The Four Ms

We all come from a family. That is the one thing we have in common. A family is a powerful force, capable of writing and changing the destiny of every person in it. Just as a child being born transforms a man and a woman into a father and a mother, so parents shape their children’s futures by teaching them certain values and showing them how to be in this world. The direction in which a family grows – either towards success or despair – is determined by the interaction between generations past and those yet to come.

The family tree at the beginning of this book shows only a small branch of my ancestry. It doesn’t show that my grandfather on my father’s side was married twice and fathered six children. It does not tell the story of how he stood up to tribal law and he decided to raise his sister’s illegitimate child (fathered by a white man) as his firstborn rather than allow the child to grow up in the home of his mother’s parents.

That family tree also doesn’t tell how my ancestors followed the missionaries from Swaziland down to what is now the Eastern Cape, settling at Khobodi near Butterworth. Neither does it show my grandfather’s ties to the land. Mankayi Silwana was an avid farmer, deeply involved with the land. He learnt much of what he knew from the missionaries. The rest stemmed from his ability to interact with the people around him, including the white and coloured farmers and traders.

Be that as it may: that is my family tree, and I am Manse. I was born at Cala, in the Transkei, in 1929 – a beautiful fruit-growing area    in the mountains, blessed with an abundance of water. Back then, Cala town was just big enough to serve the surrounding farming community. It had gravel roads, a town hall, a post office, a prison and some white-owned shops, many belonging to the farmers in the area.

My parents named me Manse, which means joy; for joy is what they felt at the birth of the youngest girl in my grandmother’s house. Those were the days of extended families, where the grandfather remained the head of the large extended family.

My second name is Constance, after a local  white  shop  owner  who was a hardworking and very generous soul. Even though the apartheid system was a dark cloud in the country’s future, segregation and oppression were already the norm. Yet even at that time there were many white people who broke the mould and embraced African people with respect and humanity.

The Constance after whom I was named would gladly allow the members of the community to purchase much-needed foodstuffs on account. She was rewarded with customers who would be faithful and pay when money became available. That woman showed the kind of trust that my husband would show in me, so many years later. His trust empowered me to strive to live up to his expectations and be the best person I could be. He trusted me with everything and I was determined never to disappoint him. I am glad I was named Constance after that very kind and generous woman.

I was the second daughter born to my parents. My older sister, Olga Nomtshato, was born in November 1917. She was eleven years old when I was born. I also had three older brothers – Sobantu, Sipho and Sandile, whom we called Sandie.

Sandie left our home to live with Mama’s sister, Elizabeth Ngcebetsha, when I was eight and he was twelve. Mamkhulu, or “older mother”, as we called my aunt because she was ten years older than Mama, had trained as a teacher but never worked as one because she got married at an early age. Her husband had passed away, leaving her with a big home and over twenty head of cattle – not to mention sheep, goats, pigs and fowl of every feather – to look after. Sandie went to Mamkhulu’s to help her look after these animals because all her children were grown up and married. I remember him being very excited about gaining his independence in this way. It was also an opportunity for him, because with two older brothers it wasn’t likely that he would be given much authority at home any time soon.

My younger brother, Pila, was born when I was three and a half. Of all my siblings, I was always closest to Olga, my sister, and Pila, my younger brother. Even when he was born, there was always a spark of light in Pila’s eyes. He was a survivor and he had the personal strength to work himself up in life and become successful. He ended up being a well-respected manager at a company called Cobra Springs. He did very well there, built himself and his family a beautiful home and retired gracefully after having served the company for thirty-five years. Imagine that. Thirty-five years! But I get ahead of myself.

Until I was nine years old, my childhood was complete. My father farmed the smallholding his father had given him. He farmed sorghum and beans, and pumpkins of such a high standard that the shops in the town eagerly bought them. My neighbours were my family, my father’s three brothers and their families, who had each also inherited a smallholding, their share of the family farm that had been divided between my grandfather’s sons. Our big garden was fenced. There were kraals for the livestock and two rondavels with    a four-roomed flat: one room for my parents to sleep in, one for    my brothers to sleep in, one for cooking and one for prayers and eating. While I was still small, this last big room was rearranged every evening to make sleeping place for Olga and me and the baby, Pila. There was also a sort of storeroom for uncooked food. When I was a little older, Mama arranged for one of the rondavels to be demolished and another big one to be built in the modern way, with modern furniture inside.

Mama gardened and took care of the house and the children. She always knitted us warm jerseys to keep the Cala cold at bay. We went to school and thrived under our parents’ love and protection. As a family, we had enough to meet our needs and share with those less fortunate than us. I had the benefit of being much loved by my older siblings. Olga is now ninety-six years old but she still remembers how my two older brothers, Sobantu and Sipho, would fight among themselves to be the one to help me when I cried after a runaway ball. She herself would make dolls for me out of mielie cobs and sew dresses for them. Mama would be glad to see her older children look after the younger ones in this way.

This nurturing family environment instilled in me a sense of wholeness, well-being and self-assurance. Never did I feel the uncertainty of seeing my father leave to go work in the towns and the mines. Never did I have to watch Mama struggle with the isolation and helplessness I have seen so often in women when their husbands are away, turning to secret lovers or drinking. It never so much as occurred to us children that we might want to rebel against our parents and drop out of school.

My school career began in 1935 at Manzimdaka Lower Primary School, about an hour’s walk from our home in Cala. I was six years old. We had to cross a river in order to get to school. My two brothers, Sobantu and Sipho, used to help me cross. Sobantu, our eldest brother, would go ahead of us, carefully pointing out stones that he instructed us to step on. I now realise that he was only one of many people who has helped show me the path in my life.

Manzimdaka Lower Primary went up to Standard Two and was housed in a Presbyterian church. The higher primary school was in an Anglican church, some way away. When I started, we sat on the floor and wrote with our slates on our laps. From Standard One we sat on benches, carefully copying whatever Miss Figlan wrote on her portable blackboard. Miss Pilly Figlan was a tall, middle-aged woman and our only teacher, one of the many Xhosa people in our area who had an English name. She taught all sixty of us, from Sub A to Standard Two.

After school we would walk home, chatting happily together with our friends. We played touch and ran races against each other – the three-legged race was a firm favourite. Sometimes we would use grass to make a ball or skipping rope. We fought and made up and fought again. The animosity never lasted long.

My best friends in primary school were Muriel Mtyeku and Baza Dube. Muriel’s father was a court interpreter and her mother made clothes. Baza’s father was a school principal somewhere far away.

He rode a horse to school. Theirs was one of the best houses in Manzimdaka. It was made of brick and cement and had a couple of big rooms inside. Outside there was a big water tank. Although Baza’s family did not have a farm, there were many chickens in their yard and ducks that swam in a small pond that was perpetually filthy.

One day, when I was about nine, the three of us were playing at the back with a big, homemade ball. One of us lost control of the ball and it rolled right into that grimy duck pond. We all rushed in to fetch it, but the pond floor was slippery and muddy. We could hardly stand, never mind climb out. Petrified, we called for help. I was beginning to worry that no one would hear us, when finally some boys came past and helped us out. Baza’s mother cleaned us up and warned us to stay away from the pond. All I wanted to do was go home and tell Mama about this terrible thing that had happened.

The time just after school was always very lively in my house. When we got home we would jostle to tell our mother our stories for the day, pushing each other away from her lap in excitement. “Wait, wait!” we would cry. “I want to tell her this! I want to tell her that!”

Our mother would sit quietly on her chair, a deep, knowing smile on her lips, looking at us through the light of love shining in her eyes and then say, “All right, all right. Nomtshato, you are the eldest. You begin.” The decision made, I would dutifully bide my time and wait to tell my story after my older brothers.

Being the second youngest meant that certain things were expected of me and I, in turn, could expect certain things. When I was growing up, a child’s position in the family had particular significance. Respect for age and position was deeply entrenched in our society. The birth position of the first child lent to that child a subtle aura of filial respect from – and responsibility for – the rest of the siblings. So it is that the firstborn daughter is referred to as uMafungwashe. Boys, especially when they grew older, could often be heard saying, “Ndifunga ngo Dadewethu uMafungwashe. I swear by my firstborn sister’s name.”

I was only seven years old when we got the news that Olga had   been accepted to train as a teacher at Clarkesbury Training School in Engcobo. She excelled and was appointed head girl. My parents were so proud that, when she came home for the holidays, a special celebration was prepared. We were all treated to a special meal of the choicest food – chicken, mutton, pudding and ginger beer. Remember, there were no restaurants in those days. All events and celebrations took place at home. This was how the bond of family solidarity was forged.

The one thing I remember very well about Cala was the cold. The mornings were freezing. Mama often said she wished the cold only lasted one day because the children would soon develop stubborn colds and flu. At school, Miss Figlan was very kind. When she saw I was shivering, she would keep all the doors and windows closed, even though the classroom got very stuffy.

At home, we made sure we had enough firewood, dried cow dung and paraffin to chase the cold away. We used a paraffin stove, known as Beatrice, to make tea. Like most people, we used an imbawula for cooking and baking. An imbawula is a homemade stove made out of half an oil drum or even an old metal bucket cut open at the bottom to allow you to feed wood into it. It was open at the top and the metal was pierced with holes all the way up it to draw in air and encourage the flame. The imbawula was lit outside and then taken inside for cooking once the smoke had died down. A pot would be rested on   a strong piece of net placed over the flame for cooking. We children would huddle around the imbawula during the winter, getting as close to it as we could without burning ourselves.

My family members cared deeply for each other, looking out for each other, trusting each other. My grandparents had been influenced by the missionaries, and we their children and grandchildren lived a life tailored on the Christian and social principles they taught. Prayer was an important element of life.

I am firmly convinced, even now that I am a grandmother myself, that those who sincerely apply Biblical principles to their lives live to be successful, not only spiritually but also materially. The Bible talks about one generation living in such a way that it provides the stepping stones for the next. In South Africa today we talk about building generational wealth. We can only do so if we first build a strong spiritual and moral base for our families. Such is the foundation of joy, peace, happiness and success.

My parents were loving people. My father doted on Mama; she was his point of reference in all matters. “Hayi ke Mama, ubona njani wena Makasana? How do you see this matter? What is your opinion?” He was not after her unquestioning approval. He respected her as his partner and wanted confirmation that they were together in their responsibility of building a good family life for us.

I will never forget this one thing my father used to do. When he had saddled his horse before riding off to town, he would call, “Ntomb’am, uTata uyahamba ngoku. My daughter, your father is now leaving. Come, let me give you a ride on the horse.” Those words were like music to my ears. I would come running towards him and he would gather me up onto the horse, sit me in front of him, crack his whip and give me a few turns.

I loved this ritual. I would snuggle up close so that I wouldn’t fall off. Even today, when I close my eyes and recall those tender moments, I can actually feel my head against his strong chest. I can smell again the Palmolive soap on his skin. So close was I to my Dad. To add joy on top of joy, he would without fail bring us sweets or, especially at the end of the month, a delicious fruity cake.

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