Читать книгу Bending the Rules - Rafique Gangat - Страница 10

Blending in

Five years after quitting the University of Durban-Westville, I opted to go back to study, but at an institution of my choice.

To do this, I had to get written permission from Minister of Law and Order Hernus Kriel. My motivation was that I wished to study isiZulu, which was not offered at Durban-Westville.

On obtaining the permit, I enrolled at the all-white campus of Natal University in Pietermaritzburg, being among a handful of non-white students who were also there on special permits.

I enrolled for a Bachelor’s degree with English and philosophy as majors – intending to enhance my understanding of the meaning of life.

I sought to be an authentic South African and not an Indian South African but I immediately fell foul of the Black Students Society (BSS), which boycotted all social activity on campus. In essence, I faced the choice of attending lectures and refraining from all social interactivity – as they were wont to do – or behave like it was an “open university” and enjoy all that campus life had to offer.

My contention was simple, “If you don’t want to have any social interaction with white students, why are you here?”

Their rationale was, “We are here for the academics only, and we shall continue the struggle.”

My attitude was, “My father’s paying for my fees, which include sports and social activities. So, no matter what anyone says, I shall exercise my freedom to choose whatever I want to do, even if it means swimming against the current.” So I got involved in a wide range of social activities and even organised music concerts. Nonetheless, I understood the BSS stance, especially as we were not permitted to live in the student residences on campus.

As was the tradition, in the first week of university life, senior students arranged all kinds of activities for new students, to break the ice and acclimatise them to campus life.

In the activities pack I received at registration, I found an invitation to a fancy-dress ball at the Students’ Union hall. I guessed no non-white student had ever dared to attend one of these and it was a challenge I could not resist.

After giving it much thought I came up with a novel way of blending in while hiding my race and colour. I decided to attend as an American Indian chief. I went shopping at Reggie’s toy store in the city to kit myself out with feathered headgear, a toy gun, a knife and all the other paraphernalia. Then came the fun part: I got a make-up artist friend to paint my face, hands and all exposed parts red. I was pleased with her handiwork and my choice of costume.

Armed with a peace pipe loaded with tobacco (and some grass for good measure), I headed to the ball, confident in my costume and the anonymity it offered me.

When I stepped into the hall, blaring pop music enveloped me and lots of admiring glances were shot my way. Many students hadn’t made an effort and their costumes left much to be desired. With a huge smile on my red face I gyrated to a tune by Genesis and got swallowed up by the crowd of first-years.

It wasn’t long before the coordinators of the event stopped the music, turned up the lights and picked a handful of participants to come to the front of the hall to present themselves. It was time for judging the best outfit; the winner’s spoils being a six-pack of beer sponsored by a leading South African brewery.

When I was beckoned, I walked up confidently and said, “Me big chief Talking Bull! Me come in peace to white man’s land. Me no speak with forked tongue, like white man. Me want white man to smoke peace pipe.” All this I said with an American Indian accent – as far as possible – and the silence of the hall made me realise that I was making something of an impact.

The coordinator, a typical South African rugby-playing, beer-drinking, post-military-service male, who had been propagandised into detesting hippies and dope smokers, was compelled to smoke from my peace pipe, which brought a wry smile to my face.

Not long after it was announced: “The winner is the American Indian.”

As the applause died down and the lights began to dim, I caught the eye of a beautiful, bronzed woman draped in a flaming red Indian sari. She looked stunning!

To see a white woman draped in a sari, with her midriff exposed, was one of the most exotic sights I had seen and, as the music played, I gravitated towards her and danced along with her.

We made eye contact but couldn’t say much. The music got louder and the liquids flowed freely – augmented by the six-pack I had won – and as we danced the evening away our bodies spoke a common language.

When the music stopped for a moment, I said with a smile, “Big chief want to take you outside.”

She placed her hand in mine and led me outside. We walked across the grassy field, barely containing our anticipation, sneaked into the women’s residence and into her room.

It was the most natural thing to do and, in the dim light, I unravelled her sari as she took off my crown of feathers and exposed my long black hair.

Soon we were passionately making love.

When it was over, I lit a cigarette and, when she switched on the bedside lamp I noticed that most of my make-up was smeared on her pretty face and body, and my true colour was exposed.

Her incredulous look spoke volumes, and she said, “I had no idea you were Indian!”

I responded, “Would it have made a difference, had you known?”

She replied, “I really don’t know, but I am glad it happened.”

Her name was also Ann and, in our inebriated state, all we had seen was the colour of passion, which was red.

With a straight face, she added, “You did not see that though I am a natural blonde, my pubic hair is red.”

And then, as she laughed out loud, my face really did go red!

Fortunately, in the sober light of day, Ann was still keen to see me. We were both into sport and, one afternoon, she challenged me to a game of squash, which I gleefully accepted because I was pretty good at it.

The squash courts complex was at the entrance to the campus and, with the lush grass surrounds, it was an attractive setting. Having met outside, we headed to the court Ann had booked. But I stopped short of setting foot on the court itself.

Ann asked, “What’s your problem?”

I maintained a bemused look, and soon others stopped to stare, wondering what was going on.

Finally, I said loudly, “I am not allowed to play on this court,” and pointed to a board on the wall that read, “No black balls allowed.”

Everyone burst out laughing!