me Dlamini was my father and I loved him dearly and boasted about him even when I was at Radio Ciskei. Thanks to him my passion for agriculture grew stronger, and his knowledge of African medicine and herbs was unparalleled.

He was employed by the Ciskeian government as a game ranger and during this time developed a knowledge of natural herbs. Every time someone complained of flu, a headache or an unsettled tummy, he would know which herb to apply. Even if you cut your foot, he would be able to treat it. His love for me was such that he would slaughter a sheep whenever I had been away and returned to the family home. In him I found a father and learnt the tricks of balancing the life of a rural boy with those of a boy from the townships.

What also made my family life in Fort Beaufort warm were the great times I spent over weekends with the rest of my maternal grandfather’s family in Gontsi township, kwa tat’ uMute Mafani, where church was the order of the day. Evening family prayers and church time on Saturdays, the Sabbath, were non-negotiable.

Tat’ uMute was another soft-spoken man and a true gentleman. He also played a big role in my life and was a substitute for a father who was not there. He led his family through religious, faith and church activities. He was also an elder in church. In the family, his church values were the strongest.

This man loved me so much that even before I had a driver’s licence, he would lend me his bakkie. Once I drove it fast with my late brother, Mlungiseleli. I blew the engine. I felt so bad, I cried. I had made the error of not checking the oil. As an inexperienced ‘driver’, I did not check anything: not water, tyres or petrol. I was just excited to get into the car and drive. But he was never hard on me for damaging his bakkie. Though he was not happy, he saw it as a lesson for me. And because of that, nowadays I always allow the attendants at the filling station to check everything before I drive away.

UTat’ uMute taught me forgiveness. It was a lesson that came from a painful experience.

UTat’ uMlungwana, utat’ uLungephi and utat’ uMute played the role of father figures in my life.

My older brother, Mkhuseli Knowledge Mafani, left iBhofolo after finishing school because he found work in Thokoza, Joburg. He still lives there with his family. Bhuti Mkhuseli was the second born after sis’ Ntshantsha. The older brothers I had left to look up to were tat’ uMute’s sons. And in them I really found brothers: Sir Thoz, Thozamile Nyakatya, the late bhut’ Dumalisile Mafani, the late Matshawe Mafani, bhut’ Zukisa, the late Mlungiseleli Mafani and Hlanga. Mlungiseleli passed away during the 2010 FIFA World Cup period. This humble golden-hearted chap was everything to me: a friend and all I needed in a brother. He epitomised true brotherhood, just like the late Matshawe, who went on to become my life coach, confidant and motivator. He believed in me.

Dumalisile was Sir Thoz’s younger brother. He worked as a prison warder at the Ciskei Maximum Security Prison in Xesi, Middledrift. He was a very warm fellow.

I remember bumping into Dumalisile in 1992 near the post office and the public telephones at King William’s Town. Now, in the days before cellphones, the public telephones were a hot meeting place, mainly for lovers. I invited him to lunch at a nice eatery called Archie’s and killed him with a Dagwood sandwich. This was the first time he’d eaten one. Waxelela leCiskei yonke – he told the whole of Ciskei about the experience I gave him. ‘UMputumi le ntwana yasekhaya iseRadio Ciskei, indithengele idagwood’ – ‘Mputumi, the young man from our family who is at Radio Ciskei bought me a Dagwood.’ He was raving about it for months.

One of the other sons, Matshawandile, unfortunately died on New Year’s Day 2018. He was a personal assistant to Chief Lent Maqoma and also his driver. He was highly respected by Chief Maqoma for the manner in which he conducted himself. Chief Maqoma had been a senior in the cabinet of the Republic of the Ciskei. His father, way before the political prisoners of Mandela’s generation were taken to Robben Island, had been incarcerated on the island for his activism for isizwe samaXhosa – the Xhosa nation.

Losing Matshawandile was painful. I lost him at a time when our relationship had escalated to a deeper friendship. We were more than brothers. I could talk to him about anything. And our wives related very well.

And then there was Zukisa. He was a big achiever. He was tat’ uMute’s fourth son. At an early age he built himself a house, and he did this way before his older brothers. He was also married before them. When Tat’ uMute and Zize (his wife) went to King William’s Town, they would relax at his house. I looked up to him.

He was on the quieter side. Even at family meetings, you might forget that he was there. Whether there was a boy going to initiation school, a family wedding or a traditional ceremony, we always had family meetings. Sometimes Zukisa would whisper his point to someone sitting next to him. My way of showing respect was to insist that he said something. He would not talk for the sake of talking. He only voiced an opinion when he had a strong point to make. Then we offered him the opportunity to close the meeting in prayer.

Tat’ uMute’s wife, umama uNozizwe, whom we called Zize, was a household figure with impeccable hospitality skills and a lovely sense of humour. She was an entrepreneur and a hustler of note. At their house I found the value of fearing God woven into the personal art of entertaining guests.

Mama Nozizwe would slaughter a goat, and her younger sons and I would go around the township selling the meat. She would also stock fruit and package them in small packs for us to sell.

She was full of jokes. Her husband was the opposite. Every Saturday when we came back from church, she would cook a full meal and make sure that there was dessert. Sometimes the jelly had to be put under the bed to set as that was the coolest spot in the house. In those days there were no fridges.

Their eleven children were my siblings in all respects, and like a typical big family we did everything together: playing and praying, eating and sleeping. Every trip travelled with them was a marvel for me as I discovered a lot of places with uTata, driving around in his Toyota Hilux.

In their line-up of eleven children was Sir Thoz, as I’ve mentioned, the one and only family-based-radio-broadcaster role model who paved the way and joined the SABC while I was still at school.

On my mother’s side of the family there was my brother Hlanga, the author, philosopher and poet; and the late Nomakhosazana, Nonkosazana, Vuyokazi and Sivuyile, otherwise tenderly known by his nickname, Sugar – the charmer. Vuyokazi was Hlanga’s younger sister. Her nickname was Bhabha.

The social standing in my big Mafani family was unequal to a certain degree. The life lived in Zize’s house was a bit economically and socially advanced compared with the lifestyle at grandfather Mlungwana’s house where I was born.

There were other Mafanis and descendants of Ndabangaye who shared a social life much better in standard than the one I experienced as a child. This difference was especially glaring on Saturdays when we went to church. The clothes I wore showed our lesser social status, but I never complained to my mother. I simply understood that whatever was in front of me was what my mother could afford.

Christmas time would also make these differences clear. Although we would have clothes for Christmas, they were never of the quality or style of the outfits my cousins wore. One thing that made my mom proud of me was my sense of contentment. I was always thankful for what was bought for me. The same can be said of the food we ate. I appreciated everything and every dish, even if it was prepared under trying circumstances on a budget thinner than a shoestring budget.

Growing up in Fort Beaufort, I was always under the influence of these families and of the love from my other cousins in my extended family: the Mahlanyana, Mncono, Rojie, Khahlana and Nyakatya families.

As I have mentioned, when I was born my father was absent. His absence from my life has always been a sadness. Many years into my radio career, I got tearful on air. Fortunately, it was radio and no one could see me. Luther Vandross had just released a song, ‘Dance with my father’. This song made me think so much about my father. I wanted us to have it on our playlist every day. The lyrics of this song were a true tribute to my father. Every time this song played, it reminded me of what I could not enjoy in my childhood and my life, especially the line, ‘I would play a song that never ever ends’.

When I was a child, I remember overhearing a conversation where my mother spoke about my father. She said that my father would come home to her when I was four or five years old, sing songs for me, put me on his shoulders, dance and walk away with me to all the places where his friends would be having ‘drinks’ and he would boast about me.

The only way this great man, my biological father, ever contributed to shaping me was his genes. When I experience challenges in my life, I sometimes think that if I had got an opportunity just to see him, to converse with him, to listen to his counselling, things would be different. Just to hear his voice saying, ‘Well done, son!’ Or: ‘No, Mputumi, you could have done that much better.’ I believe I would have made fewer mistakes because of such grooming, mentorship and modelling.

Later, you will read about my role in the 2010 FIFA World Cup. My father would have been proud of me for that. Or would he have demanded, expected, more of me? I do not know that.

Wayengakholwa ngumntu onyabileyo – he did not like a meek person. Would I have been lively enough for him? Those who knew him have given me an idea of how he might have answered. But that is not the same as the real thing.

Putco’s padkos

This book is about rising above the immediate challenges. I was born in Bhofolo and I needed to rise above it. In these Padkos sections at the end of each chapter I want to share some of the episodes that have affected me and what I have learnt. Even if our fathers are absent, there are uncles and grandfathers who fulfil this role. Learn from them.