In the evening we went to Langa Township where one of my cousins, Zanemali Mtshula, had organised a very big party to celebrate my graduation. People from the township gathered in his small house and
garden and speeches were made about how I was an inspiration to the youth to work hard and reach for the sky. It was wonderful to be among my mother's people and to meet a number of her relatives I knew nothing about. She sat there between Thami and Adele beaming with pride. My mother's people fell in love with Adele immediately. She was pleasant and beautiful and dutiful. They said: this is the right
makoti
for us; we look forward to the day you marry.
A few days later we drove back to Lesotho. The fourteen-hour road trip was just as enjoyable, with Zwelakhe having us in stitches with his humour.
But of course the fun had to end when we got back to Lesotho. It was back to the grind: me to the teaching job at the university, Adele to her teaching job in Thaba Nchu, Zwelakhe to his legal practice, Thami to her fashion designing and seamstress job, and my mother to her cafés in Mafeteng. We all went back to being ourselves.
A few months later I received a letter from the Vice-Chancellor of the National University of Lesotho, Professor Adamu Baikie. I had been promoted to a full professorship, even though I had not applied for the promotion. I was told that Baikie had argued at a Senate promotions meeting, and then at a Council meeting, that with all my publications and my performance as a teacher I should have been made professor a long time ago.
When the university did not renew Tom Lynn's contract for reasons that I never understood â Tom was one of the most valuable teachers I had ever known and he had also created an effective communications skills programme for first-year students â I was appointed head of the English Department. This was a position I had not asked for and did not relish. It made me an insider despite myself. It also interfered with my off-campus work with the Marotholi Travelling Theatre and the Screenwriters Institute. Before this promotion I had spent a lot of time in Germany, Spain, Denmark, France and the United Kingdom giving talks at universities and holding theatre workshops and seminars. Now all that would have to change. I would have to spend my life sitting in a gloomy office doing boring administrative work.
However, I still continued my work with UNICEF. For instance,
I attended one memorable event in Bamako, Mali, where African intellectuals and artists gathered to discuss child survival and development. In many ways it was reminiscent of the Harare Symposium that I have told you about, but with less star-power. What made it memorable for me was the round-table we had with Julius Nyerere who had just stepped down as president of Tanzania. When my turn came to give a talk and ask questions I commended Nyerere first for his literary work in translating some of Shakespeare's plays into Kiswahili, and secondly for his political work in supporting our liberation struggle in South Africa and for peacefully stepping down from power to let others take over the leadership in Tanzania. Then I asked him if he had any thoughts as to why his fellow heads of state in Africa were allergic to democracy, why they wanted to stay in power forever, and why there were so many coups where democratically elected governments were overthrown. Everybody around the table froze. This question obviously embarrassed Nyerere especially because at that moment he was sitting next to Moussa Traore, the president of Mali who had attained that position through a bloody coup. The Zimbabwean woman who was chairing the round-table unceremoniously moved to the next speaker.
As soon as I walked out of the room I was confronted, not by Traore's soldiers, but by journalists from Mali and other African countries who accused me of showing disrespect towards both Nyerere and Traore by asking Nyerere an embarrassing question. After that I was shunned by the delegates. No one wanted to talk to me, not even at a goat barbecue in a remote village where we had been taken to witness some wonderful traditional performances. Instead, they abandoned me in that village while I was talking to some kids. Fortunately I got a ride from a Frenchman who was passing through. The next day when they saw me at the hotel they pointed fingers at me.
âThat's him,' I heard a journalist say. âThat's the guy who asked our Mwalimu rude questions.'
âDidn't you say you left him behind at the village last night? How did he get here?' asked his friend.
âI don't know. But he deserved worse for insulting President Traore like that.'
Right there and then I knew why Africa was in such deep trouble.
On my return to Lesotho I went straight to Mafeteng because I wanted to share my Malian experience with my father. I found that he was busy with a visitor I had not met before, but I had heard that he often infiltrated the country from his headquarters in Tanzania to consult with my father. He was Sabelo Pama, the commander of the Azanian People's Liberation Army â which you may remember as the armed wing of the Pan Africanist Congress. I knew that he was trying to lure my father into relocating to Tanzania to deal with the crises in the PAC leadership and perhaps take over as president, which would certainly have been welcomed by all the members of that organisation. I also knew that Sabelo Pama would fail because my father had made up his mind a long time ago that he would rather be the âback-room boy' of the political struggle, by which he meant the thinker who gave those in the forefront ideological direction.
People were always trying to lure my father into taking more prominent positions than his humility allowed him. I knew, for instance, that for many years successive Lesotho governments had been knocking at his door trying to persuade him to become the Chief Justice of Lesotho. He always politely turned down such requests.
When Sabelo Pama stayed at my home in Mafeteng he was treated just like us kids. He performed chores like all of us and was yelled at by my father as if he was his own kid. I, on the other hand, was in awe of this young man who had so much power that he sent men and women to kill and be killed. He held meetings with my father into the night on military strategies, but during the day he was just like one of us kids. When my father went to hide himself from his clients at
Ntate
Hani's restaurant Sabelo carried his bag for him. He sat there and had food and cold drink while my father attended to his chamber work. I wondered what would happen if Chris Hani came in and found Sabelo Pama sitting there in his father's restaurant. What would these guerrilla leaders of rival forces talk about?
I was able to talk briefly with my father to tell him about Mali. He thought my sentiments were correct but that I was tactless in expressing them. You don't tell a dictator to his face in his own country, where
he has the power of life and death over you, that he was allergic to democracy, especially when you are a stranger in that country. But he commended me for taking a position fearlessly. I thought he was contradicting himself but I said nothing about it.
He congratulated me on my latest book,
The Plays of Zakes Mda
, published by Ravan Press, but did not mince his words about the Introduction by Professor Andrew Horn. You may remember Horn as the academic whose place I took at the National University of Lesotho who had also founded the theatre-for-development project there. Horn wrote that my work questioned the basic tenets of the PAC as represented by my father who had âjoined Anton Muziwakhe Lembede in resisting the dominant ANC trend towards a class analysis of South African society, and promoted a rather narrower race-based pan-Africanism, much influenced by Marcus Garvey, within the ANC Youth League'.
This, of course, did not accurately represent my father's politics and I could understand his anger. My father believed that in a free and democratic South Africa there would be only one race, the human race. He spoke of non-racialism as opposed to multi-racialism long before it became the trend in South Africa and wrote against ânarrow nationalism'. Race as defined by the social engineers of the apartheid state came into play when he discussed the intersections of class and race. Even ardent Communist leaders like John Motloheloa came to him for his class analysis of the South African situation. Although I am not an authority on my father's writings, as people like Robert Edgar and Luyanda ka Msumza are, I'll be so bold as to say Marcus Garvey never featured in any of them. Well, in all our meetings I had never heard him mention Garvey even once. To make sure I was not wrong about this I asked Luyanda ka Msumza, one of the young leaders who used to be mentored by my father and was with him a lot of the time, who angrily shot back in an email:
This is garbage of the century ⦠AP's Nationalism is well articulated in two statements, âAfrican Nationalism: is it a Misnomer? ' and a series of articles published in
Inkundla
entitled âAfrican Nationalism'. I think he published two or three in a series. AP's
African Nationalism is very clear and unambiguous but liberals and radical liberals (Communists) find his positions too correct [
I am not sure what Luyanda means here
]. AP's positions debunk their non-scientific
 and
dogmatic approaches. In articulating his brand of African Nationalism he actually pooh-poohs Marcus Garvey's notion of âBack to Africa' and âDrive the White Men out of Africa'. These scholars know that, they deliberately seek to demean AP and African Nationalism and Pan Africanism.
It suffices to say my father's Pan-Africanism was inclusive rather than narrow.
âI respect the rigorous research of American academics,' my father told me, âbut this Andrew Horn is a disappointment.'
I knew that when he was talking of American academics he meant Gail Gerhart and Robert Edgar who had researched his life and politics extensively.
I apologised for Horn's inaccurate descriptions. I felt guilty because they were in my book. I feared that he would never be proud of that book because it contained such inaccurate statements about him. I felt like a traitor.
While in Mafeteng I paid a visit to Mpho who was running a chicken farm in one of the townships. My father had given me a piece of land that he had bought some years back, hopefully to build his own house but decided against it. I had built a house on the land and established the chicken farm, as my father had done before me when I was a kid back at KwaGcina in the Eastern Cape. But this one was not a hatchery like his. Mpho ordered day-old chickens, raised them for eight weeks and then sold them as broilers. I saw that the business was not doing badly, though it would bring better returns if she extended it and ordered more day-olds. We discussed our divorce. We had separated years ago; it was high time that we were officially divorced.
And indeed we were. It was a very amicable divorce presided over by the Chief Justice of the High Court of Lesotho, Mr Justice Peter Brendan Cullinan. Lawyers on both sides were family friends. On her side was Attorney Winston Churchill Matanzima Maqutu and on my
side was Advocate Semapo Peete. The hearing did not last more than fifteen minutes. The judge gave me the custody of the three minor children with reasonable access to their mother. But he added a clause where he gave âcare and control of the children to the parents of the plaintiff'. I was the plaintiff. The house and the chicken farm went to Mpho. All these arrangements were amicably agreed upon even before the hearing, which merely formalised them.
Even after the divorce I was still in a pickle with women. I saw myself as an utter failure in relationships. Adele worked more than a hundred kilometres away in Thaba Nchu. I had given her my Toyota Corolla and she could drive to Maseru any time she felt like it. But it was obvious that neither of us saw any future in our relationship, so she stayed away for most of the time.
However, I was able to spend more time with Gugu, not only at our Jerusalema this time; she also visited my house in Florida. I often sent my driver,
Ntate
Lelosa, to pick her up from Roma to spend the weekend with me.
One thing about Gugu was that she hated cigarette smoke so every time I wanted to smoke I had to go outside. This was too much trouble for me so I decided to stop smoking altogether. This was a year after I stopped drinking. Oh, I didn't tell you that on New Year's Eve in 1989 I had drunk myself to an utter stupor, hoping that after a serious hangover on New Year's Day I would be so sick that I would hate liquor and therefore stop drinking altogether! And indeed it happened that way. It would not be accurate to say that I hate alcohol, though; I am actually a wine collector. I just don't drink it myself. Now, thanks to Gugu, it was time to give up another vice. For her I stopped smoking and have never touched a cigarette with my lips again.
Â
On February 11, 1990, Nelson Mandela was released from prison. We watched on television as he walked out of Victor Verster Prison hand in hand with Winnie Mandela. Other stalwarts of the liberation struggle such as Govan Mbeki, Walter Sisulu and Ahmed Kathrada had been released a few months earlier. We were moving towards achieving what we had been fighting for for so many years. Gugu went home to Soweto
to visit, taking her friend Xoliswa Vumazonke with her. When she came back after the brief holiday she was excited because she had met Nelson Mandela who was her neighbour in Orlando West. This was before Mandela moved to the formerly all-white suburbs. She had shaken his hand and joked that she felt the âMadiba magic' running through her arm like an electric current.