Mr. Booi

Mr. Andrew Booi had always been a good man.  In fact, he began all his sentences with the religious word “Jesus”.  Back in those days, everyone was referred to as “comrade,” disregarding whether or not they participated in the struggle against racism. Residents of Sebokeng contributed time and money to the fight against apartheid but Mr. Booi had other ideas. He established an orphanage and had been running it from his home for a while now.  He called it Thuthukani, a Zulu word meaning growth and development, after realizing that many children had lost parents in violent demonstrations and riots.

However, on this particular day in history, the Sebokeng Township woke up in fear.  Morning radio and television reports had issued an acute warning of violence that perpetuated panic in the area of Sebokeng.  “The Zulus are coming!  The Zulus are coming!”  Those were the words lingering on every resident’s lips as they began packing away their valuables in trucks.  The Booi family owned an old blue Chevy that had not been working for some time. Nevertheless, Mr. Booi did not mind putting the keys in the ignition several times with the hope of starting the vehicle.  Then he began pacing from one wall to the other with his hands raised up to his head.  Every time he peeped outside his window, he saw people running wildly in all directions.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, as parents in the Sebokeng Township resorted to dressing up boys as girls.  There was a rumour doing the rounds that the Zulus were coming specifically for boys only.

Mr. Booi had not uttered a word to his neighbour Pule Pule in five years due to a dispute over a tree.  Pule Pule owned a huge tree that produced huge delicious peaches during the December-January summer period.  Although this tree was located in Pule Pule’s yard, somehow the majority of the leaves fell all over Mr. Booi’s land.  Mr. Booi complained that he was doing all the cleaning and none of the eating and as a result caused a bitter turn in a relationship between two neighbours.  This rift between Pule Pule and Mr. Booi happened at the time when good neighbours were critical to the community’s survival, for they were the first channel of support.  In addition, when neighbours were needed, they were close at hand to offer immediate help.  But Mr. Booi was a priest with a big heart, big enough to forgive his whole community.  Pule Pule was a committed mineworker and a saxophonist with his makeshift local jazz band.  He was married to his job and worked when he did not have to; as a result hurt his leg.  Mr. Booi had noticed Pule Pule’s leg in a cast.  Having had not seen Pule Pule in a week, he decided to check on him.

Whilst others left most of their belongings behind as they ran for their lives, desperate thieves took advantage. These were thugs with aching fingers and backs from playing dice.  A big opportunity had availed itself and it was just what they were looking for.  They were tired of being chased by officers of the law who sometimes took away their gambling money.  Several criminal networks were known to be active in the Sebokeng area; they robbed and terrorized the community during the early hours of the morning and late at night.  But that was not the only stint of black-on-black violence.  Hardly few steps outside the door Mr. Booi heard loud voices chanting the song: “Uyimpimpi Wena!  Uyimpimpi Wena!” - another Zulu expression which loosely means ‘You are a sell-out! You are a traitor!’ He immediately knew there was trouble, as the voices got louder and louder.  He went to take a closer look and observe the situation, and then he saw a hungry crowd baying for blood.  They got closer and closer.  No prayer came to mind and no verse in the Holy Bible seemed suitable for that moment as he raised his eyes to the sky hoping for a miracle.  “Uyimpimpi wena!  Uyimpimpi wena!”

Sell-outs were not tolerated in townships for they were said to be giving the “Special Branch” or police unnecessary advantages.  If you were caught trading information sensitive and confidential in nature, you were necklaced, meaning an old tyre was put around your neck, gasoline or paraffin poured all over your body and then you were set alight.

Mr. Booi watched in shock as the angry mob went past his house.  He locked his gate.  They were heading for Mrs. Mbhele’s house.  Rumour had it that she was a sell-out working with the Inkatha Freedom Party.  It was for this reason that she was chased out of her house.  Everyone took a swing at her as Mr. Booi watched in disbelief.  As she ran, stones were thrown at full swing on her back.  Hanging for dear life against Mr. Booi’s locked burglar fence, she was set alight.  Although Mr. Booi was safe within the walls of his house, he could hear Mrs. Mbhele’s screams. After all, she was not only a member of his congregation. She was also a neighbour who needed his help.  He peeped through his window as they pulled her lifeless body away.  Further news reports during the day reported that there was an ongoing war between the Inkatha Freedom Party and the African National Congress at several hostels including Sebokeng Hostel.

This war was threatening to spill over into surrounding townships like Evaton, Sebokeng, Small Farms, etc. “The Zulus are coming!  The Zulus are coming!”  This statement referred to members of the Inkatha Freedom Party who occupied the KwaMasiza Hostel on the outskirts of the Sebokeng Township.

During the struggle for democracy many black South Africans found comfort in the music and Pule Pule was one of them.  The music gave people a platform for expressing their anger and although most of this intellectual property was banned at the time, somehow it made its way to its intended market.  It was music, alcohol, the famous bump jive and phatha-phatha that were indicative of the culture of the struggle.  Pule Pule collected music in the form of records and cassettes and would now and again play them as loud as he could.  Mr. Booi knocked several times but all he could hear was the loud sound of the saxophone.  When Pule Pule finally opened his front door, he had nothing to say as Mr. Booi jumped right in without permission.

Although Mr. Booi was the visitor, he did not seem creative enough to initiate a decent conversation. “Please Booi! I want to die in peace,” said Pule Pule, with his eyes locked on his visitor.  Then Mr. Booi stretched out his right hand with a smile on his face as a sign of peace.  They agreed on joint ownership of both the tree and its resulting fruits. “We live to share,” that was Pule Pule and Mr. Booi’s new song.  Pule Pule played the saxophone and Mr. Booi preached and sang the chorus.

The milkman did not show up that day, there were no tracks of his tricycle.  People of Sebokeng knew each other very well and lived their lives on the same routine.  Perhaps this was the reason why they were quick to notice any change that took place around their township.  If you were missing from this routine like the milkman, you either were in hiding or presumed dead.  Summer rain had been pouring down that whole week and tricycle marks were always present on the ground first thing in the morning.  Sebokeng was a township with many similarities.  For starters, all the houses looked the same with two identical windows and one door in the front.  Although residents were different and unique in their own special way, they lead identical lives.  Most mothers worked as domestics, they woke up during the early hours of the morning and headed to work.  They called their places of work the “kitchens” and their employers “madams”.

Shacks were not popular at the time as a form of temporary accommodation and this meant most families lived in congestion.  One house accommodated up to ten people.

The “street committee” did not sit on this day. Street committees more or less resembled kangaroo courts, and were formed to curb crime within the community.  This committee handled all minor cases and disputes that were put forward by the people living on that particular street. Cases ranged from theft and debt collection. Occasionally these street committees resorted to mob justice with the only distinction being the fact that they were more organized.  When members of the street committee arrived at Zwane’s house, where they usually held their weekly meetings, he was busy in his garden.  When asked whether he had forgotten about the meeting all Zwane had to say was “I’m looking for my gun!”

Due to the large number of unexpected police raids, it was normal for black people to hide their weapons, particularly illegal guns, in strange places.  Some tied them to tree branches and others even went as far tying weapons to chimneys on the roof of their houses. Sebokeng Township went quiet, and all Mr. Booi could hear were echoes of gunshots in the distance.  He began worrying for his only son, Njabulo, had not made it back home yet.  Although Njabulo was a choir fanatic who went to practice sessions everyday after school, he was supposed to have returned hours ago.  “Stay-Aways” were popular at the time, this meant scholars were at times turned away from schools and would go back to their respective homes.  But these stay-aways were also potential deadly grounds with pupils caught in the crossfire.  Rubber bullets were also fired this way and that way and young boys and girls would often get hurt in the process.  Njabulo was a Form I student at Fundulwazi Secondary School and sixteen years old.  Unlike his father, Njabulo was a very brave young man and would often join other comrades in arms during nightly street patrols.  During these patrols, comrades would dig holes at both ends of the street to stop police vehicles from gaining access.

A tribal war was looming.  It was brewed by the statement that Zulus were coming. A line of division began to form itself between Zulu and Sotho speaking residents.  It was very strange and frightening at the same time that people of Sebokeng Zone 12 Extension had gotten along very well for a decade and now a sudden changed of events was threatening to change all they had worked hard for.  It was clear that the few remaining members of the community were in the process of separating into two clans.  The Zulu speaking residents began communicating strictly in their own language.  Most of them usually sacrificed their language to accommodate Sotho speaking people but this day changed all that.

Down Mr. Booi’s street lived the Mokoena family.  They owned a little tuck shop and a worn out Nissan E20 minibus.  This potential tribal war became more evident when Mr. Mokoena would not allow any Zulu speaking people on either his property or his minibus. Transport proved to be critical as people fled for their lives and those without any were left behind to die.

Then Mr. Booi heard his gate swinging and soon there was knock on the door.  It was Njabulo; he had made it back home safely.  Mr. Booi’s face shone with relief. But Njabulo was a messenger of bad news.  On his way back from choral practice, he came across a large number of people gathered in a circle. He told his father he was surprised since black people were not allowed to form groups.  Njabulo knew that the only time black people came together in groups was in the face of tragedy.  This made him anxious and as a result, he went to take a closer look.  It was the milkman.  He was dead.  His body lay there uncovered in the sun and blood from his mouth had dried up indicating he had been dead for a while now.  Mr. Booi bowed down his head in shame, took off his glasses and a lone tear was visible in his face.  If only his wife was around, she would have known what to do.  Mr. Booi had lost his wife, Njabulo’s mother, to a mysterious situation years ago.  One morning she left for work and never returned.  Mr. Booi looked for his wife everywhere.  Every clinic, police station, hospital and mortuary said they have not seen her.  All her relatives also announced that they had not spoken to her in a long time.  Her large and framed picture still hanged on the dining room wall. 

Just months after this incident, Mr. Booi turned to religion; he was hoping to find answers to many questions his wife had left behind.  Njabulo was ten years old at the time.  Mr. Booi lived with the hope of seeing his wife again.  Faith and Njabulo had kept Mr. Booi alive all those years but he knew destruction was threatening.

Sunset was approaching and those left behind knew that fear and darkness did not belong together.  Sebokeng had no electricity and the streets were soon going to be very dark.  Although very noisy, Mr. Booi’s generator was extremely helpful.  It helped with the lights and other electrical needs.  Most of Njabulo’s T-shirts had acid holes in the front because everyday he had to carry the car battery from the garage to the dining room.  They used it for watching television. Mr. Booi and Njabulo watched the news on television. The Zulus had made their way to Boipatong, a township on the outskirts of Sebokeng.  They were shown on television singing:  “Wathint’ uShaka udakwe yini? Wathint’ uZulu udakwe yini?” -  a Zulu song, which asked the question:  why are you messing with the Zulus, are you crazy?  They were wearing red cloths around their heads as a sign that they were baying for blood.  Many people lost their lives in Boipatong as the angry mob destroyed everything and everyone in its path.  Mr. Booi and Njabulo watched the television in silence.  Mr. Booi had taken three young children into his orphanage weeks ago. They were all under the age of five.  These children sensed there was something wrong because Mr. Booi was not his old cheerful self.  They all gathered and sat on the floor in the corner of the dining room and had been quiet for a long time.  Nothing could have fooled them, not even the soup Mr. Booi had made for them. They were scared.

Sebokeng resembled an abandoned and haunted town in the movies.  There was not a soul on the streets.  Mrs. Mbhele’s house was burnt down to the ground with black smoke rising to the sky.  “Wathint’ uShaka udakwe yini? Wathint’ uZulu udakwe yini?”  The Zulus had finally come and the curtain would soon fall for the last time on Mr. Booi and his family.  Mr. Booi and Njabulo joined the children in the corner and prepared themselves for inevitable death.  Mr. Booi put his body on the line as he spread his hands to cover everyone but himself.  A huge bang hammered the door open.

It was Mr. Booi’s wife.  The voices outside faded in the distance.  Pule Pule’s saxophone played beautifully that night.

Sonqoba Kunene

COMMENTS:

Sonqoba, I enjoyed your story very much. It created a picture of township life for me, and allowed me, an outsider, to glimpse what it was like to live there. You managed to create a character I feel I know well: poor Mr Booi. I feel sympathy for his weaknesses, and I am glad he got his wife back in the very moment he thought all was lost. - ERNA

Sonqoba, this is an excellent story. I agree with Erna the atmosphere is tangible. I am sure it will make fascinating reading for the younger generation of South Africans / people foreign to SA, who have not had experiences like these (e.g. necklacing) that were typical of 'those' bad times. Well done! – MANDY

I enjoyed reading this great story. The subject matter is so interesting and you've created a very real atmosphere by using such detail - I was totally convinced. Maybe work on creating a link between different paragraphs of the story - warm us up to what's coming next! - ROBYN

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