On Monday we did a ‘tools-down’ because of the water situation. No provision was made for us to drink and the water pump is far away. If we want to drink we have to walk to the pump at lunchtime. When we did the tools-down they threatened us with the isolation block but in the end we won and they had to supply us with water.
When I told Don about this he was really pleased and wrote some of what I told him down in his notebook. I asked him why he was doing that and he said he wasn’t sure himself, but he felt it was important.
Don has his own cell, 2.5 metres by 1.5 metres, with its own toilet, basin, double bunk and a small bookshelf. He has no things, only a small stone, which is more like a piece of rubble. And a few books.
“What’s the stone?” I ask.
“It’s part of my museum,” he tells me.
“And the rest of your museum?”
“In my mind,” he continues tapping his forehead. I want to ask him how come he’s got his own cell, but I get the sense it’s a question he won’t like.
One evening, I eventually get all five writing group members into my cell just before lock-up. And I manage to put the beds together and the blankets up to screen us off. Major took some persuading to join, but I showed him my drawings and asked if I could see his. I was really blown away by them too. This guy is good – he not only draws faces and bodies like me, but scenes with backgrounds and all, which look like comic strips. Tonight we only have 20 minutes and I had to bribe another prisoner with my bread ration for a week to organise that all of us could be here together. Okay, where was I? Right, all five of the writing group guys in my cell. They all look at me and I have their attention and gotta talk fast.
“I was part of a writing group once before,” I begin. “Anyway, every week we would come together, giving, like, our life stories. Each piece of writing is like doors or windows into our lives, which somebody can open and peep in and say, ‘Oh, Oom Buks is like this and that, and he did this and that with his life, and this and that happened to him.’
“This white guy I used to work with called it narrative therapy, so not just writing for the sake of writing but finding a new story to live by, in which all those bad voices in your head are not the author and director of your life. You find a new voice and a new way of seeing things. Not as a victim, not standing in your own shadow, you check, but standing in a new light with some wind in your sail.”
I don’t even say it as well as that. Heads nod.
“This may be interesting,” says Don. “I’m also into capturing history. Tell you what, I’ll do a deal with all of you. Ever since I got here I have been preparing to run this little lecture course, twice a week, say, every Tuesday and Thursday evening from 6 to 8 pm, on the history of South Africa. My plan has been to discuss books that we have here in our prison library. In the words of Bob Marley, I plan to call the course, ‘Free Yourself from Mental Slavery’. The problem is, not too many are interested in my course. If you all agree to come, I’ll join your group.”
“No way,” snarls Oom Buks. “I don’t give a fuck if you come or not, dunno for sure that I even want to join Michael’s writing group. I just came today to hear what he has to say.”
Don looks hurt by Buks’ rough words, but more is to come.
“Sorry, but 6 to 8 is my favourite soapie, Days of Our Lives,” says Wesley.
“Ja, for me too,” chips in Sanza.
“And me too,” says Major.
I’m keen to have Don join our group, even though I don’t trust him one hundred per cent but I bet he has some interesting stuff to tell, so I agree to attend his lectures. But I am the only one.
“Back to this group,” I say. “I’m not even telling you it will become successful. Not even that what we write will be published, but how about we give it a chance…? Maybe it’ll help us to get through this time.”
Sanza and Wesley are, like, “Okay, what we gotta lose?” and “No problem, Michael, lesgoforit.”
And then Oom Buks grunts, “Okay, why the fok not. There’s not that much to do here anyways.”
My heart does a triple bypass. They’ve all agreed to meet a second time! But just before they go, remembering how Jonathan started us off, I say, “Once we get into it, you’ll all write six chapters about your lives, like I said. We call them windows. Begin with your distant ancestors, then your grandparents, then your parents, then your childhood, then how you got to prison, and then how you see your future. But before we get into that, the reader needs to know how you look like and how you sound. Okay, so this is your homework: you must find a partner from someone here in the group, and you must visit each other’s bunks or cells and find the ou sitting on his bed or doing something in the cell, or it can be at a mealtime or whatever, and pretend you are an artist and are painting a picture of that person. Only you must paint in words and not with paint. It has to be no less than a page long and must describe how the ou looks and what his mannerisms are, how he sounds when he talks, and also what his immediate surroundings look like, and why he is in prison.
“One page is the minimum,” I say. “If you want to write more about your own life and your family history, go for it – but start with this, about someone else, because this is the foundation. And you gotta bring your writing with you next time we meet, which is on Wednesday, same time, same place.”
Wednesday morning I wake up at 4 am and we are taken to work on some boer’s potato farm. Not our own fields. Today I am earning money, but not for myself – the prison gets money for what we will do today. The van turns off the tar road onto a dirt one and then finally comes to a stop. The door is unlocked and swung open and we get out. Eleven of us are at the edge of a field of sand. It is a huge circle, maybe 300 metres wide.
From the centre of the field to where we stand stretches a huge steel machine that feeds the potatoes water and chemicals. The potato plants have died and now they are just stalks lying on top of sandy mounds. When the plant begins to go yellow and dies, this is the time to dig out the spuds. Our job is to dig with our hands – we cannot use forks, so as not to damage the potatoes or the warders. The potatoes are huge and perfect. ‘Genetically modified’, so I’m told, to fry into perfect chips for the larnies who can afford takeaways.
We dig them up all morning and in the afternoon we load the potatoes into trailers. But my mind is not on potatoes, and I keep thinking about the goup. Will they pitch up? They won’t. Will, won’t, will, won’t. But then along comes the only thing that can distract a man in my situtation. After leaving the field, the tractors drive into a big shed lined with steel benches along which women stand cleaning and packing the potatos. Women! I just said ‘women’! You hear me? Women. Now the bad news. We are not allowed to talk to them. But, as they say, there’s no law against looking, which is what we do.
I get back to the prison at 7 pm. I am late for eating but manage to get a serving of pumpkin and pap. The meat is all gone. Then I rush off for a shower and make it to my cell by 7.30. No one is there.
And then, lo and behold, within a few minutes Sanza, Wesley, Oom Buks, Major and Don arrive, all holding paper. “Hola!” I greet each one with a smile and a firm hand grip as they enter my cell. Major helps me. We shift one bed a little so it is more like a room or an office.
“Hola, ouens,” I open proceedings out of breath, not sure what to say.
“Hola, Bushy!” trumpets Welsey from the bed on the other side, where he sits at its edge, closer to me.
This hola comes from Jo’burg; its not used in the Cape, but these ous are learning it from me, and even Oom Buks says hola at times. I can hardly hold my excitement. We settle down on the beds in the enclosed space and I say, “Okay, who wants to go first? Remember, this is not about you writing about yourself, it’s about you visiting another ou and reading to us what you saw, heard, smelled and found out.”
“Okay, I’ll get it over with,” volunteers Sanza. He stands up and begins to read.
“I Sanza visited Major’s
cell on the 5th of August 2001. Looking at Major you would not think he is a criminal. No tattoos, no scars, just a pretty face. Major was arrested for robbery with an AK-47. One or two of his bros were shot and he copped a life sentence that is 25 years. His bed is single and is almost at the end of the cell. There is a small table near his bed. It’s got a shiny Shoprite advert from the newspaper as a tablecloth. On top of it is a small wood ashtray. The other thing about Major is that he can draw, just a few lines of his pen and there will be the most dead-on picture. You must hope it’s not of you because he can make you look like any creature he wants.
“I am sitting in Major’s cell, it is empty, we are the only people in it. He is sitting on the opposite bed, sewing. Sometimes his hand rises up with the needle pinched between his fingers and sometimes he will stare at it for a short second before he dips it back into the green cloth on his lap. Sometimes coming to an end, he will roughly bite off a piece of thread before starting again.
“He is always in his cell to avoid other prisoners. He has a thin body, and he is very terrified of rape. He is not a moffie but he likes needlework, tailoring clothes. Some, they call him Stalala. Major can add pockets, flaps, another colour, fit pleats, make any prison clothes look like trousers mense wear on the outside of this prison. Some of his big customers are the Numbers’ leaders themselves. His suits are famous. Major has got a small oval face with very white almond eyes. His complexion is like coffee and his hair is very curly and short. His prison clothes are very clean and neatly pressed. He sometimes looks at me, then he bend downs and writes. I know he writes about me.”
As Sanza reads I watch Major’s face and see nothing but pride. This is not too bad, I think, sharp-to-the-point writing. I never knew Sanza would be able to write like this. I make a big show and dance of applauding and the others join in. Even Oom Buks looks relaxed.
“Okay, now let’s hear what Major wrote about Sanza,” I say.
Major, who is sitting on the bed, stands up and begins to read from writing that takes up about a quarter of the page.
“Sanza is sitting next to my bed and while he writes about me I am writing about Sanza. Sanza comes from the townships around Cape Town. In Nyanga, he began as a taxi washer when he was a boy, then a Jack. That is one of those guys who ride hanging out the taxi, calling customers. Shouting out the name of the place the taxi goes to, like Wynberg, but sounding like Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiineberg. Then Sanza became a driver. After some years later he became a tough guy in the taxi wars, selling dagga, providing the getaway car for housebreakers and burglars. He has a very dark skin but the way he talks you cannot tell if he is coloured or Xhosa. He always looks like he wants to fight, chest out – Ek is nie bang vir een van julle, nie een van julle gaan my iets maak nie. In a way, he reminds me of Buks. He was arrested for assault. He beat up his father-in-law who was trying to break up his relationship with his wife and who tried to stab him. He has on a dark-blue jersey with red around the neck and sleeves. Feet are crossed over each other. His shoes shine lekker.”
Everyone claps and the feeling in the room is so, so lekker. This is so simple, I think – just people writing what is obvious and taking a little time to say it back to the other guy, but it makes us feel nice.
“Okay, next,” I say.
Oom Buks doesn’t get up but reads from where he sits.
“Me and Wesley sat in my cell. Wes in and out of prison from an early age, verbetering skool, reformatories, juvenile services, you name it. Wes is a full-on Cape coloured skollie, only he’s from Namibia. From an early age he was into stealing, first just with his friends but later when he moved to Cape Town as a member of the Mongrels gang. They need laaities, that is small guys to fit between burglar bars and windows when they do house jobs. His arms are fast filling up with tattoos of the 28s. Every time I look there is another tattoo or scabs before they fall off and become tattoos. Even though he only has a Standard 5, I feel Wes is baie-baie slim, you know not just shit for brains like most of the ous here. Next to his bed there is always a book or a newspaper and he is always listening to the news or trying to watch those doccies on nature or world politics on the TV but no one lets him.”
There is a brief pause.
“And that is as far as I got because it was time for supper,” mutters Oom Buks.
Over the clapping and laughing, Buks shouts, “Now Wes must say what he wrote about me.”
Wesley stands up and reads.
“Oom Buks is in his fifties or sixties or seventies. He has jet-black hair, jet-black beard, but it is fading a little, fringes of his hair are white and fall like a curtain on his big chest. His eyebrows and lashes are also white. He wears short Bermuda pants made of prison pants. He spends a lot of his time making picture frames and ships out of matches, skaf tins and old lockers. Oom Buks may be old and white and a bit fat but he is not scared of no one. He challenges the whole cell shouting, ‘Jul mense maak my naar!’ He shows no fear, he just shouts, ‘Kak plek, kak mense. Shit place, shit people. Pasop and beware murderers and gangsters.’ He has two sidekicks who won’t join the group. One is a young blond boer, very handsome, nicely trimmed beard, soft face, won’t look mense in the eyes. The other is a tough farm boy, floppy hat, freckles. The power of Oom Buks’ dislike for us protects him.”
Everyone laughs and claps until Don kind of interrupts, speaking up in his soft calm voice. “No one came to visit me but I began to write some of those windows you spoke about last time, Michael, and you said we could write on ahead.” He displays some notes, a very fine, neat handwriting filling each page. Each letter so tiny I think only he with his thick glasses can read it.
“I have also begun to collect as many books as I can for our prison library,” says Don. “Books about the place where I grew up and books about other things. These books, some of them with photos in them, have helped me to remember the details of many places well known to me but that I had almost forgotten.”
Here Don pauses and looks up at us to see if we are listening. He writes and speaks with more confidence than the others, than any of us. He has no need to worry whether we are listening. I see that everyone is hanging on his every word, not sure what to make of this guy who on one hand is a prisoner just like us but on the other hand has something of the warder about him too. His own cell, a job as a librarian, we are still trying to figure him out.
“This place where I grew up was called District 6,” Don continues. “Except for Sophiatown, it was unlike any place in South Africa. From 1966 to 1982, that’s how long they took to level District 6 to the ground.”
Don then picks up a book, one that I have seen in his library. The book is large, like a thick magazine, but Don handles it carefully as if it is made of butterfly wings. He holds it at head height and turns it almost in slow motion so that it hides his face, and makes him appear to have a book for a head.
After holding this one photo up and swivelling it both ways so we all have a chance to see it, he lowers the book slowly and reads directly from it.
“On February 11th 1966, District 6 was declared a white area under the Group Areas Act. Fifty-five thousand people were forced to move and every single building except for churches and other religious buildings were flattened by the bulldozers.”
It’s only a sentence – once sentence – but the way he reads it and pauses to look at us, it’s as if he is able to slow down, even halt and reverse the river of time. It is as though Don demands that we hear the bulldozers and the walls of the people’s homes as they crumble and fall.
After a while I find myself thinking, hey, this guy is treating us like kids. He is also doing something sneaky, like he’s turning my writing group into his lectures because I could attract some crowds and he couldn’t. I begin to feel angry but there is also something about what Don is saying and how he says it that pulls me in and makes me want him to go on.
“When it was still standing and full of people,” Don continues, now and then checking his notes as he speaks, “
District Six had blacks, coloureds, Muslims, turbaned sheiks in long robes, whites, Jews, Italians, Portuguese, Xhosa, you name it. There was jazz, fashion, all-night dancing, gangsters, politics. More than anything there was a sense of community. Poor people, ordinary people, helping each other out. If someone came to your door for sugar or a tea bag, you gave it happily because next time it might be you who asks. There were many shacks but also double-storey apartments with carved wood balconies that went right around the building. People would eat – especially their supper – out on those balconies and just mix and shout down to the street.” Again he stops and looks up at us.
“It was a very crowded place, District 6,” says Don, still reading from his notes. “As many as fifteen people slept in one room. The communal tap in the back yard was shared by many families. Even though they were fancy houses, most didn’t have electricity that worked. The houses were owned by white landlords who didn’t live in District 6 and charged rent for people to live in their houses or to put up shacks on their land. These landlords didn’t do anything to improve or maintain the place.”
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