a baby, so he never got to see their handsome children, Daphne, William (Daddy Bill), Edgar and Una, as they grew to adulthood.
Each evening before retiring Granny loosens her hair, bends forward and brushes a hundred strokes - that, she says prevents her from washing it too often, which dries it out. I am amazed that her hair is always beautifully shiny. Granny often chuckles as she is getting ready for bed, recounting the events of the day and seeing the funny side of whatever has happened. I love her for that, but I am also terrified of her. One afternoon David has gone to play with a friend and comes home after dark. When she hears the gate rattle, she stands behind the kitchen door, and as he comes through it, she ambushes him, whacking him, with a rolled-up newspaper, shouting,
“Naughty, naughty boy you know you must be home before dark. Now go to your room and do your home-work. No supper for you tonight.” I feel quite pleased that he has a beating because he teases me often, and he is too laughingly agile for me to catch and beat up. But it isn’t long before it is my turn for a slap!
One cold winter’s day, we are in the kitchen; Granny is listening to the radio while she prepares supper. She gasps with surprise as the newsreader recounts the events of the day: Thousands of women marched from the Paul Kruger Monument on Church Square in Pretoria to the Union Buildings today. The march was silent and determined; they are objecting to pass laws. Prime Minister JG Strydom was unavailable to receive their signed petitions,
“Oh dear!” says Granny. “Now there will more trouble in this country; I wonder what will happen next! And why they are protesting against pass laws.”
I wish Granny had known then why they were protesting and more details of the march! Because:
[Twenty thousand women of all races marched on 9 August 1956, to present a petition against the carrying of passes by women to the prime minister. After the petition was handed over to the secretary of the prime minister, the women sang a freedom song: Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika - Lord Bless Africa. The marchers also chanted; Wathint` abafazi, Strijdom! You Strike a Woman, Strydom!
Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, a hymn originally composed in 1897 by Enoch Sontonga, a Xhosa clergyman at a Methodist mission school near Johannesburg. The song became a pan-African liberation song and versions of it were later adopted as the national anthems of five states in Africa including Zambia, Tanzania, Namibia and Zimbabwe after independence. Zimbabwe and Namibia have since taken new compositions for their national anthems. The song's melody is currently used as the national anthem of Tanzania and the national anthem of Zambia, and since 1997 a portion of the national anthem of South Africa.]3
Since then, the phrase 'wathint' abafazi, wathint' imbokodo' – ‘You Strike a Woman You Strike a Rock’ has come to represent the courage and strength of South African women. As a group women are marginalised, so they challenged the oppressive barriers that governed their lives and fought for their freedom and that of their families.
[Strydom was not at the Union Buildings to accept the petition, the women of South Africa sent a public message that they would not be intimidated and silenced by unjust laws.]4
Yes to Emily Pankhurst! I would discover the British women's similarly remarkable struggle later in High School. The implications in the pass laws included:
All people classified as non-white had to carry passbooks to show their workplace in the area; no pass – no work.
Black nurses were not allowed to nurse white patients.
Black couples were no longer allowed to live in white areas of a city.
Children had to stay in the homelands.
The Group areas act meant that land and businesses could be taken away from non-whites (forced removals) without compensation… and more.
One Friday afternoon, Granny is taking us back to the farm for the weekend, I am sitting in the front seat of her navy Chevrolet, and she chides me repeatedly for not doing my chores fast enough, so we have gotten a late start. I am irritated and mutter under my breath,
“Oh, shut up, you old bag.”
Granny hears and gives me a left back-hander across my face, without even taking her eye off the road. I burn with shame and resentment. It is never spoken of from that day until she dies. I don’t tell Mommy for fear of another beating on top of that one, for being impudent.
One day, Mommy is busy in her sewing room, wearing her usual shirt-waister dress and comfortable leather gardening shoes. She is crafting a new dress for me and casually says,
“Ginny, soon you will start your monthlies, bleeding from between your legs for a couple of days each month, so you need to be sure that you always have protection.” She shows me where the pads are kept in her wardrobe, and I stand horrified, eyes glued to the white fluffy looking things in a paper packet. I am too shocked to ask any questions and besides, there is a slab of chocolate on the same shelf, which I register as far more interesting for a later date when she has gone back to the farm. The next time she comes back to town, the chocolate is gone. It seems to be time for another beating,
“Hell, everything I do is wrong, you were not here to ask, so why can’t I eat some chocolate?”
“Go to the bathroom, so much chocolate is bad for you and to swear on top of it means you need to learn by having your mouth washed out with soap.”
What a performance, with me struggling to clench my jaw, and then I start laughing, so the soap gets a generous lathering, and I spit it out as fast as I can with much cursing, but this time I make sure that it is really under my breath.
One night when I am in Junior High School, I overhear Mommy and Daddy talking,
“Ginny is becoming more and more rebellious,” Mommy says. “She swears and wants to play tennis on the Sabbath. She has also been invited to a boys’ hostel dance next Friday night, and now Mum (Granny) tells me that Kendrew visited her on his motorbike.”
“Oh! Perhaps we should think about sending her to Sedaven with the boys?”
I can hear the seriousness in Daddys’ voice mixed with a grin. We often visit with the Macaskills, where Kendrews’ Dad, Cyril and my Dad argue for hours about whether we need to keep the Sabbath day holy on Saturday. Cyril maintains that salvation is by grace alone, the law was done away with at the cross. Daddy insists that it is crucial to keep the Sabbath day holy, as the fourth commandment requires, because although salvation is by grace, the law informs the behaviour of grace! They never reach an agreement and must have eventually agreed to disagree on the topic. Kendrew is their youngest son, about four years my senior and while our fathers argue, and mothers make tea, generously mixed with their conversations, we have our fun outside at the cattle kraal or listening to music in Kendrew and his brother Albans’ rondavel.
Daddy now continues,
“Cyril tells me that Mum was rude to Kendrew, and he wanted to know from me if we don’t trust Kendrew? I was quite embarrassed.”
I feel myself blushing at the memory, even though no one can see me. Kendrew is a tease and like a big brother to me when John and Ian are away at boarding school. Why was Granny making a fuss? Was it because Kendrew came while I was playing the piano? She heard the playing stop and came to find us sitting outside chatting,
“Go home. It is not right
