Strictly for My Heathens

By Solomon L Ngapi

Short book description: With personal stories and social commentary “Strictly for my Heathens’ shares the life experiences of a Xhosa boy growing into a man. Educated in a white boarding school with a handful of other black children, he struggles with life, love and racism in early post apartheid.
Author Biography: Born in 1980 and raised in Gqeberha South Africa Solomon L. Ngapi is the 2nd of seven children born to Nombulelo and Mthuthuzeli Ngapi. After quitting university in 2001 Solomon worked for various marketing agencies and companies as a project manager and implementation specialist. Currently Solomon owns and runs his own strategic management company, Solly Q Management. Solomon is also a qualified rough diamond grader and auctioneer that enjoys debating, writing, the theatre and live performances.
The real cost of my western education was my alienation from my African people and the worst of all my roots. I have no real bonds with my family, no meaningful youthful memories, no shared religion and no shared perception of the world, we are the perfect strangers that know how to greet each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Solomon L Ngapi
• Release date: Dec 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005706388

Book preview

Acknowledgments

First and foremost I’d like to acknowledge Tupac Shakur whose words and lyrics were a source of inspiration and guidance throughout my life. Thank you for articulating your life in a way that reached me across the Atlantic Nigga. I will forever be in your debt for without you I would have blown my brains out.

To Dr. John Henry Clarke, thank you for being an extraordinary historian and the fearless man who dedicated his life to the true history of the black man. Without you, I had no deep roots to speak of. I was just half an African floating around looking for anchorage. Because of you, I have a sense of where I come from and now I know where I am going.

To Dr. Chancellor Williams, thank you for spending sixteen years researching African history and producing the book titled The Destruction of Black Civilization.

Last but not least to the African Pharaohs of the old who had the foresight and vision to carve my history in stone so it may never be erased. I see you and I thank you.

Disclaimer:

Some things in this book are true and some things are not.

I cannot say which is which because I need deniability.

Enjoy.

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Born in 1980 and raised in Gqeberha South Africa, Solomon L. Ngapi is the 2nd of seven children born to Nombulelo and Mthuthuzeli Ngapi. After quitting university in 2001 Solomon worked for various marketing agencies and companies as a project manager and implementation specialist. Currently, Solomon owns and runs his own strategic management company, Solly Q Management. Solomon is also a qualified rough diamond grader and auctioneer that enjoys debating, writing, theatre, and live performances. 

The real cost of my western education was my alienation from my African people and the worst of all my roots. I have no real bonds with my family, no meaningful youthful memories, no shared religion, and no shared perception of the world; we are the perfect strangers that know how to greet each other.

Table of content

Acknowledgments

Disclaimer:

Introduction

The life of a coconut

I also write what I like

Loyal to the game - Outlaw for life

(Operating Under Thug Laws As Warriors)

A Xhosa love story

THE LONG GAME TO FREEDOM

ACT 1

Scene 1

Scene 2

Scene 3

Scene 4

Scene 5

Scene 6

Scene 7

Scene 8

Scene 9

Act 2

Scene 1

Scene 2

Scene 3

Scene 4

Scene 5

Scene 6

Scene 8

Scene 9

Scene 10

Introduction

Black man if you don’t know your own history, the white man will tell you his version of your history and it begins with when he found you.

Can you not hear the tormented souls of the dead who died for greed?

The African lives whose souls were snatched from their bodies in the night and in the day.

If Mandela was white he would have been diagnosed with Stockholm syndrome, instead, he was turned into a black messiah spreading forgiveness that was not his to give.

A betrayed heart has no cure,

just tears  for that which once seemed so pure

The life of a coconut

During high school, I had a few girlfriends. I wasn’t a player or anything like that. It's just in the process of figuring out who I was, I experimented a lot. I had a certain upbringing that not many blacks could identify with at the time.  I was classified as a coconut. I was black on the outside and white on the inside. At least that is how I was perceived. I spoke English with a certain accent which meant I was not a product of public schooling and my Xhosa even though I could communicate with family members left a lot to be desired on the streets. This put me in a predicament with the ladies. I was never quite black enough for the black girls in my neighbourhood and I was not white for the white girls at school. There were black girls in my high school but in a school that was 95% white, the choices were not vast. Once the one girl in our class was taken that left two juniors and well that was not going to work out.

Through the eyes of a coconut

Being born in South Africa I am confronted by questions of my race every day. I remember going to boarding school and being one of a handful of black children in a school that had predominantly white children and an all-white teaching staff.  When I reflect I am not sure whether it is selective memory or what but I don’t remember much or any racial tension. I think it was such a norm that I would see all the cleaning, gardening, and kitchen staff as black and teachers and people of authority as white that I didn’t blink twice or question why that was. I was not deluded and I knew I was black. My parents made sure I knew I was black and also by my own experiences even as a child I knew I was black.

The thing about boarding school is that no matter where in the world you came from we were all treated equally or rather it appeared we were all treated equally. Let me rephrase, the thing is about the boarding school I went to, we were treated in a manner that appeared equal. I use the word appear because to a young eye one does not see subtle racism, no racism is the wrong word let's say subtle environmental influences of the time. No matter where you came from, when you got to school we all dressed the same, ate the same, and were all subjected to the same rules and standards. Point being at school I never felt out or different or any of those things. My friends came from various backgrounds and school was this place where we were all growing up, sharing experiences, and making bonds. At the end of each school term, we would all go home to our different spaces and we would resume life after the holidays. I have fond memories of those days. Not only because I was young and carefree but the school was situated in the middle of nowhere and it was an outdoor-focused kind of school. It was vast and situated amongst trees and nature. Whenever I was at school I always felt as if I was far away somewhere.

I remember our drives to school and each mood of the drive depended on my fathers’ mood. We lived about an hour's drive or so from the school (40 minutes without traffic) and he would drive us to and from school with my mother every time school opened and closed. When we got a little older we went home on weekends. I am not sure if this was cruel or not but when we first got to the school we never went home on weekends because my father thought the best way for us to learn English was for us to stay at school and be surrounded by the language.  Looking back I wonder. I remember when I arrived at boarding school my only English was limited to two words, Yes and No. In pronunciation and not comprehension. I would use them interchangeably to answer any question depending on how I felt.

I actually remember my first day at the school where I used my Yes No English in the worst way. I was 7 years old, scared, and shy. I remember my parents had dropped us off and left. Afraid of the uncertainty and trying to understand this whole new place which looked and felt enormous I tried to blend in. Surrounded by so many white people who were speaking in a language I did not comprehend, I followed with a heightened awareness of obedience. Looking back I sometimes think WTF? So it was lunch time and we were following the herd to what was to be known as the Assembly. The Assembly was where all meals were eaten, where every school meeting was held and any other event that needed the whole school in attendance. It was a big hall with a stage on one side, high walls and windows. On the walls were these lists of achievements hanging in chronological order of dates, such as Captain of cricket, captain of rugby, hockey, netball, head boy, and head girl. I remember sitting at a table with 7 other people and at the head of the table was a person who was going to dish up food.  I remember for lunch they were serving chicken, salads, and an assortment of cold meats. So they politely went around the table asking each person if they would like a certain food and she would dish it up. As I recognized the pattern I knew she was eventually going to get to me. I was terrified but what could I do? When it was my turn to be asked what I would like, and without really understanding the question, I looked her in the eye and did my most confident yes-no routine, like I knew what she was asking. Much to my disappointment, I ended up with no chicken and lots of salads, and very little cold meat. Truth be told that was just the first of many times I looked a person straight in the eye and thought, fuck it I’m here now.

I must also explain that my father never explained himself. He did not sit you down and say this is how things are and you are going to this place and and and. No, he was not like that. He one day took us to this place. This place then turned out to be a school. He introduced me to a white man who asked questions and I tried to answer them as best I could with the help of my parent translators. This white man turned out to be the principal. Later I learned that that was the day the principal was deciding if we had what it took to be at such a school. Turns out we did. Also, it turns out it was based on my assessment that he decided to accept us into the school. My mother says he saw potential in me. I’m still not quite sure what that means as I had no understanding of the meeting/assessment. So that was how my schooling was decided. After that, I remember going shopping for school clothes and supplies. Next thing there was this hype and excitement about us going to a fancy school with white children and how lucky we were and should grab this opportunity with both hands and and and. Many people did the talking. Not my father. Most of what my father thought about the school came only when our academic reports came and when we drove to school.

I remember those drives to school and the mood in the car. During these drives, my father would express himself vehemently about what he thought of white people. My father would preach from the moment the car left the house until we reached the school. I remember when I got older I learned to tune in and out of his speeches and only a handful of times was I caught not listening and he would find this out because 1 out of every 15 speeches he would ask a question and God help you if you were not listening. I won’t go so far as to say my old man was abusive but I will say that he was old school. Spare the rod, spoil the child type of old school. Anyways. For all the years my father drove us to school his speeches centered around a few things. Trust – don’t you ever in your life trust the white man. Ever. Ever. Not with your life. You hear me, boys. Yes make friends, have fun but don’t you forget they are white. They are not like any other humans. Those things can be evil. Education – education is the only reason you are here. Education will set you free. You must learn from these whites everything you can. You must absorb and absorb and take as much as you can.  Not everything, just education, and remember they are white. They are not like any other humans. Those things can be evil. Black pride – be black and proud boys. You are descendants of kings. Don’t let these whites tell you otherwise. You are my children and I work very hard for you boys so don’t let them tell you shit. Follow the rules, be polite, and don’t forget you are black and you are my children. Understand? Now go out there and make us all proud and remember boys they are white. They are not like other humans. Those things can be evil.  Appreciation – appreciate all I give you. Do you know how hard I work? Do you know how much school fees are? I am sacrificing my life for you. When I was growing up I had to wake up at 2 am to go fetch water, I had to study by candlelight, I had to walk to school. I had to pay my own school fees.  Appreciate boys is all I’m saying.

There were other topics of discussion of course but generally, this was the natural discourse and just for honesty's sake there were moments of silence and times we listened to the radio, but not a lot.

That was my father and some of his views towards white people. He was complex and had a very unusual relationship with the white culture. My old man was very religious and had no problem believing in white Jesus. But try to get him into white Santa Clause, not a chance. He refused to raise us believing that an old white man was being nice to black people and giving them things. He refused that notion with every part of his being…wawuvephi? (Where have you ever heard such a thing happening) he would often like to say. So the notion of Father Christmas never existed in my home. But we got gifts. From my father’s blood sweat and tears. Not white Santa! But his saviour was white. In saying that though I must admit I never had a discussion about what he personally thought of Jesus and the fact Jesus is projected as a white man.

So we grew and learned and for most parts took my father's words with a pinch of salt. Often