Starlight in the Ring (8 page)

“Good night, girls,” I say.

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.

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.

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
’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.

It’s bad of me to be happy because Baas’ sheep died delivering a lamb. Whenever an animal dies, Baas gives it to us to eat. We have loads of meat and we’re also able to share with other farm labourers. Well, I can’t help it; one man’s meat is another man’s poison.

We’re having a kind of a celebration today with our visitors sitting outside having a barbecue, although my parents are unable to entertain them fully. The smoke is thick in the atmosphere, and the smell of barbecue is mouth-watering. Sadly, my Mum and Dad are unable to stay with our guests; that’s a shame.
They pop in to see that everybody is all right, eating meat, peaches and drinking homemade ginger-beer, and then return to their usual farm-jobs. Baas should be happier since they are not neglecting their duties. A bowl of yellow peaches is put in the middle of the circle, for those people who want to help themselves. Aunty Rose starts singing songs in her distinctive voice, one after another, and the others join in. I stand by the door listening and watching them sing
Happy Skoonfontein
and dancing with sweat dripping down into their eyes. They don’t seem bothered by this, as they wipe it off with the back of their hands. Others blow their noses, and wipe off their hands on the grass or their clothes.

A young man, half naked, with a red cap on, is playing an accordion. He plays with his eyes shut but manages to press all the buttons, playing a beautiful melody. The farm-workers appear happy, dancing many different kinds of dances. I’m fascinated with one where they form a circle and then take turns dancing in the middle, doing all kinds of tricks, lifting their legs up, one after another. Some men are great at vibrating their bodies from their legs to their shoulders. Women tend to concentrate on moving their waists.

“Huh, what are you doing?” The volume of the music is so
high and to make things worse some people are aiding the rhythm, yelling, “yep, yep, yeah.” I shout louder, “No” putting my right hand under my chin, surprised as Uncle Dover goes behind Aunty Maud’s back, moving his waist towards her buttocks and then drops his upper body to the right and left. They receive a round of applause. I find it absolutely disgusting for grown-ups to dance like that. Uncle Witvoet turns his head, waves at me, before filling a glass with ginger-beer. He finds a space and sits down drinking.

Both men and women take turns beating the drums. These are made from cut diesel containers, and then covered on both sides with dry cattle skin. They paint them bright colours and attach a strong string to go around the neck and hold them up. Women shake improvised tambourines. They dance alone and in pairs, gently smacking each other’s backsides. They are very loud. It’s a real happy day in Skoonfontein for them.

As for me, I know what I want – to be in school daily and hear Mistress Barlow shout, “Children, read your books. You need the best possible education!” Miss Barlow is a tall skinny lady with a friendly, echoing voice, sharp nose and grey curly hair. She often wears dark-brown attire and high-heeled shoes and never misses wearing her red lip stick. Her black-framed spectacles suit her long face. She is my outstanding teacher and I always miss her when we are apart.