by Zakes Mda
‘So, you do visit us sometimes?’ he said as we shook hands.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘This is my country.’
‘I am glad that now you feel it is your country.’
‘What do you mean “now”?’ I asked, rather irritated. ‘I have lived in this country almost as long as you have. Why should it be yours and not mine?’
It is true. I came here a few months after Prince Mohato, as he was then called, was born. I grew up here. I had my high school education in this very village of Peka.
I DON’T REMEMBER EVER taking Gugu to see my alma mater even though it is only six miles from the highway we sometimes take when we have decided to enter South Africa from the northern districts of Lesotho. Peka High School looks quite dilapidated now, with broken windows and grounds that are overgrown with grass and weeds. The walls that used to be rough-cast in grey are cracked and the once-green paint has long peeled off the corrugated iron roofs on all the buildings. It was not like this when I was a student here from 1965 to 1969. This boys’ high school was the most prestigious in the country, with a one hundred per cent pass rate in the Cambridge Overseas School Certificate every year.
I was very lucky to be admitted here since I had only a second-class pass in Standard Six, even though I was repeating the grade after obtaining a first-class pass in Sterkspruit under Bantu Education. Everyone had expected a first-class pass from me once more, but I knew otherwise. I had spent most of my time in Mohale’s Hoek gallivanting with politicians and dabbling in assassinations – albeit attempted ones. I had gone to class only because I had to, and when I was there I didn’t pay much attention. I drew pictures while either Mr Mohapi or Mr Mofelehetsi taught and never studied outside class. Most students who were admitted to Peka had a first-class pass or at least a superior second-class with good symbols. My only decent symbols were in English Language and English Literature and I had Fs in Science and Mathematics. But then I was also my father’s son, and I am sure that counted for something with the admission authorities at Peka High School. The principal, after all, was Mr Tseliso Makhakhe from Mafeteng – a political activist of the Basutoland Congress Party.
My high school years were generally wonderful, although I cannot say as much for the first few weeks. The first day, in fact, was traumatic, from the time the bus from Mohale’s Hoek dropped me at the Maseru bus stop to catch the bus hired by the school. Here the old-comers had a field day ill-treating new-comers. Even as we sat in the bus waiting for more students from various directions to arrive, the old-comers forced us to sing: Makamara mesemeng’ting, le tla cha mohlang le shoang. You motherfucking new-comers, you’ll burn in hell when you die.
Those who refused to sing or showed the slightest sign of resistance were slapped and verbally abused. I had heard of hazing, but I didn’t know it could be this mortifying. It became even more so when the old-comers paid particular attention to me because I was not a Mosotho. They were alerted to this fact by my accent. ‘You are not a Mosotho, or if you are then you are one of those fence-jumping Basotho from South Africa.’ Then he pressed my nose as if playing the keyboard and demanded that I sing nasally: Ke lla joalo ka piano. Ke lla joalo ka piano. I sound like a piano. I cry like a piano.
‘Hey, we have a Mothepu in the bus,’ he yelled to the rest, and they all laughed, howled and yelped like dogs. To them a Mothepu was a dog.
My mortification became worse when thugs and sundry ragamuffins from the streets of Maseru boarded the bus and were allowed by the old-comers to beat us up and call us demeaning names.
A wiry thug in dirty jeans and a greasy Eyre’s cap got on the bus and demanded to be shown who the new-comers were. He was obviously the boss because all the other thugs deferred to him. The old-comers greeted him like an old friend, still showing some diffidence, and eagerly pointed out the new-comers.
‘This particular one is very stubborn,’ said an old-comer pointing at a cowering new-comer.
The wiry thug gave him a few whacks on the face with the back of his hand. His nose began to bleed. The thug instructed another newcomer to clean the blood with his tongue. When he hesitated the thug dragged him by both ears and shoved his head on the blood that was on the boy’s chest. I had never seen such savagery in my life. If this was high school then I wanted nothing to do with it. But there was no escape from the bus. The thugs were blocking the aisle and the wiry one was moving towards me, his eyes rolling like those of a snake about to swallow a rat. He stopped in front of me and stared at me for some time. I fidgeted, expecting a whack.
‘What is your name, lekamara?’ he asked, using the Sesotho corruption of ‘new-comer’.
‘I am Motlalepula,’ I said, already shaking. I was hoping that the Sesotho version of my name would mitigate my crime of being a newcomer and a Mothepu to boot.
‘Hey, you motherfuckers,’ yelled the thug to the rest of the people in the bus. ‘This is my bitso.’ This meant that we shared the same name. He too was Motlalepula. ‘If any of you touch this boy you will have to answer to me. Anyone who as much as makes this boy sing your silly songs will never set foot in Maseru ever again.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ asked one old-comer. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you’re Bra Motlalepula’s laaitie?’
The thug assigned two of the bigger old-comers, Mokitimi – Kittyman to his friends – and Zwanya to look after me.
I was grateful to the thug. Throughout the two-hour journey to Peka High School I was ensconced between Zwanya and Kittyman while my fellow new-comers were singing demeaning songs about themselves and having their tin trunks confiscated and their provisions of chicken and steamed bread devoured in front of their weeping eyes. The two gentlemen, much older than the rest of the old-comers and not participating in the hazing, kept on reminding the rest that I was Bra Motlalepula’s laaitie – little boy – and therefore no one must even imagine lifting his hand in my direction or utter any profanity while looking at me.
Even after we had arrived at the high school and had been allocated our dormitories the story that I was a fuzie – or sidekick – of some bad-ass Maseru gangsters spread even among those boys who were not in our bus but had arrived in other buses from the northern districts or had been brought by parents in their cars. I didn’t correct them. I didn’t tell them that in fact I had never met the thug before; he merely took a shine to me because of the similarities of our names. I felt like a charlatan. I was benefiting from a name that was not really mine – a Sesotho translation of my real name. You will remember that I named myself Motlalepula in Mohale’s Hoek in quest of assimilation and acceptance. But who cared? As long as it gave me protection from barbaric hazing. Why would I correct the boys when this whole misunderstanding enhanced my credentials as this guy who had a personal relationship with the likes of Bra Motlalepula, the godfather of Maseru outlaws and sundry ruffians?
Hazing – euphemistically called ‘giving the new-comers treatment’ – was relentless for the first few weeks of high school. But thanks to Bra Motlalepula I escaped it all as Zwanya and Kittyman took their assignment seriously. Once in a while there would be some renegade who would be resentful that I was getting off scot-free while other new-comers were being given the treatment. One such renegade was Jama Mbeki, whose uncle, Michael Mosoeu Moerane, was our Latin and Music master. Like me, he was a Mothepu and a refugee from South Africa. Only the previous year his father, Govan, had been sentenced to life imprisonment on Robben Island together with his comrades Nelson Mandela and Walter Sisulu. Despite this, Jama was a jovial fellow who showed no sign of distress at his father’s plight. I admired him for this; I would have been a wreck if my father had been sentenced to life imprisonment.
Although the students called him Mothepu, Jama was quite a popular fellow. The pejorative sounded like a term of endearment when it referred to him. I suppose because of his popularity he thought he could defy Zwanya and Kittyman and give me the treatment. Our dormitories were built like a prison with narrow barred window
s just below the high roof. The building formed a square with only one entrance with heavy iron-cast gates. Once those gates were locked there was no escape from the Square. It was at those gates that Jama confronted me and demanded that I sing the famous song about how new-comers were a menace who would end up in hell after death. I stood there and looked at him stubbornly.
‘Bina ntja tooe,’ he yelled. Sing, you dog.
People were beginning to gather and I was mortified. Here was a fellow South African and a fellow Xhosa calling me a dog in Sesotho. Worse still, I could see a glint of pleasure from some new-comers who had come to regard me with awe since I was the only new-comer who never got the treatment. I was going to lose whatever semblance of respect my immunity had afforded me among this miserable lot. This gave me the courage to speak out and be damned.
‘You come any closer, u tla bona lipela lifalla,’ I said, using a Sesotho proverb that threatened one with a dangerous and unexpected encounter. The old-comers who had gathered were having a great time at the prospect of a fight and were chanting: Bathepu ba batla ho loana. Malinyane a Nongqawuse a batla ho loana! The Bathepu want to fight. Nongqawuse’s offspring want to fight!
I think the fact that the old-comers were not taking his side but instead were looking forward to a fight between the foreigners brought Jama to his senses. He uttered an expletive, opened the gate and walked out of the Square. He turned and looked at me with eyes full of anger and said, ‘Beware the Ides of March!’ Then he walked away.
A sigh of relief. I had never been a fighter in my life; if he had taken the challenge he surely would have wiped the floor with me.
That was the last time that anyone tried to give me the treatment. By the twelfth of March when hazing was scheduled officially to end, I was long integrated into the life of the high school and anyone would have thought I was an old-comer. I was already spending my free time with the older boys smoking hand-rolled cigarettes at the officially designated Smoking Spot behind the dormitories. Most of my popularity rested on my political experience, which none of my smoking companions could match even though they were much older than me. I was a purveyor of political knowledge, and even distributed the PAC organ, The Africanist, and other material. Most students were BCP members or sympathisers, and therefore were comrades-in-arms as fellow Pan Africanists. I was proud that some articles in the The Africanist were written by people who were friends of mine: Ntlabathi Mbuli and Sipho Shabalala. So you see, it was no longer because I was a sidekick of a Maseru gangster that I was spared the treatment. I was seen by my peers as a political sage who could, at the slightest provocation, expound on the evils of imperialism and on the goings-on in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, the headquarters of the Organization of African Unity which had been founded only a year before.
The twelfth of March was an official holiday in honour of King Moshoeshoe I, the founder of the Basotho nation. At Peka High School it was referred to as the Ides of March. It was the day that the new-comers dreaded most because it brought about the end of hazing in a most savage manner. On this day old-comers strutted around threatening all the new-comers against whom they had a grudge, perhaps because they became defiant when they were being ordered around or they became tattletales to the prefects, that the day of reckoning had come.
‘Beware the Ides of March,’ a boy would yell.
‘Yeah, they are come but not gone,’ another would respond.
This sent a chill down my spine; I feared that all the old-comers who were not able to give me the treatment because I had gained too much respectability among the most revered seniors would take advantage of the darkness of the Ides of March. Stories were doing the rounds that old-comers would come for the new-comers in the middle of the night dressed in sheets like the Ku Klux Klan and frogmarch them – especially the stubborn ones who, in the two months since the new year began, had become too big for their boots – to the Caledon River that separates Lesotho from South Africa where they would force them, fully dressed in their pyjamas, into the cold water while thrashing them with leather belts and spitting on them.
I was certain that I was one of the uppity ones who was going to get the treatment. And I wouldn’t know who was responsible because the culprits would all be in ghostly white. When evening came and there were wolf-like howls all around the Square – ‘Beware the Ides of March!’ – I was shaking in my Florsheim shoes that I had pinched from my rich Mohale’s Hoek friend, Gift Mpho Hlao. I tried to make light of the matter by asking the seniors at the Smoking Spot, ‘Shouldn’t the Ides of March be on the fifteenth?’
‘In Julius Caesar maybe,’ said Hodges Maqina as he rolled a cigarette of Best Blend Tobacco in a piece of brown paper, ‘but for us here it is the twelfth because it’s a holiday.’
Although Hodges Maqina was of Xhosa descent he had spent all his life in Lesotho. He was one of the seniors with whom I hit it off immediately because I could hold my own in any political discussion. He was respected by everyone because of his muscular body and the fact that he was a prefect. So, hanging out with him at the Smoking Spot while I was a mere new-comer was something that raised my prestige, for which I was going to pay dearly on this day, the Ides of March. He was well-beloved by all the new-comers because he exuded an air of maturity and authority, and he never got involved in the savage practice of hazing. But of course he wouldn’t have been able to save all of us from the Ides of March, even if he had been so inclined.
The spirit of the thug who became my guardian angel by sheer chance at the Maseru bus stop prevailed, and once more Zwanya and Kittyman came to my rescue. I had not asked them for help because I didn’t want to impose; they had been a bit distant lately. Perhaps because I had taken to socialising with intellectuals like Hodges Maqina, Phanuel Ramorobi and Kingston Mohapeloa. The last was a particular hero of mine because he was an artist. But none of these sophisticates offered me succour. It was the old stalwarts in shabby coats and unkempt hair who remembered the assignment they were given by a gangster. They smuggled me out of my dormitory and arranged with the Health Prefect to hide me in a small room that served as a dispensary.
Deep in the night I could hear the howls and the wails and the screams. I knew that boys who looked very much like Klansmen were waking their victims up and marching them to the river. ‘Where is that Mothepu?’ I heard someone ask. ‘Damn that Kittyman! Damn that Zwanya! What have they done with that Mothepu?’
When the sun rose I walked out of the dispensary a liberated man. We had all been delivered after the Ides of March. When next I met Jama Mbeki we laughed about our encounter and became friends. Those days the road ahead was still very bleak, and none of us could have suspected that one day South Africa would be free and Jama’s brother Thabo would be the president.
After the Ides of March we were all equal.
I could then immerse myself in boarding school life without any reservations. This included bloviating on current events at the Smoking Spot, particularly on the battle for supremacy between the Basutoland Congress Party and the Basotho National Party and participating in the school’s official debating society. I soon established myself as an astute debater who converted even the most innocuous of subjects into a political one. Once I was on the affirmative on the topic ‘Honesty is the Best Policy’ and I started speaking about such freedom fighters as Oginga Odinga who fought for the freedom of Kenya and were honest to their cause despite being jailed at one time, or being promised riches by the British if they gave up the struggle at another time. I won that debate. Dugmore Hlalele, a senior who was on the negative side, claimed that I had invented the story about Oginga Odinga and that in fact there was never such a person. This tended to devalue my great win in the eyes of my peers. Pity the Internet had not yet been invented otherwise I would have ‘Googled’ the name to prove Oginga Odinga’s existence. I had to wait for weeks until his name featured in a newspaper article and I ran triumphantly to the Smoking Spot to show Dugmore that Oginga Odinga was not a figment of my im
agination.
This brought me closer to another group of friends, that of Dugs, as we called Dugmore Hlalele, and my erstwhile enemy, Jama Mbeki. Dugs was a good person to know. He was originally from Welkom and his brother-in-law, Jefty Smith, owned 60 Minutes Dry Cleaners in Maseru. Because of Jefty’s connections to the underworld of South Africa, during holidays Dugs socialised with the kind of characters we only read about in newspapers – the likes of soccer elites Eric Scara Sono and Chincha Guluva Motaung. He came back after June or December holidays with stories of braais – barbecue parties – he had attended in Welkom and Soweto, and of beauty queens he had actually spoken to. For us, me and Jama, it was like Dugs was talking of a different planet; we were exiled in Lesotho and the glamorous world he was talking about was far removed from our experience. The more immediate world was that of politics, particularly of BCP politics. And here, of course, I was the voice they took seriously.
At first I had been reluctant to discuss politics with Jama because I thought we belonged in opposite camps – he being the son of ANC leaders and all – and didn’t want to upset the apple cart of our budding friendship. But I discovered that he was as sympathetic to the BCP as Dugs was. I was not surprised though, because Peka High was a BCP breeding ground, and most of our teachers, such as Tseliso Makhakhe and Selometsi Baholo, were BCP leaders. Why, even Jama’s uncle, Michael Mosoeu Moerane, talked openly about his support for the BCP. I knew one of Jama’s uncles in Maseru, Mofelehetsi Moerane, from the days I campaigned for the BCP in the rural Quthing district. He and the artist Meshu Mokitimi organised the youth wing of the BCP. That’s why it would not have been inconceivable for Jama Mbeki’s sympathies to lie with the BCP, an ally of the PAC, and not with the Marematlou Freedom Party which was at the time in alliance with the ANC.
