Twenty-Twenty Hindsight: Memoirs of the Old and New South Africa

By Mosiuoa Sekese

Twenty-twenty hindsight means perfect understanding
of events only after they have happened. In his book,
Mosiuoa Sekese looks back on his life in the old and new
South Africa and gives his own perceptive interpretation
of the past events. Sekese suffered discrimination and
prejudice under the old apartheid government as well as
the new, democratic regime. His story is highly personal,
but provides the reader with unique insights into the
social and educational challenges that South Africa
continues to grapple with.


I had a quick read and I fi nd the content heartbreaking but
fascinating. Especially as a white South African you are drawing
me into a world that I always knew existed, but which few people
have the guts and conviction to paint into words.
Louise Heystek-Emerton: CEO Wordwise/Khuluma Awethu

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481794909

Mosiuoa Sekese

Born to a farm labourer, Mosiuoa Sekese has been a kitchen-boy, an evangelist, a clerk, a teacher, a school principal, an inspector of schools, a subject advisor, a university lecturer and a director. He served in both the old and new South African government departments. He was dismissed from the Department of Education for being unfit to serve in the new dispensation but was recalled by the Minister of Education to manage the committees that developed the post-apartheid school curriculum. With this unique experience, he is able to give the reader a synopsis of the lows and highs of rugged South African history, especially in the field of education. He is now a consultant in education and training.

Book preview

PART I

REMINISCENCES OF CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH

FORCED TO BE A NOMAD IN THE LAND OF MY BIRTH

Home is a place or state where you are physically, mentally and spiritually at peace with the environment, yourself and the people around you. You can own a house or a dwelling but still not be at home.

The place called home plays a very important role in the life of an African. From the Black perspective home is a place where a person was born and raised. It does not matter how far and for how long they may be away from their home, from their village, their place of birth in search of greener pastures, Africans will come back home sooner or later. A person may have lived and worked in Pretoria or Johannesburg (Jozi) for many, many years, but he will still have a home at Makhado in Limpopo or at Covimvaba in Transkei, or some such place. According to tradition, even if he dies in the urban area, he must be taken home for burial. For instance, Mr Nelson Mandela’s son, Makgato, was taken back to Transkei to be laid to rest at his home, in Qunu. Ms Stella Sicau, the former cabinet minister, was also buried at her home in Lusikisiki.

I recently went to see a Dr Kgotso Dhlamini, who was a neurologist at the Sunninghill Hospital in Johannesburg. As we chatted he asked me, Mr Sekese, where is your home? My home is in Vorna Valley in Midrand, I answered. No, I mean your real home. Where you were born and raised? he said. When I told him that I did not have a home in that sense, he was surprised. This illustrates how we Africans value the place called home. The sad part of my story is that I have no place that I can call home in that sense.

Through the Land Act of 1913, the land of many Black communities was expropriated. After 1948, a series of laws was passed which resulted in the forced removal of Blacks from certain parts of the country; the most notorious law was the Groups Areas Act of 1950. These laws resulted in many Blacks becoming landless and homeless.

The first government of the New South Africa passed the Restitution of Land Rights Act 22 of 1994, which allows individuals and communities who had lost land and property through the diabolic apartheid laws to submit claims for land restitution. Consequently, people who were evicted from Botshabelo near Middleburg in Mpumalanga, from Lady Selborne Township in Pretoria, from Mannenberg in Cape Town, from Sophiatown in Johannesburg and many other places have submitted claims. Many clans and individuals have had their land restored or have been compensated. The process of restoring land to their rightful owners continues. The former Minister of Agriculture and Land Affairs, Thoko Didiza and her committee, worked tirelessly to restore land to their owners. This strategy is to prevent the land-grabbing syndrome that plunged Zimbabwe into a political and economic turmoil in the recent years.

As people frantically submit claims for land, I often wonder where I belong. What part of the land can I lay claim to, because I have never had a place that I could call home. My family was forced to live a nomadic life, moving from one farm to another, always at the mercy of the white farmers.

My father was a farmhand with a handful of cattle, sheep and horses. We often had to trek from one farm to another after my father had quarrelled with the farmer. Although my father was hard-working, we were very often evicted from a farm because he was said to be a cheeky kaffir. One time we had to leave a farm because our dog, which was a mongrel, had mated with the White farmer’s pedigree dog. Another time my father was almost shot because his dog had chased wild bucks that grazed on the farm. These unforgivable offences left us without a roof over our heads for many days.

My father originally came from a village called Thabaphatshwa in the Leribe district of Lesotho. I was born on 21 March 1940 on a farm in the Balfour district of the old Transvaal province next to the railway station called Fortuna. By the way, after the 1994 democratic elections, March 21 was declared a public holiday, and as result I enjoy celebrating my birthday with my family every year.

Between 1940 and 1947 my family moved from one farm to another. We never had a habitable house—we lived in shacks made out of iron sheets. They were very cold in winter and very hot in summer, and often consisted of just one room. We never had furniture; I guess my parents never regarded it as a priority. However, we did have enough to eat because my father had a few sheep and cattle. Sometimes he was also given a piece of land to plant mielies and beans. Now and then we had milk and meat that my father and my brothers brought from the farmhouse, as the farmer’s wife (die miessies) was sometimes very generous.

On these farms, my early view of the world was formed. My impression was that the White man was superior and the Black people depended on his generosity. He was the boss and nobody should question him without being hurt or suffering the consequences. At a young age, I often wondered why I had been born Black. White people enjoyed life and had everything that a person could wish for, such as land, food, beautiful houses, beautiful cars, servants, and above all, the power to hire and fire. I had never seen a motorcar other than the one that belonged to the White farmer (die baas).

There is no doubt that, in those days, many Black people wished they were white so that they too could enjoy the riches of the world. This idea was fortified by the Black community itself, as they regarded everything that was white as better. This idea was illustrated by the singing of a popular wedding song that said "Ngwana o tshwana le Lekhalata", which means that the bride is as beautiful as a Coloured person. Coloured people, because of their light skins, received better treatment from the Whites, and they therefore represented beauty. The words of this song were changed as the Black Consciousness movement came to prominence, especially after the 1976 riots. The words were changed by Kori Moraba and other artists to, "Ngwana o tshwana le Dinaledi", meaning that the bride is as beautiful as the stars. Nevertheless, these early impressions of life moulded my worldview.

During this time, no one in my family attended school as we were all expected to work on the farm in accordance with the contract with the farmer. Besides that, schools were very far from where we lived and it would have been impossible for us to attend. Thus, we had no access to education and we were destined to remain illiterate. My three brothers had previously been to school when the family had lived on Thompson’s farm in the Balfour district. Although my brothers had to walk for miles to school, the Fortuna Farm School was within reach. They had tasted the pleasure of reading and writing and as such each member of the family was eager to be educated. I remember that I would perch a pencil behind my ear and my mother used to say "Ngwanaka ke tichere" meaning that I looked like a teacher. These words stuck in my mind and even at that early age, I wished to become a teacher.

Although my father had only completed Standard Two at school, he was very keen to have his children educated. He saw education as the only salvation for the Black man from White oppression. He was quite aware that education could make life better. He saw the clerks who worked at the mines earning a better living. A number of my cousins who had been to Kilnerton Training Institution were teachers and clerks. We saw how they prospered. Therefore, although life was reasonable on the farm at that time, my father was very worried that his children would end up as illiterate farm workers. He kept looking for an escape for us from a life of servitude on a White man’s farm.

In 1947 he learned of plots that were on sale for Blacks at Oskraal in the Brits district of the old Transvaal province. A lawyer, Advocate Browdie, was selling these plots. My father met him in secret and bought a piece of land. While the lawyer processed the application my father notified Fleisach, owner of the farm where we lived at the time, that we would be leaving at the end of the year. Fleisach was so furious when he heard the news that he instructed us to leave his farm immediately. We were on the move again and had no place to stay.

As the transaction for the plot at Oskraal was not yet through, we sold our livestock and moved temporarily to Evaton Township near Vereeniging. We lived on a stand that belonged to a relative, Motjhato Khanye, in the section called Smallfarm. Immediately after we arrived at the township, my brothers and I were registered at a private school that was run by Mr Moremoholo.

The school consisted of one church hall where all classes from Sub A to Standard Four were housed. This was a one-teacher school and the teacher was Moremoholo who was a staunch member of the African National Congress (ANC). The first hymn that we learned at the school was the ANC national anthem, "Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika. Moremoholo was a devout Christian as well. The singing at the morning assembly was moving and inspiring. Most of the songs were politically inspired, like O re tekele tafole pontsheng ya dira tsa rona"; which means God lays the table for us in the presence of our enemies. Some days teaching would be suspended and Moremoholo would pray for more than three hours. He was praying for the freedom of the Black man, praying for South Africa, praying for Africa. Although I was very young at that time, I became aware of the fact that there was something wrong with the political situation in South Africa. I became aware that there was indeed a need for Africans to strive for freedom.

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Right to Left: My Granny, Dad, Mom and Neighbours. Our mud-house is in the background

OSKRAAL—HELL ON EARTH

My father paid a deposit to Advocate Browdie and the transaction for the plot was finalised. In January 1948 we finally moved to Oskraal, a settlement next to the traditional village, called Rabokala, which was under the jurisdiction of the Chief of the Bakwena tribe in Hebron. The three villages Rabokala, Kgabalatsane and Hebron were under the chieftainship of Bakwena-ba-Mokgopa in Bethani. I suppose this is still the case even today.

Right from the onset we were at loggerheads with the Bakwena villagers, who saw us as intruders: people who had come to rob them of their grazing land. I do not know whether indeed Browdie and company had stolen their land. However, the crux of the matter was that the Rabokala villagers perceived us as enemies.

My family came from farms where the farmers were very strict about farm boundaries and allowed nobody to tread on their land without permission. Any trespasser would be severely punished or even shot at. Therefore, when we acquired our own piece of land, we adopted the same attitude and we did not tolerate any intruders. But the villagers ignored us and continued grazing their cattle on the plots in Oskraal. My parents took drastic steps to drive the cattle off the plot and eventually took the cattle to the co-op in Brits where the owners had to pay a fine to have their livestock released. Some villagers failed to pay the fine and their cattle were sold. These incidents further strained the relationship between the villagers and the plot owners in Oskraal.

Meanwhile, my three brothers and I were registered at the Sehibidu Public Primary School in Rabokala village. The school was about 15 kilometres from our home and we had to walk to and from school. The very first school day was hell. During the break we were ridiculed and physically attacked by the boys who accused us of stealing their families grazing land. What aggravated the situation was the fact that we could not speak Setswana and we were indeed a laughing stock. This was perhaps a kind of xenophobia. Even though the teachers saw what was happening, they did not intervene. Perhaps it was because they also regarded us as intruders. We were objects of ridicule and amusement. We fought and endured the abuse for months, especially after school.

One day I was involved in a particularly bloody fight with the village boys, and afterwards my eyes were so swollen I could hardly see. When I arrived home I thought that my parents would be incensed and do something, but they did nothing. Instead my father encouraged us to fight back like men and said that this was an initiation and the situation would improve. We fought like men and persevered. We did not leave school as we were hungry for education.

I was placed in a Sub A class as I had done what they used to call "Dom A" at Meromoholo’s school in Evaton. Dom A was equivalent to Grade R today. My brothers and I did very well academically and we were the top students in virtually all classes. Because of our academic achievements many of the teachers like Ditedu, the principal, Metlholo, my class teacher; Thloaele, Tladi and Mmusi noticed us and started changing their attitude. Some of the learners got to know us too and by the end of the year, in spite of the hostile environment, we had made a few friends. As the years passed, we were accepted and loved by both pupils and teachers at Sehibidu Public Primary School.

What I enjoyed most at the school was the choral music. The school actively took part in the school music competitions organised by the Transvaal African Teachers’ Association (TATA). Virtually every teacher at the school had to enter a choir in the competitions. Mmusi, the conductor of the Senior Mixed Choir, was a hero as he won trophies at almost every competition. The song that always comes to mind is "Comrades in Arms". Many years later the song was again prescribed for the high school music competitions and I will never forget the rendition by the Hebron Teacher Training Institution under the baton of Morokolo Chueu in 1968.

However, the change of the pupils’ and teachers’ attitude towards us was not the end of our tribulations. When my father bought the piece of land, he thought that we would be able to grow crops and raise animals to generate enough money to pay the instalments on the plot. With the capital from the sale of the livestock, we bought two donkeys, five goats and farming implements. We bought donkeys and goats because it was believed that, unlike cattle and sheep, these animals could withstand harsh climatic conditions and drought. Ditedu, our school principal, who was also originally from Lesotho, lent us four donkeys to augment the number we had. We now had a complete span of donkeys and were geared for successful farming.

We toiled day and night to clear trees and shrubs from our fields to make room for our crops. We planted mielies, beans, sweet potatoes and groundnuts. Although we did not have much rain that first year, the harvest was promising and we had enough to eat and pay the plot’s instalments. The following years, however, our hope for a good harvest was dashed by the continuing drought.

There were no boreholes in the whole of Oskraal and we had to depend on wells and rainwater that flowed in the streams and dams. For months there was no rain; the dams, streams and wells all slowly dried up. We tried digging deep into the streams but even the underground water had dried up. We did not have water for our livestock or even ourselves. The nearest source of water was a windmill at Rabokala. As we were seen as intruders, the villagers would not allow us to get water from their windmill. They maintained that the water was just enough for them and their stock. Perhaps this was true but at that time we regarded them as cruel and unsympathetic. We sometimes resorted to stealing water during the night and one night we were caught by the induna. We had to bribe him to let us go, otherwise we would have been in big trouble.

The alternative was to fetch water from the irrigation canals in Brits, about 45 kilometres from Oskraal. The tobacco farmers in Brits were also not friendly to us and often delighted in chasing us away. During this period we often could not go to school because there was no water for drinking and cooking, let alone washing. Things truly seemed hopeless. Our donkeys, goats and fowls died one by one. My father’s coffers were drained and he could not keep up the plot’s instalments. It was not long before we were evicted from the plot. We had to go begging from one plot to the next in Oskraal. On a number of the plots we lived in either a tin house or shack. Once more we were without a permanent home.

To make matters worse we started getting sick. We suffered especially from pellagra; our skins peeled off because of starvation. My mother was worst off as she developed a mental disorder as result of the disease. The nearest clinic was at Hebron some 20 kilometres from Oskraal and was run by two staff nurses. The doctor came only once every two weeks. It was a struggle to see the doctor on one of his visiting days because we had no transport and had to depend on the kindness of good Samaritans. Things got so bad that by 1950 two of my siblings had died.

We stayed in Oskraal from 1948 up to 1953 and during these years we were so poor that my two elder brothers had to leave school temporarily to go and work on the tobacco farms around Brits and Rustenburg. My father went to work in the mines in Rustenburg and Thabazimbi just to make ends meet. It was clear that our attempts to escape from oppressive farmers and to have a decent home had led us to disaster. We were worse off than ever before. We lived in abject poverty where we literally had neither food nor clothes; we depended solely on goodwill of the people around us.

At this stage, my father, a born-again Christian, became convinced that he was called to spread the gospel of Christ. He enrolled for a Bible course through correspondence. Amazingly, although he only had Standard Two, my father could read and understand the notes written in English. He still had books bought during his school days in Lesotho: the Royal Reader, and the Nelson and Blackies series. Although these readers were meant for Standard Two classes, we struggled to read and understand them when we were in Standard Five. Most of the stories were British and not African.

In the early fifties there was a very powerful gospel evangelist, Rev. Nicholas Bhengu of the Assemblies of God Church. He conducted a very successful Back-to-God tent campaign in the major Black townships throughout South Africa. He turned Black townships upside down. Members of the township-tsotsi-gangs, like the notorious Mosomi gang in Alexandra, gangs in Sophiatown, Sharpeville, Moroka, Jabavu and other townships, all surrendered their lives to Jesus. Even Jake Tuli, the former British Empire boxing champion, was converted. The last time I heard of him he was working at the mission press in Roodepoort. There was no doubt that Bhengu was shaking things up and many conventional churches felt threatened by his campaigns. Interestingly though, the apartheid laws confined his campaigns to Black townships only. This made it seem that only the Black people had to repent of their sins.

ON THE MOVE AGAIN

Whilst working on the mines in 1953, my father came in contact with field workers from the Dorothea Mission in Roslyn, near Pretoria. The