Holding Up the Sky (22 page)

For my parents' first weekend, I had arranged for us to stay with the Skhosanas, allowing Mum and Dad an experience of township life. Whatever happened in the weeks between the war ending and my parents arriving, the township now felt completely different. While the army, still on patrol in their large armoured vehicles, were a constant reminder of the conflict, the mood in the township had quickly returned to its relaxed, friendly pace. We planned to spend Saturday in Caluza and then attend the funeral of a cousin of Mama Skhosana's on Sunday.

As we turned into the driveway of the house Mama Skhosana was there to greet us, her husband still busy with pastoral visits. Nonsi, Sibongile and Thembi were also at home and helped Mum and Dad with their small overnight bag, taking it to Auntie Ni's room where they would be spending the night. I planned to bunk in with the girls as usual. After introductions, Mama Skhosana went to the kitchen to put on tea while Nonsi and Sibongile continued with the lunch preparations.

We gave Mama Skhosana a gift to thank her for her hospitality. I knew she very much wanted a hose and watched with delight as she clucked over the simple present. She told us she was going to store it in her bedroom so no one else could use it and in that way, keep it safe. She also told us Baba Skhosana had recently bought a lawnmower, much to her exasperation. She was still washing clothes by hand–an enormous chore in such a large household–yet her dear husband had only thought to buy something the boys could use as they mowed the tiny 10 square metre patch of stubborn grass that grew in front of the house. She joked that with the hose she could make sure the grass grew, giving the boys something to do with their new toy.

I knew my parents' visit was a big deal for the family. It was one thing to have me stay with them but it was another altogether for my parents to spend the weekend. What seemed to us such an ordinary occurrence was extraordinary by South African standards. You might occasionally find a young white community worker in the black townships but this lifestyle choice was rarely something the parents supported, let alone became part of. For many, the decision to work with the black community had cost them their relationship with their families; most white South Africa parents felt betrayed by their child choosing a black world view and cut them off to express their displeasure. I was touched that my parents had not thought twice about coming to stay despite the many stories that exist about the dangers of the townships. While Caluza had been extremely dangerous a few weeks before, now it was simply a place where ordinary people lived.

After a leisurely tea in the lounge room, discussing family and my parents' experiences in Zimbabwe, Dad retired to the front stoep leaving Mum and Mama Skhosana still chatting while I went through to the kitchen to see if I could help with lunch. Dad made himself comfortable on a crate and sat enjoying the view up the valley, back towards Phezulu. Across the road, the principal's six-year-old daughter spotted him sitting there and decided to come over to investigate. As a frequent visitor to the Skhosana household, she no longer found the sight of a visiting white person odd and confidently approached Dad to ask him who he was. They introduced themselves and then Phumzile asked Dad if she could sing him a song. My father, enchanted, agreed. Dad did not generally have a way with children, being a little gruff without meaning to be. In fact, he had been known to make children cry just by staring at them the wrong way, much to his own distress. But as he aged, he softened a little. Phumzile's confidence had allowed her to slip under his defences and he sat mesmerised as this little girl sang and swayed, moving through her school and church repertoire of English songs as she sought to entertain him.

So engrossed was he that he didn't look up until the army truck was almost upon them. The armoured vehicle holding a dozen young white soldiers, M5 rifles poised, pulled to a halt by the front gate, blocking the driveway. As the soldiers climbed down a young lieutenant, baffled by my father's presence, approached and demanded to know how he had got there. I emerged from the house just in time to hear Dad reply through gritted teeth, ‘By hire car'. Trying to calm him with a warning look, I explained that we were simply visiting the minister and his family for lunch. But the officer was unimpressed: he had come to search the house for guns, he told us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father's shoulders tense moments before he started berating our unwelcome visitors for disturbing the family. Half a dozen soldiers entered the house, guns at the ready, and chased all its occupants out onto the stoep. I stood nervously waiting, hoping that Jabulani and Bonani had long since removed the gun they had given to Baba Skhosana a few weeks earlier.

After twenty minutes, Mama Skhosana had had enough. She stormed back into the house and gave the lieutenant a dressing down: ‘This is quite enough. I have international visitors in my home for lunch and before the food is completely ruined I want you out'. I was as astonished as the lieutenant. Mama Skhosana, though certainly a strong woman, had always patiently served her husband and her family without protest. Clearly a line had been crossed. I suspect the lieutenant was already satisfied there were no guns to be found, but in any case Mama Skhosana's bold words brought proceedings to an abrupt end. The soldiers left without a word of apology. Quickly, I stepped in front of my father to ensure he made no parting comment that might reverse their departure and watched with relief as the vehicle turned and slowly made its way back down the hill.

Lunch was served in a furry of excitement as the girls teased their mother for chasing the army away. However, their visit precipitated a discussion of the recent Seven Day War, something I had yet to explain to my parents in any detail. Too late, I heard Mama Skhosana say, ‘You must be very proud of Sandy. She was very brave'. What followed was a blow by blow description of the conflict with each family member adding their own slightly exaggerated account of my activities. I don't know why I had always sanitised the information I gave my parents about my life in those first years in South Africa. I told myself I was trying to protect them from worry, but perhaps it was me I was trying to protect. As I watched their faces that day, I wasn't sure pride was one of the emotions written there. But I was to see over the ensuing weeks, as my parents experienced some of the inequities of apartheid, that they would have done the same.

After lunch I took Mum and Dad for a walk around the neighbourhood, bumping into Themba and Zodwa, popping into the shops, all with Phumzile in tow. If Mum and Dad thought walking through the streets of Hilton had attracted some attention, it was nothing compared to the show-stopper this afternoon stroll had become. By now, my Zulu was progressing well. One of the delights of understanding a language that people don't expect you to speak, is eavesdropping on conversations you are never meant to hear. As we passed each group on the street, exchanging polite Zulu greetings, they would walk off expressing astonishment and speculating as to the reason for our presence in the township. Their theories varied but it was always the fact that we were on foot that was most puzzling.

When we returned to the house, Baba Skhosana was home and horrified to hear that his guests had been subjected to a search by an army patrol. Tea was once more served in the lounge so that stories of my parents' travels, family history and life in Australia could be told, filling Baba Skhosana in on what he had missed.

Mum commented to me later that the tone in the house changed dramatically when Baba Skhosana was around, everyone seeming to withdraw from the common areas of the house, virtually leaving him to hold court. I explained that while African culture was still heavily patriarchal the running of South African households varied considerably. Respect for the patriarch was certainly more prevalent in rural areas than in urban ones but the earning capacity of the man was also a major factor. In this household, Baba Skhosana was a strong provider and so was accorded respect and deference. However, I had observed in other households where the men were unemployed that a powerful matriarchy prevailed. The next morning, Mum noticed another distinguishing feature of Baba Skhosana's presence in the house–he was the only one who had the knack of flushing the toilet. The cistern was particularly temperamental, giving the family another reason to be glad of Baba's return home each evening.

After breakfast we set off early for the funeral which was to be held down the south coast. Because it was a family member, Mama Skhosana had been there earlier in the week to take food and cash to help with the hosting of the funeral. We drove in two cars, taking the freeway down to Durban and then heading south for another hour, turning inland at Umkomaas towards Umgababa. We drove up into the green, treeless windswept hills until we came upon a cluster of houses that marked the area where Mama Skhosana had grown up. I spotted the large white marquee that signals the open community feast of both weddings and funerals and wondered how this event would differ from the many urban funerals I had attended.

After greeting the elders of Mama Skhosana's family, who sat in the shelter of the house, we made our way to the marquee where speeches and prayers had been flowing since dawn. Despite my parents' protests we were ushered up to the front of the gathering where the coffin stood on an undertaker's trolley, tilting slightly on the uneven ground. As we sat, the minister stood. From a temporary lectern set up next to the coffin, he launched into a typically exuberant African sermon. After thirty minutes of this Mum, not having sat through an African sermon before, leant across and asked whether perhaps he was inciting the people to violence. I assured her that his enthusiasm was only for the Lord and that he was inspiring us to join God's army, not a Zulu
impi
.

During this hour-long sermon (the longer the sermon, the more respected the deceased was) the marquee was full of other activity. Guests came and went, children ran through the open sides of the tent and two men returned to the coffin at regular intervals, appearing to measure the coffin against a stick one man was holding. When Dad couldn't contain his curiosity any longer, he followed the men out of the tent as they made their way to the graveside. He returned to his seat and whispered that these men were gravediggers and were using the stick to measure their progress on the depth of the grave. Finally, just before the minister finished his speech, a dog wandered through the open tent flap near the coffin and proceeded to lift its leg on the undertaker's trolley, with my parents and I seeming to be the only people who found this odd.

From the marquee we moved to the graveside where the gravediggers stood proudly beside their handiwork. The coffin was lowered in and a few more words said before it was covered over. I could only assume that Mama Skhosana's cousin was old and therefore his death not unexpected, as the whole event had the festivity of a church picnic.

From the graveside, Mama Skhosana took us to a house further up the hill. As we made the climb, I was taken aback by the beauty of the area. Despite the howling wind and the harsh light, the view back towards the coast was breathtaking. At the top of the hill was a larger house that, to my mother's delight, boasted a pit toilet. Mama Skhosana told us we would be having our meal here to avoid the long queues back at the marquee. We were treated to a fabulous lunch along with stories of the family's history in the area and their great pride at Mama Skhosana marrying a minister and giving him a large, healthy family. My mother was asked how many children she had. ‘Two–a boy and a girl', she replied proudly, only to receive commiserations from the women present. ‘She was sick', I whispered in Zulu. ‘Ah', they nodded sagely. It was a question and response Mum quickly became used to during her month-long stay.

I returned to work the next day, with Mum and Dad slipping back into their Phezulu routine. Where I could, I took them with me when Robbie and I visited a school or a youth group, giving them a better feel for what I was doing.

On the Wednesday of that week, we were sitting around the lunch table when a call came through from Mdu. His boss, Victor Afrikander, who was the head of the Pietermaritzburg Council of Churches and a local Imbali minister, had been shot in the head while sitting at the traffic lights. He had been taking his granddaughter to preschool when the assailants pulled up alongside his car and put a bullet through the window. Victor was dead and his granddaughter in a serious condition in hospital, the bullet having gone through her grandfather and lodged in her body. The assassination had taken place downtown and its audacity was shocking. Mdu told me he was now afraid for his life and would be going underground for a while.

I took Mum and Dad to the commemorative ceremony where thousands of people turned out to honour Victor's memory. Sitting at the front of the enormous hall was his granddaughter, her tiny bandaged head bowed in grief. It is an image that has stayed with us to this day.

On one of my days off, my parents and I went to visit a friend, Bongani, whom I knew through the youth leadership programs we ran. He was keen to meet my parents so I promised we would drop in when we got a chance. As there was no phone in the tiny shack he shared with his grandmother visits were always hit and miss. When we arrived at his home on the edge of Imbali, Bongani was not there but his grandmother was delighted to welcome us regardless. The house was made of corrugated iron and consisted of three rooms: a lounge, a kitchen and a bedroom. Bongani's grandmother offered us a seat in the tiny lounge while she went into the kitchen to boil water on the small paraffin stove. While waiting for the water to boil, she went to wake Bongani's nine-month-old son who was asleep on the bed. Mum was given the baby to hold and he stared up into her face with round, surprised eyes. Over tea, the grandmother told us that she was constantly afraid, living in Imbali. She pointed to the wall around the front door and there, unnoticed until now, were twenty or thirty bullet holes. She told us she had decided to take the baby and return to the rural area where she was born. She believed that if they stayed, her grandson and great grandson would not survive. Bongani was refusing to leave but agreed, for the safety of his son, that she should go.