So there I was, horsing around with these lovely women when one of them received a telephone call from Soweto where she originally came from. All of a sudden I heard her scream: âThey are killing our children in Soweto!'
It was June 16, 1976, and police had responded to the students demonstrating in Soweto with bullets, killing some of them. At the time we did not know the extent of the uprising that later engulfed most of the country. Later, we heard of young leaders like Tsietsi Mashinini and Khotso Seatlholo and other members of the Soweto Students Representative Council who were leading the resistance, first against the forced introduction of Afrikaans as a medium of instruction for black students and, at a broader level, against apartheid and all its race-based institutions. We also lamented the death of Hector Peterson whose young body in school uniform in the arms of Mbuyisa Makhubo flashed across the newspapers of the world, courtesy of a photograph by Sam Nzima.
The developments in South Africa had given us exiles a lot of hope in recent years with the advent of the Black Consciousness movement. The philosophy had captured our collective imagination. This political reawakening happened after an internal political lull since the Sharpeville massacre and the incarceration of such leaders as Robert Mangaliso Sobukwe; and then later the Rivonia Trial that resulted in life sentences on Robben Island for the likes of Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu, Jama's father, and others of their revolutionary colleagues. It was during that lull that some of us began to forget about these leaders while they worked in the quarries of Robben Island, though my mother never forgot to mourn Bhut' Walter, as she called Walter Sisulu, even though he was not dead. Hope bloomed in us once more when we heard of what the fearless young leaders who were emerging out of the universities were doing through the South African Students Organisation and, of
course, the mass organisation, the Black People's Convention, one of whose leaders was Albertina Sisulu, Bhut' Walter's wife.
June 16 brought a new flood of refugees into Lesotho. Some of them became my students at Mabathoana High School and spent a lot of time at my house. I was both their bigger brother and their political mentor. I remember particularly three of them who became close to my family: Buti Moleko, Nelson Mogudi and Steve Tau. Steve got into a very serious relationship with my younger sister Thami, to the extent that we were certain they would marry.
Buti wrote plays and composed music. He invigorated the theatre scene in Maseru by establishing a theatre group along the lines of Gibson Kente's touring companies. Thami got her first taste of acting in
Life Is Like a Wheel
by Buti. Like Kente's, Buti's plays were naïve â not intentionally so â both in form and content, and were replete with dance and songs he himself had composed. It was not the most brilliant theatre, but the important thing was that people were watching plays and young Basotho actors who hitherto had no opportunities to express themselves artistically were becoming ardent thespians.
The new arrivals revitalised exile and all of a sudden there was a lot of cultural and political activity. These young men and women had been nurtured by the Black Consciousness Movement which had reintroduced the view held by my father when he was president of the ANC Youth League that politics and economics were not the only important sites of the struggle; culture had a crucial role to play as well. That was why my father mooted the establishment of the African Academy of Arts which, unfortunately, never took off.
Poetry readings were organised at such venues as the British Council Hall and at a restaurant called Fat Alice. I remember a drunken and rowdy Mandla Langa singing the praises of Joe Slovo at one such affair at the British Council and threatening that he would
vala le zozo
â bring the house down and close the whole event â if people continued to read reactionary poetry that ignored the heroes of the struggle. Mandla, of course, has since become one of our leading novelists in South Africa. After being forced off the stage by some of his ANC comrades he sat down and cried. He used to cry a lot when he was drunk, and that
endeared him to me because it told me that he was a sensitive young man.
What was wonderful about these events was that they availed me the opportunity to read some of my poetry, which I had been writing and then storing away since I didn't have any outlet for it. At Fat Alice I read my poems to the sounds of jazz â guitar, double-bass and saxophone â played by the Lebentlele brothers and other Maseru musicians.
The poetry scene was set ablaze when Duma ka Ndlovu came into exile, which was months after others had been there already. He had gained a reputation as a journalist on
The World
newspaper but, more importantly, he was a founding member of Medupe, a group that was famous for its poetry performances. Duma came into exile after Medupe,
The World
and many other organisations were banned and after he had been detained and then later released by the apartheid government.
Before Duma came our poetry readings were sleepy affairs. He brought much flair and pizzazz. His booming voice filled the venues as he recited:
Re ta bagunda, re ta bagunda, re ba bolaya
. We'll hit them hard, we'll defeat them, and we'll kill them. This was highly charged poetry that gave us goosebumps and assured us that we were marching towards victory in South Africa. He was an imposing figure in his dashiki robe as he moved among the electrified audience to the stage where he performed to the rhythm of the drums. Duma became an inspiration to us all. Not only him, but other fiery poets from Soweto who were not in exile
per se
, but were able to smuggle themselves across the border to add more fire in our bellies: Ingoapele Madingoane of
Africa my beginning, Africa my ending
fame, Mapalakanye Maropodi, Matsemela Manaka and Jaki Seroke. They came to perform their poetry, but most importantly to give us information of what was happening in the struggle back home and to get material, mostly books that were banned in South Africa. Franz Fanon's work was at a premium and we couldn't get enough of his books for the demand back home.
It was wonderful to be alive those days. For once, the void was filled.
To cap it all, Sister Arnadene Bean and her fellow Sisters of the Holy Names promoted me to deputy headmaster after the incumbent,
Ezra November, a PAC exile formerly from my ancestral village of Qoboshane, went to further his studies at the University at Roma. At the same time, Sister Arnadene resigned and went back to the United States. She was replaced by a Canadian nun from Manitoba, Sister Yvonne Maes â she of the
triste
eyes.
I was acting headmaster for some time while we were waiting for Sister Yvonne. When she came into the office for the first time I was sitting at the principal's desk doing some paperwork and a beautiful petite woman called Tholane, a colleague who taught biology and general science, was bending over getting some coffee and creamer from a low cupboard. She was wearing the tiniest tennis skirt imaginable and frilly white panties. Her tennis racquet was on the floor. She had been on her way to the tennis courts when she had decided to come to my office to treat us both to a cup of coffee. I saw this young white woman in brown tunic and white veil standing at the door. She had a horrified look on her face. I tried to signal to Tholane to stand up and look decent, but she didn't notice. Instead she uttered a mild expletive because she couldn't find the coffee and the water was boiling.
I stood up quickly to greet the nun.
âI'm Yvonne Maes, the new principal,' she said.
Tholane was blasé, while I was embarrassed that the new principal had seen her in the principal's office bending over in my direction. She most likely thought there were worse things that I did in that office.
âShe just came to make coffee,' I said after introducing Tholane. âShe is on her way to the tennis court.'
This last bit of information was necessary to explain why her lacy panties were hanging out of her teensy-weensy white skirt. But Sister Yvonne just walked out without another word. Perhaps she thought she had been assigned to Sodom and Gomorrah.
âWhat's it with you guys and nuns?' asked Tholane.
âWe guys? Me and who? And what are you talking about anyway?'
âI saw the way you were looking at her. You desire her.'
I didn't know it had been that obvious. Although âdesire' was quite a stretch, I thought she was quite attractive. If I had any lustful look at all it must have been a reflex reaction.
Sister Arnadene used to tell me that where she came from nuns did not wear the habit, whereas in Lesotho they were forced to be in tunics and white veils. Sister Yvonne was the first nun I saw in civvies. I was at the Maseru Holiday Inn Casino minding my beer at the bar counter while watching Mr Dizzy minding the slot machines, where he was losing a lot of coins that would otherwise have been useful in filling our stomach with beer and our heads with giddy mischief. And there was this beautiful white woman with a wistful look smiling at me. I smiled back even though I didn't recognise her, though she looked vaguely familiar. It only registered later when she was walking out of the casino that she was none other than my new principal, Sister Yvonne Maes. What she was doing at night in civvies at the casino I never got to know.
I have often wondered what happened to those beautiful nuns. Well, today you can look people up using any one of the search engines, and I did so for the purposes of this story. I discovered that Sister Arnadene Bean is still going strong as a nun in Oregon, minus the habit. She ministers to female prison inmates. But Sister Yvonne Maes is no longer a nun. She has written a book titled
Cannibal's Wife: A Memoir
in which she tells the story of how she was sexually abused repeatedly by a priest who was her retreat director in Lesotho. When she reported the matter to the Catholic Church it was covered up and the priest was transferred back to England whence he came. Yvonne resigned from the convent and the church, after thirty-seven years as a nun, and now advocates for survivors of sexual abuse in Canada.
I didn't know this had happened to my principal. But I can easily believe it because the whole environment of the Catholic Church in Lesotho was sexually charged, sometimes perversely so and at other times in ways that were absolutely exhilarating. I have told you already about the pilgrimages of some of my pals to Maryland for orgies with the nuns. I watched as an outsider when these things were happening. But in two instances I became either an insider, or almost one.
When I went to the shops or to the shebeens at the Location I passed through the premises of St Bernadette Primary School which was just across the fence from Mabathoana High School on one side and Lesotho High School on the other. From there I walked on the pristine stone-paved
grounds of Our Lady of Victories Cathedral, where I used to take Attorney OK Mofolo's candles for the blessings, between the imposing sandstone cathedral and a double-storey sandstone house that I figured served as the offices of the priests and the bishops.
One day a friendly priest with sparse white hair and a white goatee approached me just when I was passing the steps of this building.
âWhat is your name?' he asked.
I gave him my first name.
âYou were baptised with that name?'
I don't know why he assumed I was Catholic or even Christian at all. Perhaps he expected everyone who made these sacred grounds a thoroughfare to be at least a member of his faith.
âNo,' I said. âMy church name is Kizito.'
He seemed to find this quite fascinating. He told me he was Father Villa. He was an Italian, just arrived from Malawi where he had been working as a priest for many years. He was quite impressed to hear that at my young age I was the deputy headmaster at a prestigious Catholic school.
After that, every time I passed by he would pop out of nowhere to talk to me. I began to dread passing there because I found the small talk a waste of time. But it was the shortest route to my destination. I don't know how he knew I would be coming past because I didn't keep regular times. Maybe he was spying on me from the window upstairs and could see me from a distance. He was like a spectre that haunted me.
Then one day he invited me upstairs to show me something that he said would interest me. I followed him through the office where a middle-aged secretary was typing mechanically as if in a daze and then climbed the stairs to the rooms upstairs. It turned out that one of these was his bedroom. There was a single bed covered in a blue Basotho
lesolanka
blanket as a bedspread, a small dressing table with a number of newspapers on it and a nightstand with a lamp and book. On the bed was a pile of rosaries.
Father Villa took a newspaper from the dressing table and showed it to me. It was from Malawi, he said, from the diocese where he ministered.
âDon't you think it's a wonderful newspaper?' he asked, coming very close to me.
It was just your standard Catholic paper and I didn't see anything wonderful about it. He started to breathe very hard and began to caress my thigh. I removed his hand and moved back a little. He came closer still and his body touched mine. His hand was busy on my thigh again. I pushed him away. He started to whine, I think overcome with desire.