The Verwoerd who Toyi-Toyied. Melanie Verwoerd
up to find the South African doctor who had saved my life next to my bed. He reassured me in a strong South African accent that everything was going to be fine. He then told me that the Berlin Wall had fallen while I was unconscious! I stayed in hospital for ten days before flying home to South Africa (on the suggestion of the doctors in Oxford) to recover. This gave Wilhelm, who was trying to study for his finals, a much-needed break. We were of course very concerned about the impact my illness had had on my tiny foetus, but a scan in Cape Town showed all three centimetres of her moving around happily.
The rest of the pregnancy was challenging. I returned to Oxford in January, but had to be admitted to hospital on three other occasions. I had no further difficulties with the porphyria, but had three more kidney stones. I was looked after by a high-risk team in the John Radcliffe Hospital and got world-class care from the NHS.
In between all the hospital visits, on 11 February 1990, we sat with a few college friends in their kitchen watching for hours a tiny TV screen showing the gates of Victor Verster Prison in Paarl. Finally Madiba appeared on the screen – a free man. We wept and hugged each other, overwhelmed with joy and wishing we were home. We knew it was time to go back to South Africa, but there was one more momentous event that had to take place before we could leave Oxford behind.
Shortly after Wilhelm’s finals, at the end of June 1990, Wilmé was born. It was agreed that I would be induced, but after sixteen hours of labour, Wilmé went into distress and an emergency C-section was performed. Thankfully, I was awake during the birth; I’d had an epidural earlier. Just before midnight, they lifted Wilmé over the screen covering my tummy. It was the most magical moment of my life. She did not cry, but a little tear ran down her left cheek. I had a strong sensation that I recognised her – that I would have recognised her among other babies as my child. Before I could hold her, my blood pressure suddenly dropped dramatically. Feeling that I was about to lose consciousness, I said to the anaesthetist: ‘I’m going, I’m going!’
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Heaven, I hope,’ I managed to joke, before everything turned black.
A while later, I woke to the voices of doctors urging me to look at my baby. This had the necessary impact and I regained consciousness – and held Wilmé for the first time. I stayed in hospital for a week, watching the World Cup in Italy (where both England and Ireland progressed to the final stages), in between recovering, and of course doting on my beautiful new baby.
4
Three weeks after Wilmé’s birth, Wilhelm and I returned to South Africa. Although we were excited to go back, for me it was a sad farewell to Oxford. Apart from the usual hormone-driven days after the birth of my first baby, I was also unsure about what was waiting for us back in South Africa. Mandela had just been released, but violence was escalating daily. Family and friends were anxious about the future (if any) for whites, and the economy was on its knees.
To make matters worse, conscription was still in force. Wilhelm had so far avoided doing military service by studying, but we knew that the moment he returned to South Africa, he would have to do his time (which had recently been reduced from two years to six months) or face six years in jail. Politically this posed a huge dilemma, since much military activity was in the townships, directed against the struggle – a cause we believed in.
On a personal level, I was unhappy about being left on my own with Wilmé while trying to adjust to life back in South Africa.
In the weeks before we left, Wilhelm received various calls from head-hunters for British companies, but in the end we both knew we would not stay in Britain. We wanted to go back to our roots. We wanted to make a difference, however small, during the transition. Above all, we felt that we had received much from a country with a system that benefited us while discriminating against others, and that we had a duty to give something back.
In the end, we nearly did not make it back to South Africa. For some bizarre reason, between packing, breastfeeding, saying goodbye and recovering from the birth, I never thought about the fact that Wilmé might need a passport. I just assumed that the birth certificate would be sufficient for her to travel with us. Two days before our planned departure, I went for my last postnatal check-up at the John Radcliffe Hospital. In the waiting room, I chatted to a mum next to me about our imminent departure. She mentioned something about a passport for Wilmé, and it dawned on me that we might have a problem. This set off a wild panicked trip to London, and after a lot of begging at the South African embassy on Trafalgar Square, we got a travel document for Wilmé.
Back in South Africa, we settled into an apartment around the corner from my parents’ home, and about ten minutes away from Wilhelm’s parents. I found being back very difficult. While Wilhelm went to work every day – he quickly got a job as a lecturer in the Department of Philosophy at the University of Stellenbosch – I was at home with our little baby. Even though I was besotted with Wilmé, I was bored and claustrophobic – not only in the flat but also in South Africa. I found people’s attitudes very small-minded and I missed Oxford. I wanted at least to try and finish my thesis, but between household chores and not sleeping, I did not make much progress. This caused a lot of conflict with Wilhelm. It shocked me how happy he was to accept the traditional gender divisions – reminding me that he was the breadwinner and needed to prepare for the next day’s lectures in the evening, and rest during the night. I was deeply unhappy.
Fortunately, the South African parliament finally put an end to conscription just weeks before Wilhelm was due to report for duty. Although I was thankful for this, I sometimes wondered if I would have noticed if Wilhelm had not been at home. I needed something to do – a challenge. So I decided to build a house. Since Wilhelm’s job was not well paid and we did not have a lot of money, we bought at an auction a plot of land in a beautiful new development called Paradyskloof. We designed a simple house with the idea of extending it later. We did not have the money to employ a builder, so I took charge of hiring labourers and ordering all the supplies. We were building during the hottest time of the year, and with six-month-old Wilmé on my hip it was hard going. Wilmé thought it was the funniest thing in the world to spit her dummy into wet cement and then wait for the shocked ‘yo-yo-yo’ cries of the African tradesmen, who would run to rinse it off. I had wanted a challenge, and I got one.
Despite keeping the budget extremely low (I think I built the house for the equivalent of just over R100 000), it soon became clear that we would not survive on Wilhelm’s salary. Having grown up in an academic household, I knew that a lecturer’s salary was not huge but that you could live comfortably on it. But Wilhelm’s was very low, partly because he was at entry level and had not finished his doctorate, and also because a more discretionary system was now in place. I felt Wilhelm should at least ask for more money, but he would not. Our different attitudes to money would become a major source of tension throughout our marriage. I had to find a job. In principle I wanted to work, but between looking after the baby, planning to finish my thesis and building the house, it was difficult to see what I could do.
Eventually I found a part-time position as an assistant in the university library, a post I shared with another mother. I hated the job. I found it mind-numbing dealing with grumpy students, and packing and sorting books. To make matters worse, I was paid the minimum wage (R5.60 per hour). Day after day, I would watch the clock and count the few cents I was making as the time ticked by. I knew I could not do this for long, and a frustration and determination grew in me. I will not do this for the rest of my life, I kept thinking. To make matters worse, Wilhelm seemed to be moving forward, researching, lecturing, publishing and going to conferences. In everyone’s eyes, he was the next generation of Verwoerds: hyper-intelligent and destined for big things. I, on the other hand, was Mrs Wilhelm Verwoerd.
Luckily, there were some lighter moments. One day, after dropping Wilmé with Wilhelm’s mum, I rushed to the library. Already late for my shift, I searched for my security tag to get through the security gate, but could not find it. I knew it was somewhere in my messy handbag, so I started unpacking the bag on the table next to the gate. Out came a baby bottle, a night nappy, a few biscuits, a squashed banana, a few dry diapers for Wilmé, two dummies, my wallet and keys – all covered in traces of baby hands and something sticky. At some point, I heard a giggle behind me. Turning