To Survive and Succeed - Mkhuseli Jack

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doctor six times. On one occasion my mother ran out of money to take me to Humansdorp or to pay the doctor’s fee. She found us a ride on the back of an ox wagon owned by one of the local black families who made the trip every three months to sell wood, bottles, animal hides, vegetables and live chickens. The journey took two days on the gravel road that wends its way through Klein Plaas and links up with the national N2 highway on the western side of Humansdorp. At night we pulled off the road, a fire was made and the oxen were released to graze on the side of the road. The next morning we made it to the outskirts of the town. We first had to try to sell a few items to raise money for the doctor.

      When we got back home four days later I was worse than before and my mother had to devise another plan to get me back to the doctor. We had earned a small sum from the sale of our hides, chicken and eggs on the ox wagon trip. Mr Msizi, the local school principal, was asked to take me to the doctor; we told him he would be paid for his petrol when we had money. Dr Delport was already leaving his surgery when Msizi pulled up outside. He gave chase and managed to flag him down as he was driving off. The doctor immediately returned to his rooms, examined me and gave me medication but refused to take payment for the consultation. He put the money my mother offered him in the front pocket of my shirt, and said: ‘Happy Christmas to you!’ We were delighted and used the money to pay Mr Msizi. For many years, Dr Delport was a most highly respected doctor in Humansdorp. I have followed his life ever since because I really believed that he saved me at the most critical moment of my life.

      CHAPTER 5

      My battles begin: against racism and for schooling

      Passing Standard 4 at the Slangrivier farm school meant I had reached the highest grade offered and had to look for another school. There were not many options because there was no such school close by. Township schools were out of bounds due to pass law restrictions. If you came from a farm there was no way that you could obtain a permit to be in a township. But I was determined that I would not drop out of school.

      Humansdorp Higher Primary was the only school with an opening for Standard 5. My mother, though happy that I had achieved my Standard 4, told me to accept that there was very little to be done. In isiXhosa she simply said: ‘Sela amanzi uxole mntanam.’ Literally translated, this means: ‘Just drink water and be satisfied, my child.’ Outwardly I accepted my mother’s analysis of the situation, but inwardly I was determined that I was not going to accept this end-of-the-road barrier.

      The year-end holidays of 1972 were most difficult for me. I had no plans for the coming year but I told myself that I would carry on with my schooling, come what may. My white friends Eric and Marius were already staying in the Nico Malan High School koshuis (boarding school) in Humansdorp and were sympathetic towards my predicament but could do nothing about it. I grew up with them on their farm under the kindly eye of their dad, Mr Henry Pretorius – the one who had looked the other way. Among the Xhosa people on his farm, he was known as uJobela, the isiXhosa name for a long-tailed widow bird, but I don’t know why he was given this name.

      That December holiday, he gave me a job on the farm and I worked harder than ever, saving every cent to buy books and a school uniform and have money for transport. I woke up at five in the morning to herd cows to the kraal for milking. I poured the fresh milk into pint bottles, capped them, and distributed the final product to white holiday homes before the visitors were up for their breakfast. For this part of the job I had to wear a white coat, which made me look important to my friends. After delivering milk we would go back to the dairy and manually crank the handle on the milk separator to separate the cream from the remaining milk. The cream would be decanted into metal cans to be collected twice a week by the milk lorry. The skimmed milk would be given to the calves and if there was any left over it would be shared among the labourers.

      Once the calves had been fed, I would herd the cattle to grazing camps. Jobela trusted me when it came to executing my responsibilities. He was, however, wary of what came out of my mouth on some occasions. Although he was a kind, patient and a tolerant person, there were times when Jobela thought that I needed reining in. I was a little too forward for the liking of many whites because I spoke my mind and challenged every racist or unfair practice I came across.

      Jobela was a farmer’s son himself. He and his wife Ella had four children: three boys and one daughter, and an adopted girl. They were both deeply religious and staunch members of the Dutch Reformed Church and they brought up their children to have strong Christian values. Jobela, however, was also respectful of what he called ‘die wet’, the law. He believed that laws had to be obeyed even if they were unfair, unjust or evil. When issues of racial separation were raised he would accept that they were wrong, but he did not believe that the authorities should be challenged. I guess his rationale was based on the Bible which, in his view, said ‘obey those in authority’.

      The issue of racial discrimination would surface during the holiday season when Jobela suggested that we refrain from playing rugby together when Oyster Bay was teeming with white holidaymakers. He personally did not mind, but felt restricted by the law: ‘… dit is die wet en ek wil nie in die moeilikheid wees nie,’ he would say – ‘that’s the law and I don’t want to get into trouble’.

      Although asthma still plagued me and I was the weakest among my black friends, I was the only one who was respected by bullies – especially white ones – and particularly the heavy racist kids who came with their families for holidays or long weekends. I made it my business to bring trouble upon myself or those with me by standing up to white arrogance. Both whites and blacks became fed up with my conduct, with my friends regarding some of my actions as unnecessary provocation.

      Oyster Bay’s only public hall, which served as a restaurant, community hall and tea room, was the place where I had most of my skirmishes against what I thought was simple unfairness. For example, there was a door for ‘whites’ and another for ‘non-whites’. I vowed to my friends that I would not abide by this. Sometimes white boys would block the road, forcing us to take a longer route, or they would shout insults, such as ‘koring kop’ – a jibe at our hair.

      I believed that bullies should have to work for their unjust behaviour and I was prepared to fight even if I did not have the slightest chance of winning. In farm life in those days winning or losing a fight was a big deal – even more so between black and white boys. But for me, losing counted for nothing; what mattered was that the fight was for a good cause. This principle remains with me to this day.

      * * *

      Christmas and New Year’s Day came and went with no breakthrough as far as my schooling was concerned. My problem was becoming topical because some supported my desire to be educated while others sneered at me, calling me an ambitious idiot. I was slowly getting support from my entire close family and from the broader local community. This was a real first at my home.

      A prayed-for solution came just as the school holidays drew to a close in January 1973. Two of my brothers were working as labourers for a construction company that had a contract to do some work in Paradise Beach near Jeffreys Bay. My brothers normally stayed at construction campsites. A relative who was familiar with the Jeffreys Bay area had heard via the grapevine that a primary school for blacks was expanding to include a higher primary. My mother, brothers and sisters discussed this and it was agreed that if I was admitted to this school I would have to stay at the construction campsite. If the school did not work out, I would have to try to find a job and, in preparation, apply for my ‘dompas’ – the loathed pass book that I, and all black people over the age of sixteen, were forced to carry if we were in a designated ‘white’ area. I would have to drop out of school.

      Dawie Theron was the owner of DST Construction, and was also known as ‘Zulu’ among white people. He was an extremely overweight bully who could barely construct a sentence without uttering one or two expletives. Zulu knew me from Oyster Bay where his company had its office, and for some reason he took a liking to me. He even allowed me to sit in the front seat of his bakkie, something that very few whites permitted in those days. Blacks were expected to jump on the back, no matter how high the load, where they’d be shaken and jarred. Zulu was extremely aggressive and would shout, slap, punch or kick workers when he perceived them not to be following his orders or instructions.

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