Holding Up the Sky (28 page)

Khumo's husband, Moss, worked for an organisation called Concerned Evangelicals (CE). It had similar goals to SUCA's but worked among all the evangelical churches, not limiting itself to the student population. One of the programs that it established was the Evangelical Theological House of Studies (ETHOS). Historically, pastor training for evangelical churches was done in small theological colleges that lacked the rigour and stretch of a large tertiary institution. As a result, it was felt that evangelical pastors were not adequately equipped to serve the needs of their communities. ETHOS was established in partnership with the University of Natal in Pietermaritzburg to provide future pastors with high quality education.

Through SUCA, Teboho was involved in establishing ETHOS and went on to become, at Moss's insistence, included in the first intake of students. He and I first met at the opening of ETHOS on campus in January 1990. I had no idea that he would return a few weeks later to begin his studies.

Over time, Te.boho told me of his history. I admired so many things about him and his experiences. He learnt the importance of family through the love of his mother and siblings. He learnt discipline, entrepreneurship and empathy through his years on the streets. He demonstrated generosity, courage and perseverance. Above all, he retained a sense of humour and perspective that saw him through tremendous difficulties. But underneath all these strengths, I also saw a simmering rage about the injustices he and his family had suffered. It was a rage that was impossible to express in full without destroying everything around him, so the rage, when it did surface, often found expression in depression and inertia. At some level, he knew that to survive he had to keep the monster at bay and keep moving forward, creating a future that would be different from his painful past.

I think Teboho is very like his father: a man who marched to the beat of his own drum. So it may have been that my soul recognised a kindred spirit in Teboho, someone who was always uniquely himself. Neither he nor I wished to be like everybody else, but rather to live our lives feeling free to take risks, try new things and take a course of action because it was, ultimately, the right thing to do.

SEVERAL
PRIVATE SCHOOLS IN SOUTH AFRICA HAD EXPERIMENTED WITH RACIAL INTEGRATION FOR THE PAST FEW YEARS. THE NUMBERS OF BLACK STUDENTS WERE SMALL, AND THEY OFTEN FELT VULNERABLE AND EXPOSED. ALL THE SAME, IT WAS A BRAVE IDEOLOGICAL MOVE. RACIAL INTEGRATION WAS NOW SOMETHING THAT WAS ON THE CARDS FOR ALL SCHOOLS IN THE COMING YEARS AND THEREFORE A TOPIC OF DISCUSSION AT SIZWE.

While our work could serve to lay the foundations for integration among students, we were very aware that the teachers, who would be most influential in leading or blocking the success of multiracial schooling, were not yet part of our programs. And so we began to discuss ways to leverage our strong relationships with local schools to include a teachers' program. After much thought, we decided that a teachers' exchange would be the most effective way of giving teachers a glimpse into the lives of their peers and, hopefully, shifting their thinking. The logical conclusion of multiracial schools was not only a mixed student body but also a racially mixed faculty, something that would ultimately prove far more unacceptable to white parents than even the thought of a sixteen-year-old black boy sitting next to their daughter. Black teachers also worried that they would be unable to instil any kind of discipline in a classroom where the only relationship white students had had with black adults was one of servant and master.

It was into this cauldron of emotion that we launched a new program. To our surprise, and to the credit of the schools in 'Maritzburg, many principals and teachers signed up for the program, wanting to be on the front foot with integration before it became law. Neither we nor the schools had any idea what the outcomes might be as we began to book program dates for the end of that year and into the following.

About that same time we had a few more Australian volunteers coming to work at Sizwe, all of whom had been part of my church in Australia. Phil and Kathy, a married couple, were coming to stay for a month on their way back from a year in the States. Natalie, a very close friend of mine, was coming to stay for two months and had agreed to stay in the township with me; Kathy and Phil were using my old room in the cottage.

I was loving living in the township and was now feeling very much at home. Nevertheless, the idea of sharing the experience with Nat had me on the edge of my seat in the weeks before her arrival. I was looking forward to sharing the life I had created for myself with someone who had known me for years. I was also aware that she might calibrate this experience for me as I had rapidly become acclimatised to township living and was now taking much of it for granted.

Nat told her parents that she would be visiting me as part of a year travelling and working overseas. While she told them of her plans to do volunteer work with us for two months, she neglected to tell them that this would involve living in a black township. She feared, as I had, that imagining your child living in a township was much worse than the reality of it; best tell them about it after the fact.

Nat–easygoing, intelligent and respectful of others–is the kind of person who is loved by everyone. In fact, my parents had long since selected her as the person they most wished my brother would marry. Sadly, my brother did not bow to family pressure on this one. The Skhosanas fell in love with Nat immediately and were more than happy to have her share their home. She stayed in the outside room with me since, despite their open arms, there was as usual precious little space inside. So Nat and I had what felt to me like a two-month slumber party. For Nat, however, things took a little getting used to.

I had long since stopped noticing the stares I received when I was out and about in the township. On our first visit to the shop down the street, Nat stood by the door watching as all other business came to a standstill while I picked out the items we needed for supper and went up to the small grille window to pay. I must admit that two white women shopping in the township was a rare occurrence, but two tall blonde women made the contrast even more apparent.

I had also learnt to ignore the stares of young men who seemed ever confident in their ability to win the hearts of young township women, despite constant refusals. It was accepted practice for these young women to send their potential suitors packing, regardless of their interest in them. In African culture, it is not becoming for a woman to appear too enthusiastic: it is a man's job to chase, a woman's to deny for as long as possible. So when young men began approaching Nat with promises of undying love, she politely told them she was just visiting and while she was very flattered by their compelling offer, she wasn't in a position to marry them at this time. I had got to the stage of telling them to get lost with the same dismissiveness as my township peers, no longer concerned that they might be hurt by such directness. Nat's longwinded and kind response gave them hope that she was indeed impressed by their proposal and it was only a matter of time and due process before they would have her.

Nat had to learn the hard way, as had I, about the longsuffering determination of young African men in the pursuit of a trophy girlfriend. She spent weeks hiding from the young men who would loiter outside the house, out of view of Baba Skhosana, or follow us to the taxi rank, all in the hopes of convincing Nat to be their girlfriend.

Nat was also horrified that despite all this effort, her young suitors would almost definitely be pursuing three or four other young women with the same dogged enthusiasm. By the end of the two months, Nat could turn on a young man as he tenderly uttered ‘I love you' and dispatch him with razor-sharp words.

She also discovered that I had become an agony aunt and women's health consultant in the township–I can only assume that the colour of my skin provided me with the mantle of ‘she who knows'. I was consulted on issues as diverse as stretch marks, skin irritations, boy problems and career advice. But when one young woman asked me how to tighten her vagina after her second child was born, I was at a loss. She continued to press me for help, afraid that her boyfriend would leave her for a younger woman who was ‘tight'. I timidly suggested pelvic floor exercises to this virtual stranger and made a hasty escape.

After this experience, Nat and I went to consult our own oracle– Zodwa. She was a woman of the world and not afraid to talk about it. She explained about the sexual politics of the township in some detail, describing how sex was a currency among young people, to be bartered and exchanged. A young man, once the magic words ‘I love you' were offered up and, in time, accepted, expected sex to be immediately forthcoming. Sex would involve quick penetrative intercourse in some dark corner near the young woman's house– black teenagers lacking the automotive venue many of their white counterparts possessed. Should the young woman refuse, it was over. She also knew that he was seeing many other young women who would be more than willing to meet his demands.

I sometimes wondered whether township violence, which seemed to cost many young men their lives, simply meant that there were fewer young men around, leading to this kind of behaviour–that was certainly what they told me in their own defence. ‘We are nation building', they would say, if challenged. ‘There are not enough men around so we are willing to sacrifice ourselves for the good of women everywhere. Each one has a right to a man, after all.'

I asked Zodwa about women's sexual pleasure and orgasms, but she stared blankly back at me. Not high on the agenda, I surmised. She went on to tell me, to my horror, than many men liked their women to be dry as it increased the friction and therefore their pleasure. She described a herb that could be used to promote dryness. However, I suspect that a lack of attention to a woman's pleasure and the speed at which these interchanges occurred would be enough to sort that out.

While the township was relatively quiet, allowing plenty of time for many of the in-depth conversations we had been having, there was still an army presence that I preferred to avoid. In Nat's first week of living in the township she lay awake one night unable to get to sleep. I was out for the count in the bed across from her. Lying there in the dark, she thought she heard a distant rumbling. As she strained to hear, her body tense with worry, she suddenly knew what it was: the sound of a truck in low gear. The noise continued for what seemed like hours, coming ever louder and closer. Nat was convinced it was the army which, having heard we were here, were coming for us. Soon the noise was loud enough to wake me. As I opened my eyes I saw Nat sitting upright in bed, eyes wide, looking towards the window. She saw me move and raised her eyebrows questioningly, but neither of us spoke: we were both holding our breath as the rumbling climaxed. The truck must have now been directly outside. We heard it change down a gear and continue its strenuous journey up the hill and around, seeming to retrace the route taken by the police vans during the Seven Day War.

As the sound passed, I started to giggle, which was followed closely by Nat aiming her pillow at my head. The look of crushed relief on Nat's face, lit by the outside light that shone through the curtains, sent me into waves of laughter. My concern had lasted only a few moments, whereas she had virtually given herself a stomach ulcer with the worry of what might happen to us. But soon we were both laughing as Nat recounted the thoughts that had run through her head.

A few days later, we were rushing to get ready for work, having agreed to meet Robbie down at the shop five minutes earlier. Nat grabbed her knapsack and ran out of the room while I stopped to lock the door. When I turned around to follow her she was standing frozen at the corner of the house, looking up the driveway. She waved one hand for me to stay where I was.

‘What is it?' I hissed.

‘It's the army', she replied out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Well, get back!'

‘I can't. They've seen me. They're in the driveway.'

I stood there for a moment, weighing up options but clearly there were none. So I came around the corner and walked up to the soldiers gathered by the gate. I tried to walk straight past them with simply a greeting. Nat, taking my lead, tried to do the same. But it was no good. The soldiers were clearly astonished to see two young white women emerging from the back of the house and moved quickly to block our path. The officer in charge leapt down the stairs from the front door where he had been standing, firing questions as he ran. I calmly told him that we worked with a community organisation and were simply staying overnight with friends. I added that we were now late for work and had to go. But he was having none of it and wanted our names and the name of our organisation. I felt Nat stiffen behind me. My brain started whirring–is it better to give false names or tell the truth? I was all too aware that Nat was here on a tourist visa; there would be problems for her and for Sizwe if they did check up on us. In the end, there was nothing for it but to tell the truth. I tried to push away the feeling of a chastened schoolgirl as I stood in front of the officer, watching him note down our names. Before letting us go he warned us that he didn't want to see us here again.

As Nat and I walked down the road towards the shop I could see Robbie standing next to the little red bakkie. I knew Nat was scared but I was more angry than anything, angry at the invasion of our privacy. Seeing the look on Nat's face, I assured her the army guys were regularly rotated and that, if we bumped into an army patrol again, it would probably not be the same officer. In fact, we had been lucky it was not the police whose territories are more constant and who tend to hold grudges. I gave her a questioning smile which she bravely tried to return. We filled Robbie in on our way up Sweetwaters Road and he roared with laughter at the thought of us both standing frozen in the driveway. I also found it funny in the retelling, though it took Nat a good week before she could look back on it and laugh.

Nat, Phil and Kathy were involved in all aspects of our life and work at Sizwe, including home group. Someone new, with whom I would form a strong friendship, had also recently joined home group and I watched as he expressed more than a passing interest in Nat. Justin, who was a friend of Jacques and Margie's from Grahamstown where he had studied at Rhodes University, was now on campus in 'Maritzburg. He became a regular at the ETHOS lunches as well as joining us for home group. Justin's father was a wealthy mine executive but Justin wanted a different life for himself; he wanted to make a different kind of contribution and was also interested in the work of Sizwe, ETHOS and other community based organisations.

Up until this point, the time that Teboho and I had spent together as a couple was very much out of the public eye. We often met up at ETHOS on weekends, saw each other at home group, or went to social events with the community development workers or activists in 'Maritzburg. What we rarely did was to go out for dinner or a movie, go to the park or have lunch at a cafe in town. I had learnt from being out in white society with my black friends that even a platonic relationship was not well tolerated, let alone a love affair. With just the two of us, I felt exposed and a target for verbal or physical abuse. Having Nat with us, and later Justin, gave me a sense of normality as our foursome was less visible and therefore less vulnerable. During the months that Nat spent with us, our relationship became less cautious and less guarded. Yet I was never to feel completely relaxed in public, always keeping one eye open for trouble. Even with all the changes that were to occur in South Africa, I retained this habit.

Friends of Kathy and Phil had a penthouse apartment on one of the beaches in the north of Durban and we were all invited down to make use of it for the weekend. So we borrowed the kombi one Friday afternoon and made the hour's drive down to Durban, arriving at Umhlanga Beach at sunset. In 1990, Umhlanga was yet to become the holiday resort it is today and was still more like a suburb of Durban. We pulled up in front of the apartment, excited to see that it was directly overlooking the beach. Our excitement turned to awe as we entered the apartment: it was two storeys high with a sweeping staircase inside and full-length glass windows that made the most of the jaw-dropping view. The owners were overseas, so it would just be Phil, Kathy, Nat, Teboho and I for the weekend.