Putco Mafani: The Price and Prize of Greatness. Putco Mafani
who was not a newcomer. They initiated the newcomers. There were good Qoqos and bad Qoqos. Umsila was anyone who arrived after us.
Generally boarding schools were known for the rough induction of the first-year students. The ill-treatment of newcomers was a well-documented and widely accepted phenomenon. Many newcomers felt the wrath of AmaQoqo during this induction. I could not escape it but was helped a bit by my talent as an aspirant radio presenter. These skills were already taking shape. I was put in a lockable cupboard, on the pretext that I was a radio. AmaQoqo would pretend to switch on this radio and I would present different sorts of radio programmes: from the news in isiXhosa and English to sports bulletins and request programmes. I would even present commentaries of the Soweto Derby matches: Kaizer Chiefs versus Orlando Pirates. Stretching my imagination, I would take the listening AmaQogo to Orlando Stadium or Ellis Park Stadium for these matches. They seemed more than happy to listen.
This happened for the whole of 1978 and beyond until I also fell in love with it and volunteered to do it even when AmaQoqo had not asked for it. I even enjoyed these enforced imaginary outings, and later this led to me commentating on the school’s football matches played on school grounds. We called the grounds the ‘Phelandaba Stadium’ even though it did not have stands. The staff and learners would line the field and watch different sports. The quality that came out of those matches made it feel as though we were at a stadium.
If my team was not playing, then my next best thing was to commentate. I would sometimes record the commentary on a tape cassette and play it back when I was alone to see where I needed to improve. Ironically, when AmaQoqo abused me as a newcomer by locking me into the radio cupboard, they were launching my radio career.
At Bethel, the only other boy I knew was my cousin Mpendulo Rojie. I clung to him and followed him everywhere he went. Soon enough I adapted to the school and enjoyed the feeling of independence, of having to take care of myself, of washing my clothes, ironing them, and packing them away neatly.
It was at Bethel College that I became close to Nokuzola. It was good to know that in Mzana – the girls’ dormitory – I had a sister in Nokuzola. For instance, when dining, she would give me things with which to season the food. Sometimes, samp and beans would be served like that, cooked with water and salt but no other food flavouring. Nokuzola would share with me iziqholo – food flavouring – to make it at least edible. We used to call this ukuyitoner, ukuyiboner – to buff it or freshen it up. This made something like umngqusho ubentubilulu kamnandi. The samp tasted better with, for instance, Holsum amafutha – Holsum pure white cooking fat and Aromat.
Sometimes when we boys got imitowno – food flavouring – we would give it to the girls to look after. I would simply go to the dining hall with my spoon to collect a helping. Some of the boys who did not have sisters there or girlfriends kept imitowno yabo – their own food flavourings. Boys stole from each other’s’ imitowno. Sometimes, even when going to class, we would carry our spoons in our pockets. Once I dropped my spoon, which landed noisily on the tiles. Everyone turned, looked at me and would not stop making fun of this incident.
My friends started dropping spoons during church. Church was compulsory on Saturdays. When we felt that a preacher was talking too long and making us sleepy with an incomprehensible message, qhwinkilili – the sound of a spoon dropped by one of us. And when the spoon dropped, the rest of amajita – my friends – said ‘Amen’. We became notorious for this.
I was the bell-ringer. The first bell I rang every morning was the rising bell at five o’clock. After this I would ring the six-thirty bell for prayers. I ran my life ten or fifteen minutes ahead of everyone else. Even when I was doing classwork, I had to make sure that I finished five minutes early so that I could ring the bell on time. I did not even have to report to the teachers, as they knew I was the bell-ringer. My watch had to be synchronised with the school’s clock. This was important to illustrate my passion for time. I was the boss when it came to time management. And this instilled in me a great sense of leadership and discipline. We had a long bell that I used to pull down with a rope. Nkqe, nkqe, nkqe, nkqe, nkqe – the sound of the bell. Five times signalled the end of the period. Then I would wait to ring the bell for the beginning of the next period. The system gave the learners and the teachers three to five minutes to get from one class to the next class. Once that was done, I would move swiftly to my class.
In my first year at Bethel I did not think about becoming a bell-ringer. I admired it from a distance because ndandingumsila – I was a newcomer. In Grade 10 (Form 3), I was elected a prefect and continued in this position. The first time I rang the bell, I was standing in for someone. I did it diligently, and the school was impressed. The principal then asked me to take over and I was a bell-ringer at Bethel for about five years.
My friends always had suggestions about ringing the bell. I never entertained these. No one would interfere with the system, not even the school’s principal. This also taught me to respect assignments regardless of how I felt, and whether I was sick or not. Neither rain nor lightning, neither heat nor wind, could prevent me from fulfilling this responsibility on the hour.
I fulfulled my responsibility even when there was a strike. From time to time the students would strike about fundamental human rights. For instance, the rights to warm water, to good food, to fresh bread. It was mainly the boys who went on strike. But I was fulfilling a role and the entire system could not be compromised.
Usually a strike involved staying in the dormitory. I would ring the bell and go back to the dormitory. Even though the bell signalled the change of periods, during a strike these were on hold. This sent a powerful message to the authorities. Only the girls would be on the move from classroom to classroom. Many times, when the issue was diet-related, the boys would go on a hunger strike. We would not go to the dining hall to eat the rubbish we were being dished up. Sometimes a decision to strike would be made at the dining hall. Then we would spill our food on the floor. Ibenguqhu saa nje! – it would be chaos! Plates upside down. Imingqusho edongeni – cooked samp splashed on the walls.
During one of our strikes, we threatened to damage some property. (Before I got to Bethel, a strike had ended in the boys burning a dormitory.) We were also singing freedom songs. The principal called the Butterworth police. When we got wind of this, a few of us escaped through the back of the campus by jumping over the fence. We could see the dust of the police cars on the gravel road.
With Clement Moya (Dube), I walked through the bushes and through amasimi – plantation fields – to the village called Rwantsana. We were wearing private clothes and not the school uniform. When we arrived at the road from Centane to Butterworth, sabetha ubhontsi – we started hitchhiking. We soon got a lift. As the car passed our school, the men in the car asked us, ‘Kwenzeka ntoni apha kwaSirayeli?’ – ‘What is happening in Israel?’ (Israel was a nickname for the school that I shall explain later.) I elbowed Clement not to say anything. He was Swati-speaking. If they heard his accent, they would realise we were from Bethel. Clement took the hint and didn’t say a word.
They dropped us off and we walked through Msobomvu High School and township, right up to the N2, where it connected to Butterworth and Idutywa. We were going to Idutywa, to the Ngozwana family. Clement and Bra Mnce (Mncedise Ngozwana) sang in the same music group. Clement played bass guitar, and Bra Mnce played piano.
Then a white Ford Sierra with no wheel caps approached. I was immediately suspicious. It didn’t have the police XP registration number but I still did not trust that they were private citizens. I said to Clement, ‘Hey hey hey hey hey, yeke idlule.’ – ‘Hey hey hey hey hey, let it go past.’ Mna ndazulisa ndajonga phantsi – I looked down trying to avoid them when I realised that it was a police vehicle.
By this time, Clement had stopped the car. In the back seat were some of our guys. When they saw Clement and me, they called out and the police realised we belonged to the school and arrested us. So much for our attempted escape. It was now late afternoon, we were hungry, and we had been arrested in this stupid way. Kwashiyeka uMzana wodwa – only girls from Mzana, the girls’ dormitory, remained on campus.
I remember a Captain Damoyi at the police station. He hit us on the heads with a stick to sit. ‘Guqa phantsi’ – ‘Sit down,’ he shouted. Among us was