moves into a smaller flat alone. We have lots of fun getting settled, and in the evenings, either taking a picnic to Rhodes memorial or chasing each other around the flat in a fit of free-spirited joy while making supper. My husband helps me with housekeeping and washing up the dishes. I remember writing to Mum and Dad that marriage is fun, but we need to have a garden to potter in at weekends. There is very little to do in a rinky-dink flat on the third floor!
I enjoy having my friends and family come around to visit, and although my husband is very charming, it seems to be stressful for him.
We live in Lilford for a year, which holds memories of mixed pleasure and strife. At Easter weekend, I start to feel nauseous most of the day and worry that I have contracted some dreadful disease! Not so - I am pregnant and frightened out of my wits! Despite, or perhaps because of the many exercise classes I have facilitated for expectant Mums in preparation for labour and childbirth.
I am glad to have the independence of my car to go to work and church. I continue to work at the Parow Geriatric Centre. The dear ladies became very excited to see my expanding waistline, and when the time comes for a baby shower, I receive three dozen pairs of booties, two dozen knitted outfits and more than any family expecting quintuplets could have needed. We are both nervous about parenting – the responsibility seems overwhelming, so we decide to have much fun before our sleep is disrupted by night. And we have severe routine changes by day. Weekends find us touring the coast and enjoying the fresh air. Our two bedroomed-flat seems very small to me; I am used to large farm living, but we will make the best of it. The last couple of months of pregnancy are trying with the stairs and groceries to lug up and laundry to lug down, but we work together with more ease and grace. Perhaps life together will work out well.
* * *
Far from my comfortable and privileged life in Cape Town, an eight-year-old Letlapa is growing up in Manaleng, a little village near Pietersburg (now Polokwane) in Northern Transvaal. Amusingly he is learning that marriage is difficult.
* * *
Letlapa Mphahlele 1968-1970
I have clear memories of the pecking order when playing with friends under the huge morula tree in the front of our house; within earshot of the elders drinking their beer.
The preparation for weddings is when everyone practises the song and dance in the moonlight,
‘Dikuku di monate, lenyalo le boima – the cakes are delicious, but marriage is difficult,’ they sing, and the women ululate. Among those early songs, one rings continuously in my head,
‘Afrika lefase la bo ntat’arona le tserwe ke makgowa – Africa, our fathers’ land, has been taken away by whites.’ With the clarity of hindsight, this song is to shape my life.
Visits with my father, Radikubu, to Pietersburg (now Polokwane) introduces the young me to the crowds: the confusing bustle, the noise and finally the room that my father rents in the backyard of a house in the township (a Black suburb). At last, I get to know where my father goes on weekdays. The place he stays to be near his work as a driver in the town. I am impressed by the opulence of the city where there is meat instead of morogo (wild spinach) to accompany our porridge. There are fish and chips, and a visit to the supermarket leaves the young me with the impression that what we take from the shelves is free.
My paternal grandmother earned the name Ntate, Sesotho for father. Which I assume is given her because of her resourcefulness and fighting spirit. Great-grandmother Tsokoane has no doubt passed on the battle spirit in her fight for an old-age pension from the government. Although she had received one for many years, one of her daughters-in-law burned her dom-pas - identity document during a quarrel. When Tsokoane goes to reapply for one, she is advised to return tomorrow… and tomorrow – which continues until her death in 1970. After watching her struggle and accompanying her on several occasions, I am put off of the pass system and vow never to carry one.
I will not be the first in this fight against the pass laws: adult men run to the mountain at the sight of the police van, rumoured to be the result of their documents not being in order. The women who brew tototo (illicit drink) also flee when the khwela-mahala - free ride puts in an appearance. The children are the first to spot the van and whistle the alarm. The women hide their drums of liquor in holes and cover them up, or if the van is too close, they pour the alcohol out and destroy any evidence the police might hold against them.
At nine years of age and in standard two, I am returned to Rosenkrantz to look after my grandfathers’ livestock. I admit I am not the best goatherd and one day a jackal gets one of the herd. Grandfather is livid and gives me a-devil-of-a-hiding, but worst of all are grandmothers’ comments; for I admire and love her, and she shames me badly.
* * *
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