The Verwoerd who Toyi-Toyied. Melanie Verwoerd
in an amateurish fashion. This was of course extremely dangerous, and people were regularly electrocuted. The community hall’s light was hooked up to five extension cords that were running outside on the wet ground to a comrade’s shack, which was in turn illegally hooked to the mains supply. But every time the owners wanted a cup of tea, the supply to the community hall was disrupted.
The child would report back that the comrade said that he, or someone else, needed a cup of tea and would be done in five minutes. Everyone would murmur understandingly, and then wait quietly in the pitch dark until there was light again. Then the meeting would continue as if nothing had happened.
This was a completely different world for me. I thought how all the people I knew, including my family, would react if they knew I was sitting shoulder to shoulder in the pitch dark in a big shack in Kayamandi. They would be sure that I would be killed. But I felt completely safe – and indeed thrilled by it all. In fact, it struck me that no one took much notice of me or Annie or Rudolf. That was the essence of the ANC: it was truly non-racial. If you joined, you were a comrade, and that was all that counted. Of course, you had to be loyal, but I had expected that, as a white with the surname ‘Verwoerd’, I would have to deal with many questions and suspicions. But there never were any.
Towards the end of the long evening, the elections for the new executive were held. Annie was nominated, but declined because of work pressure. She then nominated me. Before I could protest, the nomination was seconded, hands flew into the air in support, and I was elected. Rudolf, who was secretary, and would become a very close friend, came over and said: ‘Welcome. This is going to be interesting.’
As we drove back through the quiet, wet, oak-lined streets of Stellenbosch, I thought about the contrasts of the day. The results of the white referendum suddenly seemed so irrelevant in the light of the evening I had just experienced. I was now a member of the Stellenbosch ANC executive!
After my election onto the executive, my life became very full. Briefings, organising marches, consulting with our members and signing up new members took much of our time. There were also frequent meetings in the ANC’s little office close to Du Toit Station. The chairperson was Patrick Xegwana, a messenger at the university. He was a strong but quiet leader with a big heart. He lived with his wife and children in a tiny shack in Kayamandi. I had enormous respect for him and was distraught when he drowned a few years later while trying to save his child’s life. Other members were Mpumi Hani (a relative of the Chief of Staff of MK, Chris Hani), Malcolm Ncofe (a teacher), Oom Tom Ncungwa (a trader who sold meat in an open stall on the street in Kayamandi) and Franklin Adams (a fiery coloured guy, who had many small-business ventures). We were later joined by the deeply religious, but equally fiery Faghrie Patel. And of course Rudolf Mastenbroek and I were there too.
Meetings usually started 30 to 45 minutes late (‘African time’ being the excuse), but were extremely structured and organised. There were a few rules: 1. You always spoke through the chair and were not allowed to make personal attacks; 2. Smoking was allowed, but only one person at a time; 3. Everyone got a chance to speak for as long as he or she wanted. But then the meeting decided on the issue at hand – preferably by consensus. And once the meeting had decided, that decision had to be respected. This was equally true of the small meetings of the executive and of the big community meetings. Even though this approach meant that meetings could go on for hours, it taught me valuable lessons about leadership, decision-making and the power of the collective.
We frequently held executive, subcommittee and big community meetings where not only political issues, but also some of the everyday challenges of our members were discussed. I was then sent to do battle on behalf of residents of Kayamandi with the local council, to sort out various concerns such as the lack of water, sanitation and housing. The executive felt that my surname and command of Afrikaans might just help, although I sometimes felt that their anger at this white ‘traitor’ made the white officials even less cooperative.
All this work meant that I was becoming a familiar face around Kayamandi, as was Wilmé. She would often stay with Emily in her house in Kayamandi, playing with Luthando while I was working. This was a source of great interest to the people of Kayamandi. Very few whites ever went to the townships at that stage, and to leave your young child with someone there was simply never done. But I knew that she was safe and that she loved the endless attention from the curious and doting African women. Later, Wian would stay there too: as soon as he could walk, he could not wait to run around the shacks with all the boys and play soccer in the street. Often, when I drove back into the township to pick them up, I would stop the first person I saw and ask them if they knew where my children were. The person would shout to someone a few blocks away, who would shout to others, and within a few seconds we would know where the mlungu children were. Far more efficient than cell phones!
When Emily was busy, Wilmé would come with me to meetings. This usually went well, since most of the women would have their little ones there too. One night, however, things became a bit crowded. We had a small subcommittee meeting, but the person with the key to the office never arrived. The wind was howling so we could not hold the meeting outdoors. Our only option was to have it in Rudolf ’s car, so six of us (and Wilmé) squeezed into his car. The meeting went fine, but Wilmé, who was two years old, was getting restless. She spotted Rudolf chewing bubblegum and ‘whispered’ loudly that she wanted some too. I did not have any, so I interrupted the ‘meeting’ to ask Rudolf if he had any more. He did not. I explained to Wilmé that there was none, but she insisted: ‘Ludolf [as she called him] has some!’ She was getting upset, and no amount of explaining would help. Eventually Franklin said: ‘For God’s sake, Rudolf, spit out the gum and give it to the child.’ Rudolf looked at me, I nodded, and Wilmé sat quietly for the rest of the meeting chewing away on ‘Ludolf ’s’ recycled gum.
Wilmé’s political exposure meant that she quickly imitated some of aspects of the meetings. She knew how to throw her little fist into the air and shout ‘Amandla’ or ‘Viva Mandela’. This she did with gusto, not only at meetings, but every time she saw Mandela or ANC images on TV. She quickly mastered the toyi-toyi, and during the rolling mass action that Mandela called following the breakdown of negotiations, she often came with me on protest marches. She had a standard ‘survival kit’ that always came too. It consisted of at least three dummies (one in her mouth and one for each hand), a teddy bear, and of course her sippy cup with juice. But as soon as the toyi-toying started, she would hand me the dummies, teddy and juice and jump like a pro. One African man once said to me: ‘That piccanin is almost black!’ There were never more than a handful of whites in our marches, so between the dummies and teddy, and my daughter jumping around like a mad thing, we were a sight to behold. To top things off, by this stage I was heavily pregnant with Wian.
Wilmé’s political fervour nearly exposed our involvement in the ANC to Wilhelm’s parents. By now I was truly living a double life. During the day, I was working at the university, but at night and weekends I was Comrade Melanie, and I would spend all my time working for the ANC. Up to this point, no one in the white community, apart from a few ANC members, knew about my involvement in the organisation, and we went to great lengths to hide it from Wilhelm’s parents.
One evening I took Wilmé for a visit to my mother-in-law. I was preparing some supper for Wilmé while she was playing on the carpet, close to her grandparents, who were watching the news. From the kitchen, I suddenly heard the reporter giving an account of an ANC protest march that had taken place that day, and images of toyi-toying young people flashed across the screen. Through the door, I saw Wilmé’s head turning sharply towards the TV. I knew what was coming. I saw her get up and her little fists forming, ready for a big ‘Viva the ANC!’ Even though I was heavily pregnant, I flew into the room and grabbed Wilmé just as she was taking a deep breath. She was so amazed by my swinging her into the air unexpectedly that, thankfully, she lost interest in the TV, and my in-laws were none the wiser.
Although this was a close call, I was silently hoping that they would never find out. I knew they would not approve, but I never anticipated what was about to happen. About a month before Wian was born, the political journal Die Suid-Afrikaan, edited by Chris Louw, had a short paragraph on its back page under the heading ‘A rose by any other name’. The author said that he had heard a rumour that there was a Verwoerd