Zulu Dreams: From Apartheid to the Ivy League

By Richman B. Mahlangu

Zulu Dreams is a story of a man who rises above all odds to achieve his dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483515861

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Chapter 1 - Zulu Beginnings

My name is Richman Bongani Mahlangu. I was born on January 14, 1964 in Durban, South Africa. It was the custom in South Africa that black babies were given an English name as their first name; their Zulu name followed. I never understood why black children had to carry English names like Richman or John or Anna. What was wrong with our Zulu names? They were far more descriptive in my mind. Bongani means to be grateful or thankful. I am the last born of the five children in my family, and, I suppose, grateful for even being here.

My mother’s sister gave birth to a girl out of wedlock who was named Hilda. Simangele, her Zulu name, means a surprise which she must indeed have been. My parents took Hilda in when she was two years old because my Aunt Winnie was too young to care for her. She was raised in my family as one of us. I have always considered her my eldest sister and only discovered that little family secret when I was about ten years old. My sister Sarah was born next; her Zulu name was Thulile which has something to do with being the quiet, peaceful one. Then came Irene, whose Zulu name is Duduzile, or one who is consoled. My brother Smart followed; his Zulu name, Sibusiso, means a blessing of some kind. I guess he was a blessing since my parents had three girls already. Incidentally, he was also quite smart.

My father’s name was James; I’m not sure why, but he didn’t have a Zulu name at all. He came to Durban from Lydenberg, which is in the Northern part of Johannesburg. Born in 1914, he was the youngest child in a family of eleven children. His family was from the Ndebele tribe, a people with very strong traditions and beliefs around ancestral spirits, mediums, and voodoo. He was a quiet, religious man who worked hard all his life. He grew up struggling in a world of poverty like many South Africans at that time. He and his siblings hunted game and trapped birds for meals, looked after cattle and plowed the fields. He had very little formal education. In fact, he did not finish high school.

My mother came from Northern Natal, part of the Nguni tribe. She was the third child in her family, born in 1927, and her parents named her Melta Deliwe. The closest English translation for Deliwe would be had enough. Maybe this was my grandmother’s way of expressing that she really wanted to be finished having children. That, however, was not to be the case; three more siblings followed. Like my father, my mother was a hard worker and did not have much formal education.

My father went to Natal to visit my aunt and to look for work. There he met my mother. My parents were married on February 21, 1957 in Dannhauser. They had a traditional wedding with many people in attendance from both families. There was a lot to a traditional Zulu wedding. Typically it looked something like this: A man falls for a certain young lady. Without speaking to her, he tells his family and an Umkhongi, a messenger who is chosen to bring the news to the girl’s family. Being chosen as an Umkhongi is very prestigious as it carries great respect and honor. In order to plead for the girl’s hand in marriage the groom must first present eleven cows to the bride’s family. As a Westerner, one might think that the girl is being bought, but in the African culture this was tradition.

Upon approaching the girl’s home the Umkhongi calls the bride’s family name and then introduces himself and the reason for his visit. Generally the bride’s family is caught off-guard. The man of the house comes out to see the visitor. Without waiting to see if anybody is even listening to him, the Umkhongi carries out his duty by counting the cattle and presenting them by their color to the bride’s family.

Often the father does not give up his daughter so easily. He may tell the Umkhongi that the family is sleeping and suggest that perhaps he return later. The Umkhongi may elect to be stubborn and not leave, or he may opt to respect the father’s request and depart. The process continues and the father eventually accepts the cattle. The Umkhongi goes back to the groom’s family to deliver the good news. The proposal has been accepted. The groom is happy because the girl of his choosing has accepted his love, even though he did not tell her himself. This is the Zulu tradition.

The families decide on a wedding date, giving themselves plenty of time for practice. Each family engages an Umbhidi who, like a choir conductor, leads the family in special songs and dances. The first day of the wedding is held at the bride’s house where she receives many gifts from both families. After much practice the families face each other and perform their songs and dances, each side hoping that they will present the better show. The second day of the wedding is held at the groom’s house where the celebration ends with the bride’s family leaving her in her new home with strangers. The entire affair is a great celebration with singing, dancing, eating, and drinking by all involved.

The African culture is still dominated by men. Often women have little to say about their lives. The bride’s father is happy to have eleven cows, and everyone enjoys the celebration. But I have always wondered how many women would not have gone along with these arrangements if they had been given any say in the matter. I wonder about my own parents, even though they knew each other for some time before they got married. I hoped my mother was happy with the proposal she received and that she looked forward to having a family together. I guess this is what was culturally accepted then, and I am now looking at it through westernized eyes.

Chapter 2 - Zulu Family Life

Shortly after they were married, my father found a better job in Durban. Based on the laws of Apartheid, blacks could not establish residency within the cities. They worked in the cities, but had to live out in the townships or in hostels within or just outside the cities that were designated for blacks only. My father lived in one of these hostels. My mother, as so many women before her, stayed behind. She got to see her husband when he came home during holidays. Eventually, my father found a four-room house in a township called Lamontville, and we were able to join him there.

These houses were built by the government especially for blacks. There was a kitchen, a dining room, and two bedrooms in the rear. There was no electricity or hot water. The bedrooms were separated from the neighbor’s bedrooms with a strong brick wall. The toilet stood side-by-side with the neighbor’s, about twenty feet from the house, with a very thin wall separating them, just like in public toilets. At the back of the toilet structure was a tap for drinking water. In our particular case, the house was on a hill and the toilets stood just below the house. Down from the house were a couple of trees, a grape and a banana, which I believe my parents planted. Above the house was the main street which gave us an opportunity to hear every car that passed by.

All the houses in the township were built in the same style with the same materials, the same roof, and the same room sizes. I remember thinking it all looked so odd, everything the same. As a child I did not understand the significance of the sameness of the township, which was essentially used to control and isolate South African Blacks.

A couple of years after my parents married, they joined the Zion Christian Church. I have never met anyone who believed in God more than my parents. For them, nothing was more important than being a good Christian, which meant loving your neighbors and forgiving your enemies. Because of this belief the white man’s bible did win a few followers among the black community, including my parents.

My father worked for a company called Holdan Boxes. He got up at 3:00 each morning in order to take the bus and start work at 5:00 a.m. sharp. We saw him when he came home from work in the evening. He did not own a car; in fact, he did not possess a driver’s license. We were always happy to see him as he usually brought bags of oranges, apples, or bananas with him. Being the youngest, I got to open the bag first, and then I gave it to my mother to divide the fruit. My father was strict with us, as most South African fathers were, but we children were always my parents’ first priority.

In 1970 my parents built a house on a farm in Dannhauser, not very far from my mother’s family in Springbok. The village of Dannhauser consisted of about thirty-five or forty families, mostly women and children. If a family had boys it was considered a luxury because of all the physical labor to be done; the fields had to be plowed and planted with maize, watermelon, and beans. Cattle used for plantation work needed to be tended. We had a total of eight cows and seven sheep. My brother and I worked out in the fields, as did the other boys in the village. Before going to school in the morning, the two of us had to lead the cattle and sheep to a specific field and then fetch them in the afternoon after school. The girls helped with the cooking and the other household chores.

I remember a family called Kunene. They had only one daughter and no sons, so we worked out a partnership with the Kunenes. We’d work their fields one week and ours the next. Mr. Kunene taught me a lot about hunting, milking, trapping birds, plowing, and harvesting, which I’m sure my own father had learned when he was a boy.

In this village there was no kindergarten. Young children were taught by playing and working with each other until they were old enough to attend school. When that time came for me, I entered Black Bank Higher Primary School which was located about five miles from our home. I was excited to wear the student uniform of khaki shorts, khaki shirts, and black shoes. Most of the boys came barefooted, but I almost always wore my shoes.

The school was very strict; teachers had complete power and used it to discipline students. Quite often they would hit the students on their hands or backside. I remember one teacher, Mr. Hlatswayo, who taught Standard Six, the last class before high school. He must have thought he was bigger than God. One time my sister Sarah missed some questions on an exam, and Mr. Hlatswayo took it upon himself to hit her on her back and thighs leaving terrible marks. My mother did not do anything about it because she was afraid that if she complained, Mr. Hlatswayo would fail Sarah. Instead, Sarah had to suffer the pain. She still has those marks.

In school we were taught that if you spoke English well you were a better person. By being able to hold a conversation with a white person you held the key to better employment which equated to a better life. Having a lighter complexion was also looked upon as a plus. It was sad that children were encouraged to abandon their native tongue. Sadder still that they were taught that their worth as a human being was tied to the color of their skin and their ability to speak English. Worst of all was the fact that our black teachers preached this false gospel just as much as the government did.

Smart was very popular among his peers at school. He was good at soccer and was also very driven academically. Most of his teachers liked him, probably because he was quiet and a little shy. I, on the other hand, had a big mouth but was still liked by my schoolmates and teachers—most likely because I was Smart’s younger brother. Smart and I were on the track and field teams, and we were very successful in our own age groups.

My father came home to Dannhauser during the Christmas holidays; in fact, the entire family would come to visit during this time. My brother, sisters, and I received new clothes for school, school bags, and shoes as Christmas presents. It was a very happy time for all of us!

The biggest entertainment was when, each week night at 8:00 p.m., we would gather around the radio to listen to the Zulu station tell us a story, much like a play. I was very intrigued by the technology that made the radio work, and although I would ask the elders countless questions, no one was able to explain it to me. Imagine my wonder when at age thirteen I saw my first television set!

It was at about this same age that I realized I did not know very many white people. I had seen a few in Dannhauser when I went to buy groceries with my mother. But this did not happen often as, like most other families, we had a large garden and did not require much else. The only other time I saw white people was on the few trips I’d made on the overnight train to Durban. There was always a ticket examiner who came to verify all passengers’ tickets.

These examiners were not civil. I can remember we would sometimes be fast asleep in the compartment when all of a sudden someone banged on the door as hard as they could screaming, TICKETS! Everyone was confused in the dark and searched frantically for their tickets. The examiner spoke in broken Zulu, asking each passenger their destination. Most of the people were elderly with very little education and a healthy fear of white people. We called the white ticketman Bass which I believe meant Boss or Sir.

As my siblings reached high school age, they left the farm one by one and joined my father in Durban as there was no high school in Dannhauser. At the end of 1976 my brother Smart went to Durban, leaving only my mother and me on the farm. After Smart left school, I became more popular, most likely because I reminded everyone of him. At times, it was difficult for me to always be compared to him. I was very talkative, never shy to speak. I boldly recited an English sentence, mispronouncing many of the words, only to be corrected by my teachers. How else was I to learn?

On several occasions my father became ill, and my mother went to him in Durban. During those trips, my mother asked an elderly relative to look after me. This woman would tell me stories about what it was like to work in the kitchens, to clean and wash and babysit for white people. She was very proud of the fact that she got along so well with her employers. She worked hard all day long with only a short break for a bite to eat. By law, she had to leave the white area by 5:00 p.m. or face the possibility of being arrested.

This old woman thought the white people were something akin to gods. To her, white people represented something pure, clean, and perfect. She believed the white man had come from Europe to Africa to show the blacks the correct way to live their lives. At the time, I did not understand what she was talking about. But I could not blame her because that was the only way of thinking that she had ever known; she had nothing else to compare it to. Also, it allowed her to survive in the world of Apartheid.

Chapter 3 - Baba

On December 20, 1977, as a surprise to the rest of the family, my mother put me on an overnight train from Dannhauser to Durban. I had not seen my father since Christmas the year before. My mother was supposed to follow me in three days. Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Durban to learn that my father had just taken the train to Dannhauser to surprise me and my mother for Christmas! My siblings and I waited for the next couple of days for my mother and father to return. We did not have a phone in the township, nor was there one at the farm at this time. I will tell you what happened after my father’s arrival back in Dannhauser, but first I must ask you to read this next portion with an open mind.

In the African culture there is a strong belief in the existence of voodoo, and much of what follows deals with some unusual events. According to my mother, on my father’s first night back in Dannhauser in the farmhouse, some very strange things occurred.

There was no electricity in the area; we used candles for light. Both for warmth and for cooking, we used an mbawula, a metal bucket with holes drilled through the bottom. At the bottom of the mbawula, we placed wood or paper with amalongo (dried cow dung), and coal was added at the top.

My parents were fast asleep when they awoke to the sound of footsteps on the roof of the farmhouse. The roof was made from many layers of grass placed together in a pattern and thick enough to prevent rain from coming through. The walls were made of mud bricks.

My father ran outside and took a long look at the dark silhouette of the house, but he saw no one on the roof. He went back inside, and just as he and my mother settled back into sleep, they again heard noises from the roof above. Once again my father leapt from the bed and raced outside to look for the intruder; again he saw no one. My parents kept a candle lit for quite some time, but there were no more footsteps so they eventually blew it out and tried to get back to sleep.

Suddenly a bright flash of light appeared through the bedroom window, as though a huge fire had been lit just outside the house. My mother screamed in her fear. But when the curtains were opened there was no fire to be seen—nothing but the black of the night! They scrambled to find the matches and candle in the dark. My father’s main objective was to protect his wife first, but it was a mystery as to what he was to protect her from.

As I mentioned, my parents were very religious. They started to sing and pray with great fervor, believing that the power of prayer could conquer all evil. My father sprinkled blessed seawater around the house, both inside and out, praying as he went. My parents went back to bed without any more trouble for the remainder of the night.

The next night, however, the same thing happened again—the sounds of footsteps on the roof, a flash of fire outside the windows, their hearts beating in fear. Again my parents prayed while my father sprinkled the holy water throughout the premises.

In the morning my mother insisted that they go to an Umthandazi, or a prayer healer. They chose an Umthandazi they did not know. Still, he asked my father why he had come. He recognized my father, who was also an Umthandazi, and they both knew my father was capable of conquering the demons himself.

You see, my father was a psychic, and he could often foresee things. He was an Umfundisi, a kind of pastor, and many people of the Zionist Church came to him and asked for help. Through prayer and confession, my father was able to help people with different problems, whether it was fighting between a man and his wife, a search for a job, or issues with alcohol. The most difficult problem was always that of a woman or a family that wanted to have a child but had not been able to conceive.

The prayer process my father led them through was simple. Before the person even told him of their problem, my father would light a candle or two and ask the person to kneel and pray with him. While on his knees in front of the candles, with eyes closed, he would then sing and pray, turning a bottle of blessed water up and down. What followed was my favorite part—he would begin to speak in tongues that, to my young ears, sounded like foreign languages.

It was through the blessed water that everything was revealed to my father. He described the person’s problem in detail and then stopped to let the person confirm and respond. I knew of one woman who could not become pregnant. After a few prayer sessions, the woman and her husband were finally able to conceive a child. My father’s advice to all the people who came to him was to pray very hard to God and to truly believe that it was possible to reach whatever goal they wanted to achieve.

My parents knelt with the healer and prayed for quite a while. At the end of the praying, the Umthandazi finally rose from his knees and said, I have seen all the occurrences that have taken place in your home over the last two nights. My advice would be, if you want to see and share Christmas with your wife and children, that you go straight home, pack your bags, and leave that house. Move to Durban.

My father told the Umthandazi that he could not just leave his property, his sheep and cattle unattended. The Umthandazi replied, It is God’s word. I can only convey it, but you must decide. My father believed that God was everywhere and that good would prevail over evil. He said that if it was time for him and my mother to go, then it was time. The Umthandazi gave my father some more blessed water to spread throughout our home for the next few days, with the understanding that right after Christmas, the family would move to Durban.

In the Zulu language we have a word, thakatha, which means performing voodoo rituals. Thakatha is a very dangerous and negative act. The most common reason voodoo is used against another is jealousy. Through voodoo, the umthakathi, the person performing the voodoo, can kill another with lightning and thunder, by poisoning another’s food, or by casting an evil eye on someone. There are other acts that can drive someone away or drive a person insane.

The Umthandazi indicated that not only my father but my mother too could be in danger. Although it was not the custom to speak the name of the individual causing the problem, the Umthandazi did on this occasion identify the person who was responsible for the voodoo being practiced against my family. He told my parents that a close relative was jealous of our family and our good fortune, that they were in danger, and that they must leave at once.

This was a lot to take in. My parents were torn between abandoning everything they’d ever worked for and running to the city to save their lives. There was much to be done in preparation for their departure. My father asked some of our relatives to look after the farmhouse and the livestock. They packed their clothes and a few belongings and asked a neighbor to keep an eye on our relatives and help them if they needed it. No one knew what the future would hold for my family.

On December 24, 1977 my mother was in the kitchen finishing the last of the ironing while Baba was outside checking the garden one last time before leaving for the train that would reunite us all in Durban. Suddenly, through the window my mother saw Baba staggering, trying to maintain his balance by gripping the fencepost with one hand, his other hand holding his pants at the hip. She ran to the door, threw it open, and helped him into the bedroom. As she helped him onto the bed a strange thing happened. My father began to bleed through his mouth, his nose, his eyes and his ears, and blood appeared at the seat of his pants. He twitched and kicked uncontrollably while choking for breath. His eyes shot back and forth in his head. My mother held his hands and screamed for help. My father’s last words between his gasps were, Deliwe, look after our kids. Don’t leave them alone. And then he was gone.

Our neighbors heard my mother’s screams and came running, but of course, there was nothing they could do. One neighbor, the close relative who we later believed was responsible for my father’s death, also heard the screams and came to my mother’s side.

He was the only neighbor with a car, so once my father was declared dead, he hurried to bring his car to transport my father’s body to the mortuary. My mother was not happy with this situation but, as she was in a state shock and now a widow, she was not in a position to argue. Besides, if anyone had asked why she did not want this relative to transport my father, it would have been difficult to respond. After all, how could you prove without a doubt that someone had engaged in voodoo?

With the help of several people, my mother lifted my father from his deathbed and placed his body in the van on blankets that had been placed in the back for his comfort. As they lifted my father into the vehicle, a strange thing happened. Baba opened his eyes and rolled them back in his head in what appeared to be a fervent refusal to be loaded into this van. With that, my mother demanded that Baba be placed back in his bed. His body was cold now, his eyes were shut, and he was not breathing. James Trek Mahlangu had left this world.

My mother asked someone to go to Newcastle for an undertaker; he finally came and transported my father’s body to the mortuary. As there were no phones, my mother could not call us in Durban to tell us about our father’s death. Oddly, my siblings and I felt a strange dullness all day long, not at all typical of a Christmas Eve. We were listless and quiet, but we didn’t think anything of it at the time.

Christmas Day is a joyous day for most black families in South Africa, just as in many other cultures. Presents are mostly distributed among children and are generally clothing and school needs. Most families cook a big meal because you never know how many people may stop by, with or without an invitation.

In Durban, however, my sisters prepared very little this Christmas Day; it was the first time we had been without our parents on this special holiday. As I sat looking out the window at nothing in particular, I saw my aunt coming toward the house. She held both hands up to her eyes as if she were crying. We ran to greet her at the door. As she entered the house, she tried to talk, but tears overwhelmed her.

My sisters and I were confused, but somehow we knew that someone must have passed away. My aunt cried and we all started to scream. Eventually the noise drew the neighbors who came to see what had happened. Attempting to continue, my aunt described the death, but failed to mention who had passed away. Finally she said, God, what is going to happen to Melta, all alone now with the kids. That is when we knew that it was our father who had died. It was devastating for all of us.

I remember I went to the corner of the room where my father used to stand or kneel when we prayed. I said to myself there is no God because if there was, my father would not have died. To me, my father was a perfect man. He was a quiet man who worshipped God. He did not drink, he did not smoke, he was true to my mother and never raised his voice to her, and he went to church every Sunday. My father rose early every morning and went to work so his children could get a good education. He returned directly home from work in the evening and continued to work around the house until bedtime. Although he sometimes scared people with his looks (he stood about 5’8," weighing about 190 pounds, with gray hair, a beard, a very dark complexion, and dark brown eyes), he was gentle and was always polite to people.

I wondered why God did not protect my father against the evil done to him. I asked God how he expected us to survive without our father. I cried harder and louder and longer than I had ever cried before in my life. I had never been so hurt. At first it was like a dream, I felt helpless. I wished I was dead and wanted to disappear. I considered jumping into the river so I too would die. I did not want to feel anything. Even to this day, I have never accepted the fact that my father is gone.

Mama came back home wearing a dark blue dress as her sign of mourning. Seeing my mother made me finally realize that my father was really gone. A stream of tears poured down her cheeks. She was sadder looking than I had ever seen anyone. She looked straight at me and said, Bantabami, usesishiyile ubaba. My Children, Baba has left us.

My legs turned to jelly; I could not breathe. I started screaming, hoping that I would run out of breath and pass out. My mother came and wrapped her arms around me, holding me very tightly. In all my sorrow, my mother’s arms were extremely comforting.

Funeral arrangements were made. I knew this would be the last time I would see my father, even though I did not want to admit it. Everyone continued to cry, day and night. There is a Zulu saying: If there is too much crying from the family, the spirit of the deceased does not get released; there are obstacles in his way. I prayed that the crying would not stop, because, maybe if everyone continued to cry, my father would return to us.

The funeral took place in Durban which meant my father had to be transported from Dannhauser. The undertaker arrived with the coffin the day before the funeral. As was the custom, a ceremony with the immediate family and church members was scheduled. When the undertaker came into the house with the coffin, I wanted to run away. My mother could see this, and told me to come to her.

I had never seen a dead person; I had no idea what to expect. The time came to open the coffin, and the people who wanted to say good-bye to my father lined up. My mother, my sisters, my brother and I were first.

My father was 63 when he died, but in that coffin he looked young and pure. His gray hair was combed back from his face, and he looked as if he was just sleeping, like he would wake up at any moment. I remember hoping that this entire ordeal was some kind of a mistake and that any minute Baba would wake from this peaceful sleep.

That afternoon we went to the cemetery where the priest proceeded with the funeral ceremony. As the attendants started to close the grave, my sisters started screaming which was the final assurance to me that my father was gone forever.

Hours drifted into days, and days into weeks as the entire family continued to mourn and cry. One day I realized that it had been a month since the funeral. My wounds were still very sore. From the day I was born, it had been our family tradition to pray every night before we went to bed. But as we gathered in our usual spots and realized that our father was not there, the tears would begin to flow, and everyone would wander off to bed without saying prayers. I remember looking into my mother’s eyes and seeing the emptiness and confusion deep within her. I wished I was older so that I could take care of her. It was at that point that my dream began to take shape: I wanted to grow up and get a good education so that I could get a decent job and take care of my family.

My mother always said that we were all going to be okay; my father would look out for us and protect us. The Christian promise had always been that if you lived a life according to the bible your reward was to go to heaven when you died. There was no doubt in my mind that my father was in heaven.

Chapter 4 - Seasons End - Seasons Begin

Many things changed for me after my father’s death. For one, I would now be going to school in the city. Although it was a dream come true and I was very excited, I remember also experiencing the fear of the unknown. When I was on the farm I used to dream about wearing long gray pants, a white shirt with a tie, and a black jacket, the traditional high school attire. I remember thinking on that first day of school in Durban that things were going to be better than at the school on the farm. How wrong of me.

Under the Apartheid system children attended segregated schools; there were separate schools for blacks, whites, Indians, and coloreds. The schools were formal, disciplined, and followed the British system. All schools had uniforms with specific colors that represented their schools.

As it turned out my new school in Durban was just like my old school in Dannhauser. The teachers came to school carrying the canes used to punish the students. They taught the Bantu education. The Bantu education was part of the Apartheid regime used to direct black kids into the unskilled labor market. White kids were educated according to Western standards at well-funded schools; school for the white kids was mandatory and free. Black schools, on the other hand, were not free. Many of the black schools were dilapidated with no electricity or running water. All the teachers who taught in the black schools were black. They were often untrained and very poorly paid. The system was designed to keep the blacks minimally educated. In this way our employment possibilities were severely restricted. Combined with the restrictions on where we could live, Apartheid was a very effective means by which to control the black population.

For some reason, I expected the students in Durban to be more intelligent than in the country, but that, too, was a misconception. The only difference was that the city kids were more street-smart. Sometimes after school I’d get together with a few schoolmates who lived nearby and play soccer. I must say if there was one thing I did appreciate about life in Durban, it was how nice it was to come home from school, change clothes, have something to eat, and not have to go out in the fields to get the cows and sheep!

It didn’t take me long to notice that the township of Lamontville had a tennis court—which happened to be located down the street from my house. Some of the kids in the neighborhood would get bored with their other activities and go play on the courts. As it was only two or three hundred meters from my house, sometimes I would go watch. They did not have very good technique, so the balls would often fly over the fence. Anyone watching the game would become a ball boy by default.

I always wondered why there was just one court when there were so many people in the township. To most blacks in South Africa, tennis was considered a game played by sophisticated people—a sport for white people, one in which blacks did not excel. The same was true of swimming. As is too often the case with stereotypes, these attitudes were both short-sighted and false. It was a matter of exposure—or the lack of. The white communities had an abundance of tennis courts and swimming pools, thus there were plenty of white tennis players and swimmers. Our township had only this single tennis court and no swimming pool. How could one expect to become an accomplished tennis player or swimmer if there were not enough facilities in which to learn the sport, practice it, and have it become popular within the community?

One afternoon I was watching a match and performing ball boy duties when one of the players had to leave, and his opponent asked me if I’d like to play. I told him I did not really know how to play, and he said, Who cares? We’re just playing for fun. So, barefoot and inexperienced, I entered the court and abused that poor ball. Within a few minutes another friend of my opponent showed up and my role in the game was over. I must say that I had a lot of fun chasing that ball around the court, trying to hit it over the net. When I got home I told my mother about the game. She just laughed and said, At least you are not wandering in the streets.

One afternoon on my way home from school I noticed two guys playing on the court. They were wearing white t-shirts and white shorts, and I remember thinking how elegant they looked in their tennis outfits. These two seemed to keep the ball going over the net with an easy accuracy. I had never seen this kind of skill with any of the previous players; in fact, I had not seen anyone who could hit the ball twice in a row over the net and not miss! I was fascinated, and finally I asked someone who the players were. I was told that they were players from Lamontville; their names were Benson Ndlovu and Tobias Mavundla. As it turned out, Tobias lived around the corner from my house.

I think it was hugely significant that the first people I saw playing tennis were black. It made quite an impression on me—if Benson and Tobias could play, then surely I could learn how to play just as well. I have always wondered if my future would have been drastically altered if they had been white. Would I ever have had the confidence and the belief that I could one day be good at it?

I was very fortunate that tennis came into my life when it did. It helped to take my mind off the loss of my father and the tragedy that continued to affect my family. I stopped sitting at home after school doing nothing but thinking about my problems.

One afternoon I was playing tennis with someone when Benson and Tobias showed up. We stopped playing and started to walk off the court because, in our eyes, Benson and Tobias were kings that the rest of us bowed to. To my surprise Benson said, No, don’t leave. We can all play doubles, but without keeping score.

I remember thinking this guy had to be crazy to want to play with us. Pretty soon, my friend and I had the feeling that the two masters were just being polite and did not want to chase us off the court. Eventually we told them that we were tired and would rather watch them play. We watched for about an hour until they finished their game.

Benson asked us if we wanted to learn how to play the game and learn the correct technique. Of course! With that, Benson invited us to another club called Wema where he normally practiced. Wema was a hostel for men who came into the city from outlying townships to work. The tennis club was part of the complex.

That Saturday I went to Wema and learned there were six different teams that played in a league against each other. There were six tennis courts as well as a wall behind the clubhouse where you could play on your own. When Benson arrived he introduced me to a few people as his young star that he was going to coach. In South Africa, referring to someone as a young star does not necessarily indicate a future star; it simply means a young boy.

As with any sport, if you’re not very good no one wants to play with you. That’s what happened to me when I first arrived at Wema. I got tired of people making excuses as to why they did not want to play with me, so I decided to play against the wall most of the time. On occasion Benson would play with me and give me a few pointers, and then he would play matches with the good players. I’m sure it was because he felt responsible for my being at Wema in the first place. When Benson left me I’d continue to hit the ball against the wall.

In the beginning my mother worried a little because she did not know any of the people who played at Wema. But since tennis was considered the sport of the higher class, at least among the blacks, my mother quickly came to terms with her concerns. She was just happy that I wasn’t getting into any trouble.

When I first started playing I played barefoot. Tennis shoes fell apart very quickly on a hard court. Benson gave me one of his old rackets. It had broken strings, but I played with it anyway. As time went on I improved a little and learned the proper way to keep score. I also got to know some of the other tennis players. If someone came to play and their partner was not there yet, they would ask me to play. Knowing that I was new to the sport, they coached me. Funny how everyone gave me different instructions on the same subject! Benson told me to play with those people but not to pay any attention to their coaching. In fact Benson told me I should politely ignore them.

I was fortunate to meet many fine players there. Mr. Paul Zulu was probably the first person that I got to know well. We called him Babu (Dad) Zulu because in the black culture of South Africa it was disrespectful for a child or adolescent to call an adult by his first name. As I was the youngest person at Wema at the time, everyone expected very good behavior from me.

As I recall Mr. Zulu worked for a company called Lever Brothers. He later became a professor of social science and taught at the University of Natal, South Africa. He was, and is, one of the funniest and kindest human beings I have ever met. One of the things I truly liked about Babu Zulu was that he played tennis like a real Zulu. Playing like a Zulu was the way we teased each other when one played in an unorthodox style, which was slicing the ball instead of hitting it flat or hitting topspin. Tennis players may slice their backhand when they play, but hardly any good player slices their forehand. Benson used to laugh and say to me, Never let me catch you playing tennis like that chap, referring to Babu Zulu. Paul Zulu never had a professional coach, but he was still a good tennis player and a great athlete.

Many times I would be playing against the wall by myself when Babu Zulu would call me over to play with him until his regular partner arrived. This really helped me improve my game. After we played, he would always treat me to a lunch of brown bread and milk, or we’d drink amahewu, a soft porridge made out of ground corn.

I met lots of interesting people at Wema, many of whom had a huge impact on my early tennis years, and some, like Babu Zulu, made deeper impressions on my life. I got to know an advocate (an attorney) named K.K. who became, and is still today, like a father to me. He was a very quiet chap who enjoyed his tennis. He, like Babu Zulu, encouraged me to stay in school and work hard.

Another advocate named Sipho used to play soccer with a few of the other players when they were younger. I considered Sipho a real rebel. He was one of the wildest guys I had ever seen on the court (with the possible exception of my hero, John Big Mac McEnroe!). Sipho used to get mad at line calls or bad shots that he’d made and would start swearing and smashing the balls around the court like a madman. When Sipho put on this act, most of the spectators were shocked and embarrassed. But I thought this was kind of funny at the time. Mind you, my culture was very conservative so, as a teenager, I thought he was kind of cool!

Most of these men were educated and had good professions. They came to Wema to stay in shape, to relax and forget about their stressful work life, and to socialize with each other. They all had cars, which was exciting to me, since my family had never owned one. In fact, most of the time after tennis practice someone would drive me home. They met my family and, upon learning that I did not have a father, many of them took on the responsibility of looking out for me. Sometimes they gave me money for food and bus fare. They spoke English to me most of the time as a way of helping me to improve my grammar. What more could I ask for? I was receiving free tennis lessons from some of the great tennis players of South Africa—more than that, they had taken me under their wings. And I was learning English in the process. I was one lucky son of a gun.

I had been playing at Wema for about four months and knew pretty much everyone. My mother was also comfortable now, knowing that I was safe when playing tennis, that there were people who were looking out for me. One afternoon I was playing against the wall when I noticed this white man crossing the parking lot with a racket in one hand and a basket of tennis balls in the other. I stopped playing so I could see where this guy was going. He had stopped at the first court and was talking to a black man whom I had never seen before. The black guy had a racket in his hand and wore a beautiful tennis outfit. I thought that the white man must be a coach, and for the first time, I wondered about blacks and whites playing tennis together.

As I watched the black man being coached by the white man, it dawned on me that the black man was not comfortable with me staring at him while he was being coached. I found this odd; in a learning situation, adults often tell children not to be shy, just pay attention and ignore the other people. But when the tables were turned, the adults acted just as embarrassed and shy as the kids. Realizing the discomfort I was causing, I left the court and went back to the wall to hit on my own.

I had been hitting about an hour when I heard a voice behind me. I turned to find the white coach on the other side of the fence. I was nervous about this white man speaking to me. The only white people that I had ever come in close contact with were the cops in the townships with their machine guns and dogs, doctors in white coats with a needle in one hand speaking some language I did not understand, and the terrible ticket examiners on the trains who yelled at us. As we had no television at home, I had never even seen white people on TV.

What is your name? he asked me.

Richman Mahlangu, I answered as he walked toward the gate to enter the court.

I am Tim Gray, he said, offering me his hand. It felt strange; I had never shaken hands with a white man.

I spoke very little English at this time, although my understanding of it was not bad. Tim Gray explained that he had just returned from England, and he confirmed my hunch that he was a professional tennis coach. He asked how long I had been playing, and I told him about four months. Mr. Gray complimented me by saying, for that amount of time, I was doing very well. I politely accepted his compliment, even though I thought he was just pulling my leg. I wanted to ask him some questions about tennis, but my English was too limited. Mr. Gray tried to speak Zulu, but his Zulu was worse than my English. He showed me the proper grips for the forehand and the backhand, and then he told me to try them out against the wall. I started playing and sometimes the grips worked, sometimes they did not. He would stop me and then demonstrate with a few shots of his own against the wall. It amazed me to see him hit the ball at a constant, even pace, keeping it in play for over fifteen times without a miss. I was blown away by his skill—and by how easy he made it look!

At the end of my first professional tennis lesson, Mr. Gray asked me if I would like to have real lessons with him. I asked him how much it would cost, and he said, For you, it will cost nothing. Mr. Gray said that he coached at the Caister Hotel and told me to come there on Saturday morning for a lesson. It took a while for it to click as to what he was truly offering me.

Before he left he drew a circle on the wall just above the line that represented the height of the net, and he said in order to prove that I was getting better I should be able to hit the ball within that circle thirty to fifty times without an error. It was an assignment and a challenge I was willing to accept!

Chapter 5 - Politics Enter the Game

I eventually learned that Tim Gray was trying to promote tennis among the blacks in South Africa. But due to conflicts between the Tennis Association of South Africa (TASA), which was composed of coloreds, Indians, and Blacks, and the South African Tennis Union (SATU), the white tennis governing body, Mr. Gray was not having much success, even though he was offering free lessons.

I was only thirteen at the time, but I was becoming more and more aware of the political situation and the Apartheid system that controlled our lives. I could not understand why anyone would refuse free tennis lessons. There were people at Wema who told me that if Mr. Gray offered me free coaching, I should not accept it. When I asked them why, they explained that Mr. Gray might be from the South African Tennis Union and that he may have been sent on a secret political mission. They went on to say that Mr. Gray may be getting paid by the government for the lessons he offered to the blacks and only pretending to be generous about giving out free instruction. They even suggested that perhaps while he was giving me these free lessons, someone might take photographs and send them overseas. These supposed photographs would show whites in South Africa giving blacks free tennis lessons and blacks playing in the same clubs as whites, and this could be used as proof to the rest of the world that there was no Apartheid in South Africa.

This was my very first direct confrontation with the Apartheid system whereby I had the choice to accept or rebel. I had to stop and think about it and what it might mean to me