Putco Mafani: The Price and Prize of Greatness. Putco Mafani
one in discovering one’s own potential. Truth be told, we are not grasshoppers but indeed a species that carries inherently the seeds of greatness. The sprouting and the successful germination of the seed require certain basic elements. The absence of a beautiful plant does not mean the absence of the seed. It may mean, as it often does, the absence of a conducive environment.
We all have stories that we may take for granted and see as isolated and meaningless incidents. Putco’s story forces us to see in our stories a dynamic thread that runs seamlessly throughout our life’s episodes. What constitutes a tree and distinguishes it from a stone is not its height or its size but its nature. So it is with greatness. It is not the size or the popularity, but a life that has been lived and that, in the process, encouraged others to do the same.
Indeed, greatness can assume different definitions. What is the difference between the experiences of the author at Bethel as bell-ringer and as one of the organising members of the 2010 FIFA World Cup? Both represent different shapes of greatness – one in an obscure village at an unknown school and the other in a space that was open to the whole world. It is here that we see that greatness is an attitude and not just an achievement. It is being and doing your best every day and is characterised by deliberate excellence. It can be said that, for Putco, greatness manifested itself on different platforms: at Radio Ciskei, Umhlobo Wenene and Kaizer Chiefs, and on TV. However, those platforms do not create greatness but afford it an opportunity to blossom.
Looking at Putco’s journey, we learn to appreciate the value of those who are in many ways responsible for the seed of greatness pulsating in our lives. These are our family members, our parents, our relatives. What we see in them compels us to appreciate what is in us. We acknowledge that, for the better part, what is in us has nothing to do with us; it was planted and all it needs is nourishment. Our home influences have a lot to do with how effectively we navigate life.
Putco takes us on a journey away from home and we see him carving a home away from home in both good and trying circumstances. As we can see from Putco’s life, success, while a darling to many, can easily be a detestable foe. Many lives have been crucified on the pinnacle of success. But through the eyes of Putco, we see that such episodes of success can serve as passages to greater heights instead of being drawbacks.
We also observe that difficulties along the journey do not always mean you are on the wrong path. These are sometimes thrown in our way to prevent us from reaching the intended destination. But in them, again, we see the training ground and stepping-stones for further exploits and growth. Difficulties come in many shapes and sizes; some are thrown at us, but the worst are those we invite into our lives.
Now read this book and, if all goes well, you will realise your own greatness and may be inspired to write your own story. For, you see, true greatness is not achieved but realised – this is one of those books that will assist you in your own self-discovery.
Part One
My Life Story
GRACE ONE
Born in Bhofolo, will he rise above?
The first question people ask me is: does your name have anything to do with the bus company? Let me tell you straight off: it has nothing to do with the bus company. It’s a nickname that my creative amajita – friends – extracted from my name, Mputumi. I’m still not quite sure how.
Abazali baseBhofolo, apho ndizalelwe khona, kodwa babesirobha ekuthiyeni abantwana. – Parents in Bhofolo, where I was born, really cheated us when it came to naming children. They would just throw names together without thinking. A name can get you far in life. With a good name, you can go even further. Many of my childhood friends disowned their nicknames when they grew up. They demanded to be known by the names in their ID books.
I was lucky to get the name Mputumi from my grandfather. I recall in my neighbourhood were ladies like Nomhontso; Pinkisi, my sister; the late Nomanyhwebenyhu; sister to Nomalhese, Hanana.
But, classics, imasterpieces, were boys’ names. Just hear: Qekwana, cousin to Mpukwana, the older brother of Snutu and Stekana. Yho, Rhabaxana, Maqwili, Vondoyi, Tsetse, Nopliplipli, Notsukumetse, Mazantsana, Ngiphi, Khalakanqosi and Maxuku! There was Bhut’ Wende’s family with Star Bonza and their sons were Xolani, Noqhwitsinini, Jubhulu, Mpuku and Ngada. At the back was the family of Bhut’ Bhevana and Mphakamisi.
Not far from our house, kwaGontsi, was my close friend and classmate Cingo’s home and that of Bhut’ Nogwaja, a great rugby player who starred with Ntsholweni, Naderi, Cipoti, Nkenke, Makade, Dlekhwina and Madwans.
Sis’ Nomanzithinzithi held high the spirit of true township entrepreneurship in my neighbourhood, selling the best ginger beer. Pastor Magalela and Tat’ Gavi owned shops that competed with others like Sxikixiki, Ntlonyana, Srhetshe, Qeqe, Maneli, Phuthumani and Mazembe.
My relatives who lived on the surrounding farms had great but strange names: Nokineri, Nothonqo, Mbishe, Bhekreza, Dabawo Nonjini, Magundu, Parafini, Qokobhe, Manqatha, Makhulu Nomgagase, Nomayephuyephu, Nontelezi, Ngqendeva, Dikidane, Rhabane, Nanqotho, Rhuza, Gqam, Sinyewunyewu, Nontshaba. I loved them all. There was also Nontakumbana owayaengumlumkazi – a white girl – and Katana and Kati, my uncle’s twins.
I grew up among these people, sharing the same values. Their language was my language, and their names depicted the kind of place we came from – Bhofolo. It was not far from Komani, formerly Queenstown.
Bhofolo is my home. We affectionately call it MaBhofie. Another name is Fourteen. Fourteen because it is the fourteenth station from Port Elizabeth. A station with its own sound. The sound of rushing footsteps. When I was growing up, travelling by train was just about the only reliable and safe mode of public transport. Bhofolo was far from the developing city of Port Elizabeth and very far from the bright lights and city life of Johannesburg. But even those in Jozi probably knew about my small place, ‘indawo yamageza’ – ‘a place of mad people!’
This description also occurs in the late Zim Ngqawana’s song, ‘eBhofolo’. A line goes: ‘Kukude eBhofolo indawo yamageza’ – ‘Bhofolo is far, a place of mad people.’ Actually, he was singing about the mental health hospital for which Bhofolo is known: Tower Psychiatric Hospital. But in the streets you did not see mad people. Maybe a few crazy ones, especially after they’d had a few drinks.
One of the things about Bhofolo was that it had a number of big hospitals: the Winterberg Santa Centre Hospital for tuberculosis patients being one of them. It was there where my mother, whom I referred to as uSisi or Oulady, worked as a nurse. Part of the reason for these hospitals was the link with Fort Hare University in nearby Alice. Staff and students, especially health sciences students from the university, used Bhofolo as an external residence.
These days every time I walk past the Fort Beaufort Hospital – formerly the General Provincial Hospital – in Bhofolo, I am reminded of Mama’s stories about my birth. About how I voiced my entrance into this world.
* * *
Let me go back to the beginning. I was born on 5 August 1964 at the end of a gruellingly cold winter. Temperatures had dropped below 10°C – as they do most winters – and there was snow on the mountains of Nkonkobe. In summer, of course, there are heatwaves with temperatures soaring to 38°C?
I am the third child. My older siblings are my sister Ntombentsha Mafani, known as Ntshantsha, and my brother known as Doctor Mafani, someone who once dreamt of being a medical doctor.
Once my mother and I left the hospital where I was born, we lived in my grandfather Mlungwana’s house in the township, kwaDudu (formerly Dorrington). My grandfather had inherited indlu kaNdabangaye eselokishini – Ndabangaye’s house. To me this has always been significant. Ndabangaye was of the Bawana family, emaTshaweni – his clan name. His mother was from the aMacirha clan. He kept his mother’s surname, our surname, Mafani, and his father’s clan name, Tshawe. He built his huge family a house in a small, semi-rural village called Drayini.
Ndabangaye was a man with an incomparable entrepreneurial spirit. He aspired to rise above his circumstances. In fact,