Holding Up the Sky (24 page)

Dad, spurred on by the success of Beth's photos earlier in the day, offered to show these women photos of my brother. The women quickly accepted, as I translated his offer. But their delight turned to horror as my father proceeded to undo his belt and loosen his trousers to access the hidden pouch around his waist. Having no idea what this white man was doing, but not liking the look of it, they began to scream and cover their faces with their shirts. I jumped to reassure them that my father was only wishing to show them the photos and nothing else while Dad quickly pulled out the plastic photo holder before turning and making himself decent again. By this time, Fred was almost paralytic with laughter, red-faced as he struggled to take a breath. Once I had the photos in my hand I convinced the women to remove their shirts from their faces. I promised that Dad, now fully clothed and presentable, would not shame them further. They seemed to enjoy looking at the photos but kept a wary eye on my father while they did so.

As we continued our stroll along the road, the sound of bells and singing wafted past. Up ahead, having just turned the corner, was a group of some twenty girls in full, bare-breasted Zulu regalia. They wore the attire of young maidens: short leather skirts, long loops of beads over their bare chests, and thick anklets and bracelets covering every limb. We realised that the tinkling sound was coming from the shuffling movement the girls made with their ankles and feet, some of which were strapped with bells and others with soft drink tops, all of which shook and rattled as they pounded their feet in time against the earth. We asked Fred what the occasion was and he guessed that it was part of a wedding celebration taking place further up the valley that weekend. We stood and watched as they snaked their way past us, vibrant with colour and song, waving and smiling at their exotic audience on the roadside.

The day before my parents were to leave, Robbie was working with Themba on a tin craft workshop as he had yet to bend the tin to his will. While he was busy cutting a piece of tin to size, the cutters slipped, sending a small shard of tin into Robbie's eye. Themba ran for Steve and together they took him to a hospital in the city to get the injury seen to. Mum and Dad had been collecting the post when this happened, so only heard of the incident when they returned. I agreed to take them to see Robbie the next morning, as they didn't want to go without saying goodbye and we had dinner plans that night. They were very fond of Robbie and had particularly enjoyed the meal we shared with him and his sister Happy at their home in Azalea township.

But this night, we were having our last supper at a Greek restaurant in town. Mdu, who had been in hiding for a few weeks, was very keen to meet my parents before they left and decided to risk meeting us in a public place. We drove to the restaurant and were shown through to our table. Mdu had asked me to book a table in the back so that he could keep an eye on the front door. While this might have seemed like cloak and dagger material to my parents when they first arrived, they now knew that it was simply a necessary precaution. We sat at the table and waited for about twenty minutes, at which point I suggested we order, thinking perhaps that it had been too hard for Mdu to get to us. Just after we had placed our orders, however, he appeared through the door to the bathrooms, telling us he had jumped over the back fence and entered the restaurant from the rear. I laughed at him at the time, but in a few years his best friend would be gunned down as he left a city restaurant by the front door; I was wrong to make light of his situation. After the drama of Mdu's entry, we settled down to a marvellous meal. Mdu was his usual charming self, taking great delight in telling my parents about a few of my adventures that I had forgotten to divulge. They were impressed by his articulate intelligence and insight into the many topics that he and my father discussed. They commented on the way home that the country would be poorer if men like Mdu were lost.

The next morning, we set out early to visit Robbie in hospital. At the Med-citi Clinic we were told that Robbie was no longer there: he had been taken to casualty but after seeing the doctor, and without Steve's knowledge, he had been transferred to Edendale Hospital. My parents by now understood the unspoken implication–the Clinic was for white patients; black patients belonged at Edendale Hospital in the township. My father, though clearly angry, was no longer surprised by this kind of discrimination. When we finally found Robbie, it was almost eleven o'clock. He had a large white patch on his eye and was clearly pleased to see us. Robbie told me later that his treatment in the hospital dramatically improved after our visit, his status having been raised by the attention of three foreign visitors.

Saying goodbye to my parents again was hard. I had become used to sharing my life with them, having someone with whom to discuss my marvel, distress or anger as the events of each day unfolded. Over the course of the month, I had taken my parents to a wedding and two funerals, a youth rally and a jazz club. We had visited friends both black and white. They had been to a rural area, stayed in a township, been tourists and volunteered their time fetching milk, bread and post. Dad had even done some landscaping around the cottage in his spare time. They had been asked to confront discrimination, violence and despair and yet through it all they had displayed a graciousness and curiosity in each situation that made me proud to be their daughter.

I doubt whether many people in their mid fifties would have handled themselves so well. Mum and Dad's exposure to the world had been largely through printed word at that stage. After leaving the dairy farm to return to Sydney for Jon's and my schooling, they had bought a small library in Chatswood that they turned into a highly successful bookstore. Mum read everything and was the kind of person who would be able to locate a book based on a whiff of a clue: ‘I think it has some red on the cover and the author's name begins with a T '. Dad, on the other hand, read only non-fiction which gave him the ability to have an in-depth conversation on any political or economic topic imaginable. Though neither had finished school, both had educated themselves beyond what any Masters degree would have had to offer.

Having them share the fabric of my life in South Africa so fully was a gift that ultimately allowed me to stay. It would have been so easy for them to take fright at the dangers my life presented but they chose not to, instead leaving me to do what they knew I felt I must.

‘Hello? It's me.'

‘Hello me. Did you forget to tell me something?'

‘No. I have to talk to you.'

‘About what?'

‘About coming down to Grahamstown.'

‘I can't wait.'

‘I don't think you should come.'

‘Why?'

‘Because we have to stop.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's too painful, Sandy. I can't do it anymore. We have to stop this.'

‘Don't give up on us. I love you.'

‘That's the problem. I love you and I can't ignore the reality anymore. It's too hurtful to be with you, knowing that it has to end.'

‘We can have a future if we want it badly enough.'

‘I can't do it. I won't survive if I'm cut off from my community.'

‘I don't want to be without you. I'll live with whatever that means.'

‘Sandy, I can't.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘I don't want that life for either of us.'

‘Are you saying it's not worth it?'

‘I couldn't bear to always be different, always apart, simply because of the colour of my wife's skin. I can't live that life.'

‘I can.'

‘I don't want you to. In the end, it will be too hard and it will fall apart with us hating each other.'

‘It won't. I believe it's possible. I can't accept that apartheid is right.'

‘I'm not saying that.'

‘That's what it means.'

‘I just can't. I will always love you, but I can't.'

‘So you'll marry a black woman instead, just because it will be easier?'

‘Sandy.'

‘Even the thought of it ...'

‘Stop.'

‘Msizi, don't give up.'

‘Stop.'

‘Don't give up.'

‘You have to let it go.'

‘I don't know how when I still love you.'

‘I will stop calling.'

‘I couldn't bear that.'

‘I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

And so it ended, after more than two years of Msizi turning my world, grounding my experiences, giving me courage. I knew I was asking a lot of him, but I had always hoped that the strength of our connection would see us through. And it did–just not in the way I had imagined at the time. We have always stayed in touch, not so close as to resurrect anything between us but close enough to remain friends.

At that time, though, I saw only a future without him. I had a depth of connection with him that was almost unreasonable. My brother could not see what we had in common that kept us together but our bond was like an underground spring that sustained us both. The thought of being without that, particularly after the trauma of the Seven Day War, blew through me like a gale rattling an abandoned house. I was bereft and without direction and a depression began to creep over me that turned my limbs to stone.

But life went on in the days that followed and so I allowed the work to fill my waking hours. Robbie, of course, was my confidant during our many hours in the bakkie, driving from one part of the township to another. He wisely offered little advice, but rather listened as my thoughts turned round and round in search of possibilities that always ended in a stalemate. In the evenings when I was alone at the cottage–Mama Jenny usually in bed before 9.00–I set aside my mental fight with Msizi's decision, leaving my heart the opportunity to miss him. Even though we had spent the vast majority of our relationship apart, the knowledge that he was no longer accessible to me–despite still caring for me–festered like an open wound.

A week before things ended with Msizi, Matt and Bee had returned to 'Maritzburg and were staying with us at Phezulu for a couple of weeks. Matt was now working for an Australian aid agency and was visiting to approve our proposal for funding. He, Bee and Steve were also working on a book for use with church youth groups, based on case studies of some of the young people we worked with. Given that Matt and Bee were visiting, it was harder to pull away and be on my own; this probably saved me from turning too far inwards and letting the emotional heaviness take me over. Despite myself, I enjoyed Matt and Bee's stay at Phezulu. Bee, who was now a journalist back in Sydney, had retained the same quirky sense of humour that couldn't help but break the darkness of any mood. And Matt's ‘cup half full' philosophy of life was as infectious as always. They laboured away on their writing during the day but joined in as many community activities as they could, including team lunches, weekend programs and home group.

Home group was a weekly get-together of a number of friends who, like myself, were struggling to find a way to hold onto their faith while still working within the harsh realities of the South African experience. We had been meeting for well over a year now and the group included Steve and Beth, myself, Jacques and Margie from ETHOS, Brian and Anthea who had been at the Centre with us (with Anthea now working at the local newspaper), Fred when he was in town, his girlfriend Heather and any other ring-ins who were visiting. Robbie joined us from time to time as did Mdu and Themba. Even Sipho was a regular while he lived with us. Mum and Dad had also been a part of it during their stay, despite being agnostic themselves. Of late, Jacques and Margie often brought Teboho with them, particularly as he didn't go back to Jo'burg for the mid-semester break, so I was getting to know him a bit better as well. We took turns to meet in each other's homes, sometimes sharing a meal, sometimes just dessert and coffee. Home group was a haven where we all laid down the troubles of the day and helped each other find sufficient meaning to keep moving forward. It also cemented many of these friendships so that they would last for many years to come.

When it was time for Matt and Bee to leave, I decided to catch a lift with them to Jo'burg and spend my long weekend with Barry and Rags at their new home on the edge of the sprawling Thembisa township. Through their friendship with Jacques and Margie, they knew Msizi and so were happy to provide my means of escape for what would otherwise have been a very lonely break back at Phezulu. They showed me around the township where they were now doing very similar work to Sizwe's but focusing primarily on dialogue between black and white churches in Jo'burg. In fact, Barry was facilitating an overnight visit by a white church group that weekend. They were staying in the homes of members of the black church, a first for everyone involved, with Barry running a workshop on Saturday on the Church's role in apartheid. The visit finished with the white group joining their black hosts for church on Sunday morning followed by a lunch. Normally, this would have been an exciting program to be part of.

But I needed a break from my day-to-day routine so Rags and I took the chance to sit back and relax, catching up on all the news from Sizwe and the recent events in my personal life. I vividly remember sitting in Rags' kitchen over breakfast on Sunday morning telling her that, at twenty-four, I now had no hope for a long-term relationship. It brings a smile to my face as I write, but at the time, I was despondent. My life was predominantly in the black community and yet, if Msizi was to be believed, there would be no hope of a life partner there. However, the choice to work in townships had effectively alienated me from the majority of the white community. On top of that, my South African experiences were so far removed from the lives of an average Australian that I didn't see how I could find one who would identify with how I now saw the world. Rags, good friend that she was, sensed my despair and chose not to jolly me out of my somewhat melodramatic conclusion. Instead, she listened and understood.

I returned to 'Maritzburg somewhat refreshed and decided it was time to move back in with the Skhosanas, if they would have me. I reasoned that if I was committed to being in the township I should be there fully. I had also enjoyed the strong sense of community I experienced in Caluza, even during the war. After a discussion with Baba Skhosana it was agreed that I would move back in, though this time he would let me have an outside room, given that I was a working woman and needed to come and go. We agreed on a monthly contribution to the household for food and rent and then I went off to buy myself a bed and a cupboard.

Because the cottage was furnished and my monthly stipend small, I actually owned very little–just my clothes, my cat and a small stereo. I agreed to leave the stereo with Mama Jenny as she enjoyed the music and in return, she agreed to look after my cat. I didn't think Sombu would do too well in the township where pets are simply functional and frequently end up under the wheel of a car. On top of that, the Skhosanas had just got themselves a dog, a friendly little ‘pavement special' as Fred called dogs of dubious heritage, whom the kids instantly named Freedom. The irony was that Freedom was tied up on a chain in the yard twenty-four hours a day. He fell over himself with delight when anyone bent down to give him a pat. So while Mama Jenny adopted Sombu for a while, I promised myself I would keep an eye out for Freedom.

I settled back in quickly, with Robbie fetching Themba and I at the bottom of the street each morning on his way up Sweetwaters Road. It would have taken hours of connecting taxis for Robbie to get home each night under his own steam, so Steve had long since agreed that Robbie would drop Themba in Caluza and then drive on through Imbali to Azalea, keeping the bakkie with him overnight and returning via the same route in the morning. Robbie and I were soon run off our feet with a series of dialogue programs and leadership training.

On my weekend off, I had been invited to a farewell party that Sipho and his family were throwing for one of the volunteers in the Imbali Support Group. This volunteer was returning to the United States and many people from across Imbali wished to send him on his way with their thanks and best wishes. We had a great night, Sipho's parents in particular seeming to enjoy hosting their friends in their home during these happier times, in stark contrast to when we stayed over as part of the Support Group work. Sipho's father was a taller version of Sipho himself, clearly a larrikin in his younger days but now an affectionate father and husband. Sipho's mother was stout of body and heart and was the source of courage for each one of her children. As a family they had suffered a great deal and I watched with delight, seeing them together again under the same roof.

I was stunned therefore when, two days later, the news came through that Sipho's father had been gunned down on his way to work. The gunmen, though identifed by witnesses, were never tried for his murder. The family had been regularly harassed and attacked by some of the more notorious members of Inkatha, partly for Sipho's involvement with the UDF and partly for his father's. We all assumed this was all part of making the family pay for their choices as well as deterring others from following their example.

So I stood with the family that weekend as we buried Sipho's father, still yet to become accustomed to the loss of those who had become so dear to me. Some of the women beside us began to sing a haunting lament,
‘Senzenina, senzenina?'
What have we done, what have we done, we black people, to deserve this? Their singing swept around us all as tears fell onto the dirt at our feet. I could not imagine how Sipho's mother bore the burden of more grief in her life. I was glad for her rock-like faith in God but wondered if one day it would break from the constant testing. I suspect that Sipho's heart was broken as it was not long afterwards that Monica began to look into the possibilities of him studying in Canada.

After I'd been living in the township for a few weeks Steve raised the issue of my language studies which had largely been interrupted by the war. He told me that there was to be a two-week intensive language lab at the University of Natal and asked if I was interested in attending. I was impressed by Steve's commitment to the development of the team. He regularly provided opportunities for us to improve our effectiveness and I was keen to one day become fluent in Zulu–so I jumped at the offer and enrolled.

For those two weeks, instead of going to work with Robbie and Themba each morning, I jumped a taxi into town, then caught another to the university ten minutes drive from the city centre. I knew a few people on campus, mostly lecturers and a few who worked for organisations affiliated with the university. Brian, who with his wife Anthea was a regular at home group, lectured in the Science Department. I also knew Fiona and her husband Rod. Fiona worked in the newly established Centre for Academic Development and Rod ran an environmental consultancy.

Sizwe had quite a strong relationship with the Department of Organisational and Family Psychology which, given the nature of our work, was often involved in the rehabilitation of some of the young people under our care. One of their psychologists by the name of Vernon had also been running stress management workshops with the team each month since the beginning of the year, again something that Steve had put in place to support both the development and the mental health of the team.

But my closest connections were with ETHOS. I had become very close to Margie since she and Jacques moved to 'Maritzburg and, through her, had come to know many of the students: Alice, Teboho, Pat, Nimrod and others. Hearing that I was going to be on campus every day, Margie invited me to join them for the daily community lunch they had at the ETHOS residence. So this became my habit and it led to the forming of a number of relationships–one in particular– that would be very influential in my life.

Of all the ETHOS students, I had spent the most time with Teboho up until that point. What I didn't know then was that Teboho had been smitten with me ever since I turned up at ETHOS late one night a few months before, face blackened, asking for help with a kombi full of children who needed somewhere safe to stay. He apparently told Pat, his closest friend at the residence, ‘Now there's a woman after my own heart'. It seems the real reason he had started attending home group was that it was his only opportunity to get to know me better. So when Teboho heard that I would be on campus for two weeks and–thanks to Margie who was a hopeless matchmaker– that I was no longer spoken for, Teboho was determined to make the most of the time. In the first few days on campus, I did notice how attentive he was–but I also knew that Teboho was a complete extrovert, constantly surrounding himself with friends, so I thought nothing of it. I was also still licking my wounds from my breakup with Msizi and a new romance was not on my mind.