you were born on this or that date, because I remember that this or that happened just before you were born.’
Mamphela’s talents were numerous: a facility for communication and organisation, traditional healing learned from her mother, and efficient management of the household supported by many practical skills. She mastered the art of roasting pork and preserving it in its own fat for up to three months – a useful skill in an environment where there was no refrigeration. Her own personality balanced the kindness of her husband, whom unscrupulous people often took advantage of. She called him ‘kgwebeane’, the easy one to cheat. She spoke her mind openly, sometimes to the embarrassment of her kindly husband. She was aware of her capabilities and was full of self-confidence. Her most determined statements were always prefixed by ‘Rare Serogole’, a reference to her father’s praise name (Serogole). She did not suffer fools easily.
My mother, Rangoato Rahab, had fond memories of her childhood on a communal farm in the Moletsi district, about thirty kilometres due west of Pietersburg – now Polokwane. They lived in a seven-roomed house with a corrugated-iron roof, the first in the area. Both her father’s and her mother’s relatives lived within walking distance, and it was accepted that she could stay in the homes of other family members whenever she wanted to. This multiplicity of abodes came in handy. Whenever she had been naughty at home she could escape punishment by going off somewhere else to avoid repercussions.
Naughty she was indeed. For example, when she was about ten, she climbed a very tall blue-gum tree in search of birds’ eggs, a feat which was the preserve of boys who used it to test their climbing skills. My mother was not one to be outdone by anybody, boy or girl. A particularly small bird known in the area as lentshwarelele had made its nest right at the top of the tallest tree. My mother climbed the tree to get to the nest, but lost her nerve once she reached the top and could not summon the courage to climb down. Her younger brother, Malesela Thomas, went to call for help. Her father came and put a long ladder against the tree and gently coaxed her down. Her mother, Koko4 Mamphela, was not one to let a child get away so easily. As soon as she stepped down, my grandmother went at her with a stick which had been produced during the anxious moments before her descent – a tension-breaking tactic my mother used regularly at our expense as we grew up.
Shortly after this incident, my mother was bitten by a spider while searching for birds’ eggs. She had taken her baby brother, Moseto Moses, to be breastfed by their mother, who was doing the family laundry by the river. As she carried the baby home and shepherded Malesela, she saw a bird’s nest on the side of the footpath. She sat the baby down on the path and went over to get the eggs. It happened suddenly: a bite and then immediate swelling of the hand, face and every part of the upper body. My mother put Moseto on her back and hurried Malesela along, crying all the way back to their mother at the river. My grandmother rushed her to an old man who was a healer, known as Rakgolo Ngwanamorena (Son of the king) to all the children. He gave her a mixture to drink, incised her swollen blue finger and sprinkled some permanganate of potash, or makgonatsohle (cure for all ailments), onto the wound. She felt rapid relief.
My mother’s passion for independence bordered on stubbornness. She recalled an occasion when she was beaten, pinched and abused verbally by older girls, mostly cousins of hers, with whom she was playing kgole. This is a game similar to hockey, but it is played over long distances, hence the name kgole, which means ‘far’. The device used as a ball was a rounded, polished piece of wood. On this particular occasion the older girls were using my mother’s ball, which one of her male cousins had made for her. She became frustrated at losing repeatedly, and just before the seniors could score another goal, she grabbed the ball, sat down and held it tightly between her legs, refusing to budge. Her concerned elder sister, Ramadimetsa Salphy, a much gentler soul, pleaded with her, but to no avail. In the end they all gave up, to my mother’s delight. She often reminded people that it was not insignificant that an extension of her praise name was Nkgakgathu nama moshifa (The tough one who is like the ligament supporting the neck muscles of a beast).
My parents owed their meeting, courtship and eventual marriage to Bethesda Normal College, where they both trained as teachers in the late 1930s. My mother’s eyes sparkled as she recalled the time she first set eyes on Pitsi Eliphaz. He was smashingly handsome, tall and strongly built, with well-proportioned facial features. She was envied by all her friends for having captured his attentions. Pitsi was the top student at the college and a crafty soccer player, Columbia being his cheer name. My mother remembered him as a quiet, reserved and shy person at college. Pitsi was born in July 1916 at Stofberg Bible School in the Free State, where his parents, Phoshiwa Nicodemus and Ramaesela Christina Ramphele, were living at the time to enable Phoshiwa to complete his training as an evangelist of the Dutch Reformed Church. Pitsi was his parents’ third son in a family of six boys. Coincidentally, I share with both my parents place number three in terms of order of birth – a not insignificant factor in shaping one’s life path.
The Ramphele family was supported during the three years of Phoshiwa’s training by Ramaesela’s widowed mother, Ramaesela Ruth Tsheola, who had also been married to a Ramphele. After her husband’s death she was left to fend for herself and her only daughter. She took up employment as a domestic for a white farmer in the district of Moletsi. She also farmed on her own account and could regularly send corn, beans, dried meat, spinach and other food for the upkeep of her daughter’s family while my grandfather trained at Stofberg Bible School.
My great-grandmother was illiterate. In order to send the produce to her daughter, and undaunted by the obstacles placed in her way, she would catch a ride on an ox cart, known as sephumamagapu (breaker of watermelons) because of the bumpiness of the ride, and get to Pietersburg railway station. Here she would request the officials to help her fill in the requisite forms for railage.
She told my mother a story which best demonstrates her resourcefulness. Early one morning she was on her way to work when she came upon a big trunk, which must have fallen from a passing ox-wagon. Having made sure that there was no one in sight, she decided to push it off the road and conceal it under some bushes. She spent an anxious day wondering if her employers would mention that some traveller had made enquiries about lost property, or fearing someone else would come upon her treasure. At the end of the day, she deliberately finished her chores later than the other staff members to secure the privacy she needed for the task ahead. Under cover of darkness she carried the heavy trunk on her head all the way home. Once there, she found that it contained clothes for a whole family. What a gift from the gods for her needy daughter’s family! She buried the trunk in her backyard, having satisfied herself that the owners were unlikely to reclaim it, selected some clothing for both her grandchildren and their parents, and sent them off in the usual way. At intervals she returned to the treasure chest, which remained in its hide-out, and sent instalments of clothing to her family until the trunk was empty. By this time she was confident enough to use it for storing her personal effects.
My grandfather completed his training at Stofberg and was posted by the church to Uitkyk as an evangelist. He was a strong leader of his church and was sought after for his wisdom. He established himself as an important member of the local community of peasant farmers, and made a comfortable living for himself and his family.
When my parents married in 1942, my great-grandmother, Koko Tsheola, was assigned as a baby-sitter for my father’s children. In 1945 she moved from Uitkyk No. 1, the communal Ramphele home, to join my parents at Kranspoort Mission Station, which nestled comfortably at the foot of the Soutpansberg range of mountains, about fifty kilometres from Louis Trichardt in the then northern Transvaal. The Soutpansberg district stood in stark contrast to Bochum. Besides the beauty of the landscape with its rugged mountains and gentle valleys, the lush vegetation bore witness to the abundant rainfall, and the gurgling streams and rich variety of birdlife sang the praises of mother nature.
My father had been transferred from his home village to this area in 1944 on promotion to become the principal of the Stephanus Hofmeyer School. My great-grandmother looked
