Smoke of Forgiveness

By Nelson Makhubane Tshabalala

Many people, whether South African or of an
international readership, whether black or white,
will be interested in reading this true-life tale of the
often forgotten rural farm workers who were probably
the worst off during the apartheid era. The shocking
reality of life for these people is almost unbelievable
today; that such barbarism was allowed and accepted
as “normal” is unfathomable. The unsung plight of
farm labourers who were treated like slaves is one
that should be more widely told.
This book seems to have a bit of everything and will
appeal to a wide audience with its clever marriage
of good storytelling with history, culture, adventure, bravery, romance and of
course inspiration. The importance of education also comes through and the
clear message that it does not matter where you come from or who you are, if
you are determined and driven and persevere, you can achieve great things.
The book takes one on a journey and it will elicit many emotions from readers
who will be appalled, delighted, saddened, uplifted and inspired by its words.
* * * * *
“I found this multi-faceted account of South Africa during the years of apartheid
and up to the present time quite absorbing. As the author pointed out, it does
indeed cover the historic events of the past, from cultural and religious beliefs
to ‘ubuntu’ and inspirational speeches. And yes, indeed, it is an incredible tale
of almost four turbulent decades.
This book not only provides an incisive and accurate commentary on the social
and political landscape of South Africa and neighbouring countries during
the turbulent periods of transition; it also tells us about the lives and loves
and moral dilemmas of ordinary men and women, some of whom became
extraordinary because of their actions.
The story unfolds through the eyes of a diverse cast of characters, who stride
through the pages and take you along with them, insisting that you listen to
their stories. Apart from the dashing hero and beautiful maidens, there are
freedom fighters, oppressed farmworkers, villains and saviours, young and
old family members, friends and foe, and there are all the great leaders of the
times. The author is a natural storyteller, and has a gift for making characters
come to life, making them flesh and blood. As a result, one forges strong links
with the various men and women who represent such a broad spectrum of
human strengths and frailties.”
Gail Kruger, Editor, Reach Publishers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nelson Makhubane Tshabalala
• Release date: Nov 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370688005

Book preview

Smoke of Forgiveness

Nelson Makhubane Tshabalala

Copyright © 2012 Nelson Makhubane Tshabalala

Published by Nelson Makhubane Tshabalala at Smashwords

First edition published by Reach Publishers 2012

The text of this publication, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The Author/Publisher has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author/Publisher will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Reach Publishers, P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Printed and bound by Mega Digital Printers

Edited by Gail Kruger for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Nelson Makhubane Tshabalala

Website: www.aimtoinspire.com

E-mail - [e-mail]

We have to understand that the world can only be grasped by action, not by contemplation. The hand is more important than the eye… the hand is the cutting edge of the mind.

Jacob Bronowski

"There is so much good in the worst of us,

And so much bad in the best of us,

That it hardly becomes any of us,

To talk about the rest of us."

Anonymous

Dedication

This is a tribute to my late father, Muzimkhulu Samuel Tshabalala, who passed away on March 29, 2001. His memory is a dwelling place for all sweet and harmonious thoughts.

Also

This novel is dedicated to all brave men and women, who spent their lifetimes in exile during the apartheid era and thus fought like those stalwart warriors at home and in prisons. And not forgetting all farmworkers, the real veterans of all times.

Acknowledgements

Firstly, for the development and production of this novel, which took over three years, I feel a deep sense of gratitude to my Universal Creator, Almighty God, and to my ancestors for their unwavering kindness and blessings. You raised me from nowhere and you never gave up on me. Through your steadfast wisdom, you showed me a light to discover my ultimate purpose and potential to be my invisible source of life.

To this end, I want to express how much I honour my sovereign ancestral roots at Mhlongamvula, which is situated in Simakade, Mpumalanga, South Africa. I heard about the rare beauty of this area through my elders, and it shall be my living treasure. I have been there to visit and learn more about this unique place. I have vowed to consistently return there to listen to the bliss of those waterfalls, and to absorb the tranquillity of the beautiful, scenic landscapes. The valleys and mountains with its atypical caves, rivers and streams really resemble the beauty, humility and calmness of this ancestral land of the Tshabalala clan.

Secondly, I am indebted to, and would like to express my profound appreciation to the following persons:

My beloved wife, Thandie, and our children, Muzimkhulu, Makhubane Junior and Mbongiseni, for their fortitude and support during the sleepless nights I experienced when I worked on this book.

My Tshabalala family clan for believing in me, which inspired me to discover my potential. I thank you for your persistent revelations of love and compassion.

Peter Lockhardt Bouwer and my brother, Goli Tshabalala, whose favourable reception to my novel has appeared on the front cover of my book. They helped to make this novel possible and I will treasure them for life.

Farhad Safi and Molefi ‘Skap’ Nku, the talented and meticulous designers of the cover of my book. They sacrificed their energies to assist me with this superb cover.

Dr Motsoko Pheko and other legendary leaders, whose motivation and wit during our meetings sparked the burning passion to remember our past and treasure our history forever.

Thanks to Professor J.H.C. Olivier, my brother-in-law Bongani Nkomo, and my blood relative, Zwelibanzi Tshabalala, who read earlier drafts and commented positively and also criticised to some extent.

Reach Publishers and their editors for making my novel a reality; a book of hope, love and encouragement.

I thank them earnestly, and with sincerity. Words cannot express how grateful I am to all of them.

God bless you all.

Prologue

From the Author

This is a true account of South Africa during the years of apartheid to date, told by Zwelinzima Mazibuko. The story covers the historic events of the past, cultural beliefs, religious notions, ‘ubuntu’ (humanity) and inspirational speeches. It is an incredible story of almost four decades of slavery, poverty, of high adventure, bravery, fortitude, romance and gallantry, as well as freedom.

The much anticipated freedom was brought about by dedicated men and women. They stood and fought on frontlines, in the war of survival for the restoration of democracy for now and for generations to come.

It is a story, which, if the old South Africa still existed, would never have been told. The story illustrates that no matter how difficult, cruel and unfair the world might be, there are times in life that the universe can be described as wise and compassionate.

Disadvantaged persons with vision and determination can reach and achieve even beyond the aspirations of those from more privileged backgrounds. The then racist South Africa was blown apart by the winds of change, though many people who fought for her still remain in what is now called the ‘new’ South Africa.

The characters in this novel are based to some extent on a composite of real people, as are farmers, farmworkers, African doctors, church leaders, politicians and intelligence people, though no single individual character is meant to represent a real person, either living or dead.

Please enjoy this journey.

NELSON MAKHUBANE TSHABALALA

Chapter One The Birth Of Zwelinzima Life On The Farm

This is a story about a brave young Zulu warrior named Zwelinzima, affectionately known as Zweli.

Baas Potgieter’s plaas, on Plot 249 IQ in Ventersburg, near the Allemanskraal dam, was situated in the north-eastern Orange Free State (in what is now referred to as the Free State). This area of South Africa was ideal for farming, consisting as it did of millions of hectares of flat arable land, with a 360 degree horizon dotted with crops, sheep, cattle and windmills. The properties were vast tracts of land, demarcated by many kilometres of ugly barbed wire fencing, with isolated rustic farmhouses surrounded by majestic bluegum trees and kraals of brightly decorated thatched mud huts. It was the stronghold of the Boere, and a hotbed of racism.

This story took place many years ago, two decades before the 1976 riots which started in Soweto and later spread throughout the country like a raging bush fire, when great numbers of black farmworkers were still living tools, beasts of burden for white farmers, abused and exploited by every means. This is still happening today, and generations to come will learn about it.

Zweli was the third and last child of the late Themba Mazibuko, son of Mandla Mazibuko. His father had died underground while working in Witbank for a certain coal-mining company. He had hardly known his youngest son, Zweli, as he was only five months old at the time. Sadly, nobody knew where his bones were laid to rest.

Was he deliberately buried under the chunks of coal, or was he just a victim of the usual uncaring savagery of the rumbling underground quakes, which caused rock falls responsible for the death of so many innocent people? No one could confirm it but only God knows! His family simply received a telegraph from the coal mine authorities, which read as follows:

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

We regret to inform you that Themba Mazibuko passed away suddenly two months ago and has been buried.

That was it! The telegraph wasn’t addressed in the name of the beneficiaries, Mandla Mazibuko, nor was it signed by the writer, even though Themba had once told his wife and father that they were beneficiaries if anything happened to him.

Zweli was born in the morning on Saturday, August 31, 1954, in early spring, the mild, windy season. He was born on the farm of Baas Potgieter, not far from Bethlehem, a remote region with scattered farms, and isolated tracts of land dotted with sheep, cattle and rigid rows of maize or ‘mealies’.

This crop was the source of mealie-meal, also called mealie-pap. The staple diet of black South Africans, mealie-pap is a stiff porridge made from dried, finely ground maize. It was cooked in three-legged, heavy cast iron pots over hot coals, rolled into balls and eaten with the hands.The balls of mealie-pap were dipped into the rich meaty gravy of tripe and offal (leftovers from the slaughter of a cow or sheep for the Baas’s family), and enjoyed with wild spinach (morogo), tomatoes and chillies. It was also made into a soft, smooth porridge mixed with warm milk for infants.

His grandfather, Mandla, known as Mkhulu, and almost the entire family except for Themba, worked on the farm. Despite the fact that they were busy, life on the farm could be described as a ‘burning hell on earth’, especially during Zweli’s upbringing and later on. He was born with respiratory problems and his father couldn’t afford the expensive medication which would enable his son to lead a normal active life like the other children.

Nevertheless, life went on and Zweli didn’t suffer much from the age of five onwards. Still, at the tender age of eight years, he couldn’t go to school as he and his parents had been forbidden to entertain or even discuss the schooling issue.

The parents had to abandon their dream of sending Zweli to a lower primary school. His siblings had been forced to work permanently from a very young age. His 16-year-old sister and 13-year-old brother were engaged as a full-time nanny/cleaner and tractor driver/herder of cattle respectively, but were not paid for the privilege of working.

Their services were marshalled and brutally enforced by Baas Potgieter in return for being allowed to live on his land.

Though he was feeling poorly, his grandfather, Mkhulu, didn’t say a word to Zweli or any of the others. He became very ill for a period of two weeks. The doctor informed him that his blood pressure was extremely high, and he was advised to slow down a little, otherwise he was at risk of having a severe stroke. At that point in time, he wasn’t allowed sick leave – instead his working hours were extended by three hours because of his low productivity!

The days passed in a multitude of tasks that kept the Mazibuko family and others completely occupied from dawn till dark, as they were living on the farm premises. Zweli was taken to herd the flocks of sheep, goats and calves, which were too numerous to count.

The boy decided to give up his dream of going to school and in spite of the considerable discomfort, resigned himself to working hard on the farm, even though there was no remuneration for juvenile labour.

How fantastic it was to relax after long hours of sweat and toil! Zweli and his elder brother Sipho would go down to the playground with the other black farm children to play various games like soccer and engage in athletics. That was where you would see the magical, natural talents displayed by these children of the African soil.

After playing under the shining moon and having wonderful times, dreaming dreams of fame and glory, Zweli and Sipho knew very well that after supper, while sitting around the fireplace, Mkhulu would tell them spellbinding, exciting tales and comforting anecdotes.

Mkhulu was a captivating raconteur and all the children and elders in the compound liked and respected him, not only for his accomplished story telling, but for his sense of humour, kindness and immense knowledge of many aspects of life.

Sibongile was the only child who missed the interesting legends of Mfecane (the crushing) wars and the incredible stories of the First World War, due to the fact that she and her mother, Theresa, were away from the kraal, sleeping in the neighbourhood.

If only Themba was still alive he would tell you stories I told him when he was still a young boy, but… His voice broke, his face reflecting his emotion. Okay, let me start with something I’ve never told you before. It’s very important so I will convey the same to your sister as well. I would like you to pay attention because this story is a significant part of your family history, he announced.

Mkhulu, please tell us now, we can’t wait, Zweli pleaded.

Okay, let me begin!

He started with the hardships they were going through on the farm, along with the other families working for Baas Potgieter. He talked at length about the abuse and other racist measures applied not only by Baas and his family but the living ‘anti-autonomy’ regime, in particular with regard to innocent Blacks and other minority groups.

Mkhulu’s eyes filled with tears while describing the incidents, especially Baas Potgieter’s refusal to allow his grandchildren to attend school.

During the early 19th Century a series of terrible wars took place among the northern Nguni peoples of South-Eastern Africa, namely the Zulus, Xhosas, Swazis and Ndebeles. By the 1820’s one state had emerged to dominate all others in the region. This was the Zulu kingdom led by King Shaka Zulu. During the 1820’s and 1830’s armies and refugees from these wars spread warfare and destruction over vast areas of Southern and Central Africa. The period has become known among the Nguni people as Mfecane, ‘the crushing’, and among the Sotho-Tswana as Difaqane (Lifaqane), the ‘scattering’.

This farm, where we are right now, was once solely owned by my grandfather, Mkhulu Mpande. He and his family ran away from Zululand in Natal just at the end of the Mfecane wars, then migrated from Mahlabatini along the Blood and Buffalo Rivers till they reached Newcastle and Harrismith, Mkhulu explained.

Finally they arrived and Chief Mokotedi, who was ruling there, allocated to them this piece of land which was subsequently forcibly taken from them by Baas Potgieter’s grandfather. He was unable to continue, overcome with emotion for several minutes.

Okay, children, whatever I told you please keep it hidden in your hearts and never repeat it even to your companions. The matter must remain secret otherwise we will all be killed, he warned.

But Mkhulu, why did they do all these things to us, taking Mkhulu Mpande’s cattle and all his belongings and forcing him to become a farm labourer? Zweli cried, while his brother looked outraged.

Let’s forget about all this for now, we will talk about it some other time but I want to tell you something else to cheer you up. Something different, Mkhulu said.

The greatest gifts God has given us are our soul, mind and body. Above all, your soul is crucial. It can provide positive mind power and a healthy body. You must become who you truly are. I will approach Baas again to allow me to educate you, the sooner the better, maybe next year, he added.

He also told them that they must not accept any social stigma from their oppressors, in particular Baas Potgieter. He assured them that they had the potential to overturn the system one day and encouraged them to ignore with disdain the degrading race classification and insulting name-calling like monkeys, bobbejaan, stupid, backward, ignorant, hopeless, and so on.

Treat a man as he is, then he remains as he is, but treat a man as he ought to and can become, then he becomes as he should and can become. Nobody knows your capabilities because they didn’t create you. God knows you because He is the only Creator of all things, he told them.

He was conveying a profoundly uplifting message to both boys to follow their dreams and realise their potential. Furthermore, he told them to love, respect, learn to forgive, to pray to God and not to forget their ancestral roots. Their young faces reflected their emotions and they prayed before they went to sleep.

Coincidentally, it happened that shortly before they retired to bed, when Zweli went out near the main kraal, not far from the Baas’s huis, he overheard Baas Potgieter and his friends. They were drinking outside and brainwashing their children, teaching them to form a hostile and antagonistic attitude towards the unsightly black population.

Zweli watched while they indoctrinated the children, using two big dolls, one white and the other black. The black doll was the unfortunate one, derided with scornful words, cursed, and beaten with sticks to illustrate their points.

Young Zweli became very agitated and angry. He shook his head in disbelief and wept as he went into the house. He didn’t say anything to his brother because he didn’t want to spoil whatever Mkhulu had told them earlier on.

He drew one conclusion from Mkhulu’s stories and the incident. There was a vast difference between perceptions and the truth!

His brother was already beginning to snore while Zweli lay awake, haunted by many concerns. He tried to process what he had witnessed and heard, especially the refusal by Baas to allow him, his brother, sister and other farm children to attend school.

He pondered about everything and told his heart that the difference between the facts and perceptions was that they, farmworkers and every other black person, were travelling a narrow and arduous path, thus heaven was waiting! The truth was that all evil deeds would always be part of evil’s concentration camp.

Zweli had an uncanny ability to see images in the sky without blinking his eyes. While contemplating these, he fell asleep and snored like never before.

In the early hours of the morning at cock’s crow, Zweli was having nightmares. At first nobody would hear the silent screams of a boy fighting his way out, brandishing an assegai, (a typical Zulu spear introduced by King Shaka during the Mfecane wars of survival) telling Baas Potgieter that he had no right to ruin their lives.

He dreamed of turning the tables and later saw himself seated with Baas, sharing the wealth of the farm. That was just the crazy dream of an unsettled boy.

Furthermore, he dreamed of his family becoming what they deserved to be, eating the nuts and honey of their fatherland and in harmony with a common enemy of their society.

Zweli was beginning to talk loudly while dreaming, calling out Baas Potgieter’s name, then he would murmur indistinctly and call out his name again and again.

The boy was greatly agitated, still shouting though half-asleep, disturbing Mkhulu whose bedroom was adjacent to theirs. Fortunately, Sipho couldn’t hear; maybe he was dreaming silently as well. But Mkhulu, the old man, came through while Zweli was shouting in the dark, airless house. He lit a candle and couldn’t believe what he was witnessing.

It was as if Zweli was an angel of God fighting evil spirits, telling them to go back from where they had come. Mkhulu was terrified as he had never, ever in his life seen a person walking and talking in his sleep!

He shook Zweli quite lightly in order not to startle him. Immediately, Sipho was awakened and Zweli felt the light touch on his right shoulder and woke up too.

It was heart-breaking; the boy was sobbing loudly, confused about what had happened and now trying to put his clothes on, thinking he was late for a two-hour milking session, a task that had recently been added to his duties by Baas Potgieter.

Eventually Zweli calmed down and Mkhulu explained that he had just had a nightmare and was walking and talking in his sleep. He was afraid that his little grandson would be unsettled by it and would get into trouble if he failed to perform to the required standard of work on the farm.

Already it was time to prepare themselves for the unknown circumstances of a new workday on the farm. Would it be their perfect or worst day? No one knew! But they prayed to God that it would be not their best, but just a good day, because great days had a way of spoiling their spiritual contentment.

Zweli didn’t sleep any more that night, but roamed around the house instead. It was not restful at all.

The next morning things began the way Zweli had dreamed, with verbal and physical abuse and exploitation the order of the day. That braaivleis – the South African equivalent of an American al fresco barbecue – Baas Potgieter, his friends and their children had had the previous night might have been the reason.

The neighbouring farmers usually held a cocktail party on the last Friday of every month on a rotational basis. But was it a party or just a league of racial discrimination? Baas Potgieter made it clear that no child of any farmworker would ever be sent to school, regardless of having a long service record on his farm.

At that point in time, Mkhulu knew without any doubt that he was referring to him. Zweli however was inspired by that news of the first black medical doctor to graduate. He was definitely an object of the white man’s envy and grudging admiration.

It was so encouraging for Zweli. He didn’t despair; rather he felt a deep conviction that he and all of these desperate children would themselves one day achieve success, just like that doctor!

They were ordered to leave for work. They all went in opposite directions as they were doing different jobs. Mkhulu went to the storeroom to fetch tools and Zweli went to the kraals to extricate the sheep, goats and calves – too many to count!

Nonetheless, Zweli coped well with the help of his best friend in life, a little dog called Mkhonto, which was brown in colour with some white spots on its back and tail. What a superlative dog! He was really talented and knew Zweli like his own muzzle.

Mkhonto could tell whether Zweli was upset or contented. When Zweli was unhappy the dog just wouldn’t bark on that particular night. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew it.

It was Mkhonto who caused Zweli to ask himself a lot of questions regarding the truth. His dog was a witness to racial barriers raised and practised by Baas and by most white people countrywide.

Moreover, he thought of their repugnance for black people and the injustice of not accepting them as their brothers and sisters. It was comforting that at least he had Mkhonto. Even though they were unable to talk, they could communicate without words and were able to play, run and swim together and thus understood each other quite clearly.

The days were very, very hot and humid in the early afternoons and the hapless farmworkers were often not allowed to have lunch or even a short break. If they did, it was never more than 15 minutes. At times, you would find a person preferring to lie down and rest a while, even falling asleep rather than eating.

All the herd boys, including Zweli, only ate twice a day, in the morning and evening. At sundown, just when the clouds in the sky started to merge with the horizon, Baas Potgieter, his wife and children came down to the field to inspect the work done.

Oh! Oh! Being called ‘not-so-good’ is so painful when you were trying your best to please Baas. He would rudely criticise a person as if nothing had been done.

Baas knew that the harvest was only profitable to himself and of no benefit to any of the farmworkers, who were underpaid and overworked.

Baas and his family arrived in the veld, a few hectares to the south of Allemanskraal dam, where they discovered poor Zweli sleeping on the rocky hill-top.

Of course, everyone knows how goats are if they are not carefully guarded. The whole flock as well as some of the sheep and calves were roaming around on the nearby maize field. Almost the entire field was in chaos!

Where was Zweli’s best friend and helper Mkhonto? He was nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, his hunting instinct had led him astray, down in the valley in pursuit of birds and mice.

All this happened because Zweli hadn’t sleep well the previous night, haunted by thoughts of his hapless situation as a slave to that non-stop grinding machine, Baas Potgieter.

The boy was awakened by a mighty blow to his face. He thought the end of the world had come! He tried to stand up but could not keep his balance. He was punched again and again until finally he fell to the ground unconscious.

Later, after about 15 minutes, he found himself in the horse stall, chained like a robber. In front of him were Baas Potgieter and his eldest son, Andre, a well-built young man of about 23 years. He was almost six feet in height, with hands as big as an elephant’s foot.

Where was Mkhonto? Still nowhere to be found! What about Mkhulu and Sipho? The boy didn’t even have time to think about his mother and sister or anything else. He was forced to drink a glass full of vodka before being beaten. He was trembling with fear, his teeth chattering like castanets.

Baas Potgieter and his son, Andre, laughed loudly, as the boy became intoxicated and looked bizarre, staggering around. Who’s that? Baas asked him, pointing at his son.

The miserable boy didn’t