Holding Up the Sky (26 page)

He spoke to his older brother, the teacher, who had no issue. He spoke to his younger brother whom he had sent to a multicultural high school in Mafikeng. He, too, saw no problem with the idea. He spoke to the brother born after him who, like Teboho, had the mould broken when he was born–and he loved the idea. (In years to come, Doki would break a number of conventions of his own to be with the woman he loved.) He then spoke to his mother who just shook her head and laughed. ‘Just like you', she said. ‘We never know what to expect.' Last of all, he asked his father's second wife, to whom he was close, and to his surprise, she said, ‘Over my dead body'. Given the family had been supportive up until this point, he was a little taken aback. He pushed to further understand Ma Ellen's thinking.

She had explained: ‘When two people marry it is not just the two who become one, it is also their families who do so. If you are asking me to consider joining with a racist white family, after everything we have suffered under apartheid, I can never agree'.

Seeing the problem immediately, he pointed out, ‘But Ma Ellen, she is not a South African, she is an Australian'.

‘Oh', she said, ‘that's completely different. Then you will have no problems with me, Ntebu.'

And with a flourish, the story finished. He looked up at me, eyes wide with expectation, waiting for my response.

‘So what are you saying?' I asked, needing a little more clarification.

‘I'm saying that if you'll have me, we have the support of my family and community. The few whose support we do not have do not matter.'

I took a breath. I knew that Teboho made me feel good. He was someone who inspired possibilities. But I also knew that I did not feel the same way as I had felt about Msizi: the passion, the connection was not as deep. Yet I remember thinking to myself that I should take a risk and see. In hindsight, I believe I said ‘yes' because he was willing to believe in the same thing that I did: that colour, class, gender or religion should not be what determined who could be together as neighbours, friends or lovers. And in all honesty, I said yes because he was willing to take a chance on me, because he thought I was worth it where in my mind at that time, Msizi had not. And so our relationship began, its unorthodox start simply a sign of things to come. Soon Teboho was seen sporting his new grey and white fair isle jersey, bragging to all who would listen about the creative talents of his girlfriend.

In the weeks that followed, the big excitement was that Mandela was coming to 'Maritzburg and was planning a rally in Edendale to celebrate Women's Day. The stadium, which is probably an overstated description of the playing field and a few rickety stands that surrounded it, was a thirty-minute walk from the Skhosanas' and many people in our area were planning to walk down there together. No doubt, the singing would start along the way, adding further electricity to an already excited township.

When the day arrived, the household was up early. It was a Sunday; we had to go to church in the morning before the rally in the afternoon. Everyone was also keen to be done with any chores and errands that might otherwise delay them when we returned from church. Church in the township was a time-consuming affair. I often felt as though the longer it went, the more the old people enjoyed it. The same couldn't be said for the young, particularly those who had a rally to get to. This day, the singing went on for what felt like an eternity, followed by one of the longer sermons Baba Skhosana had ever given. I thought for a minute I caught a twinkle in his eye as if he sought to teach his children a lesson in patience, seemingly a pastime for fathers the world over. Given that we were part of the minister's family, we were obliged to stay and socialise with the congregants, chatting about the health of various family members and recent events in the neighbourhood.

I knew from other rallies I had attended that there would be plenty of older women who would be coming along, but a number of these church ladies prided themselves on their ability to steer clear of politics, seemingly believing the doctrine that many white churches espoused. These churches argued that it was against the teachings of the bible to undermine the government as it was God's appointed instrument of law and order. Therefore, the most godly course of action was to stay well out of anything political and simply pray. Those church women who choose to attend the rally would argue that it is not in God's will for people to support unjust laws; rather, it was their duty to work for justice in an unjust society.

In fact, women had always played an integral role in the struggle against apartheid. Women, both black and white, had led the way in the protests to ban the carrying of passes. Under the apartheid laws black people were required to carry a pass that stated where they worked, their place of origin, tax payments and any encounters with the police. They could not leave a rural area for an urban one without having a pass and upon arrival, they had seventy-two hours to organise a work permit allowing them to stay. If they were caught without a pass they were instantly detained. Police carried out daily raids into the townships in an effort to arrest those without passes, with millions falling prey. Though the passes were ultimately done away with, they came to symbolise the worst of the apartheid laws. Women were also a powerful force in the unions, in the ANC and in the churches in bringing about change. But it is most true to say that women held the fabric of the family and community together when the apartheid policies were designed to tear them apart. And it was this total contribution that Mandela was going to be recognising at the Women's Day rally.

Finally, church was over and we headed back to the house for lunch. Though my household workload was reduced under the new living arrangements, it hardly seemed fair to watch Nonsi and Sibongile cooking and cleaning without pitching in. So together we made quick work of what needed to be done, including serving up a hot Sunday lunch.

After our meal, I ducked out and went down to the store where there was a public telephone. As part of Baba Skhosana's anti-boyfriend regime, he had the only key to the telephone and would lock it when he was out; and there was no point trying to make a private phone call when he was home. At the store, I made a quick call to Teboho who could not come to the rally because he had a major assignment due the following day. He was now regretting his procrastination but was trying hard not to show it. After I hung up, I waited for Nonsi and Themba on the street. Soon enough, half the Skhosana household was walking down the road with Themba and Zodwa in tow.

We joined up with many others who had gathered at the store and made our way down to Sweetwaters Road. Instead of turning left to go up to Phezulu, we made a right turn and headed towards Edendale Road. From this slightly elevated position we could see thousands of people already en route to the stadium. It looked as if the usually busy Edendale Road had become a walkway, with a lane on each side of the road now devoted to pedestrians. At the intersection with Edendale Road, we again turned right, away from town and Edendale Hospital and towards the far end of the valley and the escarpment above. In just under a kilometre, with the crowds now walking six and seven abreast, we turned right towards the stadium. The singing and chanting had started on Edendale Road, a favourite being, ‘Strike the woman, you strike the rock'.

The crowd flowed into the stadium like a river. I knew Steve and Beth were there somewhere but there was no way to spot them. Jacques and Margie were also coming with a few of the ETHOS students and Anthea was covering the event for the local newspaper. I did spot some familiar white faces from the Imbali Support Group and Legal Aid. The crowd that day was not only more mixed and, obviously, more female than at the Durban rally; the average age was also a lot older. This gave the rally a more mature yet no less exuberant favour and tone.

We had passed clusters of police vans on the way to the stadium and now there was a substantial police presence at the gate, but their mood seemed less confrontational in comparison to other township events. As the only white person in my group entering on foot, I drew some unwanted attention but tried to ignore the disapproving stares of the police as I passed through the gate. The ANC marshals directed us onto the field, having filled up the stands with the early arrivals. Fortunately, we were given a spot not too far from the stage and quickly made ourselves comfortable on the ground. In Africa, women sit very comfortably for long periods of time with their legs stretched out before them. I was yet to learn this skill, or perhaps I simply lacked a shapely behind that made it possible, so I sat cross-legged on the grass. Whenever I did so, a few comments were inevitably thrown my way. Some found it unladylike while others wondered at my flexibility. What I lacked in the size of my behind, I made up for in length of leg.

Amidst the good-natured teasing, of which Zodwa was the queen, the crowd continued to swell. And so too did the singing. A number of groups came into the stadium marching under banners– ‘Imbali Youth Organisation', ‘ANC Women's League', ‘Smero Youth Organisation'–each group sporting their own T-shirts, singing their own songs. As always, the rally was a South African version of a Mardi Gras: all that was missing were the floats.

Before long, the stadium was full to overflowing. We turned our attention to the stage as the chairs that had been placed there began to fill. Skhumbuzo and Thami had each taken a seat, next to Harry Gwala, the ANC leader of the Midlands area. The local chairperson of the ANC Women's League was also there. J. J., the lawyer to whom Mdu and I had submitted statements on the funerals, was seated next to her. There were a few others I did not know and there was still no sign of the great man himself.

A few minutes later, Thami was standing, warming up the crowd though they needed no encouragement. He instigated the call and reply that was characteristic of all political rallies.
‘Amandla'
reverberated across the stadium.
‘Awethu'
came the reply. ‘Power– is ours' the mantra said, reminding the participants of their power in numbers and the righteousness of their cause. A song broke out spontaneously which served as the crowd calling for Mandela to take the stage: ‘Nelson Mandela, Nelson Mandela,
agekho fana nawe'
, there is no one like you. As they sang, tens of thousands leapt to their feet and began to dance. There was a particular movement that went with this song and we all knew it and danced it as one. The ground trembled as thousands hopped from one foot to the other in time with the song.

And so Madiba took the stage once more. This time I was close enough to see his expressions. He spoke eloquently about the role of women in the struggle, honouring each contribution, large and small. He spoke of the work of the ANC Women's League, the Federation of South African Women, the Black Sash (an organisation of white women who worked tirelessly for change despite ridicule in their own community). He spoke of our mothers who gave us love and courage, who fed us, clothed us and gave us someone to want to come home to. Mandela had a way of bringing down divisions between people by going to great efforts to point out the value in each person, each community. And though my own efforts to bring about change were small indeed when compared to the sacrifices others had made, that day I felt honoured too.

After many more speeches and choirs had rounded out the day the crowd, elated yet well satisfied, made its way back out onto Edendale Road, spreading like a smouldering lava flow over the area as the music and dancing continued. Those of us who lived in Caluza peeled off at Sweetwaters Road and began to shuffle our way up the hill, to renewed singing of ‘Nelson Mandela,
agekho fana nawe'
.

About halfway up the street, we hit a police road block. The police vans lined the road and a row of policemen standing two deep forced the crowd to filter through them like a funnel. I was all too aware that I was once more the only white person in the group; the others had arrived by car and left the same way. As I neared the police, I was grabbed and pulled off to one side. I suddenly regretted wearing my new Sizwe T-shirt to the rally; I didn't wish to give the police any additional information. While the rest of the crowd fled past, many continuing to sing in protest at the intrusion, I stood surrounded by police, terrified about what might happen next. The circle of men parted and an officer took me by the arm and dragged me to the back of the police van. I assumed he meant to throw me in the vehicle which would mean detention and deportation. I was in South Africa on a work permit and though my nationality would probably keep me safe from torture, I would lose my permit and the right to ever return.

As I stood by the van the officer, still holding my upper arm, leant into my face and said, ‘We know all about you. We've been watching you for a while now'.

The thought fashed through my mind that this must be what they say to everyone, wanting to give the impression of being an omnipresent, omniscient power over people, to intimidate people into self-censorship.

He continued in his thick Afrikaans accent, ‘We know what you are doing there at Sizwe, driving around in your little red bakkie and we know about the Imbali Support Group too'.

I stood with my shoulders squared, trying to appear unmoved by his intimidation–but I was beginning to founder. How much was bluff and how much did they really know?

‘We are keeping a file on you, you know. If I ever find you at a rally like this again, dancing along the street like a slut, I'll have you in prison and out of this country so fast. You are a shame to the white race. Now get out of here, but you remember that I'll be watching you.'

And with that, he flung me back into the crowd. I was deeply shaken, wanting only to be out of their sight. I went quickly up the road and turned left into our street but at the last minute, thinking I shouldn't go back to the house just yet, turned off down a side lane until I found a quiet corner where I could sit on the grass. From this position, I could see back over the valley to the road block and the main road beyond. Thoughts whirled around my head like a cyclone as I ran through all the possible scenarios. I did not see how I could do my work without being in the township, without bumping up against the police. And deportation would put an end to my relationship with Teboho before it even began.