Kroonstad

TELEGRAM: REPLY PREPAID.
To: Phyllis Ntantala, Duff, Idutywa.
Offering High School teaching post, immediately.
From: Reginald Cingo, Principal, Bantu High School, Kroonstad, O.F.S.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, early in February. Uncle Nonono had brought the telegram.

'Any bad news?' he asked.

'No, it is an offer of a teaching post,' I replied.

'Where?'

'Kroonstad.'

'Kroonstad! That side of Bloemfontein! Too far!!'

We spoke about other things. In the meantime I had shown Mama the telegram. (She was in one of her good moods.) Tata was in town and I could not wait for him to come home. When he came uncle Nonono told him. 'Phyllie has been offered a teaching post in Kroonstad. No, it is too far, Mkhuluwa. It is too far!'

Tata read the telegram and put it aside. After some time, when he had had a cup of tea, he asked: 'Who is this Cingo?'

I told him.

'Oh! He must be the son of Walter Cingo of eMfundisweni, one of our good men in the Bhunga. Does he know you?'

'Hardly,' was my reply. 'But there are two teachers on his staff who know me – Miss Soga, daughter of your friend T.B., and Mr Jordan. They were my seniors at Fort Hare.'

'How would they know you were going out to teach and not going back to Fort Hare?'

'That I would not know – but. . . .'

We left it at that.

The question of my going out to teach or returning to Fort Hare had been discussed a lot by Tata and me during the Christmas holidays. I feared going back. I would be lonely without my two friends, Lulu William and Pitise Jukuda, who were going out to teach. Halley would not be there either and I shuddered to think what life would be without these good friends. Moreover, I had reached a plateau in my education and did not quite know what I really wanted to become. I thought being away from Fort Hare for a year at least would give me time to sort myself out. I had taken my college teaching diploma so I was qualified to teach high school, even though I had not completed my degree. Tata could not quite accept these reasons. I had to go back to finish my degree. I did not have to follow any particular field, he argued, but to be at college, reading around certain subjects which I thought I liked, sorting myself out; by the end of the year I would know what I wanted to do. He had hoped I would go in for medicine, and when I told him I was not interested, he had suggested law.

The two of us reached a compromise. If I could get a teaching post, then I would go and teach for a year, after which I would return to Fort Hare to finish my degree. If this did not happen, then I would go back to Fort Hare. It seemed fair to both of us. Now this unexpected offer from Mr Cingo solved my problem and, reluctant though he was, Tata was bound by the decision the two of us had made.

The message said 'immediately', for schools all over the country had opened in mid-January and it was now February. This meant I had to leave that same week – that Friday, in fact. The following day, Wednesday, we sent the message: 'Accepting offer. Arriving Sunday. Phyllis Ntantala.' In the meantime I rode to my sister Granny's to tell her I was leaving on Friday. The next day she and I met in town to buy a few things I might need. Mama pitched in too, preparing and packing my provision basket. It was hectic up to the time the taxi came to fetch me to take me to the train station. In town I sent this telegram to Halley: 'Leaving for Kroonstad, O.F.S. to teach. Will meet in Queenstown in June. Love, Miss Phyl.'

Tata came to the station to see me off. He waited there with me until the train steamed in. He was very apprehensive and was greatly relieved to see that a family friend, Mrs Ntlabathi, was on the

train. It turned out that her ticket took her only as far as Queenstown, where she was hoping to raise the rest of the fare from relatives who lived there. 'I did not want to tell Bhuti George that I was only going as far as Queenstown for now. That would have upset him. He is anxious about you, Phyllie. But don't worry, there will be people in the train who can take care of you and will continue the journey with you.'

True enough, when Sis' Ma-Rhadebe got off the train in Queenstown, another lady got on, a comely, motherly lady in her fifties. She was Mrs Magumane, going back to Sophiatown, Johannesburg, where she lived. Mrs Ntlabathi told her about me, stressing my background and my youth, and asking her to please take care of me, tell me where to get off, as this was my first journey alone so far from home. I was now under the charge of Mrs Magumane. Mrs Magumane was a kind, motherly woman. In her prayer in the compartment, she asked God to look after and guide this young child, going alone to a far-off place, to live among strangers. 'Keep her, good God. Be her guide, O Lord, I pray you.'

Even though Sis' Ma-Rhadebe had told her that I was going to Kroonstad to teach, Mrs Magumane had doubts. She would ask, talking to herself: 'O God, I wonder if her mother knows that her child is on this train.' And then she would ask me: 'Are you telling me the truth? Does your mother know that you are here?'

To which I would reply: 'Look at my suitcase and this provision basket. How could I have left home without my mother knowing that?'

'I guess you are right. It is just that one never knows what you young people will do.'

As the train sped through the Orange Free State, she told me about all the sights. 'Once we pass Bloemfontein, we are not far from Kroonstad. There's just one big stop, Brandfort, in between, then mimosa groves all the way to Kroonstad.' (Kroonstad is known as Maokeng – 'at the place of the mimosa groves' – by the Sotho, whose land once this was.)

'Do you know anybody in this Kroonstad?' she asked.

'Hardly any. But there are two teachers I know from college,' I replied.

'Will they be at the station to meet you?'

'I guess the principal will send someone to meet me.'

'But there are always taxis at the station. I'll get one of them to

take you to the principal's. What did you say his name was?'

'Cingo.'

'Yes! Cingo. I have heard that name before. Please, dear God, look after this child, keep her and guide her, dear Lord. Now we are pulling into the station. Come stand here with me at the window to see if any of the teachers you say you know are here to meet you.'

I went up to the window and looked out. As the train was pulling to a halt by the platform, I spotted A.C. and told Mrs Magumane, pointing out which one it was.

As soon as she saw him, she called out, beckoning: 'Come here! Come here! Look at me! What's your name? I am Mrs Magumane of Sophiatown.'

'Jordan is my name, Mama.'

'Please, look after this child for me. Look after her. Do you hear me?'

'No harm will come to her,' said A.C.

He helped me with my luggage, put me in a taxi and we drove to where I was to live. Late in the afternoon A.C. and Miss Soga took me to the principal's, to meet him and his family. When Miss Soga and I met, we hugged and kissed.

A.C. remarked: 'Phyllis, you did not do that when you met me. Why are you so partial?'

On the train Mrs Magumane had given me her address in Sophiatown and invited me to visit her should I go up to Johannesburg. I wrote to her during my first year in Kroonstad, but never went to visit her. After we were married A.C. often said how he wished to meet her to tell her that he was still keeping his promise to her that afternoon at the Kroonstad train station, making sure that no harm came to me. When the rest of my family heard that I had gone to Kroonstad to teach, a place beyond Bloemfontein, they questioned Tata's wisdom in allowing me to go that far. Tata always told them: 'She will be all right. She knows what I expect of her.'

But how did Cingo know of me and that I was looking for a teaching post? – a question Tata had asked. I was to get the answer from A.C. a month after my arrival in Kroonstad. 'You know, coming back to Kroonstad, I met Nosithe on the train,' he said. 'In fact it was from her that I got to know you would not be going back to Fort Hare, if you got a teaching post. A strange coincidence!' he remarked. 'I was to have taken the second train out of Umtata. But I

took the first train – a bad connection for me at Blaney – because I wanted more time with my friend Robert Tutshana, who teaches in Port Elizabeth. On that train was Nosithe going to Healdtown. What a coincidence!' he said again. "'Where's Phyllis? What is she doing? When does she go back to Fort Hare?" I asked Nosithe.

'"She is home," Nosithe had replied. "About going back to Fort Hare, I do not know. She does not want to go back. I am sure she won't go back if she gets a teaching post. She and my brother are still arguing about that," Nosithe told me. Strange! So when we got here and one of our lady teachers had not returned, I thought of what Nosithe had told me and that perhaps you might accept our offer of a post here. I went to Cingo and told him about you. He was delighted and asked me to send you that telegram. To our relief you accepted. As you have already noticed, there is too much work here. We need more teachers, in fact. Strange, I do not know what made me take that first train out of Umtata. Actually it meant waiting for two hours at Blaney for the train up.'

How he knew my address, he never said. Maybe he got it from Nosithe or he may have known it from his days at Lovedale with Somhlophe. Who knows?

The majority of the people in Kroonstad location were Southern Sotho-speaking, with a good number of both Rolong and Kgatla Tswana, a sprinkling of Xhosa and a few Orlaams mense , a totally deculturated group of Africans who knew no African language or claimed they did not. About three-quarters of the people were Afrikaans-speaking, having grown up on the farms of the Orange Free State and moved to the city for better opportunities and wages. Among themselves the people spoke Afrikaans most of the time. Easily more than half were illiterate. My landlady, for example, a modern woman in appearance, could not read or write, something that amazed me, coming as I did from a place where those who could not read or write were the red-blanket people. More than three-quarters commuted to town where they worked in menial jobs. This they did five days in the week, and some of them six. The only day families were home was Sunday. Every morning father and mother left early to go to work, leaving the children to look after themselves before and after school. After school the children were in the streets until the parents came back in the late afternoon. For most of these children breakfast was dry bread and tea, for others

there was not even that. The only full hot meal was on Sunday, when there would be meat, potatoes and stiff porridge, which they preferred to rice and vegetables.

The Xhosa were a closely knit group and among the few who had education up to Standard 6 at least. Some of them had come to the Orange Free State as teachers, being unable to get teaching posts in the Cape Province because they were not fully qualified. They had taken up posts in the farm schools and then moved to the cities. These Xhosa in Kroonstad prided themselves on this and on the fact that the principal of the school was Xhosa with a college degree.

Kroonstad had been one of the active centres in the Orange Free State in the heyday of the Industrial and Commercial Workers' Union. Here was the home of Keable Mote, Lion of the Orange Free State. Here lived some of the men who worked with him in the ICU, organising Africans on the farms and in the towns of the province, confronting the Boers and the police, exposing themselves to death and danger – men like Henderson Binda, Robert Sello and others. The ANC had once had its strongest branch in the Orange Free State here in Kroonstad. It was in the Kroonstad jail, among others, that women protesting against passes had been held during the First World War. So the people were politically conscious. Their community meetings in the community hall on civic matters were not only interesting but very educational. On community affairs they tended to act together regardless of ethnic and language differences.

I boarded with Mrs Monyake in B Location. Her house was a wood-and-iron bungalow and was one of the better homes in this section of the location. Most were flat-roofed mud houses with three or four rooms. Mrs Monyake's house was one of the few that had a coal stove; the rest used open braziers outside in the yard. None of the houses had running water or an inside toilet. At strategic points at the end of streets were communal water-taps. Fortunately each house had to have its own individual outhouse. I was greatly relieved to know that I would, at least, have a place that I could call a 'house' and could point it out to my friends.

Poor as the people were, most of them were standholders; that is, they had bought the lots from the municipality and built their houses. This was the pattern for most of the Orange Free State, and because of this one did not find in this province the ugly slums which are a feature of African urban living. In most cases, as soon as the economic situation improves, the people tear down the mud

houses and build themselves better homes. Unfortunately, they never own these houses as the ground on which they stand belongs to the municipality.

All around was poverty, poverty, poverty! I was to see more of it among the students I had come to teach. Not that I had never seen poverty in the rural areas where I came from. I had. There was Nomentyi, Lolo's mother, with but one cow, ten sheep and a few chickens. She had to depend on others to till her fields and usually they were not ploughed on time. City poverty, however, is more stark than rural poverty. Here, if one does not have a cent in one's pocket, one goes without food; here people who have no houses sleep out in the streets, under bridges, in the gutter. What I saw frightened me.

The school, from Sub A to Junior Certificate, was a huge establishment of over a thousand students and with a staff of over sixty teachers, all under one head, Reginald Ndumiso Cingo, a graduate from Fort Hare whose home was at eMfundisweni, Pondoland, Transkei, where his father, Walter Cingo, had been principal of the primary school. The high school was young, only five years old and was the second day high school for Africans in the whole country. (The first was in Bloemfontein location, also in the Orange Free State.) There were seven teachers on the high-school staff – five men and two women. Of these seven, four were from Transkei, including the only two college graduates on the staff. I had come to fill in the place of a female teacher who had failed to report for duty when the schools opened.

These high schools had started as continuation classes beyond Standard 6, an idea of the then Chief Inspector of Native Education, Mr Kuschke. Mr Kuschke had been appalled by the number of African children still of school-going age who had to leave school after Standard 6, because their parents did not have the money to send them to fee-paying schools. Mr Kuschke had then come up with the idea of continuation classes, where students could be prepared for the Junior Certificate examinations. In Kroonstad these classes started under Joe Kokozela, one-time teacher of Z. K. Matthews in Kimberley. Mr Cingo had succeeded Mr Kokozela when he left.

Mr Kuschke had got the African churches – the Methodist, the Presbyterian and the Anglican – to pool their resources and merge their schools into one 'Bantu United School'. When this had been

done, the municipalities were committed to putting up the buildings and buying the furnishings, while the Provincial Department of Education (Native Section) paid the teachers' salaries. In the Orange Free State, one found these large schools – 'Bantu United Schools' as they were called – with lovely buildings somewhere on the edge of the locations.

A school committee of elected members from the three churches ran the schools. They chose the chairman in rotation from among the members of the school committee. The principal of the school was an ex officio member of the school committee, though he had no vote. He could make recommendations about teacher appointments and selection.

The African response to this arrangement was tremendous, and great progress in education took place in a province whose people, in city, town and farm, were among the poorest in the whole country in those days. By the time I left Kroonstad, the Bantu High School had a staff of twelve, with only three lacking college degrees but well qualified to teach at high-school level. Matriculation classes had been started, and Standards 5 and 6, which at first had been part of the high school, had become part of a middle school. But all this was still under one principal, Mr Cingo.

The high-school students paid fees of two pounds a year, bought their books and school supplies, and wore uniforms – black and white for girls and grey and blue-black for boys. Boys could wear khaki in summer. Though the fees were low, many of the students could not afford to pay. In order to keep them in school, more than three-quarters had to be exempted from fees. I have yet to see children as hungry for education as those African children I taught in Kroonstad. They liked school, liked their school work, and became lovers of books, literature and everything that stimulated the mind. And yet many of them came from illiterate and semi-literate homes, where the parents did not even read a newspaper, let alone a book.

When I first came there, I could not understand how students who could not pay fees – only two pounds a year – could afford to have bicycles. I soon learnt that these bicycles were not for pleasure. They were used for carting Mama's loads of washing to and from the white homes in town and the suburbs. All able-bodied adults, men and women, apart from wives of ministers, teachers and business people, either worked in town or took in loads of washing. In the afternoon after school, the boys would cycle to town with a bundle

of washed and ironed laundry, and come home with another bundle to be washed.

Kroonstad is a place of transit. Travelling salesmen to and from the Cape, Natal, and Transvaal make stops here. The hotels are always full on weekends with these men. They always need to have their cars washed before proceeding on their journeys. The boys from our school would be there on Saturday mornings to wash the cars and earn money for themselves. After washing the cars, they would go to the golf course to caddy. The money they earned would be used to buy books and clothes and add to the family finances. During the long summer holidays, some of them would go to Johannesburg, where the wages were better; they would come back with money for fees and books and continue their education. Working this way, many of them paid their way to teacher-training colleges and universities, all after graduating from Kroonstad Bantu High School.

Discipline and truancy problems were negligible. Because they were day students who came from homes where conditions were not conducive to good study, our students had to return for two hours in the afternoon from three to five o'clock. School was dismissed at one thirty to allow students to go home and eat. At three o'clock they had to be back for study. The teachers supervised for a week in rotation. In most cases, all that a supervising teacher had to do was to be there at three, see the children settle down to their work and come back at five to dismiss them. The class prefects were able to maintain discipline, and the other students responded.

By the time I left Kroonstad, the school had become the centre of their lives. On weekends, after running errands at home, they would go back to the school library for books, or to the game-room for indoor games. In summer they would be sitting under the trees, reading, or in the game-room, playing indoor games. All that the teacher-librarian had to do was to leave the key with one of the library helpers, ask him or her to check out books and check in the returns. The teacher would check the record upon returning on Monday. I know it sounds incredible. But it was so. I could not believe what I later saw in the North American schools, the misuse and abuse of books, books thrown on the floor, slashed with razors, pages torn out; the waste and destruction of school materials – paper, pencils, pens, maps, charts, you name it.

These Kroonstad students did not behave this way because they

had been repressed or crushed. Not at all. They were like other children, active, lively, energetic, inquisitive. The difference is that they appreciated what they were getting at school and they wanted to make something of themselves. And they did. Some of them are holding positions of responsibility in South Africa and abroad: many of them are in the organisations struggling for the liberation of their country. Each one of them is playing his or her role to improve the lot of mankind. I loved those students and they loved me in return. To each one of them I was 'Mistress oaka' – 'My teacher' – instead of 'Mistress oa rona' , 'Our teacher'. Nothing flattered me more than that, whenever I went back and met some of them, they would tell me they had named their daughters 'Phyllis' after me. Vanity?

It was in Kroonstad that I learned Southern Sotho, whose idiom is so very much like that of Xhosa. I was fascinated by the parallels in idiomatic expressions in Southern Sotho and Xhosa and would now and again surprise my students by saying a Southern Sotho expression. The students liked this and, excitedly, they would say: 'She knows Sotho! She knows Sotho!' When Nandi came and started speaking, my Sotho improved for she began with Sotho before Xhosa. Her nanny spoke Sotho and knew no Xhosa or English. Nandi would proudly tell people: 'Ke Mo-Sotho nna! Ake mo-Qhosa!' (I am Sotho; I am not Xhosa!)

The beauty of Southern Sotho had impressed me on my first day in the school. At parade, Don Matsepe's choir sang 'Chu-chu makhala nto ya ma-Kgooa' . It was beautifully sung and from the rhythm I knew it was something about the train. As if Don knew I had been impressed by his choir's singing, the next day they sang 'Morija' . Both of these are compositions by that master of song, Pulumo Mohapeloa. I knew I had to learn Sotho. I am glad I did, for I was able to read Mofolo's Chaka in Sotho, and experienced the poetry of that master of the Sotho language.

There was not much social life for young people in Kroonstad in those days, apart from concerts and dances every week in the community hall. Even before I left Fort Hare, some of us had stopped going to concerts in Ntselamanzi Hall, because they drew all and sundry. We felt that, as the elite, we simply could not mix and dance with anybody . I brought these attitudes with me to Kroonstad, and avoided the dances and concerts at the community hall, unless they were special. There was also the choral group, a teachers' choir

which staged concerts now and again and was active in the second half of the year, preparing for the music competition at the annual conference of the Free State African Teachers' Association. A popular troupe like Griffiths Motsieloa's Dark-town Strutters would stop in Kroonstad on their tour of the country and give concerts which the elite of the location attended. A.C. and Miss Soga were present at most of these functions, as dance partners.

Most of the time was spent in school, at home and on occasional walks in and around Kroonstad, with Miss Soga and A.C. showing me about. I was soon to learn that even these walks were not very safe in certain areas, for example along the Walsh River, on which the town is situated, for a sporty white fellow might try his marksmanship if you were black. In the Orange Free State, what is not white is black, irrespective.

Mr Brent, the location superintendent, and his wife would sometimes invite some teachers to their house for a musical evening. Mr Brent had grown up in Peddie in the Cape Province and spoke Xhosa like a Native. As a location superintendent, he was one of the most liberal. They do not produce that breed any more.

Miss Soga (Ngcude), A.C. and I were always together, during school and on the weekends. Fort Hareans always have a lot to say to each other. Not that we did not socialise with the other teachers; we did in school. But three were married and the other, a bachelor, had his own circle of friends in the location. In school Miss Soga, A.C. and I would sit together or have tea by ourselves at recess, either under the trees or on the veranda. At weekends, the two would come for me and take me out round the town. They did the same when there was an entertainment that I allowed myself to be dragged to; after the entertainment they would see me home. So we became very friendly. Never once did A.C. refer to the subject close to his heart for three-quarters of that first year. It was only sometime towards the end of the year, as we were sitting under the trees at school, waiting for Miss Soga to join us, that he said:

'Do you remember my parting words three years ago at Mrs Jabavu's?'

'I told you, Joe, to forget it.'

'But it is not easy to forget,' he replied.

'You can try,' was my response.

The subject was dropped when Miss Soga joined us.

As a colleague, A.C. was wonderful. He was always there to help

me, a new teacher, with any problems I might have. He was like this with the other teachers too. He was an excellent teacher, patient, thorough, painstaking, giving his best and demanding the same from his students. Though he was strict the students liked him, for he was fair and just. We were teaching the same subject, English. The students I taught in the first year of high school would pass on to him for the second and third years. This meant a lot of co-ordination and co-operation in our work. I learnt much from A.C. about what makes a good teacher, and what co-operation and co-ordination can do in the classroom. I was an apt pupil and in that first year I knew teaching was my calling and that I was going to make a good teacher.

Working closely with him, I began to see the good qualities in him – warm though never demonstrative, kind, patient. Concerned about others, he demonstrated humility in his concern for those students who could not always pay even the low fees. A.C. was a scholar whose breadth and depth amaze me even to this day, an intellectual whose pursuits were limitless. I had been a budding intellectual at Fort Hare and had noticed these things in him, but in those days he was far away from me, part of the 'Establishment' for which I did not care. It was because he was seen as part of the Establishment that the students at Iona House nicknamed him 'The Big Philistine'. Working closer with him I began to see him for the person that he was. Even his respect for tradition, for which I did not care, began to make sense; and his male chauvinism was the chauvinism I saw in most men around me. I had always looked at men from the point of view of Tata, compared them with him – he who had shed all the male chauvinism he ever had, long before I got to know him.

When I went home for the June holidays, A.C. followed too. I was to know this when I arrived at the train station in Idutywa on my way back to Kroonstad. As soon as I stepped into the waiting-room, I thought I heard his raspy cough outside. Soon he came in. He saw me and smiled.

'My goodness! What are you doing here? I thought you were going to Johannesburg to your brother?' I said.

'Ugh! It was so empty and lonely in Kroonstad and I did not think Johannesburg would be any better. So after a few days, I decided home was best.'

'When did you arrive in Idutywa, then?'

'I came up by train this morning.'

'You mean to tell me you have been in Idutywa this whole day?'

'Yes, I was even tempted to take a taxi to Nqabarha. (He never referred to my place as Duff.) On second thoughts I changed my mind for fear you might set your dogs on me. But I did follow, for about three miles, the road that goes there.'

'Oh, Joe! Set dogs on you! Who would do that?'

'Not the other people for they don't know me. But I feared you might.'

'Do you think I am that bad then?'

'How am I to know?'

We travelled back together. On getting to Kroonstad, I found I would have no place to stay as my landlady was going to Alexandra, in Johannesburg, to join her husband. A.C. was very much concerned. In three days, he found me a place with Mr and Mrs Henderson Kwayani Binda in D Location. Mrs Binda had, as a table-boarder, a medicine man, known throughout the location and its environs as Dr Rhadebe. Dr Rhadebe was in great demand among the blacks in the location and among whites in the city and on the farms. Every Friday evening a line of cars could be seen along the fence, bordering the open space in front of the row of houses in this part of D Location. These belonged to whites who had come to consult Dr Rhadebe. Once or twice a week, he would announce at table that he was going out to such-and-such a farm and the farmer would be coming to pick him up. In the mornings after such trips, he would come in, all smiles, and take out of his briefcase a wad of notes, money he had received the previous night, anything from 300 to 500 pounds sterling. 'You see, Miss Binda, what I get from one Boer? He pay me good. I does a good job too for him. His calves will not die any more, or his nooi will now gets a child. They be married for six years. They's can't make a child. She will get it this time. I give her good medicine, Miss Binda, good medicine.' (Dr Rhadebe did not know the difference between 'Miss' and 'Mrs'.)

On those days when he had been to the house of a teacher, nurse or priest, he made a point of telling us about the visits. I suppose it was his way of informing me that my colleagues were his clients too. Dr Rhadebe was also famous for his 'divining bones', unlike any that people in this part of the country had ever seen. Curious, I asked him if he could let me see them. He showed me. Laughing, I said: 'Is this all?'

'Do you know them, Mistress?' he asked, rather shaken.

'Of course I do. These are ordinary sea shells. iNgqoqo, we call them. There are lots of them along the sea-shore where I come from. People make beautiful necklaces, earrings and bracelets with them.'

'Don't tell them, Mistress,' he begged. 'The peoples here don't know. Please don't tell them.'

'No, I won't Dr Rhadebe. I'll bring lots more when I go home in December, all sizes,' I promised. I was really amused, and even though I had promised not to tell anyone, I could not help sharing this secret with Mrs Binda.

This was a completely new experience for me – whites and educated people going to consult medicine men! Where I came from, only the red-blanket people engaged in such practices. For a long time, I could not figure out why it was so. Then it dawned upon me that as the rationale for witchcraft is competition and jealousy among kinsmen and kinswomen, here in the city, where people are thrown into one melting pot, competing for the same things – jobs, favours from the boss – the whole social process goes beyond one's kinsfolk to strangers, who normally would not envy one for anything. In such a situation, one has to be protected even against the stranger.

In Kroonstad, I found more superstition among the educated than I had ever known among the red-blanket people of the countryside. This was to be my experience, too, in Langa location in Cape Town. When I talked about this with Ntangashe at one time, she advised: 'Just listen; don't even try to argue with them for they will not believe you. If anything, they will think you are pretending.'

It was in the Binda house in the evenings that I heard of the escapades and adventures of the men in the ICU in its heyday in the Orange Free State. I listened fascinated as Ntate Binda related these stories. There would also be tales from African history as well – the attack on Thaba Bosiu by Mpangazitha and his Hlubi, and how the Basotho hurled boulders at them and repelled them; the flight of Mpangazitha and his men and their last stand on the banks of the Caledon, where the Hlubi general fell. I heard the Sotho version from Keable Mote, great friend of Ntate Binda, and the Hlubi version from A.C., as told him by his father. Both versions were substantially the same. It turned out that this was another area where I shared an interest with A.C.

We journeyed together again in December when school broke up for the Christmas holidays. At home, I was to be hit by the story of Mama's sojourn in East London. This story shocked us: we felt ashamed and scandalised. Tata was hurt though he never said so.

As soon as Mama arrived, I went to Coffee Bay to visit Ntangashe. From here I was to go to meet Halley in Umtata. I really did not know whether I wanted to meet him or not. I felt so ashamed. How could I look him in the face after what had happened? Tata's wife, going from door to door, looking for work from white people in East London! Did he believe this story? If he did, what did he think about us? After all, Edwina was his cousin. Perhaps they sympathised with her.

Even as I got off the bus at Viedgesville, I was not sure what I was going to do. When the East London train pulled in at five o'clock, I jumped aboard. I was going home; I would write to Halley and explain and apologise. I was feeling too hurt and ashamed to meet him. On the train I met Nzwanenkulu Finca, a friend.

'Mntuwakusasa, why here? I thought you would be in Umtata.'

'Schools are opening in a week. I have to be home,' I said.

'No! Fort Hare is not due for a month. You mean to tell me you're not going back? Wow!' he laughed.

'I don't know. I think I like teaching. Moreover, we have to discuss the whole matter with Tata,' I told him.

We parted in Idutywa, he going home to Colosa, I to Duff.

'I thought you'd be in Umtata,' remarked Tata when he saw me.

'I thought I should come home so we can discuss the question of my going back to Kroonstad.'

'That was decided before you went to Kroonstad, that you would be away for just one year and then go back to Fort Hare. No, Phyllie, you have to go back and finish your degree. I won't have you leave in the middle. You have to complete that degree.'

'I understand all that. But this was only my first year of teaching, a year of trial and error, learning how to teach. Now I think I know what I want to be; I think I know what it is to be a teacher and I'd like to go back and teach.'

'Well, I don't know, my child.' A pause. 'What about your studies?'

'Tata, I'll complete my degree, I promise you. Actually, I think I'll do it privately.'

'And how you know how to argue your case! If that's what you want, then go ahead. Get yourself ready. When do they open in

Kroonstad, by the way?'

'Next Tuesday,' I replied.

'You have only three days then before you leave! You'd better get your things together,' he advised.

That Friday, I was on the train back to Kroonstad. I did finish my degree as promised, but after I got married, while teaching and raising my children.

My second year of teaching was a very bad year for me. I was hurt, hurt, hurt. Alone in my room at night, I would cry. Even on that bus and train journey from Coffee Bay, after abruptly cancelling my appointment with Halley, I had felt miserable and rotten inside. Why did I do it? How could I do such a thing? He would be there, hanging around, waiting for me to show up. What a horrible thing to do! I felt bad and hated myself. The presence of Nzwanenkulu in the train helped a lot; we had grown up together and were good friends. Back in Kroonstad, things were terrible. I wanted to hide myself. It was the students that kept me going and helped me keep my sanity.

I wrote to Halley as soon as I got home, apologising, telling him that I had decided to go back to teaching, that I had had to cut short my visit at home. I pleaded with him to forgive my thoughtlessness. He wrote back to tell me that when I had not turned up on the second day, he had reckoned I was not coming and had left. He understood, and I was forgiven. But my sisters, especially Granny and Ntangashe, were furious with me for having behaved this way. It was cruel and thoughtless, they said. Somhlophe was not as harsh, even though she too reprimanded me for my action.

I was feeling horrible. Even the manner I assumed did not always hide how I felt. Around Easter, A.C. started to make advances. Again I told him to leave me alone. This made me more miserable. I no longer wanted to go out with him and Miss Soga. I would always have an excuse when they invited me out to join them. A.C., noticing that I was not my usual self, backed off. He was very good to me during this period and understood I was going through some crisis. In school we continued to work as if nothing was amiss.

I did not come home that June. A.C. attended a vacation course at Fort Hare on African languages run by Professors G. P. Lestrade and C. M. Doke of the universities of Cape Town and the Witwatersrand. A touring Fort Hare soccer team stopped in Kroonstad. In the team

were friends from my Fort Hare days. We had lots of fun together, for when they were not playing, the team spent most of its time at our high school. Halley and I still continued our hot correspondence and his letters proved a tonic.

School opened and our work resumed. One day in September, after discussing some aspect of our work, A.C. said: 'You know, I'd like to settle down. I am getting old; but you rebuff me every time.'

'Please, Joe, I thought this was settled between us for all time. Do not bring it up again.'

'And who is the lucky fellow? Halley?'

I was annoyed and my voice conveyed it. 'There's no lucky fellow. Perhaps not even he. I don't think I'll ever get married.'

'Goodness me! What a pity!'

I said nothing and we continued our work.

Before the end of the year, he teasingly said one day: 'I think my father might just visit yours this coming holiday.'

'What for?' I laughed. 'My father is rather a hard nut to crack, you know!'

'Not that we could not try,' he said.

'You just try.'

This was the nearest thing to a 'yes' that A.C. ever got from me. Schools closed and we all came back home to the Cape to our various homes. I think it was on that trip that we met some chiefs from Lesotho, going to East London. One of them thought I would make a nice wife for his son. Believing A.C. was my brother, the chief asked him about my age and enquired after 'our' father's address. When we parted at Blaney, the chief said to A.C.: 'Now don't forget to tell your old man that I am interested in your sister for my son.' This is how things are done sometimes in our part of the world.

Somhlophe came home for the holidays. Within a few days of her arrival, Tata received a letter from A.C.'s father, announcing his intended visit to my father. (I suppose what the Lesotho chief said made him move fast.) Tata showed the letter to Somhlophe and asked her: 'Do you know this Jordan in Kroonstad?'

'Yes, we were together at Lovedale as students.'

'I thought he was married and a family man,' Tata said.

'Not that I know of,' replied Somhlophe.

'But I thought there, there, eh, eh . . . ,' Tata hemmed and hawed.

Somhlophe, understanding what he wanted to say, helped him out. 'You know, Phyllie never got over what happened last

December. She was very hurt and still is.'

'My poor Phyllie!'

Silence.

Tata always knew the boys interested in us, even though he was never told officially. African parents do not discuss such topics with their children. As Tata was the only parent we had, we talked a lot about our friends to him, including boyfriends. He could always guess who were our favourites. When I first came home from Kroonstad, and later in my letters home, I had told him how Mr Jordan, one of the teachers, had assisted me to find a place to stay, how he helped me with my work and how good he had been generally. From this, Tata had drawn the idea that Mr Jordan must be a responsible family man.

When Jordan senior, his younger brother, the Rev. Julius Jordan, and A.C.'s maternal uncle, Willie Mehlo, came to our home, my menfolk were there to meet them. They had all been told that Tata was expecting such guests. Mama was in her best mood, and she welcomed and received her guests with all the warmth they deserved. She could be very gracious when she chose.

The Jordans were not a known family in our part of the country. Only one person by that name had been heard of; this was John Jordan, A.C.'s uncle, who had been in the civil service in Idutywa. Tata knew him and had wondered, as he was talking to Somhlophe, if this Jordan in Kroonstad was not perhaps the son of John Nel, the name by which they knew John Jordan. So, before any discussions could be entered into, the question of 'Who are you?' had to be cleared. This question is asked of anyone who seeks a marriage relationship with a family. He has to give his credentials to establish his status, either on account of birth or service to the community. Even a man of lowly birth who has given noble service to his community can marry into the nobility. In our case, too, after the introductions, the question of 'Who are you, what are your roots?' was asked.

A.C.'s father answered the question and, as one of the younger uncles later related, he was in his element. 'I am Elijah Jordan, son of Nelani, son of Jordan, whose real name was Ndimangele. I am a Hlubi by birth, a citizen of the Mpondomise kingdom. Ndimangele, who later assumed the name Jordan, was a courtier of Maqoma at Ncgwazi. I was born at Ncgwazi in Maqoma's court. After the arrest of Maqoma and the dispersal of those around his court, Ndimangele, like many others, went to work for a white man, who gave him the

name Jordan. Nelani, my father, used his father's name as his surname when, in fact, he should have used Nobhadula, the name of his forebear.'

At the mention of Maqoma's court, my people realised these Jordans were no upstarts; they were a family with a place of honour among the people. It was interesting how later, both before and after I got married, Tata would, in telling people about the man who had married his youngest daughter, drop Maqoma's name, thus letting his listeners know it was no upstart family that his daughter was married into. Another thing that impressed my relatives was Jordan's claim to Mpondomise citizenship, thus showing he was no collaborating Mfengu. Such things are still important in the world we come from.

With the families having thus placed themselves, negotiations could now begin between my people and the Jordans. In the meantime, one of my uncles had been sent inside to find out from me if I knew these people. I was so embarrassed that in reply I said, 'Yes and no.' Yes, in that I knew who had sent them; no, in that I never gave him permission. My uncle did not wait for anything more. This was a good answer, and guided by it and their assessment of the character of the Jordans, my people could make their decision. They decided that this was a family they could marry one of their daughters into. After all matters pertinent and relevant to the question were discussed and agreed upon, they talked together and feasted.

It turned out that like Tata, A.C.'s father was the local historian of Mpondomise history and his people, the Hlubi. What an interesting time these two had, recounting episodes from their history during the visit. After three days the Jordans left. By the time I went back to Kroonstad, I was engaged to A.C. He stopped in Idutywa on his way to Kroonstad to meet my people and we made the journey together.

Still I was not certain if this was the right thing to do. Why did I allow it to happen? How was I going to get myself out of this mess? And a mess it was. I had allowed it to happen because during my soul-searching and agony the previous year, I had often felt that perhaps marriage between me and Halley was not the best thing for the two of us. If I was to marry, I would have to find myself a good man. A.C. seemed to fit the bill.

Though the atmosphere at home had very much improved, I was not happy; I was lonely now that Ntangashe had gone. True, Nosithe was there; we did things and went to places together, but she

could not fill Ntangashe's place in my life. Moreover, I was ready to settle down. I went to Umtata for a day after the Jordan visit and heard while there that Halley was expected. I left town immediately and we missed each other by just an hour. After a long period of uncertainty and hesitation, I eventually summoned up courage to write to him when I got back to Kroonstad, telling him I was engaged to be married. 'Guess to whom? The Big Philistine.' Anxiously I waited for his letter and his reaction. After what seemed like eternity the letter finally came. In it he told me that he had already got the news from his father, to whom Tata had written. He ended the letter: 'I am sorry, Miss Phyl. I suppose I waited too long.' I never asked Tata why he had written to his father with this news.

There was a lot of excitement in Kroonstad when we got back. Many had expected the engagement to happen. Sol Thlapane, in congratulating A.C., said: 'I understand now why you never invited any of us to the train station, the day she arrived.' Apparently, whenever a new lady teacher was arriving, the bachelor teachers would all go to the train station to see if she was worth a shot at. When the news reached Fort Hare, the reaction was: 'What? He got her? How did he do it?' They all decided it was teaching together that did it. And how true! It was just that!

My sister Granny was not too pleased. At this time she was corresponding a lot with Halley, of whom she was very fond. When she heard that I was engaged to A.C., she wrote to him in Kroonstad to congratulate him and ended her letter, saying, 'I hope Mama's baby will not be the meat, with you being the cat.' That was my sister Granny all right.

Even though Tata had now met A.C., he too was not comfortable. He wrote to a cousin of mine teaching at the Roman Catholic school in Kroonstad, informing him that I was engaged to A.C. and asked him to keep an eye on A.C. and see that he did not play around with me.

Now that we were engaged, A.C. took me out alone more often. We did things together and got to know each other better. We both went to Johannesburg for the winter holidays, he to his brother in Modder East, while I went to my cousins, the Mdingis, in Orlando East. A.C. came up to Orlando East one weekend to see me and meet my folks there. My cousins liked him, especially cousin Frank's wife, who thought he looked a reliable fellow. On the day I left for the beginning of the new term in Kroonstad, A.C. brought his two

brothers and their wives to make themselves known to my folks in Johannesburg and to meet me. His eldest sister, Nombuyiselo, met us at Germiston train station. We spent an hour with her there before we proceeded to Kroonstad.

We planned to get married in December or early in January, and preparations were under way. A.C. had bought a house in Ngoanabase Street in B Location, had it torn down and rebuilt it into a five-roomed modern house. He moved in as soon as it was completed. So from October of that year, he was living in his own house, with someone coming in to clean and cook for him. I was boarding with Mrs Mochumi, a teacher at the Roman Catholic school.

Then lo and behold, early in the spring, a new correspondence between me and Halley flared up. It was thick; it was hot; it was romantic. I wrote to him every week and received his letters every Friday, letters in which were enclosed rose petals, and lines from romantic love poems. It was as if there was no A.C., had never been. We made plans to meet in December. Where? Right in my home town, Idutywa. Omnium conspectu!

Schools closed. A.C. came home to Duff mission with me and spent a day with us. I could not wait for him to leave so that I could finalise my plans for my meeting with Halley. Any definite plans? Not exactly; we just wanted to have our final fling together. I was excited. Alone in my room I waited with fear and trepidation. But I was not crying. I was too buoyed and excited to cry. In the midst of all this, my folks were excitedly anticipating the wedding in January. They were busy with preparations; invitations were being sent out; relatives were arriving; Mama had bought new curtains and a carpet for the dining-room, all for this occasion.

In an African setting where a marriage involves so many people, things reach a stage where they acquire their own momentum. It takes real courage to call a halt to proceedings. It suddenly struck me to ask myself the question: 'What will not happen if Halley and I meet?' All these people, who were now so involved, would be stunned. The thought of Tata hurt by me weighed heavily. Why didn't I tell him? He, who had been so generous and understanding, would have understood. My grand old man! How could I hurt him? I felt sorry for A.C. too. I could see him, frown on his face, reading my message, 'Married Halley', less than a week before he was due to have married me. How would he return to Kroonstad and look in

the face all those who had wished him well and were looking forward to congratulate him, coming back with me, his bride? Would he be able to take it? O my God! I felt hemmed in. Then I cried, realising that I could not go through with it. I cried that whole Thursday night, and on 15 December I sent Halley this message: 'Regret, cannot go through with it.' This was just five days before we were due to meet. It was cruel; it was devastating. I had raised his hopes (and mine) to fever pitch, only to dash them to the ground.

A.C. was coming to be with us the weekend before the wedding. There were some documents to sign. I still had all the letters that Halley had written to me while I was in Kroonstad, as well as all his pictures. The Wednesday before A.C. arrived, I gathered all those letters, closed the door of my room and went through them one by one. The following day, I took an open tin, a box of matches and the letters to the far end of the garden behind the trees and, one by one, I threw them into the fire, pictures and all. I cried while doing this, for I felt destroyed in that fire was part of me. Then I came home, went into my room, closed the door, cried that whole afternoon, evening and night, and would not be comforted. Those who came into the room, trying to comfort me, thought it was anxiety about the pending wedding. It is usual for a girl to be in tears during this period. But little did they know why I was crying.

The next day, Friday, I went to town to meet A.C., my fiancé. He was glad and excited to see me. He never suspected anything. I wore my mask well. We came home together in the afternoon. By now, there was excitement in the whole place; women were moving about briskly, ululating; guests were arriving and everyone was looking forward to Tuesday. I, too, was swept up and looked forward to the big day.

That Tuesday must really have been a big day and I must have looked gorgeous. My baby sister, Nokhwezi, three years old and one of the flower girls, asked everyone who came into our kitchen the next day: 'Did you see me and Sis' Nogqaza getting married yesterday? We were so beautiful, I tell you!' And while Nokhwezi was saying this, Mama was proudly telling people: 'Phyllie looked so lovely; you would not think she was the same person who was with us at the breakfast table yesterday morning.' The last of the birds from Tata's first nest was gone.