Chapter One - Preview
Here’s a sneak preview of Chapter One. It gives you a feel for the first steps of my journey back to 1980s South Africa, and you’re introduced to both the nun and the Pig. I hope you like it. Yarns, adventures, foolish mistakes, laughs and tragedy soon follow as I live, work and travel around southern Africa, from Cape Town to Zambia. There’s never a dull moment.
On 4 September 1980, I left Ikhwezi Lokusa Special School, Transkei, South Africa, after eight months teaching art, science and sport to handicapped Xhosa children and young adults. I’d been dreading my departure day for weeks, not wanting any unseemly display of emotion, which would have shown me up. Not the done thing at all for a British Teenager.
To ease the envisaged difficulties, I’d started saying my farewells earlier in an easygoing, nonchalant sort of way, giving off an air of relaxation as I thanked the young students, teachers, cooks, gardeners, fathers, fellow volunteers and nuns. In truth, I was feeling far from nonchalant. The bonds of friendship, familiarity and respect forged over the past eight months were stronger than I’d realised. The warm comments and the stack of personal farewell letters, cards and souvenirs I received, all saying such nice things about me, took me by surprise – was this me they were talking about? I was overwhelmed, and I hadn’t even got to the hard bit – the final goodbye.
One of my roles at the mission had been to support and help supervise the older students, known as the after-care students. Over eight months the students and I had grown close; we’d set them up in their new residential quarters, spent every day together and participated in the South African paraplegic sports championships in Durban. If you add to the mix the pretty severe physical and mental handicaps they lived with, our bonding becomes understandable.
By the morning of my last day at Ikhwezi I’d said most of my one-on-one goodbyes; there was only the final farewell to face, to the students as a group. I dreaded it – who likes goodbyes? I entered the after-care students’ workshop, where Mam, their supervisor, quickly corralled the students together, standing tall and proud amidst the throng. Everything about Mam spoke of pride, integrity and authority. In an army context, she’d have been a sergeant major, but amongst the handicapped, she was simply firm, clear-headed and compassionate. They all looked at me expectantly. What was I to say to these trusting souls – ‘Bye, great knowing you, take care?’ How banal.
A lighter moment at Ikhwezi with Sisters Genevieve, Mary Paule and Michael enjoying the Easter braai (BBQ).
I’d actually considered sneaking out without a farewell, but that would have been cowardly and rude. Unforgivable. We had to say farewell properly, though I knew I’d be awkward. As it turned out, I hardly had the chance to fumble; no sooner had I spluttered out a few words than Mam began to sing, in her powerful, soaring African voice. She led, and her students followed, their words reverberating through the workshop. Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika (‘Lord Bless Africa’). Her sincere, booming voice started as a solo, soon augmented by the voices of the group, who plunged in after her. The song was loud and clear, resonating all through the workshop and off the ceiling. They were spontaneously singing to me, the same way they sang in the chapel each Sunday. Looking me straight in the eye, not flinching a jot, they were united in thanking me through song.
Mam and the young woman in after-care, outside their brand-new accommodation and rehabilitation centre at Ikhwezi.
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I was knocked sideways, disarmed by the spontaneous generosity of their farewell, and feeling more humbled than I knew possible. It is hard to convey the power of that moment. Today Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika forms the basis of the national anthem and is sung in Xhosa, Zulu, Afrikaans and English, but in 1980s apartheid South Africa, it was not commonly heard, nor was it just a song. It was a liberation statement, a symbol of the banned African National Congress (ANC), and outlawed by the apartheid government. It was also the national anthem of Transkei. This was their song, something outside the control and remit of apartheid, and it represented hope, identity, dignity and resolute defiance. They were proud Transkeians, not South Africans, and they wanted to express it, without apology or reservation. From the first note to the last, this humble group sang it with such soul and meaning, from so deep down, that it felt like a precious gift.
I had no defences against such a gift and, feeling the tears well up, I thanked them, said goodbye and scuttled off. I simply could not believe that they had sung Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika to me. Feelings of humility, elation and deep sadness swirled about inside me – all pretty disorientating for an emotionally stunted British teenager. It actually caused a reaction of fatigue and confusion as I struggled to cope with the unfamiliar deluge of emotion.
Mam combined an old fashion mixture of compassion and discipline when caring for the after-care students. Doug and I were frequently a grave disappointment to her.
But the hardest farewell was yet to come.
That I knew. Waiting outside the workshop, empathising with what I was going through, stood Sister Mary Paule Tacke, a white American nun, with her trusted companion, a battered white VW Beetle. Dubbed ‘the Pig’ for its quixotic temperament, this car was akin to Don Quixote’s exhausted and long-suffering donkey, Rocinante. On this occasion, the Pig started and so, with my rucksack thrown onto the back seat, we set off for the airport amid the usual grunting, mechanical din. Down the familiar, bumpy, sunbaked road we rattled, into Umtata, not running any red ‘robots’ on this occasion. Robots, as traffic lights are called in South Africa, were almost optional for Sister Mary Paule, who took a girlish delight in rushing through on red. Her curriculum vitae would have listed it as a hobby.
We passed the Golden Egg, a fast-food restaurant of dubious quality that had served as a little escape, a secret bolthole, for my work colleagues Douglas and Babs, and me, often accompanied by Sister Mary Paule.
Doug’s gluttony had been legendary, the pinnacle being his consumption of two chocolate sundaes in one sitting, egged on by a laughing Sister Mary Paule. Seldom in the history of friendship has such a low-grade fast-food emporium given so much pleasure and generated so much laughter as the Umtata Golden Egg had for the four of us.
Today, however, there was a marked shortage of laughter. Stilted conversation dominated the drive.
‘I’ve left the keys for the vans in the box.’
‘Oh, good. Have you got your passport?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you pack everything?’
‘Yep.’
‘Where’s your ticket?’
‘Got it.’
For two people who knew each other pretty well and had spent the last few months working long hours together, this was a far from normal exchange, all rather staccato in fashion, but it was better than silence, and we were making the best of a difficult situation. Besides, I was starting to sniffle, again.
Arrive at the airport.
Find a parking space.
Park the car.
Pick up rucksack, check pockets for passport and wallet.
Walk silently to the entrance.
Stop. Say goodbye.
Air ticket, passport, Transkei visa - I was ready to leave.
So there we stood, not looking each other in the face, heads slightly dropped to avoid eye contact. I said I’d write soon and I’d best not miss my check-in. Sister Mary Paule said some lovely things and that I’d be missed. But to be honest, I wasn’t taking any of it in, with the vortex of unfamiliar emotions turning my inner world upside down and getting worse by the minute. I heard the words but struggled to digest them into anything intelligible. It was like hearing a conversation with cotton wool in your ears or whilst wearing ear defenders. I was doing my level best just to get through this farewell with a semblance of dignity. I was hanging in there desperately, I really was, but not making a very good job of it.
I’d been on planet Earth nineteen years and nine months to the day, and this was, without doubt, the most upsetting moment I’d experienced. I had never been as deeply touched as I was by the events of the past eight months and by the person in front of me, and here I was, leaving it all behind for good.
Finally, she handed me a leaving card and three clay animal figurines that reflected some of the conversations we’d shared over the previous months.
We went our separate ways; Sister Mary Paule walked back to the Pig, whilst I plunged into the melee of expectant air passengers and the somewhat subdued din of the little airport.
There was still time, so I headed straight for the loo, grabbing a handful of tissues, feeling hollow and confused. Leaving Transkei was not meant to be like this. I knew it would be tough, but not this tough!
What was happening to me?
I cried myself across Transkei, Lesotho, the Drakensberg Mountains and the highveld of the Transvaal, exhausting my tissue stash before the plane descended into Johannesburg. Some semblance of self-control was restored as I waited to be collected at Jan Smuts airport, and by the time I had disappeared into the blazing Johannesburg traffic, I’d resumed the stiff upper lip of an Englishman abroad.
This was Chapter One of A Nun & The Pig by Treive Nicholas. Pre-order your copy of the book today to read more.
An Amberly Publishing House book.