“Uh huh,” I say, nodding my head to prove that I am listening.
“My dad was inside the car, taking instructions from Graham under the front bonnet, when he heard him say, ‘Brake!’ He pulled up the hand brake. When Graham said, ‘Okay,’ Dad then released it. My dad later told my family that he heard Graham say, ‘Okay.’ Therefore, he released the brake. Unfortunately, the car rolled forward.”
“What happened then?” I ask.
“My dad pulled the handbrake, just on time as it was about to crush his head.”
“Oh!” I say, imagining the situation.
“Graham was very angry. He got out from under the car, opened the boot, took out a black rubber whip, and flogged my dad, who was already out of the car, standing by the boot.”
I sigh, finding it difficult to deal with what Lottie’s family had gone through. I now realise this practice is happening in Johannesburg too.
Lottie appears to be struggling to breathe, and she starts sobbing, a single tear slides down her cheek, and then she cries loudly.
“What did your dad do then?” I ask, feeling sorry for this family.
“He stood still, shielding his body with his arms, until he realised Graham was hitting him continuously. That’s when he cried loudly. Graham’s dad rushed out of the house, and his son was still beating my dad. ‘Graham, stop it!’ he shouted. He stopped and returned the whip to the boot. His dad patted him on his shoulders, as if he was saying, ‘Well done, son.’ That’s when my dad grabbed his jacket and walked back to our Soweto home. I followed him, as he walked briskly all the way. When we arrived at our Soweto home, my dad was still crying silently, saying repeatedly, ‘Never, never to be treated like this in my life again.’”
“Lottie, I don’t like to hear this. So, people in the townships also experience such a horrible life too?”
“Yes, Betty. But it can’t continue like this; somebody should do something, to stop it.”
“Mmh, I know; some of our heroes have tried, and died. We should always remember them. They died for our cause. Others are still fighting.”
“Betty, what’s our role in this?”
“What do you think, Lottie? We may not be able to reverse the past.”
“You’re right, Betty. But we could work to change our future, so that all South Africans live together peacefully. We must do this.”
“Of course, Lottie,” I agree, feeling the wetness of tears in my eyes. I can’t control myself. I cry alongside Lottie. We talk, comforting each other until we both fall asleep.
On Saturdays
Saturdays are ‘Manuals Days’. After breakfast, we all go to the hall. The prefects read names from their Offenders’ Books, while the Matron is standing in front with her whip. There are various means of punishment. Some children’s punishment is beating, cleaning the surroundings, bathrooms, toilets, scrubbing dormitory and hall floors, or sometimes two of the punishments together. So, the school doesn’t employ cleaners here.
On this particular Saturday, I am not lucky enough: the prefect calls my name, and reads my offences. “Betty Baker: unpolished shoes, sleeping during studies, and late for supper.” The matron says, “Five lashes and cleaning the surroundings.” I walk forward boldly, stretching the palm of my hand. She gives me five lashes. I don’t cry this time. I just go outside to collect the tools - wheelbarrow, spades and rakes. Three other girls join me. We sing as we clean up the surroundings, and then return the tools after that.
I enjoy my studies. Lottie and I make friends with Nancy Castle. She comes from Guguletu Township in Cape Town. I feel great to have friends who come from the townships near the cities. We stick and study together. We’re only allowed to go home during school holidays at Easter in April, winter in June and summer in December. Other opportunities for going home are possible when we owe books, school fees or boarding fees: I don’t have these chances. My dad pays my fees on time from his advances. Baas Jimmie is very helpful in this way. God bless him.
* * *
I’ve been at Butterworth High School for some time, and have adapted well. As a responsible adult, I’ve learned to endure the pain inflicted during punishment. Some days are better than others: we do enjoy ourselves.
This Saturday evening, there’s some entertainment going on - a Beauty Contest. I’m not asked to compete, as certain height is required. Lottie and Nancy are in it. The competition starts at 7.00 p.m. with live music. It all goes quiet, and then fifteen contestants walk in, smartly dressed in short bright-red attires. All the girls are wearing high-heeled shoes, and glittery jewellery. They are almost the same height - a lot taller than I am – perhaps that’s why I wasn’t selected to participate. I stop my thoughts from drifting away from this activity.
The first girl appears, and we all clap hands for her. Other children stand up to get a clear view of all the contestants, as they parade in the hall. They all walk, and stop, each with a different pose. Spectators are asked to encourage them with another round of applause. They are all beautiful, I think, but my eyes are on my friends, Lottie and Nancy. I want them to win. It’s Nancy’s turn.
She comes out wearing a big smile, and having an authoritative walk. She poses in all the corners, and then disappears into the dressing room. Other girls also reappear to parade. Then Lottie walks out confidently in an unusual style in comparison to Nancy; she walks, swerving her shoulders to the centre of the hall, kisses her hand, show the audience a ‘big five’ before waving to all of us, including the judges at their table. She has a big crowd cheering her up. We are invited to dance while the judges are deliberating. The city girls do various dances, and are better than me. I copy them as if I’m a dancer. The music stops after some time, and everybody is asked to take their seats. This is the end of the Beauty Pageant. The judge announces the winners. He says, “Number three is …Brenda Date.”
She gets up, walks happily to the front, and with a massive smile to receive her prize.
“Number two two is…Doris Burnham.” She wears her sweet smile, and walks to the front to receive her prize also. The announcer takes his time to call Number One. Then he goes. In my heart I hope it’s going to be Lottie.
“Number one is…” and keeps quiet as if he doesn’t know the winner. And then he calls, “Darlene Granville.” She receives a big round of applause, as she walks to the front, keeping up with the musical rhythm, to receive her prize.
I look at my friends sympathetically, wondering how they feel, and what I could do for them. I get up, run to the front and give both a hug. This seems to give them some comfort. “You should be proud of yourselves for trying,” I say, kissing them on the cheeks. They smile at me.
“Good, Nancy,” I say confidently. They both look at me, as if they say, “Not really, Betty.” I continue saying, “enter the competition again next year, you might win? If at first you don’t succeed, try again.” I recall one of my favourite mottoes.
Whether they listened and got the courage, I can’t tell. They disappear into the dressing room to change, while I wait for them, thinking of how to cheer them up. It’s bad to lose, but if you don’t get involved you don’t win or lose. We walk back to our dormitories, laughing at the funny stuff during the parade.
“Good night, girls,” I say.
One Monday morning
I get up, get ready for school, and check my school bag to ensure I’ve got my Mathematics book. My first lesson is English, followed by Mathematics, Afrikaans, and then playtime. After lunch, I have Latin, History and a double lesson of Domestic Science.
Mr Larry Wilson, my English teacher, took my composition book to mark over the weekend. I get it back. I’m pleased with the comment written in red ink – ‘A really strange dream’ – and ‘A’ grade. This has made my day. I should aim for high grades in all my subjects.
My teachers take notice of me, as I make progress in my school work. I continue working hard until we break up for the Easter holidays.
In July 1963 we discuss The 1948 Apartheid P
olicy
The winter holidays are over. I am back at Butterworth High School. Lottie, Nancy and I are in the Common Room, chatting. I tell them how wonderful it was to help out my mum and dad with her jobs in the Big House.
“It was great! It kept me busy throughout my holidays.” I then fall quiet, expecting an exciting response from my friends. Surprisingly, I get none; instead, they exchange glances, as if something was wrong.
“What? Work for free in Baas’ house during the holidays!” both Nancy and Lottie exclaim.
“Oh, that’s how things are there.”
“Do you like it then – working for nothing during the holidays, while we’re having fun, relaxing and going to the cinema?”
I think about this question, seriously; do I really like it?
“You know what - the whole thing seems a bit oppressive to me,” Nancy says.
“Of course, girls, you surely must have heard that in 1947, when the National Party won the elections, they introduced many laws, oppressive to the South African natives?”
“In 1947 – mmh - that’s history. What has that got to do with us now?” I ask, really wanting to hear more.
No one answers me; both girls are quiet.
“Oh, Betty, you mean you don’t know what’s going on? Wake up, girl! Those laws are still in force, even as we speak. In fact, the government is making things harder, with newer laws to restrict us even more,” Lottie says.
“Yes, they deny us all human rights, including a high standard of education,” Nancy says, rubbing her nose.
“Really,” I say, encouraging them to keep speaking.
“Betty, in Cape Town, things are bad at the moment. I’m worried about my family.”
“Uhuh.”
“It’s sad to say, some people might lose their homes. I’m not sure if we’ll keep our house in Guguletu,” says Lottie.
“What?”
“Yes, they keep sending people back to the villages where their ancestors originated,” explains Lottie.
“What happens to those who are born in the townships then?” I ask.
“Huh, our leaders know the smartest way of doing it,” says Lottie, giggling.
“Oh, what is it then? I’d be glad to know,” I say.
“They came up with various categories for the natives requiring the right to live in townships permanently. In Section 10 of the Act, it says: ‘Those people born in a town or city and have lived there for fifteen years or more can acquire the right to stay.’”
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
“Those who have worked for more than fifteen years without breaks and those who have worked continuously for the same employer for ten years at least, also have residence rights,” says Lottie.
“So, you mean that the people who haven’t given this service to their employers are denied the right to reside permanently in their own country? That’s tough!”
I bury my face behind my hands, listening to my hard heartbeat, reflecting on what I’ve just heard, and preparing myself for what is coming next. This is too much for me to take in.
Nancy, who has been silent for a while, suddenly says, “My mother heard her Baas, Van der Merwe, talking about the education transformation for the natives that’s needed.”
“What’s going to happen to our education?” I ask.
“He said Dr Hendrik Verwoerd’s ideology of apartheid was right.”
“What’s that?” I ask – wanting to know what the basis of this dreadful ideology is.
“His view was that it is misleading to teach the natives like us to acquire knowledge about life beyond our communities. There was no benefit in showing us better opportunities enjoyed by the European communities, while we aren’t allowed to enjoy it,” Nancy explains.
“Huh?” I ask, nodding my head, surprised.
“According to Verwoerd, I must be taught from an early age to understand and accept that I’m not at the same level with the Europeans. They are ‘above’ me,” continues Nancy.
“Who tells all the teachers what to teach us and how?” I ask.
“The government does this, by ‘modifying’ our syllabus, allowing it to stop us from aspiring to high positions in any society, within our country and abroad,” Nancy replies. “We’re only learning the skills necessary to help other natives, and also those we need for doing menial jobs for the Europeans, or under their supervision. Can’t you see the things we’re learning? We spend more time learning Arithmetic and the three languages.”
“Oh, is that the reason for learning both English and Afrikaans?” I ask.
“I think so; we should be able to speak with either an English or an Afrikaner Baas, when they employ us,” Nancy replies.
“Oh dear, that sounds odd to me. Education shouldn’t have limits. The government should prepare us to live and work anywhere in the world,” I respond, feeling a stir of ambition within me to prove the lawmakers wrong.
“Forget it, Betty, this is South Africa. While the Europeans are in control, they might do whatever they choose for their benefit,” says Nancy.
“No…Stop – you’re talking about politics!”
“So, what?”
“You know this is not allowed. Are you trying to get us into trouble?” I raise my voice in panic at Lottie and Nancy, after realising that we’ve now crossed the red line. I get up ready to walk away.
“Shush! Make sure no one ever hears you say this – yes, it’s politics,” whispers Lottie, tapping her index finger on her lips.
“Betty, come back here!” Nancy calls to me. I return to sit down with my friends, hoping I haven’t upset them. Lottie and Nancy explain the importance of understanding the issues that affect us, and that I shouldn’t talk to anyone else about the Apartheid Laws. I listen, nodding every so often.
“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t behave like this. My parents banned this kind of talk at home, our lives depend on Bass Jimmie, who is the Government,” I reply, thinking about what I’ve just heard. “And what happens to the Europeans who don’t agree with the Government’s laws?”
“Well, they have a choice to accept the job, or leave it. Should they take it, they are obliged to abide by the country’s laws too,” Nancy explains.
“Well, girls, what can we do about these laws? I personally need more information about them,” I say, and then change the topic, to talk about the upcoming netball tournament.
In September, the same year
I am at school for afternoon studies. It’s noisy in the classroom, and I find it difficult to concentrate. I just can’t continue reading. Some children are talking about something that seems interesting, but they are in disagreement. I close my book, and move to the back of the class to listen.
The talk is about the 1953 Bantu Education Act. The debate is about the pros and cons. Wow, so many children know about these laws! The children who live outside urban areas know a lot more than those who come from rural areas and farms. These don’t have a clue, and have nothing to contribute – just like me.
So, I pull my chair to sit down and listen. I’m amazed the more I hear, but I keep quiet throughout the discussion. This strengthens my determination to see the change in South Africa. Meanwhile, I cannot yet break the laws. How will I manage to contain myself, when I know very well that these are designed to hinder me? I must surely obey them, because should I fail to do so, I might go to prison. My dad warned me. I return to my usual desk, and bow my head down. The bell rings. I collect my bookcase, and walk slowly back to my dormitory.
From now on I think more seriously about many things: my punishment and pains endured at school; the hardship my parents are facing; trying to earn a living from Baas Jimmie and getting pocket money while I’m studying. Yet this ‘education’, it appears, aims at keeping me inferior to people of other races for the rest of my life.
My concern is about my teachers, especially the natives. Do they really have advanced subject knowledge, I wonder. Or they are here to reinforce the limitations?
I have no one to answer my question.
So, I conclude that unless I teach myself independent learning skills and explore other avenues, I may never succeed in helping bringing about the change that is desperately needed in my community.
I think about the European teachers, and wonder how much knowledge they are imparting to me. Do they stick to the Bantu Education Curriculum, or do they go beyond it? I can’t tell, for I know no other way to make a comparison. I have a lot to accomplish – going beyond what I’m taught. I start using my pocket money to buy books. I buy an Oxford Dictionary and novels, and spend most of my spare time reading. I find some words difficult to pronounce, and use my knowledge of phonetics to try to learn the correct English pronunciation phonetically. For example: ‘kidney’ reads as ‘kidni’, ‘greedy’ reads as ‘gridi’, ‘scale’ as ‘skeil’, etcetera. I’m really determined to learn. Before I realise it, it’s December: the year is over. Tomorrow is the last day of the term. I’m returning home to Skoonfontein for the holidays, having learnt a bit more about South Africa - my beautiful country!
I’ve searched for a suitable word to describe my life in South Africa, and emerge with none that completely satisfies me. Many words could do – dehumanised, trapped, resentful, misunderstood, disbelieved, terrified or violated. But these words aren’t enough to paint the whole picture of my feelings. I’m thinking of the right word. Will this situation ever change? This has been my rhetorical question, to live hoping for change and help myself survive. However, some days are different.
From Betty’s Diary, 20th January 1964
Chapter 4
The Apartheid Laws
January 1964
I’m still at home in Skoonfontein Farm for holidays. My mum is sitting outside, chatting to other people from the nearby farms. They have finished eating their meals – dumplings and roast lamb. Lots of dishes are left on a tray for washing up later. I help myself feeling very pleased to have such a lovely lunch today.
Starlight in the Ring Page 6
