Holding Up the Sky (19 page)

Nonsi and I set to it, chasing the rest of the household out of the kitchen so we would have space to work. Mama Skhosana, however, refused to take a night off, as she wanted to learn how to make something new. With her peering over my shoulder, we boiled the pasta, made the sauce and heated the garlic bread. Mama Skhosana was surprised to see the dry stalks of pasta become the soft strands that were dished onto the plates. The household waited in nervous anticipation. I was to be allowed a seat at the table tonight, given I was the guest chef, so plates were dished and brought through to the lounge. I watched Baba Skhosana as he took his first taste, trying to look enthusiastic as he felt my eyes on him. Both he and Mama Skhosana seemed to enjoy the meal, though it was only Mama Skhosana who asked for a second helping. When I went back into the kitchen to refill her plate, I saw that my efforts had not met with a positive response from the kids' table which had half-finished plates scattered along its length. Determined not to be offended, I dished an extra helping for my biggest fan and returned to the dining table. In truth, I had no experience cooking for this many people, so the pasta was overdone and the sauce lacked favour.

At the end of my first week in the township, I was feeling very much at home and enjoying the family with all its idiosyncrasies. I delighted in the constant company of young women my own age and felt that I was beginning to make friends with some of the neighbours as well.

That same day, Sunday 25 March 1990, the leader of the Inkatha Freedom Party, Chief Buthelezi, held a rally similar to the one Mandela had held exactly one month earlier. Inkatha supporters were bussed in from all over the province to participate but there were still only 10,000 people present to hear Buthelezi speak, in contrast to the massive crowds four weeks before. The fire of discontent that had been smouldering in the region, fanned by Buthelezi's rage at the lack of support for his rally, now burst into fames and rushed towards us all.

It was reported that a number of rally buses returning to the Inkatha area on the western escarpment behind Edendale valley were stoned as they passed down Edendale Road. Knowing of the rally, Edendale community leaders had requested that police re-route the buses so as not to inflame the situation but this had not happened. Large numbers of young people who had allegedly been chased off the escarpment by Inkatha for refusing to join were now living in Edendale and it was thought to be these youths who had stoned the buses. Some of the other buses from the rally were seen stopping at Edendale hospital, allowing a group to disembark.

There had also been rumours of an Inkatha march through Edendale after the rally. While this did not eventuate, people at the soccer stadium next to the hospital were reportedly attacked and there was a clash between police and local Edendale youth on Edendale Road.

All this happened on the Sunday evening while we were at church a few kilometres away. Later that night, rumours of unrest reached Caluza, but such rumours were frequent and we thought nothing of them. We learnt later that three people had been killed after attacks from the bus occupants, allegedly those who had disembarked at the hospital.

The following day, Monday 26 March, things were quiet again and we went about our daily routine of heating water, making breakfast and cleaning. After lunch, we went down to Zodwa's for the afternoon. The usual evening prayers were said and we went to bed.

On the Tuesday morning, after our chores were done, I sat down to write a letter to an old school friend, Grace, who was also one of my sponsors. After describing the rhythms of my new life, I went on to write:

Other residents who were closer to the attack got a clearer picture of the magnitude of what was happening. Years later, in 1996, Mrs Mkhize of Caluza made the following statement to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission:

Reports were later compiled by monitoring organisations, describing what happened that day. The reports, including this one from the University of Natal, were presented to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

We could see Mphumuza from the Skhosanas' front stoep. It is also the area where we had been building the community creche in the dialogue and development programs. By late afternoon that Tuesday, we knew things were bad. We also knew that we were cut off. The only road out, where the morning's attacks had first taken place, was below us. Inkatha
impis
or armies were camped up the valley across from us. They were on the road by the water tower above us and behind us–houses were burning all around. I stood on the front stoep next to Baba Skhosana, ears and eyes straining into the growing darkness, and wondered whether we would live through this.

None of us slept that night. We could hear gunshots echoing through the valley. As usual, we women had cooked for the household. But few people had eaten. Each of us had an ear tuned, listening for noises outside. We knew that the young men of Caluza were on the streets in an effort to protect their families. All the young men from our household were also somewhere in the darkness. They had been organised into groups of five or ten youths and each group had a whistle which was to be used in the event of an attack. Each family gathered whatever they had–garden tools, spears, machetes–and handed them to the marshals to be distributed. I knew there were also a few guns,some homemade, some not, but I don't know where they had come from. One of the boarders, Bonani, came back to the house to see if we had any food to spare. Nonsi and I went with him to feed the group that were camped a few hundred metres up from our house. As scared as I was, it gave me something to do, which was better than sitting and waiting for an attack. Sometime after two o'clock, Baba Skhosana made us all go to bed. Nonsi and I went to our room but lay fully clothed on top of our beds, shoes still on, ready to run if we needed to. We talked until dawn, too afraid to close our eyes.

Wednesday, 28 March
. People in many parts of the western escarpment were attempting to live outside of political allegiances, hoping that it would be safer to be non-partisan. This did not save them from the attacks that rained down on the area. An Inkatha
impi
some 12,000 strong attacked families on the escarpment who would not align. Convoys of lorries dropped the Inkatha men off at various locations along the main road. One hundred and twenty homes were burnt, eleven men and women were killed. The police were reportedly present but did not intervene.

The university's report to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission said:

By dawn, I needed to get out. Hiding inside the house, listening in the dark for sounds of gunfire or footsteps, I felt like a trapped animal. Despite Mama Skhosana's concerns, I went onto the street to see what was happening. The group of young men defending above the house had grown with the inclusion of people like myself, people who had emerged from their homes to see if the danger had passed. But themood on the street told me that it had not. I could still see the
impi
further up the valley.

I returned to the house to see about breakfast. The previous evening Mama Skhosana had sent one of the boys to the shop down the road to buy whatever staples he could. We agreed that sandwiches would be the easiest to distribute to the young men for their breakfast and set to making as many as we could. I returned to the street with three loaves worth of peanut butter sandwiches and handed them out. I had no appetite myself and only returned to the house when all the sandwiches were gone.

We were encouraged to do some housework rather than sitting and staring out the windows but after half an hour, I felt trapped again. I slipped out, having Nonsi cover for me and went down the street to a neighbour's house. The husband was principal of a school further along Edendale valley and his young children spent quite a bit of time over at our house. But today he and his family were waiting at home, like everyone else. I was offered tea. African hospitality still existed, even under these circumstances. I settled for water. We discussed what the principal had seen yesterday on his way back from school, mulled over what rumours they had heard and began guessing how far away the gunfire had been last night. After a time, we went outside to see where the
impi
was and found many people on the street, all gazing up the valley with the same intent. Whether the
impi
had gone inside the chief's
kraal
or homestead, or had dispersed, we could not tell. There was much speculation in the crowd. Suddenly, we heard gunshots close by, coming from the north. The whole street was on its knees instantaneously, waiting for the next round of fire. From listening during the night, I was beginning to learn the difference between the sounds of manufactured and homemade weapons, the latter sounding more tinny and echoey, as if the bullet took longer to reach you. This gunfire sounded homemade.
‘Qasha'
, the young men called out, confirming my thoughts. With the homemade guns, a second round of fire was less likely so people generally got to their feet a little more quickly. Taking my lead from those around me, I stood up and made my way back home.

In the afternoon we prepared more food to take to the young men, some of whom had come inside to take a nap in preparation for the long night ahead. After distributing the food, I sat down among the group of defenders. Mama Skhosana only agreed to me going outside again if I covered up my hair and skin so they would not draw attention to me. I was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt plus a balaclava that I had rolled up into more of a cap, with my hair tucked underneath. There was much conversation as to what was going to happen next. Most people were convinced that more attacks would come in the darkness. We could hear gunfire in the distance but couldn't see anyone on the road above the house. This road ran up to a large water tower, then turned up the valley and looped back down to Sweetwaters Road on a dirt track that ran parallel to our street. The dirt track was about five or six hundred metres away from where we sat, a deep
donga
or gully separating the two roads.

It was hard to tell how long I sat there, keeping watch on the valley above and the street below. I was losing all sense of time and had not eaten or slept for over twenty-four hours. We all heard it at the same time and searched to see where the rumbling noise was coming from. We knew it was a heavy vehicle and listened as it strained its way up the hill. Next, I saw an armoured police vehicle emerge from the trees at the bottom of the dirt road across the way. It was a yellow truck with round windows along its side, making it look a little like a yellow submarine. Behind it were two yellow police vans. Halfway up the hill, the truck stopped and a crowd of men gathered around it. I was struggling to understand what was going on, until I realised with a shock what I was seeing: the police were unloading arms and distributing them to the Inkatha men who had come down from the chief's
kraal
. My body felt drained of all its heat and my throat closed up, making it hard to breathe. The police were giving these men arms with which to kill us and we had nothing beyond a few garden shovels to protect ourselves. I sat there, numb, watching the police close up the truck and pull off slowly up the hill. I suddenly realised, as did the rest of the defence group, that the only way the truck and vans could now leave was to loop around past the water tower and down our street. Everyone was on their feet, ready to fight or run. Then I heard the voices of some of the marshals saying,
‘Hlala pansi
. Sit down, get out of the way and just let them pass. We are sitting here peacefully, just let them pass without trouble,
hlala pansi'
. I pulled the balaclava down over my face, tucked my hands under my knees and kept my head down.