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The Long Journey of Poppie Nongena
Die Swerfjare van Poppie Nongena
Elsa Joubert
(First published 1978 in Afrikaans. English translation 1980)
When we heard of the riots in Soweto, the black township of Johannesburg, says Poppie, it seemed a far away thing. It seemed not to come from the talk of Mosie and Jakkie and Johnnie Drop-Eye or their friends. It was not trouble about the homelands, Sebe or Matanzima or about passes and travel papers which they spoke now. We heard children were stoning the schools and refusing to go to classes because of the Bantu education law which makes the black children's schooling different from the white children's. We thought the trouble would pass, we said to one another: It is a matter for teachers to show themselves stronger than their pupils.
But it did not pass. And the children were not children of Lower Primary or Higher Primary schools. We called them children, because they were still kwedini, but in fact they were young men and women. Like Jakkie who had left school to earn money for mama after Pieta's death, and then gone back after five years to start his Standard Six again. Or Baby's friend, Kathleen, whose brother had said to her: Go back to school, I'll pay for your books and uniform. then you work as char on Saturdays and Sundays. You are too clever to remain a char for always.
There were large numbers of these older ones at school, who led the younger ones - twenty-two years old, twenty-three years, twenty-four years, young men already, but children because they were uncircumcised, kwedini, not yet a man.
So it did not die down in Soweto. Because the children were fighting for more than not learning Afrikaans or not having this special Bantu education thing. They were fighting because of their parents' unrest which came over them like a fever too. We heard on the radio that the children threw stones and burnt schools and stormed the administration buildings and we heard that they were shot for it.
Now that worked on me, because why, I have children too, and the thing that happened to those children in Soweto, tomorrow it could happen to mine. That's why it affected me badly. Because I read newspapers and listen to the radio too. Sunday in church the minister told us what had happened in Soweto and we prayed for the children that had been shot. A week later a memorial service was held. Then we knew the trouble would come down over us as well. There was no doubt in our hearts. We all knew it would come.
It had taken that course with the strike of 'sixty when the trouble spread from Sharpeville to Cape Town. It would take that course again.
Baby was the first to meet up with it. She went to the post office in Nyanga with Katie's child on her back.
I went to phone, she told mama later, I was waiting at the telephone booth when the school children came along, pushing and shoving me aside. I heard them phoning from the telephone booth: We want to talk to the School Board, they said. They must have got through because I heard the money clinking and one was more eager to grab the mouthpiece than the other. I heard them say: We don't want to learn Afrikaans no more, we don't want Bantu education no more. Everyone grabbing the phone said the same thing till the time was up.
Auk, what is this thing you are doing? I asked one of the children I knew, but he cheeked me: Shut up, sisi, you'll get hurt.
The same night they burned down the Nyanga post office. She saw the smoke rising from the school as well. She hid in the house, keeping the children with her, for she remembered the warning: You'll get hurt, sisi. But the next day she went back to see what had happened. The post office windows were smashed and the roof and woodwork burnt out, inside it was still smouldering, it stank of burnt rubber and paint, torn-up papers lay in heaps in the gutters and in the road. The telephone had been pulled from the wall of the burnt-out booth. She picked it up from the gutter by its cord, it swung from her finger till she threw it from her.
And the nylons drove up and down the streets, slowly.
Mosie heard about the trouble that afternoon at work. At lunchtime a man driving a Volkswagen van arrived, his face grey with fear. The windows of the van had been shattered.
What happened? Mosie asked him.
Things look bad, he said. The schoolchildren are marching, but the skollies have joined in behind them, I had to drive hard to get away. It's getting hot in the location, the children are rioting and they've started shooting at them.
But Johnnie Drop-Eye was the closest to the thing and could tell the best: The first thing I saw was private cars, white people and coloureds' cars pulling off the road. I left my dairy to have a look-see. It was about two o'clock. Now the children were all coming from the school and they told me: The other schools have sent word we must come out. They'll all be coming from other locations to our location, and the police vans are coming too.
The police drove slowly between the children, asking what was going on, and the children repeated: We don't want to be taught Afrikaans no more.
When the teachers asked why they said that, when they didn't object to learning Xhosa and English, the children said: We heard them saying that in the Soweto schools and now we say so too.
I stood listening to what the children said. They were young kids, Higher Primary School, then the police van came up. There was one white policeman and one coloured and the white policeman said: Then we'll have to shoot, and that's when I ran back to my milk dairy and told the people: Stay away from the streets, they're going to shoot.
But the police didn't shoot, they followed the children in the vans. It was when the children said: They're going to shoot, that they picked up stones and bricks. That was how the bottle and stone throwing and shooting started, ja, and then the police vans moved in to break up the groups of children standing around.
Poppie stood ironing in the ironing room and listened to the news on the wireless that Mosie had lent her.
It seems there's big trouble, Mrs Swanepoel said, you must listen, Rachel. She herself listened in the sitting room.
Poppie heard: The black people in the Cape Town locations are rising, they are burning down buildings, smashing the beer halls, overturning cars and stoning the buses. Fifteen buildings have been burned down - post offices, government buildings, three shops in Langa, the Guguletu hall. Ambulances and fire engines scream through the streets, the police use shotguns to disperse the crowds. The buses are not running, clouds of smoke hang over the locations, all exits and entrances to the locations are closed, only the police may enter.
The next day mama rang her up from the white woman's house where she charred.
Things look bad at the location, mama said, but we're all still alive. Mama's voice sounded as if she didn't believe her own words. We counted ten burnt-out nylons in front of the pass office. And the skollies cleaned out the KTC Bazaars in Guguletu. No more bread or milk's coming to the location, so I'm taking food home this afternoon.
And the children, mama?
I don't let mine out on the street, Poppie. The children were one and all drunk yesterday. They burnt down the beer halls and broke the bottles, and it was brandy and wine running all over the streets. The police came and the shooting started. But by then the children had swallowed the brandy and the gin as if they were cool drinks.
But the children that were shot at mama?
We can't know to count, said mama. Mosie helped take pellets out of the children's arms. He told me many had been taken to Groote Schuur hospital and Tygerberg and the Conradie hospital. Some people say that five died, others say ten. How can we count? For myself. I don't know about anyone that is dead.
The riots were on Wednesday; on Thursday and Friday it was quiet and Saturday Poppie took her off day and went home. To Claremont by train and from there by bus to Manenberg. There the inspectors stopped the buses and they had to get down.
Look at the windows, the bus inspectors told the passengers, see how the children smashed them up. So now we don't go any further than this. It's too rough in the location.
So she had to walk the rest of the way, past the old St Joseph's home, skirting Guguletu; then on to Cross Roads, past the Snakepark squatters camp, past the shops beyond the crossing to Nyanga East, turning off at the Old Location. She walked from more than half an hour. Taxis passed, packed with people picked up at the bus stop. But she kept on walking. The Old Location showed the most damage: burnt-down buildings, blackened walls, roofs fallen in, burnt-out cars, laundry vans, bakery vans, even a big removal van smashed up, set on fire and then overturned, left lying at the side of the road. As she passed a burnt-out bar the sour smell of spilt liquor came to her nostrils. She saw movement amongst the rubble, a number of men were gathered together, bending forward as if watching someone who was digging. Then they grasped at the bottles they had unearthed, covering them hastily with their jackets for fear of being seen. She was afraid that they would know she had seen them. She hurried on, not feeling at ease until she had left them far behind her.
The smells of the location were strong, when the wind moved it brought the stink of unemptied rubbish tins. People seemed to be afraid. Even those she knew did not speak to her in passing, scarcely greeting her. Children walking along the street disappeared down the sanitary lanes when the nylons came past.
Nearing Zwelitsha Drive she saw the burnt-out centre and the post office. She trudged up the last steepness to mama's house. As she pushed open the gate, she felt exhausted.
The younger children were at home, as mama didn't allow them on the streets. Poppie sat down at the table, pulled off her shoes and stockings and soaked her feet in a plastic basin. Mama added hot water as it cooled. Pains of weariness shot up her legs.
I had to ride in a smashed-up bus with broken windows, she complained to mama.
All the buses are smashed up.
Now but why do they do it?
You could have come by car. I thought the taxis are waiting for passengers at the Manenberg bus stop?
I paid my money for the bus fare. From where must the money come for the taxi? Poppie was tired and dissatisfied. She had been working hard all week. Why must she have problems with transport home? Her legs ached. She watched her mother who kept silent.
One doesn't know how to talk to the location people, she thought, not even to your mother. Even after these few days. We who work sleep-in in the city, we don't know what happened here.
What is going on, mama? Poppie asked. What do the children want when they start smashing up everything?
We don't know, said mama.
Mama started weeping: Your troubles aren't the heaviest, not having your children with you. Pieta was stabbed dead, I only have Jakkie left at home as boy child. And Jakkie is part of the smashing-up business.
Poppie wanted to comfort her ma, but mama shook off her hand. She dried her tears. This is the burden parents must bear, she said. The parents want their children to stop this business, no one want to lose his child. But the children keep silent. They come home at night and they don't speak a word to us.
We wait for them all day, Poppie, we are tired too, said mama. When they leave in the morning we don't know if we'll see them alive again.
Baby got a fright at the post office and stays at home, but Jakkie is the big worry to me.
When it was dark Jakkie came home to eat, but did not say much to Poppie, only: Sisi, we're not doing bad things.
Poppie couldn't accept this. The buses are smashed up and the schools are burnt down and the children are drunk on the streets and you say it's nothing bad?
But Jakkie wouldn't speak. After his meal, he left.
You see, mama said, that's how it is with Jakkie. Mama started crying again. And the children say he's their leader.
Later that night when he came to make sure his mama had not come to harm, Mosie stood outside the house with Poppie. He looked at the deserted streets, at the rows of houses, where the lights had been dimmed. He had left his motor car at home for fear of the stoning, he had far to walk to get back to Rhoda. But he didn't want to leave Poppie. He stood on the cement path leading to his mama's door and looked up at the sky which was black, for there were no clouds, just here and there the small light of a star.
Then he said: My little sister, I don't like these riots. You and I are the Lord's people, his church people. I don't like it that the children tease the government and get hurt, or that they stop my car with stones and shout: Donate! Donate! till I get out and tap off petrol for their petrol bombs. But little sister, I cannot help it, deep down in my heart I hear: At last! I suppress this thought 'cause why, this violence is not the way of the Lord. But then again I hear deep down: At last!