The moment I saw Coronation hospital, I loved it. It was one of the three big hospitals in Johannesburg at the time. Unlike Johannesburg General and Baragwanath, which sprawled across many buildings, Coronation was a well-built, compact red-brick building surrounded by parking lots and flowers and trees. It still looked new back then.

Going up the steps to the main entrance, visitors were met by long passages running off to the left and the right. To the left were the doctors’ offices and the main kitchen; to the right was the entrance to the casualty ward. Everything was well arranged and very neat. There were four wards on each of the four floors and the operating theatres were upstairs.

Casualty at Coronation was always very busy, because the hospital served the coloured people who lived in Coronationville, the Indian people who lived in Westbury, and the African people who lived in the Western Native Township and Sophiatown. Segregation was alive for the well, but less so for the sick.

Outside, down a little path, was another big building housing the nurses’ home and lecture rooms. Trainee nurses were given free accommodation upstairs at the nurses’ home. Each trainee shared a room split in two by wardrobes. We were given everything we needed – linen, towels, even red uniforms with crisply starched white aprons and a broad white belt that tied at the waist.

My first day at Coronation Hospital was incredibly exciting. I was one of twelve new trainees. Some were dressed simply, like me, while others wore smart clothes. We started talking and I learnt that some of the trainees had had to wait a long time to be accepted to nursing school. I had registered to apply the previous December, submitted the completed application forms by February and was told that I could start working by May. I suspect having references from the Robertsons helped me get in.

A woman came and led us to a smaller lounge, where she gave us each a batch of documents to read. She walked with a confident stride that made me think of a soldier. She introduced herself and explained how uniforms denote position among the nursing staff. Her uniform indicated that she was an assistant matron.

Olga had told me that junior nurses mostly worked in the sluice rooms, washing dirty sheets and hospital gowns. I was sent to the sluice room in the children’s ward. All the trainee nurses worked the same number of hours, albeit at different times. Seeing my name at the bottom of the off-duty list gave me a sense of belonging.

At first I felt discouraged at washing soiled nappies all day, but then I realised that all trainee nurses started here. Now it was my turn. How could I wish for special treatment? Thinking like this gave me the courage I would need to become a nurse and do what was expected of me, properly.

The work was hard, but I was smart and eager. At the end of one long, busy day I remember thinking that nursing was not for anyone who didn’t have strong legs. Some days it felt as though I did nothing but walk up and down those long corridors, from ward to ward. It was tiring, to tell the truth.

Fortunately, I have always been blessed with long, strong legs. I could take it. Every morning, I got up with renewed determination and every evening I went to bed with an extreme feeling of satisfaction. I felt physically and emotionally empowered, and was learning to relax and accept life not as a series of challenges but as a joyous journey to awakening. This was nursing college not boarding school. I settled in quickly, feeling more assured every day that nursing was indeed the profession for me. My earlier desire to be a lawyer was forgotten.

When I was off duty, I would visit Mama and Violet at work. In those days the trams still ran. I would catch the tram from Sophiatown    to Johannesburg central, then catch the whites-only bus to Melrose Street, sitting in the back where Africans were allowed. In all, it took me about an hour to get there.

By this time, Olga was a nurse at Johannesburg General Hospital.    I would often arrive at Mama’s to find her already there, having tea with Mama and Violet in one of their kitchens. We would then share a wonderful time of togetherness spoilt only by the memory of family members still left in the Cape. Sometimes Olga stayed there overnight. I would have loved to do the same, but I wasn’t allowed to sleep out as a trainee nurse.

During these visits I would ask Mama and Violet questions about my life and family when I was growing up. Olga also took an interest in this topic and would write down what they spoke about when I wasn’t there so that I wouldn’t miss out. I kept these notes for many years.

I had passed my first year and was about to start my second when we were told that trainee nurses would no longer receive free accommodation. I didn’t know what to do. It was impossible to find suitable accommodation for a single, young African woman in those days. Many student nurses, especially those from the Cape, had to pack their bags and go home.

I was not to be deterred. Steeling myself, I applied to other training hospitals throughout the country. One of my applications went to Frere Hospital in East London. A few weeks later I was back in my home province, training to be a nurse once more. Only later did I discover how important this move would be in altering the course of my life.

Apart from Cecilia Makhiwane Hospital in Mdantsane, Frere Hospital was the only government hospital serving the African and coloured communities in the area. The next big hospital was in Port Elizabeth, 240 kilometres away.

Frere Hospital was a disappointment. Whereas Coronation was compact and purpose-built, Frere was scattered and lacked uniformity. It was as though the buildings had been built for some other purpose. Casualty and some other wards were at the front of the complex, while the nurses’ home and lecture rooms were at the back.

I was immediately placed on night duty  with  Nomabhaso,  my  old high-school friend who had also transferred from Coronation Hospital. One thing that struck me about Frere was that the hospital staff consisted of whites as well as Africans. At Coronation, there were only African staff members.

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