The Door To The Past, Present And Future

By Siile Matela

In this book, author Siile Matela traces his life from the historic year of his birth in 1969 to the 2020 outbreak of the corona virus disease (Covid-19) in South Africa. Born of farm worker parents, he could never have predicted the life that awaited him. Starting off as a farm boy to becoming an attorney at a firm bearing his name would only have been a dream. As he grew up, it became clear to him that dreams must be fuelled by action if they are to become a reality. In these pages are captured some of the events that shaped his life the way he remembers them. He recounts a life lived on a farm, moving from there to multiple schools, university, and the world of work as a candidate legal practitioner, an academic and co-owner of a legal firm. He also shares his experiences as a husband, father, son, and sibling. With this book, he proves that it is indeed possible to rise above our circumstances and serve humanity.

About the author

Siile Matela was born on 1 July 1969 on a farm called Lady Grey, north of the nearest town of Wesselsbron, in the then Orange Free State province of South Africa. He took on a nomadic existence, moving from one place to another in search of educational opportunities. He completed his High School career in 1987 and immediately set off to study Law at the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg in 1988. He holds three degrees in Law; B Proc, LLB and LLM. Now an attorney, he has practised for over 20 years. He is a co-owner of the legal firm; Matela, Sibanyoni & Associates Inc. in Johannesburg. He has also been a university law lecturer at the Bloemfontein and Soweto Campuses of Vista University. Off the books, legal practice, and travel, he is a keen gardener and has interests in farming, photography, current affairs, boxing, US politics, music, and the movies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Siile Matela
• Release date: Jul 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005673765

Book preview

THE DOOR

to the Past, Present and Future

THE DOOR

to the Past, Present and Future

A memoir

Siile Matela

Copyright © 2021 Siile Matela

First edition 2021

Published by Siile Matela publishing at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author 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 will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances I have changed the names of individuals and places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

Scripture quotations marked (NKJV) are taken from the New King James

Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All

rights reserved.

Published by Siile Matela using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Trevor French for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

Except where expressly indicated, all photos are from the author’s Family Album Collection.

Siile Matela

[e-mail]

Dedicated to

Maneo, for the rock she has been in my life

Neo and Naledi, for the blessings that they are and

My dearest parents: Matsie and Phatsoana,

for giving me the world.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgements

1. Bassie

2. Lady Grey

3. No Peace in Germany

4. Farm Life and New Frontiers

5. Welkomstad and Hoopstad

6. 1984 and Beyond

7. University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg

8. Way Back Home

9. Bloemfontein

10. Johannesburg: The Return

11. Death

12. Rupture

13. The Firm and Beyond

14. Children

15. Reflections on the Future

A Pictorial

End Notes

Foreword

I admit to some advantage for, in addition to enjoying this work as a standalone treat (and I cannot describe it as anything less), I have been able to match its substance with the qualities of the author, who is as much a friend as a professional associate.

It has been said that the shortest distance between two minds is a straight line. The directness with which Siile presents his life story, from infancy to the present day where he successfully practises in partnership as an attorney, justifies the factually grounded impression that his endeavour was informed primarily, by a desire to record and share his life’s experiences. This modest desire ironically, and seemingly unwittingly, gave birth to an outcome befitting the description of an original. Amongst its attributes, it should serve to satisfy the reader who craves a snapshot of a challenging, yet emotionally nourishing period in South African history.

The images woven by Siile in his direct yet descriptive style, as well as the elation which followed, remained with me long after I had given the manuscript a rest, like the afterglow of a mesmerizing culinary experience, which lingers beyond the thrill of ingestion. In inimitable style he not only shares with photographic detail (though he refutes the photographic aspect) his experience, but also generously disperses self-cultivated pearls of wisdom.

He ignites the memory of readers with first-hand knowledge of Pilot Hi-Fidelity systems, PM 9 batteries and TDK recording cassettes while affording front-row seats to observe and marvel at the wonders of the era, to those who didn’t live through it.

This work is testimony to the reality that you need not have soared to stardom or international fame, nor invented a ground-breaking vaccine, in order to share your story, and that everyone irrespective of calling, has a story to tell. Perhaps a duty to.

Advocate Feisal Saint

B Proc, LLB, LLM (Human Rights and the Constitution)

Sandton

Preface

In making the decision to write this book, I was greatly inspired by the life of Oliver Reginald Tambo. Oliver Tambo sacrificed his life and career to liberate South Africa from the shackles of an oppressive racist oligarchy. Such was his total immersion in the freedom struggle that he was never able to complete his memoirs. In this, he was not alone. Although they have multiple published works, literary titans like James Baldwin and Toni Morrison also left unfinished manuscripts behind. While Tambo’s unfinished manuscript provided the bedrock of Luli Callinicos’ towering biography; Oliver Tambo: Beyond the Engeli Mountains (David Philip: 2004), one wishes that he had had time to take these memoirs to a full published autobiography stage. Nothing beats hearing from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. South Africa’s debt of gratitude to OR, as he is affectionately called, is immense. In fittingly naming the country’s major entry airport for him, a partial repayment has been made towards this. To fully settle the debt, however, we need to live in a country envisioned by OR in every respect.

This book traces my life from the historic year of my birth in 1969 to the 2020 outbreak of the corona virus disease (Covid-19) in South Africa when the country went into what has been described as a hard lockdown mode. Except for a few mid-week nights and public holidays, the bulk of the book was written on weekends when I had more time to myself. The writing drew to a close in early May 2020, having started on a stop and go basis as far back as March 2014 on weekends as an escape from the chores of weekday work. Not the fastest of typists, I pounded my keyboard at my own pace for what has seemed almost an eternity. Six years later, this is the result. Born of farm worker parents, I could never have predicted the life that awaited me. Starting off as a farm boy to becoming an attorney at a firm bearing my name would only have been a dream. As I grew up, it became clear that dreams must be fuelled by action if they are to become a reality. In this, I was fortunate to have a supportive family that pushed me in the direction of my dreams. I do not profess to have a photographic memory, but in these pages are captured some of the events that shaped my life the way I remember them. As no man is an island, I have tried to reflect on how I interacted with events that occurred around me and how they shaped my outlook on life. I have only fleetingly referred to my cases to protect my clients as confidentiality is the cornerstone of the legal profession. My work in the legal profession continues to this day and will no doubt have wings of its own and give birth to another book. That hope, however, must be tempered by the limitations of time, good health, and long life over which the Almighty reigns supreme. Unlike Mark Twain whose life recollections were published long after his death, albeit as willed by him, God’s grace may yet envelope me and give me life so I can see the book to publication. In telling my life story, I have no lofty goals other than to show that it is possible to rise above one’s circumstances when one works hard and believes in a power greater than oneself. I have made every effort to ensure factual accuracy. Still, there may be shortcomings in this regard. As is the lot of many writers, I take full responsibility for any errors that may have creeped into this work unnoticed.

Siile Matela

[e-mail]

Acknowledgements

Writing has a way of drawing everyone into your circle. For a memoir, it is even more so. From the early characters in your life, who were there from the beginning, to those who came in and out of your life as well as those presently in it, no one is left untouched. All of them have had an impact on the final product that is this book.

My foremost gratitude goes to my parents; Phatsoana and Matsie Matela, without whom I would never have seen the light of day. Together with my big brothers; Congo and Tefo, they also put me through university. My siblings helped me to grow up with compassion and empathy for my fellow human beings. In this, they are joined by their partners whom I have grown to appreciate and love as my sisters and brothers too. Outside of my family and in the world out there, I am grateful for the encouragement I received from colleagues at work like Charles Ngwena, Zenobia Barry and Kgabo Masehela who really pushed me hard to knuckle down and hit those books. For my legal career, I owe a debt of gratitude to Tšiu Vincent Matsepe and Lepono Joshua Lekale who took me under their wing and gave me an opportunity to take articles of clerkship at their firm. Following an academic detour, I came back to Johannesburg to practise law with Fhedzisani Pandelani and Albert Sibanyoni. For all the dreams, trials, and tribulations that we shared as attorneys in Johannesburg, I remain indebted to them for their remarkable collegiality and brotherhood. My sisters, Victoria and Sema, were my cheerleaders as was Ntjanyana who read through the manuscript with a fine toothcomb. I may yet benefit from Pule’s social media nous and Thomas and Stephen’s street credibility. The rare friendships of Charles Ngwena, Phillip Mathebula, Musa Mthembu, Zenobia Barry, Feisal Saint and Lesia Kometsi deserve applause of their own.

Without the sacrifices of my wife, Maneo, and our two daughters, Neo and Naledi, this book could never have been written. For their love, forbearance and encouragement, I am grateful beyond measure to my wife and two daughters. I also thank Reach Publishers for turning my dream into reality. Above all, I remain eternally thankful to the Almighty for seeing me through this work.

Chapter 1

Bassie

"If I should die, said I to myself, I have left no immortal work behind me, nothing to make my friends proud of my memory but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered."

– John Keats¹

The door to the past, wrote Loren Eiseley, is a strange door. It swings open and things pass through it, but they pass in one direction only. No man can return across that threshold though he can look down still and see the green light waver in the water weeds.² Such is our pre-occupation with the past that once in a while, we pause and reflect on the road travelled for lessons which may be useful for the present and the future despite owing their provenance to the past. Contrary to popular belief, only careless human beings learn nothing from history. Our days fleet past us so quickly that we must use them meaningfully and make a difference. Not recording them for posterity is a missed opportunity, as until reduced to writing they may be nothing more than folklore. The alternative is to allow our stories and their morals to be told by others rather than transmit them directly ourselves in written form to those who are alive and the generations yet unborn. Lest I be accused of putting the cart before the horse, I have every intention of going back to where it all started.

1969 is said to have kicked off with Rupert Murdoch’s acquisition of the News of the World newspaper.³ In the years to follow, the newspaper would be a big player in the English market and the world in general. By 31 May 1969 Stevie Wonder’s velvet voice was belting the single ‘My Cherie Amour’.⁴ Stevie Wonder’s music would define a generation and launch many a relationship. Not long thereafter, at Lady Grey, a remote farm in the district of Wesselsbron, in the then Orange Free State province of South Africa, a boy child was born on 1 July 1969. That boy, christened Siile Petros Matela by his parents, was me! Within nineteen days of my birth, 20 July 1969 to be exact, Apollo II landed on the moon with Neil Armstrong billing the event as one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.⁵ That landing would put the United States of America in the elite league in space technology and innovation. It was in the same year that The Jackson Five signed up with the legendary Berry Gordy’s Motown record label.⁶ The group’s lead singer, Michael Joseph Jackson, would later wear the crown as the King of Pop and his songs would become the soundtrack of many lives. A year before my birth, Dr Martin Luther King Jr had fallen to a racist’s bullet. Much earlier, in November 1963, the United States of America’s President John F Kennedy had also been assassinated.⁷

That the year of my birth was historic cannot be doubted, even if that sounds like blowing my own trumpet. Born in a country that five years earlier had already sent Nelson Mandela to Robben Island prison, no one had any idea as to how my life would later turn out. It was a throw of a dice for my parents, doubtless. What burdens would I bear as I took my first breath on planet Earth? In all fairness, I had the roll of the dice against me. The National Party with its grand apartheid⁸ policy had been in power since 1948, and leaders of the majority were in jail. In the South Africa of that time, something as innocuous as the pigmentation of one’s skin would determine the course of a person’s life. Racism was institutionalised and the death penalty was still an option when it came to crime and punishment. Afrikaner domination was being consolidated through the Broederbond⁹ at a time when the country had unshackled itself from its English colonial masters since 31 May 1961 and become a Republic. The irony was that despite being born in the heartland and at the height of Afrikanerdom, the farm on which I first opened my eyes bore an English name, Lady Grey. Looking back, I often wonder how an English name was given to a farm as Afrikaans as boerewors is, as this one was. All the more strange given that the neighbouring farms bore Afrikaans names like Groothoek, Jacobsdaal, HaFrekkie, Welverdiend, Holland, Stormpan, Nuwe Aanlig, Middelpan and Vogelstruispan. Granted, the farmer’s most famous phrase, I was later to learn, was "Moenie worry nie" (Do not worry). This farmer’s influence on my life would remain for many years after he was no longer of this world.

My parents, Phatsoana and Matsie Matela tell a story that my father was the farmer’s most favourite employee. Shortly after my birth, the farmer arrived to see the new baby who had been christened Siile Petros Matela by its parents. A Mr Marius Christiaan De Bruyn by name, he is reported to have said that I would be the apple of his eye and it was therefore fitting and proper that I be named for him. There is something about babies which I have never been able to fathom. Everyone who sees a baby for the first time will remark on how cute the baby is. Such non-judgmental and innocent little creatures, uncontaminated by the ways of the world, are babies that even the Lord Jesus Christ would willingly give the keys to the heavenly kingdom to children. No wonder Mr De Bruyn was quite taken by my little charms then. Whilst naming children for someone is not uncommon, it was quite unusual at the time for a farmer to make such a request, let alone a farmer who was, by all accounts, on the verge of retirement and would not be possessed of such energy as would be required to run around and chase me as a grandchild. Given our race relations at the time, it is clear that children have a way of extracting the good from every one of us.

Although somewhat taken aback by this, my parents report telling the farmer that his wish would be granted. Would I be known as a Mr De Bruyn? Not precisely, as it turned out! When a child is named for an immediate relation, the parents, out of respect for the person, do not use that person’s name. If my son were named for my father, for instance, I would not shout and call him Phatsoana. Rather, I would affectionately call him Papa. It would be the same thing with my daughter whom I would refer to as Mama and not Matsie if she were named for my mother. In line with this, my parents opted to call me Die baas, being the Afrikaans version of the boss as the farmers and most White Afrikaner males were called at the time. Whenever the farmer visited, he would say, "Die baas van die plaas is hier". (The boss of the farm is here). Although it now seems a sign of the times we lived in and a relic of this country’s ugly past, I was to be known as Die Baas, with my parents’ sanitised variation thereof being Bassie. And so, it came to pass that what represented the unequal power relations between the employees and the farmer became my affectionate name. To this day, my family, relatives and earlier acquaintances call me Bassie, despite my certificate of birth and my identity document bearing Siile Petros Matela as my full names. Some simply call me Die Baas as was originally the case until the name was shortened to Bassie. With Bassie as a name, would I live the life of a boss ready to lord it over everyone? Only time would tell.

As Siile, I am named for my great-grandfather. Roughly translated; Siile means one who has left others behind. My great grandfather must have been a trendsetter of note among his peers, always a step ahead of everyone else. He must have literally left them behind gasping for air, as they were too slow for him. How else would he have ended up with a name like that? My middle name is Petros, taken from the Bible’s Saint Peter. Given that Saint Peter was described by the Lord Jesus Christ as the rock upon which His Church would be built, would I be the rock and cornerstone of my father’s family? Once again, the answer would be provided only by the test of time.

As is often tradition, the middle name is hardly ever used. However, in South Africa, with the perceived superiority of European languages compared to indigenous ones, the name would serve me well – as I was later to learn – and provide a safe haven to those of my countrymen, mostly White folks, who find pronouncing an African name as painful as extracting a tooth. Given the dominance of Afrikaans in the province of my birth and, I suppose, a tint of arrogance, Petros soon metamorphosed into Petrus. I often thought they were not trying hard enough and would give up at the first hurdle. These days, with the changed political climate and the influence of black consciousness, very few people call me Petros. Today our African names have become more dominant as many parents have dropped the English or the religious middle names while others prefer all African names. In any event, very few people are called by their middle names. Imagine someone calling Bill Clinton, Jefferson! Even Barack Obama’s middle name is hardly ever used. Of course, the vexatious Economic Freedom Front have done it with Minister Pravin Gordhan by using his middle name, Jamnandas, as a weapon against him.¹⁰ I am jumping ahead of myself again!

In many African societies, names are associated with events. Thus, a child born on Christmas might end up with Makeresemese as a name whilst another born on Easter could simply be called Paseka or curiously, Manibejara, derived from "Nuwe Jaar (New Year) if born on 1 January. Tempted as they probably were, my parents did not name me Mokete despite being born in the midst of a traditional ceremony of some kind. Otherwise, I could have ended up with a plethora of names about which I could do precious little. Our neighbours North of the Limpopo have taken the English naming game to another level. Anything goes there. Runoff, Gunman, Have-a-Look, Jealousy, Anywhere, Avoid, Never, Ballotbox, Callback, Astonishment, Pardon, Obvious, Growandsee, Harmonised, Obey and Wireless are amongst the names people respond to.¹¹ Shops in Nigeria have been known to bear names like God Will Provide, Faithful and a myriad of other exotic names. I am in no way judging people’s choices and have not had occasion to challenge my own names as they were a product of my parents’ choices. Every name is best understood in context and has meaning. In fact, there is an old African saying to the effect that a good name is a compliment while a bad one is a curse. In my own Sesotho language, it is said that bitsoletle ke thoriso, bitsolebe ke seromo". Still, so much fuss is made about names that it is no wonder that Shakespeare wrote:

"What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."¹²

Yet, it cannot be denied that sometimes people live up to their names and these names may also influence their outlook on life. With Philanderer as a name, for instance, the writing could be perceived to have been on the wall all along for the bearer of such a name. In recent years, the unfortunate xenophobic attacks in South Africa have spawned names like Xenophobia. The unpredictable world of celebrity has not been spared the naming game either. Some curious names have come to the fore. Blue Ivy, the first offspring of the celebrity couple of Beyoncé Giselle Knowles and Shawn Corey Carter (Jay Z) comes to mind, as does Apple; a name that found favour with the celebrity pair of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin. More recently, Elon Mask and Claire Elise Boucher (AKA Grimes) have left many scratching their heads with the name they have given to their son. They have named their offspring X Æ A-12. Can you imagine the pronunciation battles that lie ahead for X Æ A-12 Musk? These choices by star-struck parents have led to many a name change once the children grow up. And so, it came to pass that within days of my birth, the whole farm was animated with conversation about the child who was named for the farmer, "Die Baas", which soon underwent a variation to Bassie.

I am the fourth child of my parents. However, I only have two living elder brothers, Tefo and Neo (AKA Congo). My second elder brother was known as Moeketsi, literally translated as one who increases (the family, I suppose). Tefo, the brother who was born after Moeketsi is taken to have been the one who replaced him. Literally translated, Tefo means payment and seen in the context of Moeketsi’s death, is a self-explanatory name. His full names are Tefo Stephen Matela which have spawned nicknames like Steve, T-Man and Stefaans. Stephen of Biblical times is said to have been stoned to death for basically telling the Jewish Sanhedrin off for its proclivity to persecute God’s prophets, including the crucifixion of the Lord Jesus Christ, and also being pretenders who received the Holy Law but would not obey it.¹³ Stephen was the first Christian martyr.¹⁴ Without necessarily seeking martyrdom, my brother Stephen has made many a sacrifice for the common good of our family.

All in all, my parents had nine children: eight boys and one girl. Only seven remain and all of us, bar our little sister, bear a name derived from the Bible. Neo Daniel Matela is my eldest brother. Apart from his middle name, he also has a nickname, Congo. I have never enquired as to how he came to bear the name Congo other than to speculate. For the large part of the nineteenth century there was the Belgian Congo, a colony of Belgium in Central Africa. Across the river Congo, the second largest river in Africa, lies Congo Brazzaville. Around the time of his birth, there was also a football club named Moroka Swallows which, years later, had a player called Frederick Congo Malebane. And so, with Congo Brazzaville, Belgian Congo, Congo Malebane and Congo River as a background, my eldest brother ended up with the name Congo.¹⁵ Even today, some of his friends still call him River after the Congo River, while at home we sometimes call him Malebane behind his back! To a significant number of his friends he is Dan, being a shortened version of his middle name, Daniel. The story of the biblical Daniel, who braved the lions in their den, is legendary. As the eldest brother, Neo Daniel Matela has braved many a lion for us.

My younger siblings are Ntjanyana Ellias Matela, Pule Enoch Matela, Silumi Thomas Matela and Ntswaki Victoria Matela. Mofoki Abel Matela, whose birth followed mine, died in infancy. His middle name is taken from the virtuous Biblical Abel who was killed by his own brother, Cain. While biologically we are six brothers with one sister, we also regard Moitaodi Stephen Matela and Semakaleng Dorothy Mopalami as our siblings too, being the children of my father’s niece: Mosela Agnes Matela, born of the marriage between my father’s brother Tebejane and Alinah Matela. Ntjanyana Ellias Matela’s middle name is derived from that of Elia or Elijah of the Bible. He is a devout Christian of the Seventh Day Adventist Church. He is referred to as our own home-grown pastor in the family. Pule’s middle name is Enoch. Enoch was, at 65 years, the father of the longest living person in the Bible, Methuselah, who was 969 years old when he died. Enoch is said to have been 365 years old when he was taken