EXTRACT | ‘Breaking Bread: A Memoir’ by Jonathan Jansen

ABOUT THE BOOK

Professor. Pundit. Public nuisance.

In his columns and books and on social media, Jonathan Jansen is prolific, and he likes to speak his mind about schools and universities, race, politics and our complex South African society.

He has brought incisive analysis, compassion and a sense of humour to some of the most controversial issues for many years.

In this memoir, Jansen goes back to his early years: growing up in a loving, fiercely evangelical family on the Cape Flats, being put on the road to purpose by an inspiring school teacher and becoming the first of his generation to go to university.

Journey with Jansen as he finds his passion for teaching high school and becomes a leading academic and thinker amid great transformation in post-apartheid South Africa.

His gift for storytelling and his interactions with people from different walks of life offer moving insights into the intricacies of South African society, insights that are filled with wisdom and leadership lessons. Jansen’s patchwork of memories tells a bigger story than that of his own life. It’s a tale of learning the value of “breaking bread” with others, of finding mutual recognition in our different fears and faiths, our fumbles and fortitude, our hurts and our hopes.

In this extract, provided by Jonathan Ball Publishers, Jansen pays homage to his parents, Sarah and Abraham. 

EXTRACT

Sarah was the hardest-working person I have known. She would toil for a full day at the hospital, come home to make dinner, go to church, return and prepare meals for school the next day, corral the children to ensure chores and homework were done, then prepare us for bed. Afterwards, she would take out the Singer sewing machine and repair a torn pair of school trousers or knit jerseys for the Brethren to take to the poor in small upcountry areas over the weekend. By the time she dropped into bed, she had time for only a few hours’ sleep before returning to work.

The stress would sometimes show, especially when Sarah worked the night shift, a 7pm to 7am stint, at the nearby orthopaedic hospital. She would arrive home just in time to prepare us for school and clean the house. The few hours’ sleep would often be interrupted by knocks on the door, a persistent hawker or a sister from the church ‘popping in’. Sarah was unfailingly gracious and would rise from her bed to entertain the visitor. Soon she had to get ready for work again. After the third night or so, Sarah would be edgy and you would hear her saying things in Afrikaans with deep emotion: ‘I work my hands to the bone and you cannot even make up your bed.’ At that moment we knew our mother was struggling.

Abraham saw little value in hard work (I have learnt from the English how to duck the truth with language, so I will not use the word ‘lazy’ because he was my father, after all). He was the happy-go-lucky guy everybody loved. He changed jobs often, from domestic worker to stationery clerk to driver for a laundry firm to fruit-and-veg hawker to general driver to full-time missionary. I recognised early on that my dad could not hold down a job because he did not apply himself fully.

This became even more obvious when Abraham was a driver for Nannucci Dry Cleaners. The job entailed picking up dirty laundry and dropping off the pressed clothing when it was done. It was hard work, so Abraham hired ‘boys’ who went from door to door delivering suits and dresses on hangers, with plastic covers protecting the clothes.

These young men were characters. One became a pop star in the Cape while another is said to have run into trouble with the police for trying to kick out the back window of a City Tramways double-decker bus. His defence? The bold print on the window read: ‘Stamp die ruit uit!’ Apparently he did not see the fine print: ‘in case of emergencies’. It was the same boy who, in an attempt to show my father he was literate, proudly read him a bold headline in the Cape Times: Cape to Ten Rand. It was actually CAPE TO RIO, the annual yacht race to Brazil.

It was hard, sweaty work but Abraham sat in his car doing little else other than driving, writing receipts and collecting the money.

After school and during the holidays, my brother Peter and I would be the boys doing that job. This was where I saw what was really happening. Abraham had a route which took him by the houses of Brethren families in suburbs such as Gleemoor and Rondebosch East. He would leave us in the laundry van then stop at a favourite home and spend an hour or two drinking coffee and eating snacks. We could hear the laughter coming down the passage. Abraham returned without any laundry before doing the same at the next home of believers. Eats, laughter, no laundry. Here was the problem: he was paid on commission. No laundry, no money.

I was not in the least surprised that my father eventually moved on to another job.

Now he could be his own boss, hawking fruit and veg. Abraham could wake up late, take as many breaks as he wanted and close early. Once again, I would watch him as the bakkie filled with produce from the Maitland market made its way down the avenues. Then it happened: ‘Ag, Mr Jansen, I’m a bit short this month. Can I get some potatoes and carrots and I will sort you out on Friday.’ Unbelievably, Abraham would grab a healthy portion of what was asked for and give it to the beggar. ‘Don’t worry about it. Sort me out when you can.’ Needless to say, the business went bang.

It was at this point that Abraham made desperate plans. After another job as a messenger/driver for a shipping firm on the Foreshore, my dad decided to become a full-time missionary to Rietbron, a small town in the Karoo. There was no consultation. Abraham came home one day and announced his decision. To say there was consternation in the family would be an understatement; his income, however small, helped keep us afloat even though we all knew it was the predictable and more substantial salary of Sarah that made the difference.

Sarah made a decision that day that defied Brethren norms. She would not be the obedient sister following her husband to a godforsaken Karoo town. For this she paid a price, not the least being one of the senior elders ‘throwing skimp’ (sarcasm) from the preacher’s platform about women who refuse to accompany their husbands into full-time ministry. Sarah was no flaming feminist but this thing about men making decisions for women that throw the entire family into disarray was simply not on.

Abraham took a small caravan and lived among the people of Rietbron, preaching the gospel, making converts and planting a church. He spent much of his time writing to Brethren churches asking for money. At least he no longer needed to work fixed hours for a boss. Then tragedy struck. The details are unclear but it appears Abraham was making doughnuts in the little caravan, a process that used boiling oil. He might have fallen asleep but somehow the oil fell all over his body, leaving deep holes and scars on his back and, for some reason, leading to memory loss and severe mental disorientation.

Abraham was treated for his burns then placed in a mental hospital back in Cape Town, where he remained for all intents and purposes what the locals call ‘a vegetable’. One day, nurse Sarah decided this was enough.

She brought her husband home and healed him. Before long, he was back to his regular self, entertaining drop-ins and making his ‘flou jokes’ (weak or dad jokes), as they were called on the Cape Flats. Abraham was happy at home but we were still a salary short.

Sarah soldiered on as the sole breadwinner until retirement. There was the customary celebration party at the hospital, then she left for good.

Except the next morning I found my mother all dressed up in her starched white uniform with nurse’s cap and red name badge. Sarah was ready to go to work as she had for decades. But work was no longer there. Tears were running down her face.

When friends and strangers ask about my 18-hour workdays, I know this comes from watching my mother Sarah work.

Abraham had other qualities. He loved people, especially those on the lower rungs of the ladder of life. This is where he felt more comfortable.

As a result, Uncle Abie, as he was called, was the person to consult when you were in trouble. There was the young brother who was constantly castigated by his father-in-law, a senior elder in the Brethren, because he did not meet the standard for his daughter; the chap was now homeless.

Another young man wanted to know how to stay faithful; ‘the best time to pray’, Abraham advised, ‘is when you don’t want to pray.’ And there were any number of young mentees who wanted clarity on one scripture or another.

A free spirit, Abraham took risks all his life. He could not afford a car but he bought one anyway. What this meant was that the cheap, second-hand vehicle would break down all the time, much to the irritation of the more sober-minded Sarah. It became a joke among the cousins that Abraham would drive us in a car from Cape Town to Port Elizabeth then return in another one or need to have the jalopy fixed by his best friend, Uncle Gollie (Goliath), who was his brother-in-law. The risk of walking away from a salaried job to become a missionary, or any other dubious venture for that matter, was easily justifiable because ‘the Lord will provide’.

Abraham’s faith was sincere. When he prayed at home or in church he dropped to his knees. It was not proper to stand before the living God. To humble yourself in this way was to recognise the might of God and the weakness of the supplicant. When he prayed or preached, I felt moved by my father’s sense of the divine – and by this humble hawker (or whatever job he was doing at the time) who regarded others as more important than himself. He was one of the best preachers I could listen to because of his skill at making complex ideas simple; this was one of his favourites as he taught the distinction between the biblical concepts of grace and mercy:

‘Grace is God giving you what you do not deserve. Mercy is God withholding from you what you do deserve.’

The humility with which Abraham lived his life came at a cost to a self-conscious young teenager. One Saturday, he took me on a trip to minister to a family of poor farmworkers in the rural areas outside Cape Town. I might have been 12 or 13 but still remember the strong and unpleasant smell from the floor of the spartan outhouse where the labourers lived; I believe the floor was made from horse manure. It was early morning and therefore breakfast time.

The family placed enamel bowls of stiff porridge on the table; there did not seem to be much else in the house to eat. Then, to my horror, I saw a thick collection of flies on the plate of porridge in front of me sucking up the sugar that covered the meal. There was no way I could eat this pap and I looked at Abraham to confirm my decision.

My dad looked back with an unspoken message in his determined eyes: ‘This is all they have; the family is watching us; you will eat the porridge.’ With a lump in my throat, I slowly made my way through the porridge with a giant spoon while swishing away flies with my free hand. It was a lesson about humility that remains with me.