Child Of This Soil – My Life As A Freedom Fighter – Letlapa Mphahlele (1)

His eyes flickered with deadly resolve. “Do you seri- ously expect to defeat the Boers when you still do old-age-home exer- cises? Boer commandos train till they collapse from dehydration. If we are to defeat them, we have to do more than that. No more civilian life in this camp. From now it’s going to be tough-a-rough-rough and rough and rough!” His last “rough” was grunted menacingly as he dismissed the pa- rade. Tough-a-rough echoed in my ears the rest of the day.

I felt guilty that I was one of the civilians Goebbels was condemning. My perfor- mance during training was very poor. I couldn’t run long distances. The sceptics said it was impossible for Goebbels to implement his plan and transform the camp. I found solace knowing that among the sceptics were the camp’s fitness fanatics.

“Can you imagine running over thirty km on the first day, and increasing it to a hundred within a week? Impossible,” they said as they discussed Goebbels’s plan. The next morning Goebbels rang the bell himself. I had already heard that bell so many times that night and had run many km and collapsed — all in my dreams. This time it was real.

As he struck the bell, Goebbels chanted: Vuka phezu *komdlezana … Ndingu Nyerere mna, ndikhululekile andivuki! Ub’ustyaphi emva kwa marhumsh’ oShoba? Ekusent baya gula, entambama baya phila Savumelana. (Stop making love to the new mother … I Nyerere am free and don’t need to wake up! What made you follow con men like Shoba? In the morning they malinger and are healthy again at nightfall You’ve bound yourself to the army now!)

Excited voices joined Goebbels’s. Vuyo lifted his arms to transform them into the horns of a bull and pawed the ground with his boots, straining to be let loose. I enjoyed the spectacle very much but I did not join in. To me it was a premature celebration much more appropriate to the end of the ex- ercise. Shoba led us as we trotted out of the camp in the darkness. He used 97. a torch to light the way. Shoba chanted, whistled and pranced about like a child with a fascinating toy.

I wished the darkness would envelop and slow us down until our return. Sadly dawn arrived and the sun poked its nose into human affairs. We stepped up the pace. Those who could not keep up were left behind. Somehow I coped. As we neared the village of Matundasi, 16 km from the camp, we slowed down to allow those lagging behind to catch up. It was their voices more than anything else we needed. When we were all together, we entered the village dancing and chanting a toyi-toyi that the village will never forget.

The villagers cheered and ululated.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher. Cover design: Art Director: Libero Nyelele Graphic Designer: Sechaba “Tones” Mokitimi Printed and bound by Dynasty Printers (PTY) Ltd 1000 Pretorius Street, P.O. Box 4871, Mokopane, 0600 First edition, first printing 2002 Second printing 2002 Third printing 2010 ISBN 978-0-620-47295-1 —’To Molongoane — YOUR MAGIC IS INDELIBLE in my mind, you contemplative moun- tain breathing eternity with the rest of the Kgoahlampa.

To cast your spell, you wove the ugly with the beautiful. I remember your chilly winter shade maliciously covering my shiver- ing flesh; yet you hoarded it in baking summer when I needed it most. At night your hooting owls made me tighten the blankets around my naked body, vainly trying to erase the pictures of evil that my mind conjured from the tales I had heard the old people tell. I remember happily sliding on your broad-backed boulders, my buttocks on the sleigh of tender, leafy branches.

My mouth still waters when I remember the feast of mafaya, mano- kane and mapshepshane that you decked on your trees. c- salt Wicked op a these 7 otis — Foreword — INWARDLY I GROANED, “ANOTHER ONE.” A friend had phoned me to ask me to look at Letlapa Mphahlele’s manuscript and “give him some advice”.

There are hundreds of these manuscripts lying in drawers and boxes in our black townships. In the end I have to gently tell the author that he or she still needs to put more work into it. These exercises cost me time but I seldom refuse, because there are profound stories out there that need to be told. Letlapa brought the manuscript and I turned the pages with grow- ing excitement. At last, I was hearing a new African voice.

His prose is poetic in the tradition of our maboko, saying much more than the lit- eral meaning on the surface. He was giving me insights into the dark world of the guerrilla. I read it again and wrote questions on a pad when I bumped into a confusing or unclear section. When he came back, he had the answers to my questions, and I said they needed to be in the manuscript. I asked for the computer disc with the manuscript on it.

That is when I discovered that the discs he was carrying were not computer discs — they were for an ancient electric typewriter, possibly a grandparent of today’s word pro- cessors — and that his friend in Umtata had typed the manuscript for him.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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