we had a duty to give something back.
In the end, we nearly did not make it back to South Africa. For some bizarre reason, between packing, breastfeeding, saying goodbye and recovering from the birth, I never thought about the fact that Wilmé might need a passport. I just assumed that the birth certificate would be sufficient for her to travel with us. Two days before our planned departure, I went for my last postnatal check-up at the John Radcliffe Hospital. In the waiting room, I chatted to a mum next to me about our imminent departure. She mentioned something about a passport for Wilmé, and it dawned on me that we might have a problem. This set off a wild panicked trip to London, and after a lot of begging at the South African embassy on Trafalgar Square, we got a travel document for Wilmé.
Back in South Africa, we settled into an apartment around the corner from my parents’ home, and about ten minutes away from Wilhelm’s parents. I found being back very difficult. While Wilhelm went to work every day – he quickly got a job as a lecturer in the Department of Philosophy at the University of Stellenbosch – I was at home with our little baby. Even though I was besotted with Wilmé, I was bored and claustrophobic – not only in the flat but also in South Africa. I found people’s attitudes very small-minded and I missed Oxford. I wanted at least to try and finish my thesis, but between household chores and not sleeping, I did not make much progress. This caused a lot of conflict with Wilhelm. It shocked me how happy he was to accept the traditional gender divisions – reminding me that he was the breadwinner and needed to prepare for the next day’s lectures in the evening, and rest during the night. I was deeply unhappy.
Fortunately, the South African parliament finally put an end to conscription just weeks before Wilhelm was due to report for duty. Although I was thankful for this, I sometimes wondered if I would have noticed if Wilhelm had not been at home. I needed something to do – a challenge. So I decided to build a house. Since Wilhelm’s job was not well paid and we did not have a lot of money, we bought at an auction a plot of land in a beautiful new development called Paradyskloof. We designed a simple house with the idea of extending it later. We did not have the money to employ a builder, so I took charge of hiring labourers and ordering all the supplies. We were building during the hottest time of the year, and with six-month-old Wilmé on my hip it was hard going. Wilmé thought it was the funniest thing in the world to spit her dummy into wet cement and then wait for the shocked ‘yo-yo-yo’ cries of the African tradesmen, who would run to rinse it off. I had wanted a challenge, and I got one.
Despite keeping the budget extremely low (I think I built the house for the equivalent of just over R100 000), it soon became clear that we would not survive on Wilhelm’s salary. Having grown up in an academic household, I knew that a lecturer’s salary was not huge but that you could live comfortably on it. But Wilhelm’s was very low, partly because he was at entry level and had not finished his doctorate, and also because a more discretionary system was now in place. I felt Wilhelm should at least ask for more money, but he would not. Our different attitudes to money would become a major source of tension throughout our marriage. I had to find a job. In principle I wanted to work, but between looking after the baby, planning to finish my thesis and building the house, it was difficult to see what I could do.
Eventually I found a part-time position as an assistant in the university library, a post I shared with another mother. I hated the job. I found it mind-numbing dealing with grumpy students, and packing and sorting books. To make matters worse, I was paid the minimum wage (R5.60 per hour). Day after day, I would watch the clock and count the few cents I was making as the time ticked by. I knew I could not do this for long, and a frustration and determination grew in me. I will not do this for the rest of my life, I kept thinking. To make matters worse, Wilhelm seemed to be moving forward, researching, lecturing, publishing and going to conferences. In everyone’s eyes, he was the next generation of Verwoerds: hyper-intelligent and destined for big things. I, on the other hand, was Mrs Wilhelm Verwoerd.
Luckily, there were some lighter moments. One day, after dropping Wilmé with Wilhelm’s mum, I rushed to the library. Already late for my shift, I searched for my security tag to get through the security gate, but could not find it. I knew it was somewhere in my messy handbag, so I started unpacking the bag on the table next to the gate. Out came a baby bottle, a night nappy, a few biscuits, a squashed banana, a few dry diapers for Wilmé, two dummies, my wallet and keys – all covered in traces of baby hands and something sticky. At some point, I heard a giggle behind me. Turning around, I saw a group of students looking at me and the contents of my bag in amazement. I was only 24 years old and looked very young, but this was no regular student bag! At least the baby experience gave me some practice in dealing with the ‘demands’ of the job.
A year or so later, I was on counter duty in the library. Yet again, some stressed-out student was losing his cool because the book he needed was already out on loan. Having dealt with the beginnings of a two-year-old’s tantrums at home, I inadvertently slipped into my ‘mummy’ mode. Using a slow, well-verbalised, over-calm voice, I bent forward and said: ‘Now, I cannot help you if you shout, because I do not understand you. Take a deep breath – go on, in and out – and when you have calmed down, tell me what you want, and if I can, I will give it to you. No need for this.’ I heard the suppressed laughter from the other staff next to me, as well as the giggles from the other students behind him. But it did the trick.
The one part of the job I did enjoy was the interaction with the coloured and black workers. They were in the very low-paid positions, but we quickly connected and would have long political discussions. We were careful not to be overheard, since the mostly female, all-white Afrikaner librarians were extremely conservative. Political discussions like the ones we were having would have been frowned upon.
This was a time of great upheaval and uncertainty on the political front. In the early 1990s, the multi-party negotiations started. The violence was widespread and increasing, and at this stage it was mainly black-on-black. It filled our TV screens night after night. In fact, more people died in political violence between 1990 and 1994 than in the preceding ten years. Right-wing white politicians and church leaders were instilling more and more fear, and neo-Nazi movements such as the AWB (Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging), with the charismatic (in Hitler-like fashion) Eugène Terre’Blanche at its head, gained momentum.
Wilhelm and I were watching the situation closely. I was part of a feminist discussion group and through one of the members, Wina du Plessis, the dynamic wife of Professor Lourens du Plessis, I heard that there was an ANC branch in the ‘white’ part of town. I knew that I wanted to do more, become more involved, so I cautiously made contact through Wina.
To say that it was a branch is perhaps something of an exaggeration. At any stage, there were never more than eight to ten white members. I first wanted to see if I would fit in, and quickly became close to the driving forces in the branch: Annie Gagiano (a dynamic professor in the English department), Wina du Plessis (a great feminist), Zelda Dalling (who was married to an independent MP) and Rudolf Mastenbroek (head of the student organisation NUSAS). Wilhelm supported my investigations, even though he was cautious. The ANC town branch met frequently in Zelda’s comfortable house, but I was not quite ready to sign up yet. This was about to change, thanks to two extraordinary Africans.
I had met Nomajoni (Emily) Makwena in 1988. Wilhelm and I looked after the three children of one of Wilhelm’s colleagues while the parents went overseas for three weeks. Emily (as I knew her then) was their live-in domestic worker. We immediately hit it off and would talk for hours. She is an exceptionally bright, caring and charming woman. We kept in touch afterwards, and when Wilhelm and I were in Oxford we wrote letters. On our return to South Africa, she begged me for some part-time work. I was reluctant because of the power relations and the trap of racial stereotypes, but Emily was clear: ‘That’s your problem, not mine. I need a job, I know you will pay me well, and we will stay friends. Deal with it!’ As always, she was right.
Emily (and her son Luthando) gradually became an inextricable part of our family. Even though she started with only one afternoon
