laundered weekly. Mrs Marais takes worship straight after supper for those who are not on duty. I am the only resident not doing nurses training, which means I am not earning a salary as they are.
My parents send my monthly pocket money with the board and lodging fees. No need to worry about payment of the University fees, it happens seamlessly by considerate parents. I am so preoccupied with lectures, studying, tennis and finding new friends that I seldom think about my privilege. It seems like a right to be at University. Occasionally the members of NUSAS (National Union of Students Association) march in protest that Black students cannot attend the University of Cape Town, and Coloured students must obtain special permission. They are permitted only if the requested course is not offered at the University of the Western Cape; established for Coloured People in 1960.
Initially, I joined in the marches, more for the fun of it, than as a serious activist. Although I become uncomfortable with the Black oppression during apartheid, I now have no Black friends, and the farmworkers at the ranch in Rhodesia seem to be happy and satisfied. Mum is frustrated because she cannot depend on them to always do as requested. Edward, who is Cook and Houseboy disappears unannounced for months at a time. Then he reappears expecting to take over his job again, as though he has not been away. Edward says that he only intended to go home for the weekend but finds big family matters to attend to and crops to plant, but now he is back and all smiles. He is an excellent cook and a pleasant man, so each time Mum relents and arranges for whoever has taken his place to work in the garden or on the ranch. What angers Mum is that during the years of living at Inunwa, Edward is never able to tell her in advance when he will be leaving, and it is never at a specific time of the year, so the pattern continues.
When I phone home from Cape Town, Edward sometimes answers,
“Hello Edward, please call the Madame.”
I hear a chuckle, as he says,
“Ah! The Madame, she is not here at this time!”
“Where is she?” as if it matters anyway I ask.
“Sometime she is in the office, sometime she is in the garden, and sometime I am not very sure.”
So that is how our conversation ends,
“Please tell her I phoned.”
On the train, returning to Rhodesia one winter holiday, a group of us read ‘Uhuru’ by Robert Ruark; banned in South Africa for inciting unrest and violence. So, it is with intrigue that we divide it into three pieces and pass it around. Tucked up in our bedding rolls to ward off the cold, we read frantically to finish before the journey ends. Other novels which I remember on those train journeys are: Wilbur Smiths’ ‘When the Lion Feeds’; and ‘Lady Chatterley's Lover’ by D H Lawrence. Both also banned at the time.
It is 1964. I start to feel a less secure side to life after reading about the Mau-Mau, but it is too uncomfortable to dwell on that when in all other respects, life is comfortable enough, even with the stresses of maintaining friendships - trying to ‘make it’ socially and educationally. However, in the stillness of the Rhodesian night, thoughts of the Mau-Mau and Kenya haunt me. When it’s time to return to Cape Town, I panic about my parents being alone so far away from help should the Mau-Mau, the Black fever, strike in Rhodesia; yet Mum and Dad seem so unafraid and absorbed in their challenges with making ends meet, with the economy and politics, that we never discuss it. They don’t urge me to do better at University when I fail physiology and have to repeat it by doing an extra six months. They don’t ask what is happening in my life, but they are just always so happy to have me home. We garden together or take a flask of tea out on the ranch checking the mombies, the watering points and fences, or go to Bulawayo shopping and occasionally to church.
I have been making all my clothes since I was thirteen and that takes up creative time in the holidays. I either ride horseback or use the bakkie to fetch the post at Lonely Mine. Rob’s beautiful letters arrive faithfully, connecting me with his world and struggles. Being the eldest son and living at home, working for his somewhat authoritarian father, and studying by correspondence, is proving to be more difficult than he had imagined. Between the lines I hear him gritting his teeth and pushing to become independent, he concentrates on staying fit by jogging and pushing iron.
Kudo cow
One day Mum and I are in the vegetable garden, a kudu cow comes loping up the long concrete driveway between the gardens and the homesteads; perched on top of the koppie - hillock. Our two dogs are chasing and biting at her swollen udder. My heart beats faster, as I realise that she has a calf somewhere and is probably bent on distracting the dogs. Knowing that she has a short running span, I give chase as fast as I can, following her up the hill. As I get to the top of the koppie panting hard, Freddie, who is chopping wood at the pile, raises his axe and aims for her throat. I scream in anticipation but see her stumble, and Freddie slits her throat. Fury burns in my breast and explodes in my mind,
“Freddie give me that axe. I will kill you now; she came for protection, and you killed her.” I yell, sobbing and trying to disarm him,
“Ah. Ah. Ah. Miss Gin,.” he mutters, dropping the axe and holding my wrists which render me powerless and even more enraged. With a herculean shove, I manage to free myself and run to my bedroom, where I lie on my bed, pounding my pillow…. eventually my sobs subside, and I toss around until I fall asleep.
“Ginny, did you have a good nap?” Mother prompts at supper time,
“Tell us how Freddie managed to supply our meat rations for the month.”
How can I respond? My mind slows down; this is a double bind. Dad sometimes shoots a kudu bull for rations, but only when there is little else for us and the farmworkers, and only an older kudu bull. Now Freddie has saved him the chore.
“What about the fact that she must have a calf? And that she came to us for protection?” I hear my voice, sharp and critical.
“Ginny…” Dad says patiently, “…life is different for Freddie, he is grateful for fresh meat and especially enough to last all of us for a month. The cow didn’t suffer, and she was about to give birth!”
“I don’t care about Freddie – I could have killed him this afternoon if I only had the strength. He doesn’t care for anything but his stomach.”
In that instant, a flash of insight penetrates my soul - I have the potential to kill, and I feel a rush of guilt - mea culpa! Suddenly I know, that provided with the right circumstances, I am capable of the evil of which I am accusing Freddie, but it is brief and transitory. I force it out of my consciousness like a searing rod of blame and shame.
“It’s no good getting angry with Freddie, nothing can be reversed now; as you know the commandments say,‘Thou shalt not kill’.”
Dad concludes the discussion with the authority of the scriptures.
“Is that only humans that you may not kill?” I sense my confusion and the unfairness that what I am feeling is so unimportant as to be summarily dismissed.
Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.
No wonder the Mau-Mau in Kenya could hamstring beautiful cows in the pastures, they must be savages after all!
In my second year at UCT Rob writes saying that our paths
