Holding Up the Sky (12 page)

As a prominent UDF activist, Sipho had both Inkatha and the police to worry about. The police would regularly detain young activists, as they had done with Robbie, taking them out of circulation for a time. At one point, this practice became more sinister when an unmarked red minibus was regularly seen patrolling the streets of Imbali and hauling people away. These people rarely returned. Inkatha was also accused of targeting the homes of young activists for their nightly raids.

One Saturday night, another member of the support group and I were staying over with Sipho's family. They lived in a typical four-roomed township home in a busy part of Imbali. They had lived there for many years and knew all the neighbours intimately. We arrived in daylight so that anyone watching the house would see we planned to stay over. I was nervous as darkness fell but could only imagine how much worse it was for the family night after night. Sipho's mother gave each of us a meal of pap and meat that we ate off plates on our laps, the house not being large enough to contain a dining room table. After supper, we sat chatting in front of the TV until it was time for bed.

As we were working out how to sleep nine adults in a two-bedroomed house, we heard shots outside. A hand immediately dimmed the lights and we all dropped to the floor. A second round of shots cut through the screams, one bullet breaking the window of the lounge room we were sheltering in. We then heard a car screech off down the road, firing more shots as it went. After a few minutes of frozen silence, each of us straining to hear sounds of a return, we slowly got to our feet and looked outside. After a few more minutes had passed, we went outside to see if anyone was hurt. Neighbours were cautiously emerging up and down the street, each one checking on the welfare of the other. We quickly discovered that the next door neighbour had been shot in the arm. Perhaps we were not the target tonight. The police and the ambulance were called but we anticipated a long wait for either to arrive. We also called Monica, who arrived quickly with a few other members of the support group. The neighbour was taken to hospital while the others searched around for spent bullet shells and signs of damage. I saw that a few homes surrounding Sipho's house were pockmarked by bullets but I was unsure whether it was the result of this attack or a previous one.

While I was shaken by the events of the last hour, I found that the adrenalin rush gave me an ability to step outside myself and watch what was happening almost dispassionately. It was only much later that the shock of it set in and I was weak-kneed and teary at the thought of it. Still high on adrenalin, I had convinced Monica that I was fine and wanted to stay the night with the family. We were awake for hours afterwards, hashing and rehashing what had happened. Monica returned in the morning to check on us all and took me back to the cottage where, exhausted, I slept until lunchtime.

Mdu was another supporter of Sizwe with whom I was to form a close friendship. He worked for the South African Council of Churches and lived in Imbali with his family. His father was a minister and they lived in a large manse near the seminary at the top end of the township. Like Sipho, he was deeply committed to the struggle and, like Sipho, had a string of adoring women at his beck and call. Where Sipho drew them in on his wit, Mdu drew them with good looks. He was tall, well built and had a smile that blew the cobwebs out of the coldest heart.

Mdu came to Sizwe each month for management committee meetings. Not long after I joined the Imbali Support Group, which

Mdu saw as an unnecessarily risky pastime, he invited me to come to an Imbali Youth Organisation Peace Rally. Both Mdu and Robbie were still involved in the peace initiative despite having been in detention together for their efforts the year before. The rally was intended to bring the local township youth together and encourage an end to the violence. At some point, someone had to stop taking revenge. That Sunday, thousands gathered at the local soccer stadium. Skhumbuzo, Thami, Mdu and others addressed the crowd, calling for peace to return to the area. The atmosphere was tense as gatherings of this size, regardless of the purpose, always drew the attention of the police. After the speeches, which were interspersed with powerful songs and dancing or
toi toiing
, the rally ended on a high note and the crowd made their way home, mostly on foot. It was the first rally I had attended in the township and I found it exhilarating. It was surreal to have seen such scenes in movies and then to be part of one, a white face in a sea of blackness. Mdu and I stayed on at the stadium until most people were gone, to make sure that everyone left safely and without incident with the police, then I dropped him home on my way back through Sweetwaters.

The next morning, Mdu phoned to tell me to stay out of the township. Two young men had been shot on their way home from the rally and all hell had broken loose. One of those who died was the cousin of a friend of mine, Nhlanhla, whom I had come to know well through the school dialogue program. The days that followed were tense as news fltered through about more deaths. I was worried about Robbie and Themba driving through on their way to work, and I was worried about Mdu and the others who were most likely targets given their role in the rally. It was not clear whether it was Inkatha and the police who were responsible, but someone did not want to see an end to the violence and had the resources to send armed gunmen to churn things up.

There has been much said about the relationship between Inkatha and the Police in Natal. Many believe that Inkatha was built up by the apartheid government as an alternative to the ANC. It has been claimed that the government was also arming Inkatha and fuelling the violence in Natal to overthrow the ANC in the province.

By the end of the week, there were eleven dead in Imbali and Sipho was missing. My stomach was in knots. It was one thing to read about ‘black on black violence' in the international press, it was another thing altogether when it was your friends who were being shot at. All else fell away and it was almost impossible to concentrate on the day-to-day business of life, which seemed trivial in comparison. I didn't eat enough or sleep enough and not surprisingly, my shingles returned. To my huge relief, I heard from Sipho on the Friday. He was in hiding, but alive.

Two funerals were planned for the weekend and we were expecting trouble. The Council of Churches and PACSA asked for monitors to observe and record what happened, providing detailed statements for the lawyers who often represented those who were detained. Mdu and I volunteered. The presence of monitors, acting a little like UN peacekeepers, sometimes helped to keep the police in check. Monitors also tried to keep the mourners calm. Political funerals were emotional events where the frustrations of living under apartheid could often bubble over on both sides. Young policemen were often intimidated by the crowds who sang and
toi toied
as if it was a rally and not a funeral, and could become aggressive and confrontational. The mourners possessed a smouldering rage against the police for their involvement in the violence and the slightest spark could set that fire ablaze. It was our role to keep communication channels open and to keep everyone calm. If things exploded, we would then bear witness and give the lawyers enough information to pick up the pieces.

The two funerals were eerily alike, giving the weekend the feel of a Groundhog Day. I made a statement on the events of each to give to the lawyers and kept a copy in my diary.

I have no memory of monitoring either funeral that weekend, despite having made such detailed statements about the chain of events. Rereading the statement brings it all fl.ooding back, though still in quite a surreal fashion. Other than that, I simply remember what a funeral was like, as I would attend so many, many more funerals than weddings in the years to come. I have always been troubled by my moth-eaten memory of this time, by not knowing what else has been tucked away out of reach.

The following weekend, we had a dialogue and development program scheduled so I was forced to switch my attention. I also watched in awe as Robbie continued to function effectively despite having lived in the township through the violence, and I felt I had no right to be so emotionally undone. We pulled it together and got on with the business of reconciliation, keeping our group well away from Imbali that weekend.

THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY IS REQUESTED AT
THE WEDDING OF

SKHUMBUZO NGWENYA OF 2147 MBUBE ROAD
THE ONLY SON
OF
MRS. L. NGWENYA AND MR. S. MBATHA
TO
ZONKE FAITH SHANGE OF 744 SIKHAKOTHI ROAD
THE ONLY DAUGHTER OF
MR. AND MRS. O. B. SHANGE

ON 16 SEPTEMBER, 1989
VENUE: ST. MARTIN'S ANGLICAN CHURCH (NEXT TO THULANI'S GARAGE)
TIME: 10H00
LUNCH: THUTHUKA HALL (NEXT TO NICOLS EDENDALE)

BRIDE AND GROOM TO PROCEED TO PAULPIETERSBURG FOR THE
TRADITIONAL PART OF THE WEDDING.
YOU ARE ALL INVITED TO ACCOMPANY THEM.

After the horrors of the last month, I was looking forward to attending a wedding. It was not the first traditional wedding I had been to since my return. Robbie, in my second week back, had convinced me to go with him to a wedding far from the city. As usual, I was the only white person there and despite not knowing the bride or groom, had been quickly elevated to the status of honoured guest and featured in every wedding photo that was taken that day. Robbie explained that white people were so very rarely the guests of black people that the couple took it as an honour I had joined them for their wedding. Possibly, my presence gave them some kudos in the local community. I felt like a fraud–that the colour of my skin added status to an event made me itch to get out of it.

Despite the embarrassment of being firmly wedged in the unknown bride's grasp for a full eight hours, I found the wedding itself fascinating. The most remarkable element for me was that the groom appeared to have cerebral palsy and no one treated him any differently in his rite of passage into manhood. The state of marriage in African society is a very important one. Until you marry you are seen as a child in your family and your community, regardless of your age. There is a great deal of consensus decision making done at the extended family and community level and until you marry, your opinions carry no weight. It was clear that the groom, despite his physical limitations, would take his place as a man in his community. I wondered if he would have been accorded such respect in my own culture.

Skhumbuzo and Zonke's wedding was special. They had been together for many years and shared a child, Nkhululeko, meaning ‘freedom'. As Skhumbuzo was such a high profile activist, he had spent many of their years together in detention or in hiding, leaving Zonke to cope as best she could. Now, finally, with
lobola
or the bride price paid and with hope for the future, they planned to wed. The only problem was that Skhumbuzo was still restricted, which involved a form of night-time house arrest and travel restriction. He had applied to the police for a variation in his restriction and that of half the bridal party as well, as there were a number of the guests who were also restricted. After a nervous wait, permission was granted the day before the wedding.

Mdu, as one of Skhumbuzo's closest friends, was to be one of the groomsmen and had offered to be my date for the wedding but as Robbie was also going, I thought I would hang with him and be a little less visible. Thankfully, I would not be the token white person at this wedding as a number of white people including Monica and her family had been invited. I had learnt that a ten o'clock start means anywhere from 10.00 onwards, so Robbie and I arrived shortly afterwards and set about catching up with friends.

At 11.30, the bridal party was said to be on its way so we all filed into the church. It was a rendered brick building, painted a lemon yellow many years before. Inside were simple rows of wooden benches facing the pulpit at the front of the church. Above the altar, taking the place of stained glass, was a wall hanging. But what the church lacked in infrastructure the congregation made up for in enthusiasm. The front rows were filled with female relatives of the bride and groom dressed in their colourful finery. Among them was an occasional husband recognising that he was well out of his depth. The rest of the church was packed full of the township's youth, the young men dressed in T-shirts with freedom slogans blazing, the young women relishing the rare opportunity to dress to impress. Given I was not on the lookout for a new love, I felt underdressed in comparison.

Skhumbuzo, Mdu, Thami and the other groomsmen fled into the front of the church looking polished and shining. The music for the bridal procession was quickly drowned out by the women's joyous ululating,
‘e le le le le le'
. The crowd broke into one of the many Zulu wedding songs, ushering the bride towards her groom. As always when a crowd sang, it began to move, this time not to the marching rhythms of toi toiing, but rather in a swaying, swirling, tipping figure-of-eight movement that began at the hips and flowed through to the shoulders. Given that today was an especially joyous wedding long anticipated by all, the singing went on, leaving a blushing bride and groom standing at the front of the church soaking in the goodwill.

Eventually, the minister drew us down into our seats and greeted family and friends. He said a few words on the sanctity of marriage and its importance in our community life. He then asked Thami to step up. Thami was a large man, well over 183 centimetres with a wide girth and a powerful personality to match. He was also unusually fair skinned, leaving me to wonder about his distant parentage but not brave enough to ask. Thami turned and faced his friend and comrade. I was expecting a political speech of some nature but instead Thami began to sing. The delicate sounds of ‘Ave Maria' flooded the hushed church as he sang with passion and authority. Africa was truly a place of surprising contrasts.

After Thami took his seat, Skhumbuzo and Zonke stood in front of the minister, ready to sanctify their years together. As with all the weddings I would attend, both bride and groom looked sombre: despite the celebratory mood in the church, bride and groom are required to demonstrate the seriousness of the task before them by not smiling. With the appearance of people swearing an oath of allegiance to God and State, they stood and made promises of love, obedience and fidelity before family and community.

There are three parts to an African wedding: the church ceremony, the reception and the traditional celebration the following day. What struck me about the church wedding was the way it mimicked a traditional white wedding. The brides' dresses at African church weddings were often the lacy-bodiced, full-skirted gowns of old wedding magazines, complete with long veils and flowing trains. Zonke's dress was no exception. The bridesmaids wore pastel satin dresses with puffed sleeves and tight waists, with the groom and his groomsmen looking stiff in their new tuxedos, replete with all the trimmings. I saw no need to copy Western/European rituals as African traditions have their own richness, but Robbie explained later that it was a status thing: the wedding was not a ‘proper' one unless there was a white dress, a suit and a church service. Despite my own musings during the ceremony it was taken very seriously by the family, especially the women, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

It was afterwards that the wedding felt truly African. As the bridal party fled out of the church with the congregation in close pursuit, they were welcomed by those who had gathered outside. Some had intentionally arrived later, favouring the reception with its huge feast over the formality of the church service. Others had simply arrived late and had decided to wait outside, catching up with friends and neighbours, enjoying the day. Either way, the size of the wedding had more than doubled as it spilt out onto the streets. On sighting the bride and groom, the crowd outside burst into song and dance, making a narrow channel to allow the bridal party to pass through onto the street. Robbie and I joined the throng as we danced our way down the road. This felt more like it. Africa is a jubilant place where, at the slightest provocation or none at all, music and dance burst forth. This day the crowd was singing wedding songs that were both joyous and, fortunately for me, repetitious so I was soon singing along with the best of them. We danced up and down the street for almost an hour until the bridal party was herded into waiting cars to be driven to the reception hall a few kilometres away.

Robbie and I made our way back to the Sizwe bakkie followed by twenty hopeful wedding guests. Robbie made his selection of seven older women whom he believed could be squeezed into our small van. Six of these robust women, in all their wedding finery, clambered into the back and sat three abreast, facing each other. It was a tight ft, but nothing compared to the moulding of human flesh that was required in the cab between myself, Robbie and the last of our hitchhikers. Being the slimmest of the three, I sat in the middle while Robbie drove, manoeuvring the gearstick as delicately as possible between my thighs. We drove slowly and carefully along the potholed road towards the hall, the bakkie successfully bearing its burden without major complaint. The large woman sitting next to me took the opportunity to find out, in a mixture of English and Zulu, how a young white woman finds herself at a black wedding. She had seen me before–clearly my blonde hair and fair skin were hard to miss in a township–and she was curious to know where I had come from and what my family thought about me being here. I pondered for a moment; technically, my family didn't know I was here. Since my return, I had kept many of the details of my life from them. My parents were planning to visit at Easter the following year and I felt it would be much better to show them my life rather than have them imagine it from 10,000 kilometres away. But I took the liberty and I told the woman that my parents didn't mind me being in the township and I planned to bring them here when they came to visit. My presence was one thing, but the idea of bringing my parents to visit the township seemed to really surprise her. She had a point–you didn't often see sixty-year-old white couples on social visits to the township. She just shook her head and laughed, saying things were certainly changing.

After unloading the bakkie with great care and being thoroughly thanked by our fellow travellers, we found some shade underneath a tree. The sun was at its full height and though we were only into the first few weeks of spring it was strong and punishing. Having spotted a large bull's carcass still cooking on a sheet of corrugated iron around the back Robbie told me it would be a while before lunch was ready. I suspect Robbie would have preferred to cast me off at this point and join the group of men overseeing this work but, being Robbie, he stayed with me under the tree and introduced me to members of the community that I hadn't yet had a chance to meet.

The size of the crowd seemed to have doubled once more. Robbie explained that weddings are always open affairs in townships. While invitations are sent, it is understood that anyone is welcome. Many of the poorer families rely on this generosity to feed their families over the weekends. There is always meat to be had: an African definition of a good meal. So weddings, graduations and even funerals are full community affairs where all bear witness to the events in the lives of their neighbours. I was touched by the deep sense of generosity that feeding a crowd of this size would require. The more I saw of African culture, the more I liked it. Everyone had a place in the community if they wanted one, and the investments people made seemed to be less about their individual material wellbeing and more about each other.

As the bridal party began to circulate, Mdu came to find me, cutting a dashing figure in his dark suit. He was clearly excited about the wedding of his close friend, so long in the making. I teased him about his apparent enthusiasm for weddings, but he assured me he was in no rush to attend his own. I suspected he would have a hard time choosing between the beautiful young women who orbited him. He brushed off my teasing and stated the purpose of his mission: to get me something to eat while we waited for lunch. Waving goodbye to Robbie, I followed Mdu through the crowd until we arrived at the barbecue pit. He greeted the chefs who allowed him to take a knife to their charge and, cutting a slice of meat, handed it to me. I hesitated before eating it as Msizi had long ago explained that it was rude to eat in front of others who were not themselves eating. I raised an eyebrow at Mdu who seemed to catch my meaning, saying, ‘Don't worry, you're white'. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that I was to be excused from cultural practices. However, I wasn't sure if it was hospitality–as it clearly was in this case–or an assumption that, being white, I was a bit stupid about things and could not be expected to know how to behave. Once out of earshot of our kind barbecuers I proposed this line of thinking to Mdu, who laughed open-mouthed at my interpretation but neither confirmed nor denied it.

Mdu and I swam through the crowds for a while, finding familiar faces and chatting. Sipho was there and in good form as always. He was entertaining a group of listeners, mostly nubile young women, on the topic of recent community events. Upon seeing me, he switched to English and began to tell tales of the community development work we were doing at Sizwe. I appreciated his gesture of inclusion but reading the cold looks on the faces of the women, I told Sipho I would catch up with him a bit later. We also saw Themba with his mates Bonani, Nhlanhla and his girlfriend. We chatted briefly with the bride and groom before stumbling upon Monica with Peter and his wife, all colleagues from PACSA. We spent the final half hour before lunch was served chatting with them about some recent PACSA projects, including the Imbali Support Group work.

Mdu disappeared to join the bridal party at their table while the rest of us queued up to eat. A long line was already snaking from around the back of the hall where plates of food were being dished. Our conversation on local issues continued for a further ten minutes before Robbie reappeared. He had been asked by the family to take the four of us through to the tables. Around the bridal party were a cluster of other tables clearly reserved for family and special guests. As with the wedding I had attended with Robbie when I first arrived, I suspected the colour of our skin was the sole criteria for our inclusion and I once more felt shamed to leave my place in the queue. It seemed, however, that none of our fellow queuers held it against us as Robbie was receiving approving nods, particularly from the older women who appeared to think it was proper that we should be seated. We were served excellent cuts of beef as well as a kind of shredded meat that Monica told me was cooked until it separated into strands. Both were delicious. Along with the meat was the obligatory pap made into a paste from cornflour as well as a variety of coleslaw-style salads, mashed pumpkin (my favourite), beetroot and cabbage. We were also given pitchers of a ginger drink specially made for weddings. For dessert, we were served canned peaches and home-made custard. I caught glimpses of the army of women working in the kitchen to provide us with all our non-meat delicacies. Monica told me they would most likely all be relatives of the couple, as was tradition.