Heroes Of The Struggle [Forgotten Bastards]: [Forgotten Bastards]

By Mzi Mahola and Vuyisile Msila

If the cruel reality which was instituted by law and was so defended through brute force by the past Apartheid South African system is as this writing by Mzi states, why must that be forgotten, by those who fought with spirit, limb and mind against it with the objective to defeat and destroy it; or why must its perpetrators, who now become the citizens of the new dispensation, be encouraged or allowed to forget that past?

If ever such a brute reality is lived through for three centuries, and so maims, damages and destroys the minds and hearts of citizens and kills its victims with impunity, do its perpetrators find a way to forgive themselves, as faith demands that those who invest the last thing they have, their lives, must also forgive themselves?

Mzi is asking these questions without asking them, but asks them between the lines, when he skilfully keeps as close as possible to the truths of that past. He asks us and demands from us, to fathom those truths, lest they re-emerge in the future, because they were not considered and, therefore
they can.

Professor. Mongane Wally Serote ~ South Africa National Laureate

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781471702471

Book preview

PREFACE

One of the truths that I have learnt as a writer, is that it is not possible to please everybody. I no longer strive to achieve that impossibility; otherwise, this book would never have seen the light of day. Because I do not write for self-aggrandizement, for me it is imperative to consult with the people who give me the stories that I write. I consult with them in order to avoid writing something that will be parallel to the truth. This book has taken many hours and years whilst trying to reflect on a life that was full of promise and commitment to an ideal that was greater than life itself. I needed to relive some of the most dangerous moments of my life as a servant of the people, risking my life and those of my family; meeting and losing friends. I had to confer with friends and comrades to nudge me to piece together good and bad memories of our collective journey underground.

I had to travel to distant worlds to learn more about our struggle; motivating comrades and communities to believe that someday we would prevail over the hardened dark forces that had become experts in applying unheard of horrendous killing tactics, of our people. I was very sceptical that liberation would come in my lifetime. We accepted the fact that ours was going to be the bloodiest war of liberation in Southern Africa. We had no forests where our soldiers would be trained and from where they would go in and out, to wage their guerrilla insurrection. Our geographic terrain was different. The enemy taught us to turn our townships into forests. People had to adapt and be prepared for a difficult protracted war of attrition and to learn the cruel ways of the enemy. In this area members of the SADF made our proselytizing easier. They were ruthless murderers, and our cornered people became convinced that the only way out was to meet violence with violence. Praise be to God for hearing the prayers of His children, both black and white, all over the world. He melted and changed the hearts of our enemy, His people, thus preventing a tragic loss of many souls.

I would like to quote Sir Oliver Reginald Tambo when he said "Comrades, you might think that it is very difficult to wage a liberation struggle. Wait until you are in power. I might be dead by then. At that stage, you will realise that it is actually more difficult to keep the power than to wage a liberation war. People will be expecting a lot of service from you. You will have to satisfy the various demands of the masses of our people. In the process, be prepared to learn from other people’s revolutions. Learn from the enemy also. The enemy is not necessarily doing everything wrong. You may take his right tactics and use them to your advantage. At the same time, avoid repeating the enemy’s mistakes." -- Oliver Reginald Tambo (Angola, 1977).

I am not a preacher or a pastor, but that does not mean I’m not connected with the Holy Spirit. In this book I have tried to show readers how God assigned His angels to accompany me everywhere I went so that no weapon that is formed against us prospers. I have experienced numerous episodes, not mentioned in this book, where I have stared death in the eye and still came out unscathed, not out of bravery or skill, but through His divine intervention. I have sought, untiringly, for God’s guidance and His ways. He reserves His secrets for those who are obedient to His word; those who seek Him in truth, and earnestly. He is the essence of life and seeking Him is like searching for gold in the bowels of the earth. You search for it untiringly, until you find it. Once you find it, your life changes forever; you will never be the same again, provided you remain obedient and thirsty for His word.

I have not given up hope that things will get better for my comrades and others who have become Forgotten Bastards. These are my heroes because they sacrificed their businesses, legacies, and the future of their children for the sake of their people’s liberation. They will continue to remain nameless, with changed identities, left destitute, scarred by the scourge of materialism that is looting our people’s inheritance. But this scourge comes to pass.

It is my hope that the stories in this book will resonate with each one of us as we search for truth, peace, and better life for ourselves and our children. This is an enlightening therapeutic read for those in need of healing or seeking justice in the sea of injustice.

Mzi Mahola

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FOREWORD

Chinua Achebe points out the need for the lion to tell its story rather than always hearing the story from the vantage point of the hunter. In a time of decolonisation, when Africans are trying hard to address culturicide’s and historicides, they needed to have and tell their own stories. In many accounts Africans hardly see the African lens, as the West tends to own stories and tells these from its own perspective. In one interview Achebe (1994), points out:

Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.

That did not come to me until much later. Once I realized that, I had to be a writer, I had to be that historian. It is not one man’s job. It is not one person’s job. But it is something we have to do, so that the story of the hunt will also reflect the agony, the travail — the bravery, even of the lions.

In this second novel Mzi Mahola, the poet, has shown that he can be as ardent in his prose, as he is with his powerful verses. He tells this story with brevity and courage as he did with Dancing with Hyenas (2016), his first novel. In Heroes of the Struggle, he tells a story of nostalgia, abandonment, hope and shattered dreams, in a rapid but engaging narrative, where anything can happen in the sleazy corners of New Brighton, Zwide or Kwazakhele. Like a seasoned historian, he gives us the necessary detail so that readers may be able to fathom the happenings.

At times Mahola wants the readers to decipher the happenings for themselves as he does not profess to have any answers.

The setting of the story is so appropriate; the townships of Port Elizabeth have been the vanguards of the snippets of history from the apartheid years. The cells of the African National Congress (ANC) were established by the struggle stalwarts in this area. The old guard of the ANC, Ray Mphakamisi Mhlaba, Govan Mvunyelwa Mbeki, James Arthur Calata, Vuyisile Mini, Florence Matomela, Lillian Diedericks, Hilda Manase Tshaka and Frances Goitsemang Baard, were all amongst the first workers of the Congress in Port Elizabeth. They opened the paths for the liberation struggle to continue. Furthermore, Port Elizabeth townships like townships such as KwaLanga in Cape Town, Thabong in Welkom, Atteridgeville in Tshwane, and Soweto in Johannesburg had their fair share of the protracted sad history of the liberation struggle, a struggle that was sometimes mired in desolation, yet gave many undying hope, determination and sacrifice for victory. In that struggle people may not know all the names of its heroes, the heroes who brought victory in their fight for social justice, democracy, and freedom. Many had become unknown ordinary men and women whose names have simply escaped our memories.

The lucky ones have their names etched in obscured streets that lead to nowhere. Some have their names repeated in lesser-known songs that we refuse to sing. Some have left dim trails to Lusaka, Angola, Botswana and Rhodesia and may have come back in the silence of the night, thanking their stars for the motherland. Indeed, thanking the stars they see through the roof as they repose in their shacks, smiling about their past. Indeed, they had become forgotten bastards, who hardly tell the story. They smile coyly when they are asked about their role. You would believe others do not know what an AK47 is, as they embrace memories that seek to obliterate their long journey.

We have to be grateful to Mahola, this forgotten bastard, who picked up his pen, mustered his roar and became the literary lion that he is. 

Indeed, I have read so many stories of the hunt, of the relentless struggle told by the hunter. The hunter has portrayed the fear, the excitement, and the wonderment of the lion. The poignancy of the lion has always been told by the hunter or the hunter’s kindred who tend to understand, as they sympathise with the grief suffered by the lion. We need more literary lions, for in their absence the hunter will be justified to fill the void. Mahola has been a wordsmith, a poet for decades, and as such his poetry has made him such a great storyteller who is a magician with the words and metaphors that will continue entrancing the reader long after putting down the verses. His second volume When Rains Come (2000) won him the Olive Schreiner Award.

In Heroes of the Struggle, Mahola does not only tell us about history, the lion’s version, but he also gives a voice to literally many forgotten bastards, his comrades whose stories were never told. The narration appears simple, but one has to close the book and reflect, to cogitate the deep meaning of the paragraphs that tell harrowing snippets of a past.

The protagonist Lizo, aka Thabiso is an ANC underground operative whose search for freedom is mingled with his bigger hunt for his identity and meaning of black life. His existence represents many people who have been discarded by history and were soon forgotten. Lizo’s life is that of an insurgent who struggles to live in turbulent times in the townships. Told in two chapters the snatches include several unrelated but gripping events, as the protagonist takes us into his confidence so that we end up half-understanding his world immersed in betrayal, exhilaration, and secrecy.

It is a story of people with aliases and sometimes as readers, we can never be sure who they are. At the time, this was important to confuse the enemy, hence Lizo might be Thabiso or maybe Vuyo. The enemy was always prowling in the townships; the enemy was ready to pounce on guerrillas operating inside. Lizo has a heart, he is brave, he is a patriot, but he is also a nobody. He was tortured by the system; he was trained in Lesotho but that is where it ended; he was a mere UMkhonto Wesizwe (MK) operative working from the discomfort of his home to keep the struggle fires burning. The book cannot profess to have all the answers of the day, but Mahola has again revealed one wonderful narrative of our times, a history that still needs to be told; a history that will only be real, if it is told by the lion.

So many accounts appear real and as readers who were once lions, it is very hard not to identify with them; the loud knocks on the doors by the security police, to cringe at the sight of the army nyalas and South African Defence Force (SADF) soldiers, the roadblocks, are just some of the things that sent cold shivers down any black person’s spine, in the 1980s.

Reading the story brought back the memories of the volatile eighties in Port Elizabeth; the teargas, the gun sounds in unruly dark nights that never relaxed, the flames licking buildings, the footsteps that never ceased until dawn. The barbed wires that engulfed the townships, the incessant burning fumes of car tyres; these were normal practices of the eighties in Port Elizabeth. But one does not need to have lived there to feel Mahola’s narration and the message in his voice.

Mahola fulfils a magnanimous role as a writer in his society, as he unmasks the brief accounts of the struggle history. These small stories are ensconced in many hearts, and we may never hear them, hence it takes courageous writers to bring these to the fore. Mahola brings all his readers in action, to think and to cherish the history. The great Nigerian writer and environmental activist Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa (1995:81) is forthright about the role of the writer in society. He writes:

"Literature must serve society by steeping itself in politics [...] writers must play an interventionist role. My experience has been that African governments can ignore writers, taking comfort in the fact that only a few can read and write.

The writer must be the intellectual man of action. He must take part in mass organisations. He must establish direct contact with the people."

Saro-Wiwa is throwing the gauntlet for writers, that their writing should be intent in changing the world especially when injustices prevail. Mahola does this well in this book as he knocks on our conscience to remember where we come from. This is part of an intent to re-humanise, as people face ills in society, ills that defy history. Many black writers are taking it upon themselves to stand for re-humanisation and genuine freedom of the people. There was a time in South Africa when poets were both fighters and writers in their society and Richard Rive points out that there was a time in South African history, when it was incumbent upon black writers to define the happenings, while they were simultaneously political activists, who fought a system (Rive, 1989).

Literature is embedded in our culture, and society and both these are products of history. The implication of these is that it would be unrealistic for a creative writer to write about that, which is not influenced by history. Black writers who are influenced by history have to do this, otherwise they would be obsolete and irrelevant. They need to reflect their identity and sense of purpose in life, especially in countries of the former colonised. Chinua Achebe also states that African writers should be social and political in their approach to writing, if they do not want to be irrelevant:

It is clear to me that an African creative writer who tries to avoid the big social and political issues of contemporary Africa, will end up being completely irrelevant- like that absurd man in the proverb who leaves his burning house to pursue a rat fleeing from flames. (Achebe 1975: 78)

Shava (1989: 46) contends that two dominant literary trends have determined the shape of black writing after 1976. On the one hand, there is a continuing tradition of resistance literature and one of its common elements is the role of resistance whilst on the other hand, other writers and critics seek to create new insights in black writing. The latter argue that themes against apartheid, are overworked and less engaging, additionally, they point out that writing should transcend the advocacy of mass action and the recording of mass action and the recording of mass suffering.

However, to hide political writing making it subtler than direct and being descriptive is one characteristic of creating literature for the elite. People should perceive their experiences reflected in literature, in a way that they would understand. Arguably, few may want a People’s Literature where meanings are implied. It is the challenge for writers to express the people’s daily lives. At the moment, we need to read more in People’s Literature and what Mahola has produced is that kind of literature.

Early Black writing of the twenties and thirties tended to be stilted and imitative of whites (Rive, 1989:50). However, many readers maintained that writers needed to transcend various literary obstacles, as they embrace a People’s Literature. Gordimer (1990) uses this term when she writes about literature written by and not about the people and she defines the people as all blacks and so-called coloureds, who comprise the overwhelming majority of our population. Using People’s Literature means that writers sometimes discard conventions as they take it upon themselves to write about ordinary people’s struggles, pain, and joys. This was a challenge to artists writing post-Sharpeville in the sixties, to the present. Yet several critics have complained about these works and their lesser impact on black communities.

Literature, especially People’s Literature, is about sharing the people’s experiences. When people write about these in various ways it is with the hope of highlighting these so that the larger society could be aware of what is happening around them. "People’s Literature is not for the reader who is looking for an experience, intensified by the writer; it is for those whose experiences exceed the intensity of words. People’s Literature is not meant so much to enlarge the readers’ understanding of the worth and dignity of that world (Gordimer 1990: 38). Literature needs to reflect the consciousness of the masses. It should move away from reflecting the culture of the elite. Furthermore, Gordimer (1990:40) contends Writing talent has been stifled, wasted, distorted by exile within the country, as well as without. But this talent will not be freed to create a People's Literature, in the true sense that literature shall embody the consciousness of the masses instead of that only of an elite if writing is regarded as a kind of therapy for industrial alienation."

Writing is usually said to be a lonely journey and indeed it is. But our stories are meant for the community, hence it is critical to understand the foibles and excitement, the pulse of the community that we write for. Without the sense of being among the people can make a writer lose that sense of relevance. The stories we want to tell as writers are amongst the people. The people have the wealth of history and culture. Through epistemic violence and apartheid brutality the coloniser has over centuries, tried to alter the connection amongst members of African communities. Yet of all these the African writer has always been part of the society. Soyinka (1997) contends that the African writer can never be able to deny his society, although he can be able to deny himself. In fact, African writers face numerous challenges as they try to respond to the machinations of society. Wole Soyinka (1997:352) also adds:

While we may debate what constitutes an African writer and what does not, one breed of humanity that we cannot comfortably deny is that of the writer. In new societies that begin the seductive experiment with authoritarianism, it has become a familiar experience to watch society crush the writer under a load of guilt for his daring to express a sensibility and an outlook apart from, and independent of, the mass direction. The revolutionary mood in society is a particularly potent tyrant in this respect, and since the writer is, at the very least, sensitive to mood, he respects the demand of the moment and effects his definition as a writer by an act of choice.

To be a writer is to dare to carry the vision of the people, it is to dare to be a dreamer, they have this gift to prophesy and yet in toying with the future, their eyes see in the past as they try to answer the question, Sifike njani apha? –how did we get here? Yet, society can confer many other labels. If only writers can understand the potency of their fountain pens. Anasa and Nwabudike (2014) perceive a link between literature, society, and the writer- a link