More and more it was becoming clear to me that politics had the power to disrupt my life. Sol and I began to talk seriously about needing to join the fight to defend our God-given colour. After all, we were being marginalised because of our Africanness.

I did not know what to do. Sister Lewis advised me to resign because, if I didn’t and then went on maternity leave anyway, they would either label me as having absconded or I would be expelled and would lose any chance of ever working at any hospital again. I left at the end of March 1954.

By now Sol was a senior clerk at the post office, responsible for training staff throughout the Ciskei and Transkei. His job would take him away from home for four or five weeks at a time, three or four times a year. Fortunately, he was given a travel allowance that allowed him to visit home at the weekends.

Olga’s husband, a church minister, had also been transferred – from Orlando in Johannesburg to a church in East London. Olga had found a job at the Duncan Village clinic, in the TB section. I was delighted to have my sister living close by again.

By now Sol and I rented a big one-roomed house with electricity and a big verandah where a child could play. Since I was no longer working, I had the time to look after Tammie. We went to fetch him from Mamkhulu’s.

On 11 May, I went to the hospital to bring my new baby into the world. The next day, Sol came to visit me. I had a surprise waiting for him. Instead of one child, I presented him with two – twins, a boy and a girl, born a few hours apart. We named the boy Tembile Aubrey and the girl Tembise Aubrey, but we called them Dudu and Nomhamha.

Our beautiful daughter was a complete surprise to both of us, not to mention the nursing staff. Back then, there wasn’t the technology of today to tell us that I was carrying two and not one.

When I gave birth to the twins I was relieved that I had resigned rather than taken maternity leave, which would have ended after three or four months. Sol and I decided that I should stay home for a year to look after our little ones, especially since Sol wasn’t home most of the time.

I loved that year at home with little Tammie and the twins, watching them all grow and develop, but I missed my job. We also needed the extra salary that I could bring in. After the twins’ first birthday, I was ready to go back to work but to my surprise I was pregnant again. I would have to stay home for another year.

By this time I had already started keeping myself busy. I went on a basic dressmaking course at a nearby skills-training place and enjoyed sewing clothes for my children and smart aprons for myself and my mother-in-law. I enrolled to train as a bookkeeper to help me keep proper records of the family funds now that Sol was always away from home. I knew he trusted me, but I wanted to impress him because he was not there to check my calculations any more.

My fourth child, Mongezi, was born on 8 January 1956 at Butterworth. A relative was supposed to accompany us back to East London with the babies, but ended up staying longer with us. That same year, at the end of May, I applied for a job opening at Frere Hospital. The matron was on long leave at the time, so the assistant matron interviewed me instead. I got the job without a problem. My professional career was again on track – or so I thought. But four months later, the matron returned from her long leave and told me to resign so that I could stay home and look after my children. “It’s the Christian thing to do,” she said.

I was astounded. Why not just come out and tell me I was being fired because I spoke out against unfair treatment? The matron’s excuse was hollow – my children were in the excellent hands of my relative while I was at work. It was clear that the so-called Christian government of the day was determined to undermine black professionals. The statement by Dr Hendrik Verwoerd on 17 September 1953 came back to haunt me: “I just want to remind the honourable members that if the native in South Africa today is being taught to expect that he will live his adult life in equality and have equal rights, he is making a big mistake.”

I left Frere Hospital that October. Believe me when I say that being marginalised for no reason is very painful. I cheered myself up by holding on to the belief that this was just one failure, a circumstance of my life and not an indication of who I truly was. I chose to be resilient. Fortunately for us, Sol had been promoted to first-grade clerk in charge of the Duncan Village post office in the middle of that year. He no longer had to travel so much for training, and his salary had increased, making it easier for me to stay at home.

That November, I took my children to the baby clinic at the location health centre in Duncan Village for their immunisations and met Sister Dorothy Lubelwana. Dorothy also grew up in Cala and was friends with Olga. She knew I had been forced to leave Frere Hospital. As she helped me with my crying children, she asked me a lot of annoying questions.

“I understand from your sister that you are a strong character,” she said. I replied curtly, “Yes,  physically I am very strong. I can grind   a bag of mielies in a day. Not to say anything about how I can mow down a person with my fist.”

The following Friday afternoon, as I peered out, wondering when the rain would stop so that I could dry my washing, someone with a red umbrella walked past the window. I went to the door to ask what the visitor wanted. As the umbrella tilted I saw it was Dorothy.

“My shoes are wet. I will not come in,” she said. “I am looking for you, my sister. Please come to work on Monday at 8 am. Come straight to me and make sure you are in your white uniform.”

Within a few minutes Dorothy had changed the course of my life. I did not question whether I heard her correctly or not. All I knew was that, come Monday, I would be working again. I was ecstatic. I needed a job to help Sol support our growing family. We both had a burning desire to give them the best care and keep our family together under one roof.

In the pouring rain, I rushed to the public telephones to let Sol know the good news before he left work at 5 pm. He was very happy for me and promised to come home that weekend.