LITMIR.BIZ

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that included supervising the herding of cattle, milking cows and goats and rearing chickens. She also made decisions about what to plant, when and where – though I wonder if it mattered because the soil in our valley was rich and fertile, which meant we always had plenty of food. While my mother laboured in the fields, my oldest brother Bonakele, then a young teen, laboured alongside her.

      Bonakele was our hero. He knew a wonderful selection of Xhosa folklore stories, and was a senior boy, or captain, of the local boys and, as such, was expected to lead the local boys to ubudoda, manhood. This title was not attained through age only: bravery was a critical factor, as was excelling at stick fighting against the boys in the surrounding area. A boy could also be recognised for his hunting or horse-riding skills. Being a senior boy carried a lot of benefits. For example, he had the advantage of being the first one to make a move on girls. In traditional rituals, the senior boys were allocated meat or food meant for all the boys. Junior boys knew what chances to take and the cost of doing so. Xhosa boys were governed by the law of the jungle, which is the survival of the fittest.

      During the week, I had to look after the calves and chickens and do other little jobs. I also followed the older boys around as they did their duties of planting, fertilising, watering and hoeing the fields, as well as fetching the cows for milking. Sometimes I would risk the thorns to pick fat, ripe prickly pears. I loved their sweet juicy taste.

      I always looked forward to weekends because that was when we could watch our local boys compete at stick fighting with boys from neighbouring farms. It was exciting for another reason too: it was my chance to play with other boys my age. I didn’t have many friends on the farm and I was too young to walk alone to a neighbouring farm.

      Stick fighting among Xhosa boys happened on different levels. Entry into the sport was preceded by small boys using amahlamvu (tree branches) as training towards graduation to real stick fighting. When I was six we heard that stick fighting was no longer allowed, which was sad for me because I was just about to qualify for the entry level and use sticks, not amahlamvu. It was seen as a serious handicap if a Xhosa boy did not have scars on his head or face to show that he had competed at the highest level of stick fighting.

      Being a small boy in our tradition was a challenge because all the risky tasks were assigned to us. We were used for stealing chickens, eggs, watermelons, milk and all sorts of other things. Even illegal things, such as dagga and tobacco, were collected by small boys. The senior boys used us to convey messages to girls they fancied. Sometimes the messengers became targets of assault or swearing because relaying bad news to a senior boy, such as a rejection, could cost the young boy dearly in the form of punishment or scorn, both of which were humiliating.

      * * *

      At the time of my birth not a single person in my home had attended formal schooling. Those who tried it out later didn’t keep it up for long. There was no school close to where we lived – at least, not one we black children could attend. The closest school was the prestigious and exclusively white private school Woodridge, off the N2 road that links Cape Town and Port Elizabeth. The school that admitted the children of farm labourers was at Mondplaas, about four kilometres from our home on the Jeffreys Bay side of the Gamtoos.

      The Mondplaas area was controlled by conservative white Afrikaner farmers who dominated the dairy industry in the Gamtoos River valley. Other farmers were large-scale producers of vegetables and first-grade citrus. The mud school at Mondplaas was built on the land of a certain baas Dempers Meyer, who later became a member of parliament for the National Party.

      For my brothers and sisters of school-going age, trudging sixteen kilometres a day to and from school became too much, especially on top of the chores they had to perform when they got home and many of these tasks also had to be performed in the early morning before school.

      Besides, in our small community schooling was not viewed as progress but rather as a form of Christian indoctrination. The church and school were seen as two sides of the same coin – both brainwashing tools with the aim of undermining our customs and traditional African way of life.

      All the stories we were told at home before bedtime were about our own people, stories that emphasised the strength, courage and the importance of our Xhosa ancestors. Poems of our glorious past were recited, giving expression to both good and sad times in our long history. We were amaqaba, meaning that we were neither educated nor Christian converts, and none of us was given a so-called Christian name at birth.

      My oldest brother and sister never even tried to go to a proper school, but there was a young man on the farm who started teaching them, and other children, to read and write – until his family was forced to move and look for a place on another farm.

      The only evidence that my brother could write is the tattoo on my left arm which says ‘Elvis Presley’. He used a needle to break my skin and then rubbed in a black substance from a battery, possibly lead dioxide. I was six years old at the time. Elvis clearly had a strong impact on my brother, though I can’t imagine how he came to know about the ‘king of rock ’n roll’: where we lived, there were no newspapers or radios, and definitely no television.

      One day around evening milking time, not long after I got my tattoo, my mother returned from working in the fields as usual. But from the expression on her face I could see that something was wrong. She looked shocked and upset. I’d never seen her like that before. We children crowded round her, wide-eyed, as she told us we had to pack up everything and be gone by sunset the next day. Talking fast in her panicked state, she told my older brothers to go to families on neighbouring farms to ask for help: to see if they could take care of a few cows or goats for us because the farmer, Koos van der Walt, had told her we must leave nothing behind; there was to be no trace of us.

      When the men came back from milking they were talking about the farmer’s orders and shaking their heads. Men and boys, and some women too, came to help. The adults started sorting and packing up. Everyone was grumpy and touchy. I kept asking why we were leaving, and whether we were going to come back, but the adults brushed me aside, too busy to bother with my questions. Eventually I was told the white man was the owner of the farm and he wanted us gone.

      Until then, I had thought that where we lived and where my mother worked in the fields was our land. It was the beginning and end of my world. I had no idea that there was a white owner – a boss of our lives.

      One of my brothers walked over to Mondplaas to give the terrible news to our Uncle Oudenks, one of my grandpa Kholisile’s sons. He said we could come and stay with him and then dispatched his own sons to find out from other families what help they could offer. The next day support came in small welcome measures. Local people offered help in all sorts of ways. Some offered to hide us from their own employers who would definitely have objected to having ‘more blacks on their land’. Some took care of our livestock – taking four or six goats each – keeping the numbers small to avoid detection or suspicion from their mlungus (white bosses). There was much coming and going the whole day with everyone kept frantically busy. I simply felt helpless and confused.

       CHAPTER 2

      Uprooted

      The sun was beginning to set when the last things were added to the pile on the borrowed wooden wagon. One of the local men, helped by my older brothers, inspanned six oxen – I think they were ours – and we climbed up, settling ourselves as best we could. We were ready to leave. The man driving the oxen cracked his whip, the wheels creaked and the people who’d helped us pack stood in a group and waved as we drew away. I looked back at our little brick house with its chimney built on one side. It was empty and lifeless and the cold dry ash from fireplace outside, where my mother always cooked our food in a three-legged pot, was blowing around in little drifts.

      Soon I was hungry and thirsty but I didn’t tell my mother. There’d been no time for cooking and I could see by the way she was looking straight ahead, without turning back, that her heart was sore. As we bumped along on the gravel road, I was distracted by the oxen bellowing now and then, complaining as they strained to pull harder when the driver cracked his whip. I was also trying to hear what the older boys were saying as they walked alongside the wagon.

      As darkness

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