LITMIR.BIZ

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argument, and for a while there was confusion, until we decided to give in also. But one boy, Mavuso, stood out. When the question was put to us again, Mavuso replied, “No, I will not carry stones. I will not!”

      “Mavuso,” said the principal, “you leave these premises, right away. Do you understand – right away!”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Mavuso went off to pack. Then the sheep were let loose among the goats. They asserted indignantly that they had not agreed to carry stones. After heated argument we all reached a common decision: “If Mavuso goes, we all go!”

      We went to join Mavuso in packing. The principal was attracted to the scene by the clatter of our few possessions being hurled into boxes.

      “What’s all this packing?” he demanded.

      There was no reply.

      “Very well. I would rather have an empty institution than boys who won’t obey me.”

      Watching covertly for signs of some reaction, we finished our packing in silence and left. There was no reaction. We were rather disappointed. The principal simply stood and watched us leave in a body.

      We headed for the railway station in Pietermaritzburg. On the way we stopped short, realising suddenly the hazards which governed our lives outside the institution. In Pietermaritzburg there would be a curfew. The police, no doubt, would arrest us – the principal might have telephoned them. There was a particular tone in the talk of the older boys which made me aware, for the first time in my life, of the feelings which Africans share about the police.

      We slept that night in the open veld, and made our way into the town next day in small groups.

      We were allowed to return in the end, provided our guardians accompanied us. To my uncle fell the doubtful privilege of taking me back. To him also fell the task of administering to me the public thrashing which all the strikers got.

      I recall one further brush with authority at Edendale. Externally it was of minor importance, but the effects within me were lasting. It occurred towards the end of my time as a scholar there. I abused my position as a prefect by conniving at what amounted (in a schoolboyish way) to the theft of food by other boys. The head teacher, Dr Harold Jowett,3 detected me in this. He ignored the other boys, who were not prefects, and dealt with me.

      Dr Jowett pointed out that my action was a breach of trust. In my heart I agreed with every word he said, and I can remember no occasion in my whole life when I was so thoroughly ashamed. My admiration for Dr Jowett was not impaired, especially as the incident ended there for both of us.

      Still at Edendale, I went on to a two-year teachers’ course. A good deal of emphasis was placed, here, on personal responsibility, and the developing of active adult leadership. The prevailing atmosphere was thoroughly healthy, our teachers were diligent and dedicated, learning was grounded in religion, and the institution had, on the whole, a maturing effect. I was happy there, and enjoyed my time at Edendale thoroughly. Furthermore, I acquired a regard for the teaching profes sion, imbibed from the high standards of my teachers, which has never left me. I learned to love teaching.

      I am angered by the Nationalist gibe nowadays that such schools as this one, or Adams College, or St. Peter’s, Rosettenville, turned out “Black Englishmen.” It was no more necessary for the pupils to become Black Englishmen than it was for the teachers to become White Africans. Two cultures met, and both Africans and Europeans were affected by the meeting. Both profited, and both survived enriched. At Edendale, at Adams, and informally at other times, I have been taught by European mentors. I am aware of a profound gratitude for what I have learned. I remain an African. I think as an African, I speak as an African, I act as an African, and as an African I worship the God whose children we all are. I do not see why it should be otherwise.

      At the conclusion of my training I went to teach at a place called Blaauwbosch in the Natal uplands. I was appointed principal of an Intermediate4 School. This was not very impressive – I was also the entire staff.

      It was while I was there that my religion received the jog that it needed. Up to this time I had more or less drifted along. At Edendale I had done no more than take my part in school worship.

      I had done nothing about being confirmed. In fact, I was a Christian by accident of upbringing rather than by conscious choice.

      But at Blaauwbosch I came under the influence of an old and very conscientious African minister, the Rev. Mtembu, and he raised the issues which I had taken for granted. I had also the good fortune to be lodged with the family of an evangelist of the Methodist Church, named Xaba, the devout and peaceful atmosphere of whose home echoed that of my own.

      I do not pretend to pinpoint any moment of “conversion”, but I know that without the dutiful attention of Mr Mtembu I might quite easily have drifted away from my earlier teaching. As it turned out, I was roused. There was no local Congregational Church. But since there was a working understanding between the Congregationalists and the Methodists, I was confirmed in the Methodist Church, in which I subsequently became a lay preacher.

      While I was at Blaauwbosch I had my first encounter with Dr CT Loram, Natal’s first Chief Inspector for Native Education. He came to my school with the district inspector, and the two of them spent the morning examining records and my teaching and the grounds. In the afternoon I was called in to confer about the school. All went well to begin with – and then he came to the contentious subject of “Manual Work.”5 Dr Loram was an enthusiast about work of this type. I had a greater interest in moulding the pupils’ minds. But, even if we had held the same views about manual work, there was no equipment with which to teach these crafts.

      Dr Loram opened the attack.

      “There’s just one thing, Luthuli. You’re a teacher. You’re supposed to be a leader in your community. But the garden at this school is a shameful sight!”

      “Sir,” I replied, “I’ve tried to make some improvements since I’ve been here. The plain fact is that I’ve got no equipment. This place is sandy. It can’t be worked without implements. I have to ask the pupils to bring them from their homes, where they can ill be spared.”

      “What? I don’t see that in your record book.”

      “No, sir. It did not occur to me to put it in.”

      “Well, then,” Dr Loram asked, “what do you do with pupils who don’t bring tools? How do you occupy them?”

      “Some cut grass. Others have to spend the time doing nothing.”

      “Have you started grass-work in this school?”

      “A little,” I said, “but not much.”

      “Why not much?”

      “Sir, as you are aware, one does not just pick the grass that grows by the roadside and weave it into baskets. Most of the proper material has to come from the coastal area. How is it to get here?”

      “Huh, Luthuli!” said Dr Loram. “There’s a lot of government time stolen in this school!”

      There was not, but I forebore to say it. After a while the conversation mellowed, and finally Dr Loram asked me if I had anything to say.

      “Yes, sir. There is one thing.”

      “Well –?”

      “I can’t say I’m very pleased by your visit.”

      “You’re not what?”

      “On the subject of manual work,” I went on, “you regard me as an evasive liar. I can see it – you accept nothing that I say.”

      “Oh, no, no, Luthuli, you mustn’t take my remarks that way. You know, I’ve graded you well. After all, just suppose I’d come here and praised your work – it would have spoiled you as a young teacher. Now, tell me,” said the doctor, pointing at neat lines of children marching out of school, “how do you manage to get your pupils to keep their lines so well?”

      At

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