© Text, Herman Mashaba 2012, 2017
© Photographs, Herman Mashaba 2012, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission from the copyright holder.
ISBN: 978-1-928257-33-2
e-ISBN: 978-1-928257-34-9
First edition published by MME Media in 2012
Second edition published by Bookstorm in 2017
Published by Bookstorm (Pty) Ltd
PO Box 4532
Northcliff 2115
Johannesburg
South Africa
www.bookstorm.co.za
Edited by Lynda Gilfillan
Proofread by John Linnegar
Cover design by mr design
Cover photo by Gallo/Nick Boulton
Typeset by Sharkbuoys
Ebook by Liquid Type Publishing Services
Preface
to the second edition
In the years since the first publication of Black Like You, much has changed in Herman Mashaba’s life. He’s handed over the reigns of Black Like Me to his wife Connie, resigned from boards, and is hoping that his business acumen will stand him in good stead to tackle some of the political issues that get under his skin.
In January 2016, he took his membership of the Democratic Alliance up a notch, and was officially announced as the DA’s mayoral candidate for Johannesburg. Although the DA did not win the Johannesburg metro, Herman nevertheless became the city’s executive mayor in August 2016.
It’s long been Herman’s intention to make a difference in the lives of ordinary South Africans, and he feels that as executive mayor of the African continent’s most important city, he is able to realise changes that will affect the social and economic reality for many of the city’s inhabitants.
In his first six months of office, Herman has executed some of the undertakings he made during his election campaign. He stated that public enemy number one would be corruption, and to this end Herman has laid several charges against corrupt officials and suspended others.
Running a city with its multifaceted population is no easy task, and it is Herman’s hope that he will be able to foster good relationships between all the people who live in the city legally. It is in the spirit of co-operation and good governance, that he seeks to ensure that neighbourliness exists and that the city’s citizens can live free of the oppressive forces that seek to engage in criminal activities.
Spurred on by his own entrepreneurial background, which you will read about in the following pages, Herman has engaged with entrepreneurs in the city who put their shoulder behind the wheel of business progress and reform every day. His vision in this regard is to turn Johannesburg into the world class city it has so long aspired to be, but hasn’t due to poor management of its sizeable and valuable assets.
As Herman’s chief of staff during the election campaign, it soon became evident that the Herman I got to know in the writing of this book, was steadfast in his principles. Herman would only pledge to make changes that he knew he had the ability to enforce once he came into office. The Herman of Black Like Me went back to his roots, encountered old friends, engaged with new people and heartbreaking issues. There were many times where he was speechless at what we encountered in the forgotten pockets of the vast city. At these times, Herman, who you will come to know as driven and focused as an entrepreneur, acted swiftly, and immediately actioned procedures to remedy the situations. He spent months on the campaign trail listening to citizens’ dreams for their city and their lives, and speaking to people who can partner with the city to make these dreams a reality.
It has been enormously gratifying to read the daily news to see how Herman stands against negativity, ignores criticism, and firmly moves forward in making meaningful changes, refusing to be swayed in implementing his blueprint for a healthy, vibrant, world class city.
Isabella Morris
Johannesburg, 2017
Foreword
by Dikgang Moseneke
The most abiding feature of the human condition is, perhaps, storytelling. Some stories are tales that we tell simply to amuse ourselves around the fireside. But other stories are meant to do more. They seek to do what the African idiom describes as ukuzilanda. In its essence, the idiom carries the notion of going back in time and painstakingly, but proudly, recounting one’s roots. Each one of us has a lineage and connectedness with our immediate and ancient forebears, our siblings, the village or neighbourhood that nurtured us, the traditional or formal schools we went to, as well as with the partners we met, and loved, and with whom, perhaps, we brought offspring into the world. We are also connected to the career choices we made along the way.
However, the somewhat predictable trajectory along which most lives unfold disguises the social and political context that conditions how we live. It may blind us to the personal and public scorn that may have been tolerated along the way. It may hide the gritty resolve one needs to make choices, set goals and achieve them. When we look at them closely, however, many stories demonstrate that life is never linear, but instead varied and complex. A life story confronts us with the rich and textured social context within which personal grief and triumph unfold.
On the other hand, a story may be told as an affirmation of one’s own self and one’s societal worth. It may be a public testimony of a life well lived, a life that is worth recounting. Even so, good storytelling has an intrinsic worth well beyond its motive. That, perhaps, is what motivated Herman Mashaba in Black Like You to emulate his forebears. He seems to have succumbed to the instinct of ukuzilanda – retracing his steps, and asking crucial questions: “How did I arrive here?” and “What was it all about?”
In the 25 years I have known Herman, I have seen him live much of the story he tells. I first met him when he was a young, struggling entrepreneur, and I admired the fact that he had the guts to take on the system in those dark days of apartheid. When I look at what he has achieved, despite the odds, I know the answer to the question as to how he arrived where he is today. Over the years, I have been a friend, but also an elder brother to Herman; I have listened to his ambitions, encouraged him on his journey, and I continue to admire all his achievements – including this autobiography.
Of course, once one assumes the onerous task of writing one’s own life story, as Herman Mashaba does in Black Like You, the first challenge is that of candour. An autobiography is as much an insightful retreat into the past as it is a wide-ranging revelation. Herman’s account is rather like looking at oneself in a full-length mirror – but then the perennial challenge to an autobiographer sets in. The writer must confront the reflection and describe the warts and blemishes; but there is also beauty, and even magnificence in the image. On this score, Black Like You fares admirably on both counts. Herman does not shy away from the uneasy details of his undiscerning youth, and yet he does take a bow for well-deserved bouquets in his later life.
Going beyond the rural confines of Herman’s early years, the story develops into a riveting tale that remains centred on his family. Herman had a deep love for his mother, and presents her as a heroine who was dealt a bad hand by history. We can almost see his face light up as he tells the tale of the lifelong love between himself and Connie, the wife he admires and cherishes. He remembers with fondness his optimistic grandfather insisting that he be named “Highman”, a name which mutated into “Herman”. Also, he has kind words for the sister who stepped in as his surrogate mom. Perhaps the most wrenching account is of his complex, emotional rela
tionship with his brother, and the latter’s untimely passing.
Herman Mashaba’s personal account is enhanced by the recurring theme of the social and political struggles fought in our country. By the time Herman had moved to the more urbanised township of Temba for his high-school education, he had become alert to the spreading youth revolts in urban schools and universities. To a large extent, this explains his brief and abortive stay at the University of the North.
We learn that, from a young age, Herman displayed a clear sense of personal worth. He would sooner starve that submit to menial and demeaning gardening piece-jobs offered over weekends in racist white households at the time. He was blessed with ample native common sense, and he bore a youthful blowtorch that cut through every hurdle that stood in his way. Moreover, he knew that in the end he had to start his own business and thus create a job for himself and also for others.
The genesis of that remarkable business, Black Like Me, is a study in sheer ingenuity and tenacity. The respective roles of Herman and Connie, and indeed other partners in the business, are recounted with detailed precision; but there is tension, too, in the tale. The fire that gutted the historic black-owned factory was as devastating as it was daunting. Yet Black Like Me rose like a phoenix from the ashes of that fire. This commercial struggle took place within the inestimably unjust constraints placed on black entrepreneurs by colonialism and apartheid. It is as well to add that Black Like Me shone beacon-like amidst the indescribable social ruin experienced by oppressed black people. Herman and Connie Mashaba have been widely acknowledged and honoured for a job exceptionally well done. Herman lectures on business leadership globally, and also at home. Even more admirably, in South Africa he coaches, mentors and financially supports many young entrepreneurial hopefuls. A better role model, truer patriot and son of the soil I can hardly imagine. At a time when somewhat limited and even rapacious young business leaders descend on the trough of public tenders, our youth would do well to read Black Like You. Our continent, Africa, more than any other, deserves patriotic, honest and competent business leaders who, like Herman Mashaba, may proudly retrace their roots and recount the details of their lives.
Justice Dikgang Moseneke
Introduction
by Herman Mashaba
When is the right time to write an autobiography? Some people may think that the right time is when you’ve lived a full life. Well, certainly, my life has been filled with experiences that range from the ordinary to the outrageous, sorrowful to joyful, easy to difficult. But even these experiences, for me, weren’t the qualifying criteria for writing my story. Nor was it the constant pleas – “Herman, when are you going to write a book about your life?” – that made me sit down and put pen to paper.
What finally spurred me on to write was when I realised that my life experiences might, in some small way, help people to realise that there is a way out of difficult circumstances. My initial financial success came from my company, Black Like Me, but I am Black Like You and I believe that I understand the difficulties encountered by young black people.
This is my story; it is not motivated by ego, nor is it a veiled opportunity to ramble on about the successes I have achieved. I have abundant contact with young South Africans whose lives are difficult and challenging, and when I encounter their frustration and despair, I realise that I have a responsibility to help where I can. Though there are many upliftment and mentoring projects that I am involved in, these do not give me sufficient access to the many people who are in need of guidance.
My life is not a big life; in fact, nowadays it is a very ordinary, though privileged, one. But it wasn’t always so. Like many young South African men and women, I grew up in a home where parental supervision was absent. I drank, gambled, womanised, took drugs, and even sold drugs in the formative and vulnerable years of my life. I know that this lifestyle was the norm for many youngsters growing up in the townships, and that it continues to be so for many young people today. However, nobody is telling this kind of story, so the misguided and unguided youth of today have no way of knowing that, no matter how deprived their lives are, there is a way out of it all, that they have the power to change the course of their lives.
I am convinced that I was born to be an active participant in life rather than a mere spectator. I believe that my grandfather recognised this, that my mother and sisters saw this potential, and that my life became a life worth living because of their faith in me. Their constant support and encouragement fuelled me to live the best life I could.
There are many people who feel that they have nobody who is there for them, that there is no one who will recognise and nurture their potential. I hope that my book will enable them to discover ways of recognising opportunities that will help them see a glimmer in the darkness, to find courage to step out into the light and live meaningful lives.
This book would not have been written without the support and encouragement I received from the following people: my wife and life partner, Connie, who has not only encouraged me, but loved me throughout our marriage; Moky Makura, my publisher, who insisted that my story had relevance to other South Africans, and persevered until I had no defence against her persistent nudging; writer Isabella Morris, who committed my words to paper; my children, Nkhensani and Rhulani, who continue to support me in my efforts, and my sisters, who have always believed in me. To all of you, I say thank you.
Herman Mashaba
Chapter 1
The headlights of oncoming cars illuminated the gravelly shoulder of the road where I was standing; shattered glass and mangled bits of metal glinted, a pool of radiator water gleamed. A woman in the crowd of onlookers told me, “An ambulance has taken the bodies, there was a lot of blood. But now we hear that the ambulance broke down on the way to the hospital.”
A fist of dread tightened in my chest – was my brother Pobane among those injured bodies?
Hours earlier, I had received the news of Pobane’s accident. I’d immediately left my home in Ga-Rankuwa and driven about a hundred and fifty kilometres along the busy road leading to Marble Hall. Now, I stood staring in disbelief at the wreckage of my brother’s bakkie on the tar road outside Bela-Bela; this was the same light delivery vehicle that I had bought him to start his curtain and carpet fitment company just a few months before.
Pretoria’s Steve Biko Hospital was closest to the scene of the accident, but at the time it was reserved for white patients only, so my brother was sent to Kalafong Hospital in Atteridgeville. The road to the hospital seemed a thousand kilometres long, and as my wife Connie and I drove there, we had no need for conversation; instead, we prayed that God had spared Pobane from death’s clutches.
The woman at the scene of the accident had told us that another ambulance had been summoned from Pretoria, and that it had taken almost two hours to arrive. I hoped that Kalafong had the necessary expertise and equipment to attend to Pobane’s injuries. Would the extra distance and the delay mean the difference between life and death for my brother? I tried to banish these thoughts from my head as we raced to the hospital.
The hospital’s emergency entrance flickered red in the rotating light of a nearby ambulance. Doctors, nurses and anxious relatives darted between the reception area and the wards, and Connie and I were led to a waiting area. Standing in the bleak waiting room with its hushed conversations, where the smell of sickness and sterility vied for supremacy, I didn’t want to hear what the doctor coming towards us was going to say. Connie, sensitive to my fears, slipped her hand in mine and squeezed it while the doctor consulted his clipboard. I closed my eyes; I had seen the car – or what was left of it – and found it hard to believe that anyone could have survived in the wreckage. Pobane and four of his co-workers and their carpeting and curtains and tools had all been in the bakkie, and I could only imagine the bedlam in that vehicle as it rolled – the confusion, the shouts, the screams of pain as they all tumbled about, and tools
and materials and bodies slammed into each other.
“Mr Mashaba, I’m afraid that I don’t have good news for you,” the doctor said. I gripped Connie’s hand tighter. “Your brother is in a critical condition. Unfortunately, he has sustained severe spinal injuries and, if he’s lucky enough to pull through this precarious period, his chances of ever walking again are slim.”
In spite of the doctor’s grim prognosis, relief coursed through my body – Pobane had made it. I would not have to face my mother or my sisters to tell them that Pobane was dead; I would not have to stand in front of Pobane’s wife, Salome, and their beautiful, wide-eyed young children and tell them that Pobane would not be coming home.
I was so grateful that God had spared Pobane that I visited him in Kalafong every day, ferrying his wife and children there and back, as well as my mother and sisters. I was so thankful that Pobane was alive that I did not even contemplate what it might be like if he had to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. But my relief was short-lived, and a week later Pobane’s condition deteriorated and he passed away. I felt doubly angry and sad – Pobane had survived the car tumbling through the air and landing in a twist of metal, he had survived the delayed journey to the hospital, how could he die now? It was a devastating blow. And, at the end of it all, I did have to stand in front of our grief-stricken family, comforting them and trying to reassure them that things would turn out okay. It was a terrible blow to my mother, losing a son she’d been so close to. And I felt enormous sadness for Salome, who was like a sister to me; she had lost her husband and her family’s breadwinner, and she now faced the stress of having to support her young family.
On the cool spring day of Pobane’s funeral, I battled to come to terms with his death. Pobane was just forty-five years old; I was only twenty-eight. Why did I have to endure this loss at a time when everything else in my life seemed to be going well? My company, Black Like Me, was only three years old, but it was already soaring beyond my wildest dreams; why, then, did my brother have to be taken at such a time? Pobane and I had grown up in the same family, yet our lives had taken very different paths. My star was on the rise, and my brother’s had been snuffed out. As I travelled across the sandy roads of GaRamotse to the funeral, bumping over streets that Pobane and I used to run along as barefooted boys, I found myself wondering about the forces that shape our lives. How did it happen that two young men from the same family – who’d waved greetings to the same neighbours, attended classes in the same wonky school desks, and hidden behind the same trees to avoid being caught by the farmer we stole wood from – how had we come to embark upon two completely different life paths?
Black Like You Page 1
