Putco Mafani: The Price and Prize of Greatness. Putco Mafani
hit him on the head with the stick, he said, ‘I don’t bow before man, I bow before God.’ Yerr, uCaptain Damoyi wamshaya ke ngoku – Captain Damoyi really hit him hard on his head. And folokohlo – down he went. It was a really disturbing experience, being at that police station.
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Another issue that was becoming increasingly disturbing was my bed-wetting problem. If there were times when I felt life was unfair and I was persecuted by some kind of inferiority complex I had to overcome, it was due to ukuchama – bed-wetting. I continued bed-wetting for about three to four years on campus even though I was ashamed of the daily ritual of taking my mattress out to dry in the sun. On rainy days it was a big problem.
I was not the only one. I remember another young chap from Cape Town I called Stof, who unfortunately died many years ago. We would at times laugh at our situation, and this was when we gave it the nickname: ukushafula – bed-wetting.
Stof would check when the boys had finally left the dormitory for the prayer session before he took out his mattress. One morning, he said to me, ‘I see you taking out your mattress. Have you got the same problem as me?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I will show you a place where we can put our mattresses.’
Sasidibana kula ndawo kubekwa kuyo umatrass. We met in the place where we put our mattresses to dry. The fact that there were Stof and a few others did not give me much satisfaction, as I did not regard myself as belonging to this group that wet their beds.
Let me jump ahead a year to 1979 in this bed-wetting saga. I was now a fully baptised member of the church. I’d been baptised in 1979 by a great man who was my mentor as a young boy, Professor Solomon Lebese. Even after the baptism, I continued to shafula at school.
My mother and elders knew about ukushafula before I went to Bethel. But iqine lento ndiseBethel – it became worse when I got to Bethel. I wrote about this in several letters to my mother.
I remember over the June holidays one year, my mom was advised by some elderly persons in her husband’s larger family. Their attempt to remedy the condition was to suggest I should go and have imbeleko done – a ceremony to introduce a child to ancestors. Dlamini, my mother’s husband, suggested that we approach the Tolo family. During the school holidays, I was taken to one of the villages on the periphery of Bhofolo, called KwaNondyola. What I remember very well is that kwakusemaTolweni – the Tolo family share my biological father’s clan name.
They had made plans for me to visit the amaTolo family in KwaNondyola and there an African traditional ritual was performed for me. A goat was slaughtered so I could eat my portion and the bed-wetting problem could go away. Maybe, had I been a believer in the process, it might have helped. I was young and desperate to get help but still did not believe this was for me. It did not help.
However, back at school, ukushafula carried on even more. This had a negative impact on my self-esteem. I was badly shaken and although I wanted better grades between Grade 8 and Grade 12, the bed-wetting stigma was quietly eating me up inside. Those in my class did not know. Nor did those I sang with, those I played football and volleyball with, and those I socialised with. Nonetheless, it eroded my self-confidence and esteem.
Although I was active as a bell-ringer, a singer in church and eventually a prefect, the bed-wetting affected my confidence. I was always silently praying that this thing of ukushafula would not leak to eMzana, the girls’ dormitory. I salute my friends and others who knew and kept this matter to the boys’ dormitory.
One day, on a staff and student shopping day, I decided to go to Butterworth Hospital. I dodged my friends by saying I needed to be at the bank. At the hospital I got a consultation with Dr Maliza who explained an anomaly with my hormones, which was causing my muscles above the bladder to relax when I was asleep. He put me on a treatment of tablets for weeks, and guess what? Bang! Just at the doorstep of my matric exams, ukushafula went away and has never come back. I am only okay with talking about it now because I went through it and it is in the past.
There were some notorious older boys who would mock me sometimes in the dining hall in front of the girls, shouting something like, ‘Hey, don’t forget that situation,’ referring to taking out the mattress. As fate would have it, I now sometimes come across those chaps. But I am a different man now.
Putco’s padkos
I may have been a newcomer at Bethel with huge anxiety, but I was not going to shy away from interacting with others and learning as much as I could. What Bethel taught all of us was the importance of hard work through a system called ‘labour’ or ‘manual work’. During the week we were expected to work for two hours in different fields. Some worked at the carpentry workshop, some in the motor mechanic department, some with campus maintenance and gardening services, some as semi-skilled electrician labourers, some in the kitchen, some at the school farm, some as painting artisans, and the list goes on. The setback of bed-wetting was not going to define me. Don’t allow any challenges you may be experiencing to classify you.
GRACE SIX
Leadership at Bethel
At Bethel College, I was among young boys from all over South Africa and that helped open my mind to children and people of different languages, ethnic groups and cultures. We studied mostly with bigger and older boys. One was my friend Bandla Mbali, a handsome and smart boy from East London. You could see by the way he dressed that he was from a well-off family. He and I were the same height and had Afros, dimples and small eyes.
Another friend, Thabo Motea, was a toughie. He loved exercising. He was fit and strong like a weightlifter. He played soccer. Then there was the tall and dark Thembile Msuseni. We called him Star Black. He had brown eyes and came from Cape Town. Next was the short Monde Makola, a Butterworth boy who lived on campus. He was the son of a gospel minister, Pastor Makola.
Although the school discouraged Butterworth learners from living in their homes, they were relaxed about Monde’s access to his home. This meant that we could go to his home during what were called staff and student shopping days. Even when we did not have money, we could go to Monde’s house and have a full meal there. This included meat, which was not offered at Bethel. The school was strictly vegetarian. For the nine years I was at Bethel I was almost a vegetarian. I would get meat only at Monde’s and during school holidays when I went home.
Meat was quite a big thing for me. At some of the houses of my big family, we did not wait to eat meat only on Sundays or at month-end. My big family slaughtered from time to time, not only during traditional ceremonies. Meat would be prepared for our own family feast. Many times, we slaughtered to celebrate achievements as a family.
Eating fresh meat ensured that I could walk long distances to fetch cattle or to herd goats. Walking such long distances also helped me when it came to sports.
But back to my friends. Liphatsa Ramano was tall and handsome, light in complexion, and had an Afro. And you could also see that he was from a well-off family, as his clothes were expensive. Wayebhampa eskoloweni xa ehamba – he had an extra bounce in his walk at school. Monde Tyusha was a smart, quiet fellow of the Gqugqugqu clan. He was also a Butterworth boy. Handsome Mahlasela was no relation to Vusi Mahlasela. His parents nearly got it right by giving him the name. Compared with my other friends, he was not handsome, but he was also not ugly. He was from Soweto. We are still in touch. Sibusiso Tshabalala was the son of the late AmaMpondo princess Stella Sigcau, who was then the Republic of Transkei’s Minister of Telecommunications and went on to become the Prime Minister. I have fond memories of the few times she would arrive at campus to visit her children Sibusiso and Nombulelo.
From the boys’ dormitory we had the advantage of seeing all the cars that went to visit the girls’ dormitory and the administration block. When Minister Sigcau’s entourage approached, we would lay our towels on the dusty street for the minister’s car to drive over while we formed a ‘guard of honour’, whistling, ululating like women and singing crazily. This occurred every time there was a delegation from the Great Place eMngqesha paying a visit to the late King yamaRharhabe. His Majesty Maxhoba Ayakhawuleza Sandile was at the same dormitory with us. And we did it