Unfortunately, there are things that one cannot ignore. When my friend, Tony Award winning actor John Kani, sends me the script of his new play which he wants me to critique I can’t say no. I read the script and write elaborate comments, pointing out both the strengths and the weaknesses of the play. Even these memoirs cannot stand in the way of my commitment to South African theatre.
My routine is a simple one: I wake up at five-thirty, take a forty-minute walk in the suburb, or on alternate days go to the neighbourhood gym for an hour, take a shower, have a light breakfast of oats or cream of wheat and an apple, then start writing, but only after checking my emails and dealing with those that are urgent. Out of the blue I receive an email from Brian Kuttner, a professor at Washington University. He tells me that his daughter has been assigned my novel Ways of Dying as part of her reading for a class on South Africa and he was reminded that he was once a client of my father’s in Lesotho in 1976. He was extremely efficient and quite severe with his clients, he writes.
I chuckle to myself because it is exactly as I remember my father. I am curious, so I write back to the professor, asking him to share with me more of his impressions of my father. He responds:
Your father advised me on two matters. The first was a ridiculous situation I got into with the moruti [a pastor] in the village where I was teaching secondary school. The preacher was denouncing me from the pulpit [calling him an Indian, a communist and a Christ killer – Kuttner is Jewish] and your father effectively got him to cease and desist. The second was a trust he set up and administered for the benefit of a student.
I’m sure you remember the cinder block building his office was housed in on a footpath off the magistrates’ courts. Inside, rather than having clients waiting – there was no waiting room – he saw 3 or 4 clients simultaneously – attorney client confidentiality notwithstanding. He was aided in this by a miraculously efficient secretary. He would switch from client to client, seated around his table, and the secretary would type on a manual typewriter as your father dictated, indenting when he gestured, so that a complete legal document was ready for the client’s mark at the end of a one hour ordeal, which I will now describe. I gathered from my brief experience that many of the cases were for stock theft and the clients were often illiterate peasants. Your father would cajole the facts out of one client and then leave him to collect his thoughts while turning to the next one. I’ll never forget he said to one old man, ‘The trouble with you is this: you see this thing,’ he brandished an ashtray at him. ‘Instead of saying this thing is an ashtray. You say: “The first time I saw this thing it was in Johannesburg. I was visiting my son on the mines. He’s a good boy and sends money to his mother every month”.’ Then he gave the old man strict instructions to formulate his thoughts and turned to the next client who was already cringing in anticipation. The secretary pulled multiple sheets of paper and carbon out of the typewriter and rolled in the next client’s document. I have often thought the No. 1 Exile’s Law Office would have made a much more entertaining and certainly less demeaning series.
This last reference alludes to Alexander McCall Smith’s The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, which the professor obviously thinks is demeaning. I share his view.
What I find interesting about Brian Kuttner’s description of my father and his methods is that it is exactly as I remember him, and the memory leaves me with a warm feeling. I get quite maudlin these days, especially about my father.
As I write these memoirs he haunts me in other ways too that may even be dangerous to my life. I am taken aback by this email that I receive from a South African woman called Naledi Mosaka:
I am Paul Mosaka’s last born. I was reading some of your articles on the internet in which my father’s name was mentioned. I took offence to some of the adjectives used to describe my father. I would like you to explain to me if you may what you mean by my father having no personality. Given that my father has been dead for 45 years now, and that you are only 4 years my senior, it means you were a small boy when he died and even younger when he was in Fort Hare, so what could possibly give you the right to describe my father in such terms at such an early age and continue to perpetuate this judgment even in your adulthood. This shows total lack of disrespect for an African child, for ourselves as his children as well as his memory especially when he cannot respond to such comments for himself. The self-righteous living like you should refrain from castigating the dead simply because they have no voice. As far as I am concerned my father was a man of great integrity, a great mind whose life was cut short by diabetes, that he was short did not make him ‘personalityless’. I bet you would like your family to read good things and bad things that are FACTUAL not based on opinion and personal perceptions when you are not around.
For the life of me, I have no idea what this lady is on about. I have never heard of any Paul Mosaka, let alone written all those disparaging things about him. And I tell this lady so. In all my writing, I explain to her, I have never referred to anybody as ‘lacking personality’. When I criticise someone it is for the content of what they stand for (and what they do) rather than their personality. I hate ad hominem arguments. Most of my writing is in the realm of fiction, but even there I don’t have a character called Paul Mosaka. I am hoping that my accuser will cease and desist, but she writes me an even more threatening letter. Instead of lying, I should be man enough to apologise publicly for disparaging her dead father, she says. I demand that she shows me the document she alleges I authored, but she claims she misplaced it or can’t locate it again on the Internet. I am beginning to think that this is a scam. Only after I threaten legal action does she send me as an attachment a PDF document from some archive, an old interview that my father gave to some scholars. It turns out that Paul Mosaka was a politician in the early 1940s who was elected a member of the Native Representative Council, one of the government-created bodies through which the ‘natives’ were governed. Obviously my father would be at loggerheads with such a body and with the politicians who participated in it.
Here I was being crucified for the sins of my father.
I never get to see Naledi Mosaka’s face but I hope that when she realises that she has been accusing the wrong Mda she is shamefaced. She never apologises, though.
The third haunting of the past that happens as I am winding down these memoirs does not involve my father directly, but his father, the Headman of Goodwell, Charles Gxumekelana Mda. I receive an email from a certain Dr Bernard Leeman. I learn that he used to be in the Lesotho Paramilitary Force, planted there by the PAC and its ally, the BCP, and he worked with the guerrilla wings of these parties for many years. He is now a scholar in Australia.
I am sorry if this may offend you, he writes, but I wonder if you have ever heard any rumour that the true father of P.K. Leballo (1915 – 1986) was a member of the Mda clan, maybe your own grandfather?
I told you about Potlako Leballo quite early on in my story. Just to remind you, he was the leader of the Pan Africanist Congress who once dispatched me to kidnap the children of the Boers in the Free State farms when I went AWOL from the Poqo guerrilla forces.
My blood relationship to him is news, of course, and I ask Dr Leeman about his sources for this kind of information. He says that Leballo told him this himself. Leballo claimed that he was not the son of his official father. There was some hanky-panky between his mother and my grandfather while his father was busy fighting against the Germans in the First World War. Leeman writes: Leballo claimed Mda family history (the incident of the magistrate) as his own, housed with Owen Mda and was devoted to A.P.
The ‘incident of the magistrate’ refers to the time when my people became refugees in Lesotho after Mhlontlo killed the magistrate in the Cape. Leballo was born in Lesotho.
I know that Uncle Owen liked Leballo a lot and Leballo regarded him as his younger brother. But it was news to me that Leballo was devoted to my father. When he swore me into membership of the PAC he actually denounced my father as a fence
-sitter. My father, on the other hand, thought he was just a demagogue who had no content. He told me so himself. Scholars like Bob Edgar and Luyanda ka Msumza who have studied my father are sceptical of Leballo’s or Leeman’s story. But I guess we’ll never know the truth. All the players are dead. But this confirms that there was a lot of drama in my family. A lot is yet untold.
Father haunts me like a song that persistently rings in my head. Like a jazz number that wiggles itself in and out of my consciousness. Like the deep and dark tone of Abbey Lincoln. I have just read in the paper that she is dead. An era is passing before my eyes. I remember her with Archie Shepp in ‘Golden Lady’. But even more significantly I remember her with Coleman Hawkins in Max Roach’s ‘We Insist’ – from the ‘Freedom Now Suite’. It was music they created in honour of our freedom struggle in South Africa and the United States. It spoke of the atrocities of the Sharpeville massacre. Overwhelmed as a young revolutionary by Roach’s drums, Michael Olatunji’s congas, and the percussion of Raymond Mantilla and Tomas du Vall in ‘Tears for Johannesburg’ from the same Suite, I composed my poem ‘A Sad Song’ – Who will bury us, we who died a painful death of the sounds of the drums of death? We whose screams were swallowed by the winds? It is not an untruth; our own shall be our own. In death and in life, We Insist! This is the last stanza. I wailed the poem out like the wind at poetry performances in the exile of Lesotho.
Oh, how romantic it was to be a revolutionary those days! Our prophet was Frantz Fanon and jazz was the hymnal that nourished our souls. Yet there was death too. Real wars where sons and daughters of loving parents shed blood on the roadside. We were certain of victory. We were certain matundu ya uhuru – the fruits of liberation – would be enjoyed by all in a land of equal opportunity.
Equal opportunity?
Father haunts me in such a way that I cannot extricate myself from his ghost. I have become him for he lives in me. He shunned the limelight and was what he called a ‘backroom boy’ – a thinker behind the scenes. I am even worse in that regard; I am an ultimate outsider on a road to hermitage. Like him, I work with peasants in the villages, and despite myself I am satisfied with the little that I have, and give the rest away. We differ, though, because he was doing it for the people, as part of his commitment to the struggle. I am doing it for myself. For my own happiness.
Yet the void widens.
ALSO BY ZAKES MDA
Cion
The Whale Caller
The Madonna of Excelsior
The Heart of Redness
She Plays with the Darkness
Ways of Dying
Acknowledgements
Here’s to that beautiful Sculpture Climber of Des Moines, Melisa Klimaszewski, who read every chapter and gave me very useful feedback. I cannot thank you enough, dearest Melisa – Lover of the Figure 8. I also thank two of my former students, Dr Elly Williams and John Kachuba, who read the first two chapters and assured me I was on the right track. I greatly appreciate comments and encouragement by Maureen Isaacson (who flattered me by asking, ‘Are you not a little young to write a memoir?’), Isobel Dixon and another former student, Dr Spree McDonald – all three read part of the work-in-progress.
The lines of poetry quoted here are from the book The Dead Lecturer: Poems by LeRoi Jones (New York: Grove Press Inc., 1964). (LeRoi Jones is now known as Amiri Baraka.)
Selected Index
The index that appeared in the print version of this title does not match the pages of your eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest. For your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below.
Abacha, Sani
Abok, Wilson
Achebe, Chinua
Adriaanse, Aram
Aidoo, Ama Ata
Alvarez-Pereyre, Jacques
Amato, Rob
Asmal, Kader
Baholo, Selometsi ‘Maloro’
Ball, Claire Buzz
Baloyi, Danisa
Battiss, Walter
Bean, Sister Arnadene
Belafonte, Harry
Belasco, Steve
Bernard, Cousin
Biko, Philiswa
Blake, Carole
Boesak, Allan
Boger, Denny
Borger, Julian
Breytenbach, Breyten
Brink, André
Brutus, Dennis
Bundy, Colin
Carey, Peter
Chait, Melanie
Chakela, Walter
Clinton, Bill
Coetzee, JM
Cooper, Saths
Cranko, Robin
Crawford, Marc
Daly, Ken
Damane, Mosebi
Dangarembga, Tsitsi
Davids, Achmat
Dawes, Kwame
Devant, Teresa
De Villiers, Jaap
Diniso, Gamakhulu
Dinkelman, William
Dixon, Isobel
Dorfman, Ariel
Dorothy, James
Dudu, Sis’
Duiker, Sello
Duncan, Patrick
Eaton, Patricia
Edgar, Robert
Elie, Paul
Ella, Aunt
Ellenbogen, Nicholas
Emecheta, Buchi
Ethel, Cousin
Eusebia, Sister
Farber, Yael
February, Vernon
Fielding, M L
Fihla, Mr
Fincham, Aubrey
Fonda, Jane
Fox, Charles
Franci, Carlo
Fugard, Athol
Garner, Helen
Gerber, Susi
Gerber, Theo
Gerber, Ulrich
Gerhart, Gail
Gonzalez, Albio
Gordimer, Nadine
Gwangwa, Jonas
Habi, Reentseng
Habi, Teacher
Hagemann, Fred
Hani, Chris (‘Bhut’ Thembi’)
Hani, Limpho
Hani, Ntate
Harvey, Terry
Hatar, Augustin
Head, Bessie
Hlalele, Dugmore
Hlao, Gift Mpho
Hlatshwayo, Simphiwe
Hlongwane, Ali
Hope, Hamilton
Horn, Andrew
Howard, Steve
Hulley, Rufus
Hunter-Gault, Charlayne
Jafta, Nombuyiselo
Jobodwana, Zingisile Ntozintle
Jonathan, Chief Leabua
Kachuba, John
Kamlongera, Chris
Kandji, Itah
Kani, John
Kathrada, Ahmed
Kente, Gibson
Kgositsile, Baleka
Kgositsile, Willy Keorapetsi
Khaketla, B M
Khaketla, ’Masechele
Khaketla, Sechele (‘Mr Dizzy’)
Khaketla, Sekamotho
Khosi, Bernard
Khoza, Reuel
Khumalo, Sibongile
Khumalo, Siphiwe
Khutsoane, Tokoloho
Kirkwood, Mike
Kirubi, Mike
Klaasen, Thandi
Klotz, Phyllis
Kobo, Clement Sima (‘Clemoski’)
Kohler, Adrian
Krog, Antjie
Krok, Abe & Solly
Kunene, Vusi
Kusonose, Keiko
Kyomuhendo, Goretti
Langa, Mandla
Leballo, Litsebe
Leballo, Ngope
Leballo, Potlako Kitchener (‘PK’)
Lebata, ’Makamohelo
Leepa, Semenkoane Frank
Legwale, Maswabi
Lekhanya, Metsing
Lembede, Anton
Lemphane, Mafata
Letlaka, Tshepo Tiisetso
Letsie III, King
Linda, Bongani
Lo Liyong, Taban
Lower Telle Bee
keepers Collective
Lynn, Tom
Maake kaNcube, Sello
Mabathoana, Rt Revd Emmanuel
Mabuza, Lindiwe
Machel, Graça
Macu, Dukuza ka
Madingoane, Ingoapele
Maduna, Penuell
Madzunya, Josias
Maes, Sister Yvonne
Mafikeng, Elizabeth
Mafoso, Adele
Mafoso, Christina
Mafoso, William
Mafoso, Willie
Magengenene, Nikelo
Magengenene, Tapo
Magengenene, Xolile
Magona, Sindiwe
Mahabier, Shane
Mahamo, Mr
Mahlukwana, Percy Bafana
Maja-Pearce, Adewale
Makeba, Miriam
Makgoba, Willy Malegapuru
Makhakhe, Tseliso
Makhele, A S
Makhele, Vincent
Makhetha, Marake,
Makiwane, Mr
Makotoko, Seth
Malangatana
Malefane, Motake
Malie, Mpho
Mamashela, Kgokgo
Mamashela, Lesiba
Mampa, A S (‘Scutum’)
Mampa, John
Mampa, Moss
Mampa, Sammy
Manaka, Matsemela
Mandela, Makgatho
Mandela, Maki
Mandela, Nelson
Mandela, Thembi
Mandela, Zindzi
Manganye, Bra Saul
Maope, Kelibone
Mapetla, Shadrack
Maphathe, Ben
Maphathe, Mme Mmatladi
Maponya, Maishe
Maqina, Hodges
Maqutu, Tholang
Marapodi, Mapalakanye
Mase, Evelyn
Masekela, Barbara
Masekela, Hugh
’Maseribane, Chief Sekhonyana
Masiloane, Choks
Masotsa, Peter
Matanda, Wonga
Matanzima, George
Matebesi, Mr
Mather, Mr
Mather and Sons
Matlosa, Sebolai
Mattera, Don
Matthews, Jack