From rural roots: How education saved me

Born to a woman who was in an arranged marriage. She would often recount how her brother, my uncle, pushed for her to get married as soon as she returned from the Initiation school so the family could have cows- wealth. My mother was the first of three girls and two boys- a small family in our village terms. Imagine the pressure this brought on her. She was doing Form 5, I don’t know what Grade that would be in our time- but she could have become a teacher if her mother willed it- she always used to say.?

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A father who had been a mine worker, and only left the mines after he was injured at Lorraine Gold Mines in 1987 and was confined to a wheelchair for 8 months. My father was very proud to have left school after two years to look after his grandfather’s livestock. He was an only boy child- it was his duty to fulfil. After he returned from the mountain, he had to go work in the mines in Gauteng, then helped by Teba, which was established in 1902 to assist the chamber of mines to source labour from the villages and neighbouring countries to work for peanuts in the mines for enough to pay the homeland imposed tax, along with bo mphato who had been at the same initiation school with him.

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Me, a sister to 7 brothers, the oldest having died in infancy due to illness, in a homestead and a village of single but married women headed households. Well, the abled men were working in the mines and the towns. There was barely any youth, except for the maloabe- the vagabonds and the herd boys. There was just no one to look up to. Imagine growing up there, a village of children, mothers, and grandparents. The only car you see is a Dyna truck that drives by on Thursday midmorning, once every two weeks selling fresh milk and mafi. Once in a blue moon, an aeroplane would fly over- so far up in the sky it looked like it was the size of a small bird- but the roar of the engine was unmistakable. We would shout as loud as our lungs would allow, asking that it brings us sweets. Our grandparents had told us that many years ago, an aeroplane had flown over so low they could see it, dropping red corn millies and seeds for them to plant after a season of drought. The drought was so bad, that the wind had brought red dust as it blew across the countryside. That year was called, selemo sa lerwele le lefubelu (the year of the red dust).

As a child, life was simple, everyone had tasks, responsibilities and a reason to wake up. From when I was old enough to crawl, I knew I had to scare away the birds and chickens from eating the mabele (sorghum) placed on a moseme in the sun to dry, graduating to keeping the baby chicks safe from the phakoe-I don’t know what this bird is called in English, maybe you can help me- hovering over the village preying on them.

In the plantation season August/September, normally after the first rains, everyone had a task in the fields, to bring water or motoho close to the elders working. We we would eat likhukhu (ground nuts) and make a nice juice from modilalilane (a type of a wood sorrel) to quench our thirst as we rested under a peach tree planted for shade in the middle of the field.

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Next was school. This was of utmost importance to my mother. Her only girl was to never end up like her, sehoai (a farmer), married with children, hardworking and uneducated. So, I started school much earlier than the rest of the other kids in our village. Because it was far to walk to, even further for other children, I was lucky, I never had to cross a river- parents always delayed sending their kids to school until they were at least old enough to walk the journey and be able to look after themselves while there. Unlike my parents who had to use slates to write on, we had pencils and books. There were books to read- I do not remember some of the titles my mother read to me. She was obsessed with teaching me. She would but me in between her thighs with a book in front of us- read one line and ask me to read after her. If I missed a word, she would pinch me between the legs- the soft flesh there would be so sore, a gush of heat to my face, and I would hold a tear back, and try again until I got it. I had to get it. My mother would not let me give up. So, a journey of learning started. In the winter, the cold, and the snow, through the rains in summer- and the bullying, which ended one day when my brother beat up one of the other learners for looking at me funny, made this girl.

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At school there were the teachers who resembled some level of success- well there was also that one who was always drunk wearing a leather jacket every day, in winter and summer, was always late for class, if he made it at all, an odd policeman and soldier you will see when there were stolen livestocks. If you were lucky when you got sick, you would have gone to the hospital and seen a nurse or met a Dr Madinga or Dr Thusi at the local surgery. In my case, two of my bo Rakhali (my father’s sisters, I refuse to call them aunts) were nurses, they lived far away and we only saw them when there were big feasts or my father was around- which was once every other December- traveling to the village was expensive for him. He would also have to save for all the things that were broken and needed fixing my mother would have written about in a letter to him. These were the only careers within reach. I don’t remember ever wanting to be anything else other than teaching children. Much like my mother taught me. If I was lucky, I would become a Primary or High school teacher- but that was unimaginable. We didn't have enough money for me to go that far in my schooling.

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There was just never enough money at home. The money ntate sent and the phephezela money Mme made from selling sorghum beer was not enough. I never thought?about?riches and wealth, everyone in my community had the same things, and struggled for more or less the same things, with the exception of very few families- inequality was just not a thing. We had two rondavels and a huis in the centre, a kraal full of cows, a smaller one for the goats and the sheep, a chicken run full of chickens that laid eggs we hardly ever ate. Oh, by the way, when my father was around in that one odd December, he ate eggs every other day up to three sometimes- can you imagine. In village terms, we were okay. My mother even had pigs which we would slaughter and sell every winter. We had land where I saw first-hand the power my mother and the women, well yes, with the help of the men that remained in the village had during the letsema when the plantation season started after the first rains in Loetse (September) turning the ground with oxen.

While I never went to bed hungry, I didn’t have school shoes, I carried my school books with my hands, if lucky, they’d be a checkers that Mme would have brought after a full day’s trip to the village town to get Holsum- it kind of resembled ts’otso, salt, sugar and if we were lucky some tin fish and Snowflake Cake Flour- not to bake cake, for steamed bread- My mother always said it was too fresh to flop. But if I was really really lucky, at least once a year, I would get the Tastic rice bag, usually around Christmas time, it made for a durable school bag, and would last me until the first break for the year in March at least.

This lack defined my primary and high school years- but it did not take away my hunger for knowledge. If there was something to read, I read it, there’s no stopping. After dropping out of four qualifications at university, and having given up all together, I had thought I was a failure, that like the rest of my age-mates who we were in the city, I too would have to look for a job as a cleaner, and if lucky, with a matric certificate and my ability to speak English, I would be a receptionist and or a clerk. But I got lucky, I met people along the journey, people who saw my potential and gave me a break. I eventually got a Diploma in Journalism, and this changed my life. And now I am dreaming of earning a PHD. I dream of being a CEO. I teach university students. Who would have inspired me to be this version of myself?