Holding Up the Sky (6 page)

On top of my feelings about Msizi, the thought of leaving South Africa was heartbreaking. Not only was I leaving him, but an entire community of people I had grown to love. I was heading to a country where I knew no one and where, at that moment, I did not really want to be. But plans were made, tickets were booked, and with the term about to start, I could not delay my departure any longer. Msizi and I promised to write, but were unable to commit to any future together.

On my last night at the centre, we all gathered up at the house. Even Steve and Beth's kids joined us to say their goodbyes. After the others had gone to bed, Msizi and I sat by the fire. The words had dried up, leaving only sadness. So he sat with me, his arms around me, and we watched the fames dance until they faded to a dull glow. At the sounds of the first birds, I rose and went to bed.

AFTER
TWO DAYS OF TRAVELLING I ARRIVED AT GUELPH UNIVERSITY NEAR THE CITY OF TORONTO IN CANADA FEELING LOST AND TEAR-STAINED. SPENDING MY FIRST NIGHT IN TEMPORARY ACCOMMODATION DIDN'T HELP, BUT BY DAY TWO, THINGS BEGAN TO LOOK UP. MY WONDERFUL NEW ROOMMATES, SANDRA, AN ITALIAN–CANADIAN AND YUKI FROM JAPAN, HELPED ME SETTLE IN AND I WAS SOON FED, UNPACKED AND KNEW THE LOCATION OF ALL MY LECTURE HALLS. I MADE NEW FRIENDS AND FOUND A THRIVING INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY WHICH INCLUDED MANY BLACK SOUTH AFRICANS WHO WERE ALSO STUDYING THERE. MY STUDIES WERE ON NUTRITION AND HEALTH CARE IN THE THIRD WORLD, WHICH I HOPED-ON THE BACK OF MY UNDERGRADUATE DEGREE-WOULD STAND ME IN GOOD STEAD FOR MY FUTURE WORK. I SPENT TIME COMPILING A REFERENCE LIBRARY TO TAKE BACK TO AFRICA WITH ME. I READ BOOKS ON SOUTH AFRICAN HISTORY, BLACK THEOLOGY AND POLITICS; SPENT TIME DEBATING ISSUES WITH PEOPLE FROM ACROSS AFRICA; TOOK PART IN THE UNIVERSITY'S MULTICULTURAL FESTIVAL, THE SOUTH AFRICAN YOUTH DAY RALLY AND MANDELA'S BIRTHDAY CELEBRATIONS IN TORONTO. I WAS ALSO TEACHING MYSELF ZULU.

All the while, Msizi and I exchanged long letters, finding new ways each time to describe our longing for each other. He kept me up to date on events at Nonsuch Road, the comings and goings of the volunteers, the workshops they were running, the happenings in 'Maritzburg. I also wrote to Steve about going back to South Africa for the August holidays to participate in a special event they were planning. My parents came to visit and we spent a happy week together in Montreal. With so much going on, my first semester few by and before I knew it I was on a plane back to Africa.

THE
SIZE AND THICKNESS OF THE LETTERS MSIZI AND I EXCHANGED HAD RAISED A FEW EYEBROWS WITHIN THE TEAM. MSIZI WAS FORCED TO CONFESS THAT HE AND I HAD FEELINGS FOR EACH OTHER AND THEN ENDURE THE ENDLESS TEASING THAT FOLLOWED. WITH MARY-ANNE, IT WAS ANOTHER STORY. SHE WAS UPSET BY THE NEWS, HAVING HAD HER SUSPICIONS SINCE OUR CAPE TOWN TRIP TOGETHER. I SUSPECT SHE FELT A COMBINATION OF HURT AT NOT BEING TOLD THE TRUTH AND PERHAPS EVEN JEALOUSY THAT IT WAS ME AND NOT HER. SHE AND MSIZI WERE VERY CLOSE SO SHE MIGHT ALSO HAVE FELT THAT OUR RELATIONSHIP WOULD RUIN THEIRS. I DON'T REALLY KNOW. ALL I DO KNOW IS THAT OUR RELATIONSHIP WAS NEVER AGAIN CLOSE AND ALWAYS HAD A SHARP EDGE TO IT. AS MARY-ANNE AND I MOVED IN THE SAME CIRCLES FOR MANY YEARS WE OFTEN HAD OCCASION TO MEET. I ADMIRE HER CHOICES IN LIFE AND GREATLY RESPECT HER COURAGE, SO TO HAVE SOMETHING UNSPOKEN BETWEEN US HAS BEEN A GREAT SADNESS TO ME.

But all this was ahead of me as I jumped into a hire car at Jan Smuts airport in Johannesburg and began the long drive back to Nonsuch Road. In my hurry to return, I was pulled over by the police for speeding but managed (I'm ashamed to admit) to convince the officer that I was a tourist in his beautiful country. He kindly warned me to be more careful and wished me a pleasant journey. Despite the smiles I lavished, my heart was pounding at the sight of a policeman leaping out onto the road and pointing an accusing finger directly at me. My encounters with South African police during my first few months and the stories I had been told made such a sight a little unnerving. This fear of the police worsened considerably over the ensuing years and would take more than a decade to undo.

Finally, I was turning off the tar and up the dirt road into the forest. My heart caught in my throat as the road opened out to reveal once more the rolling green lawns and the white Cape Dutch buildings. As I strolled across the lawn to the dining hall the sounds of lunch drifted out onto the veranda and I felt suddenly shy. I peered in through one of the wooden French doors and saw Msizi, Kedrick, Gary and Tshidi sitting together at one table. Gary, facing the door, saw me first. He tossed a bread roll at Msizi and then came bounding over. I had a flashback to the first time I had entered this hall on a misty night some seven months before. This time it was very different, akin to returning home. The rest of the team and a few of the volunteers were crowded around, welcoming me back with hugs and kisses. I looked across at Msizi, who was still seated, as he smiled his hello. Not one for crowds, he came over after a few minutes and pulled me back out through the door. On the veranda, he wrapped me in his arms and after the longest time whispered in my ear, ‘I missed you'. ‘I missed you too', I said, letting the tears fall onto his shirt.

Next morning, the team left for a two-day retreat down the south coast, taking me with them. Some friends of the centre, Nigel and Claire, had some land near the beach and we had decided to go and camp there. This sparked some heated discussions within the team. Our black colleagues could not understand why we would opt to be without beds and showers, choosing instead to cook outside and sleep on the ground. We had had a similar discussion once before, late one night up at the house. Msizi wanted to know why white people considered candles romantic when all they did for black people was remind them of their poverty. The camping debate followed similar lines. As it turned out we had a great night under the stars, sitting around a fire, listening to Steve play guitar and solving the problems of Africa and all its peoples. It was the first time Msizi and I had felt relaxed about being affectionate in public, which for me made a nice change from stolen moments.

My relationship with Msizi in those first two weeks proved to be up and down. He had developed a habit of being confrontational and competitive with me when others were around, so as to throw them off the scent of our new relationship. Now that our relationship was out in the open, his persistence with this behaviour put me on the back foot and I was forced to keep my guard up most of the time. Any kind of vulnerability felt like a risk. I knew Msizi loved me and was at a loss to understand why he could not communicate with me as he had in his letters. I knew I was unhappy but was afraid to take him on for fear that I would hurt him. I was also afraid that if I didn't talk to him about it, he would walk all over me. Once or twice when I worked up the courage to address it, he was immediately tender and caring and I quickly forgave him. Finally, after two weeks of feeling like we were a pair of bucks locking horns to see who was the stronger, I remembered something Steve had said about sons repeating the habits of their fathers. I knew I had to say something more definitive.

That night after dinner, I asked Msizi to go for a walk with me. Heart pounding, I told him how I had been feeling and explained that vulnerability and intimacy were part of the same equation in my mind. In the darkness, I could not read his face. After a long silence, he told me that he found vulnerability very difficult, as to survive in his world he had learnt to put away his emotions and be careful about placing his trust in others. Up until this point, the only people he could trust were a few of his closest male friends. He felt that he had opened up with me far more than with any other woman he had dated, having never felt this powerfully for anyone. I was so moved by his words that I almost backed off the issue. But then, consolidating my thoughts, I said, ‘What you say and what you do don't match up. I understand that sparring can be like firting, but you go too far and push me away'. We were nearing the house by this time, so I stopped and turned to face him. He took my hand in his and simply said, ‘OK'.

We continued to discuss these issues right through to the end of my stay. Our different experiences and expectations were always on the agenda. However, we began to find a way to make things work.

After our short camping retreat we went down to Sweetwaters to visit the site of the new creche. In my absence, the team had run two youth leadership programs which included some community work. They had brought the groups to Sweetwaters and begun digging up rocks in the surrounding area that could be used on the floor of the creche. They had also dug holes for the creosoted poles that would be used in the walls. Fred, the young English handyman who worked at the centre, had made time on weekends to come out and cement these poles into the ground ready for the roof trusses to be attached, which was the job we were to begin today. As we walked up the same rutted path, carrying shovels over our shoulders, I was glad that this time I had the good sense to wear boots. Fred had been there for an hour already, having earlier directed the truck with the trusses and not wanting to leave them unattended. While this was to be a community creche, building materials were in short supply and the trusses could prove too tempting for many. We spent the day atop ladders, holding the trusses in place while Fred secured them, or digging up wheelbarrowfuls of rocks to add to the floor. It was hot, sweaty work but it felt good to be doing something practical that could make a difference to this community. Under Fred's guidance, it took another eighteen months to finish the creche during which time I became quite a hand at throwing mud walls.

Fred had come out to South Africa a few years earlier, initially as a volunteer at the centre. He was a builder by trade, which was a useful skill in Africa. Fred was about my height, slim, tanned and unashamedly prematurely balding. I loved that Fred was who he was: an honest, nuts and bolts kind of guy. After his initial experiences in Africa, he traded in the cold climate of northern England to stay on in South Africa. We were to become firm friends for many years. He worked at the centre for a few more years, then took a job with World Vision in a remote part of KwaZulu, outside of Tugela Ferry. There he worked with the local women on job creation projects, making and selling mud bricks, wire fencing and the like. I visited him there a few times and was impressed by the way he had made a home in that community, living in a round mud and thatch hut, or rondavel, just as his neighbours did, growing crops, speaking the language. He eventually returned to Pietermaritzburg and opened a successful handyman business in town.

Another volunteer I became good friends with was Charlie. He had finished high school the previous year and while deciding what to do next had come to volunteer at the centre. Charlie was more than 183 centimetres tall and seemed to be all limbs, somewhat like a large puppy who is yet to grow into his body. He had dark hair that spent most of its time in his eyes and a ready smile that spread across his face at the slightest provocation. Charlie was also big hearted and always there to help, listen or chat. Despite the lightness that surrounded him like a halo, he was facing some serious issues. Like all white South African men his age, he had received conscription papers requiring him to serve two years in the army or the police force, stationed either on the border with Namibia or in the townships. He could easily have postponed the call by going to university or travelling abroad. Alternatively, he could have taken six years of community service as a religious objector. He could also have chosen a non-combatant posting, saying that he was a pacifist and therefore not willing to fight. Many young Christians had chosen these routes so as not to compromise their beliefs. Not Charlie. He argued that he was not a pacifist and did believe that there were times when one had to take up arms. However, he did not believe the army was fighting a just war and therefore he chose to object to having any role in the military.

This was a brave stand for an eighteen-year-old. Not long before, the papers had carried the story of David Bruce who was the second man to be imprisoned for six years for conscientious objection, an act Charlie was now considering. He spent time talking to some of the senior leaders at the centre as well as to two other men in a position similar to his. His other confidant was Msizi. While there were many young black men at the centre, only one or two were as articulate and politically aware as Msizi. Vusi kept his thoughts to himself and Kedrick, coming from Zambia, was himself finding his time in South Africa a revelation. Charlie and Msizi had also become good friends over the year so Msizi tried to help him find a perspective on what he was doing and what he hoped to achieve.

Three months later, on 6 December 1988, Charlie was sentenced to six years in prison. He was not given the status of a political prisoner so was to be housed with criminal prisoners for the duration of his sentence. Though I knew the risk Charlie was taking the judgment jolted me with its harshness. We were all passionate about change but on that day, I knew it was not a game. Charlie was released in 1990 after almost two years in prison, through a deal brokered by Mandela that saw the release of all conscientious objectors. I don't know what Charlie did with his life, but Msizi heard that he struggled for the first few years to find a direction once more.

It was nearing my twenty-third birthday at the end of August as we finalised plans for our time in Lawaaikamp. This was a small black settlement on the outskirts of George, a picturesque town on the southeast coast some five hours drive from Cape Town. As a tourist town at the heart of the Garden Route, a magnifcent coastal meander from Cape Town to Port Elizabeth, George had grown over the years. Lawaaikamp was now being absorbed into the tranquil white suburbs of George, a situation that did not please the local white community. While the town needed black labour in order to survive, it preferred to have some distance between the two. The municipality had recently built a new township on an open plain on the far side of the freeway, confident that this would provide enough of a buffer between the two areas. The residents of Lawaaikamp had lived in the same broken down homes for generations; however, they were on the wrong side of the freeway so they had to be moved. The plan was termed a forced removal and many people, including a few of the politically aware white residents of George, were ready to register their protest against such an action. One such resident, Peter, was good friends with Steve's in-laws who lived just outside George. It was through Peter that we were to live in Lawaaikamp for two weeks, hoping that our presence might prevent the forced removal from happening. This kind of political protest was pushing the boundaries of what our Christian community in Pietermaritzburg was comfortable with, but Steve had managed to convince them that it was the right thing to do.

A few days before we were to leave, Lawaaikamp was the topic of morning devotions for the staff and volunteers at the centre. At the end of the hour, Steve pulled the team aside. He asked each one of us to find a quiet spot and take some time to think through the implications of possible detention. He told us that, given what we were intending to do, it was a very real possibility. One look at Msizi confirmed that this was true. The implications would be different for each of us: Msizi, Vusi and Tshidi could be detained indefinitely; Gary and Mary-Anne could also be detained but would find themselves held in far better conditions as prisons, like all else in this strange country, were also segregated; Steve, Kedrick and I would be detained and then deported, unable to return. Steve asked us to meet back at the chapel on the lake in an hour.

With my journal in hand, I sat in sober silence under the trees next to the lake. The thought of leaving South Africa permanently was hard to bear but my gut response was that we should still go. In retrospect, I often wondered why there was no hesitation in these and many other decisions I made. I think I always have been and always will be for the underdog. It is hard-wired into who I am. Even as a young child, I was drawn to befriend those who were different from the rest of the school. I was intrigued by their difference, wanting to understand how they saw the world. If they were treated unfairly, I was the first to come to their defence. In my teenage years, I extended my sense of what was right and wrong beyond my immediate environment to include the rest of the world. When the Ethiopian famine hit the world media in 1984, I was appalled and coordinated my network of friends to take on odd jobs and raise thousands of dollars to be sent to aid relief efforts there. So making the decision to go to Lawaaikamp and protest the forced removals was not, I believe, driven by courage or selfessness but mostly by having a strong opinion and feeling the need to express it. I get this trait from my father. While he, however, would express his strong opinions to friends and family, and usually only when asked, I didn't wait for an invitation.