Holding Up the Sky (35 page)

It was two hours before I saw Mama who finally emerged from the kitchen, having left her daughters to finish the dishing. Amazingly, people were still queuing to be fed. She carried a plate of food but seemed reluctant to sit. Teboho insisted that he would go and work in the kitchen himself if she did not. She shrieked at the thought and promptly sat, knowing Teboho would follow through if she hesitated.

I asked Mama how on earth they had catered for so many. She told me that they had been cooking for a week; they had expected a large crowd because everyone knew about the wedding and wanted to see it for themselves. I mentioned that she must be relieved it was over. She turned to me and laughed, saying she was expecting many more people at the reception tonight so there was still plenty to do. My eyes widened at the thought.

A few hours later, we were ready to enter the reception hall. We had changed back into our original wedding outfits and were waiting in the car for our cue. I had noticed at the church that Daddy was the only one not wearing his matching attire; this was my first chance to ask him what had happened. He told me he had left it at the house he was staying at in Soweto and only realised his mistake when it was time to change for the church. With no time to go back and fetch it, Teboho and Beans had done a mad rush around Mohlakeng to find someone who had a blue traditional shirt. Grey was all that could be found so they had made do. I laughed at the irony of it, imagining what a drama this would have been at an Australian wedding where everything is generally planned to the last detail. Such things didn't matter here. In fact, I'd noticed that few people had dressed up for the wedding at all. What was important was the fact that people came, not how they were dressed. By those standards, Teboho and I were blessed. These thoughts lingered in my head as the doors were thrown open and the dancing began once more.

The large hall was packed with guests in row after row of plastic seats. We made our way down the left hand aisle and up onto the stage where a long table waited. It was draped in a long white cloth, with blue and white flowers dotted along its length. Between the flowers were bowls of sweets and plates of wedding biscuits. Behind the table was a large homemade sign that read: ‘Congratulations Teboho and Sandy'. The hall itself was decorated in white and blue streamers and balloons, with the colourful clothes of the guests resembling shimmering bouquets of flowers. Everyone was on their feet and danced where they stood, causing the hall to shudder with each footfall. Each time I thought we would sit, someone else leapt up onto the stage and led another chorus of singing and dancing. Finally, Moss, as the MC for the evening, called the hall to order and asked everyone to take their seats. Members of the youth group appeared from the kitchen behind the stage and passed plates of sweets and chips down each row for the guests to snack on. It was time for the speeches.

There had been no speeches over lunch, so Moss invited a number of special guests to the stage: Caleb, who would speak for the family; Pat, who would speak for ETHOS; Matt's father, Graham, for my family; Joe for Teboho; and lastly, Margie for me. Moss was also acting as translator, switching languages between English and Tswana as required. Between speeches, there seemed to be compulsory singing so we all leapt to our feet and obliged. By the fourth speech, I must admit my energy was fagging and I was longing to kick off my shoes and relax. When it was Margie's turn to speak, she recounted the story of how Teboho had won my heart, which seemed to be the burning question in the room. Teboho had often been asked by black men, ‘But what did you say?', as if some magic combination of words had been able to convince me. To the delight of our guests, Margie finished the story with the knitting of the jersey as my ‘Yes' to his proposal, firmly establishing that jersey's place in the Mohlakeng hall of fame.

Lastly, Teboho spoke on behalf of us both, thanking our guests for coming from as far as Australia and France; the family, the neighbours and the church for hosting the wedding and providing all the wonderful food, and finally me, for agreeing to be his wife, making him the luckiest man in South Africa. At this, everyone was on their feet, cheering and stomping, the singing bursting out afresh.

The next morning, after catching a few hours sleep at Lekgoa's house in Kagiso, we were driving out of the township on our way back to Mohlakeng. We stopped at the major traffic lights next to Leratong Hospital; as at traffic lights the world over, young boys stood selling the Sunday morning papers. One boy, approaching Teboho at the driver's window in an attempt to get an extra five rand for bread with the sale, peered inside the car and spotted me. A white woman leaving a township on a Sunday morning would be enough to draw a second look, but we soon realised that it was the newspaper he was staring at. ‘It's you!' he stammered in amazement.

There on the front page of the
Sunday Times
was a full-page spread on our wedding the day before. The headline read, ‘Here comes the bride–and she's white'. The young boy began to shout to the other paper sellers as the lights changed and we pulled away. I looked aghast at the colour photo of us dancing in the street outside the church. ‘What does it say?' Teboho asked urgently. I read the article aloud as he drove. He listened in stony silence as it described every aspect of the wedding, as well as all our personal details. We turned to each other with the same conclusion dawning in our minds. It was time to go home. Though it was 1992, we were still in the far West Rand of Johannesburg, the place many of the South African equivalent of the Ku Klux Klan call home. If they were disgusted by what they read– and they would be–they now had enough information to find us. A cold chill ran through me as I felt the vulnerability of our position.

We drove quickly to Mohlakeng to say our goodbyes and then straight on to Natal, stopping only once to get petrol along the way. Even there, people were pointing and staring, copies of the
Sunday Times
scattered next to the cashier's desk. Only when we pulled up outside ETHOS did I feel safe. Home at last.

For years afterwards, people would introduce themselves by saying, ‘You remember me, I was at your wedding'. I would smile as graciously as I could and reply ‘of course'. There were estimates that as many as three thousand people had celebrated with us that day. But the most memorable of those encounters was when an old man approached me, toothlessly smiling and nodding. Without a word, he asked me to wait while he fished inside his pocket for his wallet. I waited with patient curiosity as out of his wallet he produced an old newspaper cutting, worn with many years of handling. He carefully opened it up and held it next to his face, saying, ‘I too was there that day. I came from very far to see such an amazing thing. I never thought I would see this in my lifetime. Thank you'.

1992
WAS THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND'S
ANNUS HORRIBILIS
. IT WAS ALSO MINE. I HAD HOPED THAT I COULD LEAVE BEHIND THE DISAPPOINTMENTS OF SIZWE AND START AFRESH. BUT NOT ONLY DID THEY FOLLOW ME LIKE A STRAY DOG, OTHER HEARTBREAKS AND BETRAYALS WERE TO LITTER MY PATH. YET I WAS UNAWARE OF ALL THIS AS I UNPACKED MY FEW BELONGINGS IN THE ROOM TEBOHO AND I WERE TO SHARE AT ETHOS. HAD I KNOWN, I WOULD SURELY HAVE TAKEN MY BAGS AND LEFT. AS IT WAS, I MISSED COMING HOME TO OXFORD STREET. IN AN ATTEMPT TO SHAKE OFF THIS FEELING, I TOLD MYSELF HOW SPACIOUS THE ROOM WAS, WHAT BEAUTIFUL GARDEN VIEWS IT HAD AND HOW THE SHARED BATHROOM WAS CONVENIENTLY LOCATED NEXT DOOR. WE ALSO HAD THE GRAND OLD HOUSE TO OURSELVES FOR A FEW MORE DAYS AND I WAS DETERMINED TO ENJOY IT. AS NO ONE KNEW WE WERE BACK AND MANY OF OUR FRIENDS WERE STILL IN JO'BURG, WE KEPT TO OURSELVES, PRETENDING WE WERE ON YET ANOTHER HONEYMOON.

Our peaceful start to the year was broken a week later as one by one, all the students returned. Like a hen rearranging her chicks, the old house fluffed its wings and settled down once more. With the house full again, we let go the notion of privacy and embraced the thriving atmosphere of community living. We were also told the news that ETHOS was to have a new principal at Easter. Tony and Jacques, when they accepted their roles at ETHOS, knew that their leadership as white South Africans would be temporary and that a black South African would be needed to lead a theological program for black students. So Danny and his family would be joining us as soon as he finished his studies in Europe in six weeks time. With this decision came an unexpected windfall for us: ETHOS had purchased the house next door for Danny and it came with a small cottage at the back; this was offered to us as an alternative to a room in the house. I was delighted with the shift as it meant, after Easter, we would have our own kitchenette, lounge area and bathroom.

With the university opening and classes commencing, it was clear that it was time for me to start looking for work. One of the smarter things I had done before we left for the weddings was to enrol in a Graduate Diploma of Adult Education that the University of Natal ran from its Durban campus. I was keen to do further study in the area I was now working in, and I also knew it would be the perfect place to build a broader network to help me find a job.

There were four of us doing the course who lived in 'Maritzburg, so it was agreed we would drive down together. Lungisani worked at the Centre for Adult Education on the 'Maritzburg campus, Dudu worked for the Natal Parks Board as an education officer and William had established an environmental education program at Umgeni Water. There were another twenty-two people in our class from Durban who worked in a variety of adult literacy programs, creating a rich forest of experience which, for four hours each week, we meandered through. One woman was the great niece of Gandhi himself, and proud to uphold his traditions in service of the Indian community in Durban. Another, Shelley, who was to become a close friend of mine, went on to be nominated for South African Woman of the Year for her work in creating engaging reading material for the black community. Tuesday nights were the highlight of my week, creating a space where I felt stretched and stimulated, a place where I could leave behind the vacuum that existed in the rest of my life.

While Jacques was still involved in ETHOS, Margie was now dividing her time between motherhood and working at Thandanani. This left a gap in the workings of ETHOS that I was asked to fill in the interim. I was delighted to be of use so I became responsible for the shopping and cooking at ETHOS, with Mama Florence taking care of the cleaning and laundry. I jumped at the role with vigour and though by no means a talented chef, I attempted to provide the best meals I could with the budget we had. After a flush of enthusiasm, I began to notice that whatever I cooked, the students drowned it in tomato sauce and mayonnaise, to my mind obliterating the taste of the lovingly prepared meal. Teboho assured me that the meals were tasty and needed no augmentation, so after two weeks of biting my tongue I finally hid the condiments, much to the displeasure of those around the table. After the stand-up argument that ensued between Teboho and the other students, I knew my time in the role would be short-lived.

A month after our return, I received a lawyer's letter outlining Steve's intention to sue me for defamation. He had the fax forwarded to him by Matt as evidence. It had never occurred to me that he would go to the courts and I was totally unprepared. As we had no real income, I went to the local Legal Aid office. After a week of nervous waiting, they told me that as the fax had been written and sent in Australia, it was highly unlikely the courts would entertain me being sued in South Africa. It was not the financial threat of being sued that kept me awake night after night–I had almost nothing to my name, in any case–but the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable. The news that the legal case was most likely impotent relieved my anxiety, but the feelings of vulnerability remained. The following week, I began to pursue permanent residency.

Soon, the rumours about Sizwe escalated. The development community was divided down the middle as to what had really happened. Jacques and Margie, torn by conflicting loyalties, slowly drifted away from me. This was a blow, given my intimate friendship with Margie in particular, as well as my love and respect for Jacques and his role at ETHOS. At the time, I could not see that I was placing my friends in an impossible situation–making them choose. Of course, everyone in our home group was affected: Brian and Anthea, Fred, Justin, as well as colleagues at PACSA, the Centre and even ETHOS. While a number of friends listened to me, many simply chose to distance themselves. When news came through that the garage at Phezulu had been petrol bombed, the tension became unbearable. The police believed that the petrol bomb had been thrown from the road and someone apparently reported hearing a motor bike engine just prior to the explosion. It was noted that I had owned a motor bike in the past. My sense of vulnerability increased.

As much as I tried to immerse myself in my studies, the pressure created by the petrol bombing was unbearable. The police investigation had gone nowhere, and I didn't know what to believe. I just knew that the whole thing had gotten out of hand. How had it come to this?

In the world around me, other changes were unfolding. The ruling National Party, under the leadership of F. W. de Klerk, had begun negotiations with Mandela and the ANC. To allow the country to transition to a democratically elected government, a new constitution would be needed. De Klerk took the step of asking white South Africans to come to the polls alone one last time. He asked them for their support in continuing with the negotiations and to the surprise of us all, they answered with a resounding yes.

Yet the optimism that sprang from the results of this referendum was momentarily suspended with the announcement that Mandela was separating from his wife of many decades. Not only had Winnie been apart from her husband for almost thirty years during his long imprisonment, she herself had been banned and exiled to a small town in the Free State under house arrest. Yet her own political leadership became increasingly controversial. She was widely quoted as saying ‘with our boxes of matches and our necklaces we shall liberate this country'. The year before Mandela's announcement, she had been convicted of being an accessory to the murder of a fourteen-year-old activist, killed at the hands of one of her infamous bodyguards. They were already estranged, but Mandela could no longer align himself with the actions she had taken in his absence and so the end of the marriage was announced. Though no one was surprised, we all knew it was the end of an era: a love story without a happy ending. The image of Mandela's release from prison, as he and his wife held their hands high, fashed through my mind. Clearly, the image could not capture the complexity of all that lay beneath.

With Easter came the new principal of ETHOS, Danny, with his wife and their two children. All the students were excited about the family's arrival and helped them settle in as quickly as possible. Danny's wife Agnes was heavily pregnant with their third child and the move took a toll on her. Alice and I, in particular, tried to help her wherever we could, cooking, cleaning and unpacking.

Danny was eager to get his teeth into the new role and quickly began working long hours, meeting with the students and staff, holding discussions with the university faculty and, once mid-term break had ended, lecturing and tutoring. All the ETHOS students and black students on campus warmed to him immediately, his style reminding some of the activist Steve Biko whose last years were captured in the movie
Cry Freedom
. Danny encouraged black students to work hard, raise the bar, expect more from themselves and others. His persona seemed to instantaneously increase the profle of ETHOS on campus and we could almost hear the Board congratulating themselves on a fine appointment, all the way from Jo'burg.

However, it wasn't long before the shadow of Danny's style began to bear down on me. His powerful influence with students was built on increasing the confidence of black people in their own abilities, despite the damage done by apartheid, combined with an undercurrent of mistrusting the intentions of all whites. Tony and Jacques were initially the focus of this mistrust, to such an extent that they were forced to justify their presence at ETHOS. But before long, it was Teboho and I who bore the brunt of his position. We had attended the weekly community meetings since the beginning of the year, but these had now turned from casual get-togethers to a witch hunt. What began as an occasional taunt that Teboho had made compromises became a weekly community attack, condemning him for becoming biased and weak in his thinking. He had broad shoulders wrought by years of hardship, but hearing these words from the mouths of friends wounded his spirit. The only person in the community to stay true to our friendship was our beloved Alice. Teboho did his best to protect me from the tirades but they were impossible to ignore, living as we did.

Just after Easter, I had started doing some voluntary work at the local community centre. They held regular coaching sessions for high school students taking their final exams. Similar classes were held at various locations across the province, coordinated out of an office in Durban. The organisation was sponsored by the Urban Foundation and when they heard that someone with my qualifications was volunteering, they suggested to the young director, Andile, that I might be of assistance in establishing the fledgling organisation. After some discussion, it was agreed that I would travel to the Durban office three days a week and on the remaining two, coach students at Thembalethu Community Centre as I was currently doing.

I was excited to be back in a community organisation and threw myself into the job. The project had been started when its director, only three years out of school himself, began a study group in his township in an effort to help fellow students pass their exams. He called on teachers, education department officials, lecturers, anyone to help teach additional lessons. The numbers of students coming to the study groups grew as the students' performances improved. After graduation, Andile approached the Urban Foundation for funding to duplicate the idea elsewhere and the project was born. They also began to target kids who had dropped out of school and wanted to sit for final exams but could not find a place back in the overcrowded township schools. By the time I joined the organisation, there were approximately 2000 students meeting each day to receive coaching in venues across the province.

My first month as part of the project team was exciting as I got my head around its scope and favour. But I soon saw that most of the money entering the organisation was staying in the Durban office and not finding its way to the satellite classrooms. After my experiences at Sizwe, my antennae for any kind of possible irregularity were up. In this case, though, I saw a young man who had been successful too quickly and lacked the maturity to handle the responsibility for the benefit of others. With a rapid inflow of funds, he was soon employing close friends as project workers and fitting out the office and their employment packages as if they were successful young professionals, rather than a new community project. With the necessary governance of an experienced board not yet in place, good intentions became entitlement. After two months, I saw I would be unable to turn things around. So I informed the Urban Foundation of my concerns and resigned, unemployed once more.

My disastrous attempts at finding work further undermined my confidence in my own judgments as well as my sense of stability. The hostility at ETHOS, the difficulties at Sizwe and the conflict among our friends had the effect of reducing the amount of time I spent out of the house. I wanted to hide myself away as the levels of conflict at every turn scared me, particularly in my vulnerable state. As I had no avenue for venting my anger at those involved, I turned my anger inwards.

I had always been slim and would not eat in times of stress, causing noticeable weight loss within a few days. While I wouldn't describe myself as anorexic, my weight never endangering my health as I was always realistic about my body image, I understood the pleasure of feeling in control of my body when I couldn't be in control of my world. Angry with myself, I began denying myself food. I took the nagging feeling in my stomach as a reminder of my stupidity and naivety. Strangely, the more I punished myself, the more resilient I felt, the discipline of withholding food seemingly cementing my resolve and restoring a level of confidence. I stayed in this angry state for months, medicating my sense of helplessness by denying myself food for days at a time until I felt a bit more in control, then returning to normal eating patterns. While no dramatic or permanent weight loss gave anyone a clue of the spiral I had fallen into, it began to drift me towards a kind of depression.

In the July holidays we took the opportunity to go to Itsoseng to escape for a week. We stayed with Mama, Tshidi, Reggie and the kids, allowing ourselves to heal a little in the warmth of their welcome. It was as if we had forgotten what it was like to feel at home. Mama's small house was always full of visiting family who had come to welcome me as the new
makoti
. Being constantly followed around by a group of neighbourhood children so that I risked the pit toilet only at night, and sleeping in the freezing cold tin shed that was the family home, were small prices to pay for feeling loved.