My mother once took me to her workplace. "Ahi fambi la ni tirhaku kona ku loko no jela, uta ni landza (Let's go to my workplace, so you can fetch me if I get stuck)," she said.
I woke up very early in the morning and went down to the taxi rank in Maunde Street. When the Atteridgeville Bus Service bus dropped us in Laudium, I was so thrilled by the beauty of the houses I saw around me.
We walked a good hundred metres up a small, hilly street towards the house where my mother worked. When we got to the gate, my mom opened it using a remote control. The owner of the house seemed to trust my mom, because she had given her the keys. Her job was to clean; after that, she went back home.The house had about five bedrooms, a dining room and a kitchen that was as big as our shack yard. It had two entrances, one in front and the other at the back, which led you to the beautiful garden. On the left of it was a big swimming pool and on the right was a cage with one big dog. Upon seeing the dog, I went back inside the house. I marvelled at Mrs Naidoo's house. I know her name because there were a lot of her certificates displayed on the walls between the dining room and the library. I walked around the house while my mother cleaned it and did all the household chores.
Mrs Naidoo was a single parent and had only one son, who stayed at a boarding school. When my mother's shift was over and we went home, I was angry that my mother's employer's house was so big and beautiful. I couldn't comprehend how the five of us had to live in our shack while Mrs Naidoo lived alone in a very big house.
My mother taught me about hard work and the importance of education by dropping small and subtle hints that I had to aspire to be somebody important in life. She would often say, "Nwananga mina ani dyondzangi xikolo, ni lava nwina mi dyondzeka (I am uneducated and I want you to be educated)." She may never have gone far at school, but I came to have high regard for her intellect. She may not have spoken English properly, and she lacked academic jargon, but she was sharp as a whip.She couldn't read. When I was still very young, I used to lose my patience while reading stuff to her or storing numbers on her phone. I thought she was dumb for not being able to read. Despite that, she raised me and my two sisters; even though we were shack poor, as a little child I never felt that we were because she would cover it up well with wisdom and a tender heart.
One sad day in March 2009, she came home from work limping. "Ni lumi hi mbyana vananga (My children, I was bitten by a dog)," she said. She explained how she had been attacked by the dog at Mrs Naidoo's house. Had Mrs Naidoo not been at home, the dog may have killed her.
This made me furious. I wanted to go to Mrs Naidoo's house and confront her for her evil negligence. I was very young and naïve. But my mom brushed it off and said, "Ani hina ahi dyondzangi xikolo, hi tirha walowu wa makhixi, hi famba hi lumiwa na hi timbyana (Since I am not educated, I struggle with domestic work to the point of being attacked by the dogs)."
She was admitted to Kalafong Hospital for two days.
After recovering from the dog bite, my mom decided to become self-employed again. She began selling spinach, the job she was doing when she had met my father in Eyethu in 1988. She joined some other ladies who used to collect spinach from a plot close to the Hartbeespoort Dam. They were transported by an old man named Shivambu. He would drop them there and collect them later, charging them for transport. Upon her return, she would put a basket of spinach on her head and embark on a lonely journey of selling it in the hilly streets of Atteridgeville and Saulsville.She also used Shivambu's car to fetch dry grass on the mountain just above our shacks towards Laudium. In winter, she sourced wild grass from the forest. Back home, she would dry the grass and patiently knit it into long pieces. She would then tie the pieces up to make a broom, using a piece of tyre tube, which she would have asked me to prepare. She made beautiful brooms, which she sold in the same way as she sold spinach. The wild grass above our squatter camp helped her contribute to our family's income.
Looking back at my mother's life, I wonder if they will ever erect a stature in her honour. I am very sceptical about them ever renaming one of the streets in the city after her. I doubt she will ever make it into a Greatest South Africans book. I don't know if the kids at school will ever learn about her. I have no hope that they will ever make January 22 a public holiday - her birthday, of course. In my life, I have never met anyone with greater integrity, perseverance, strength or intellect, or a better work ethic, than her. To this day, my mother remains a constant pillar of strength.
SHE MADE THE DIFFERENCE
Later in his life, while waiting to hear if he had won a place at university, Chauke reflected ...
Every day, I woke up to watch men and women grappling with the challenges that faced the vast majority of people in our beloved country.
I saw a young boy who grew up without a father figure in the house, looked around him, and saw nothing but things that discouraged him. I watched him finally decide that taking drugs would be the ultimate solution.
I have seen what drugs such as nyaope have done to our brothers and some of our sisters: in the words of President Mbeki, they have lost their sanity because "to be sane is to invite pain".I saw a young girl who grew up without a mother, being vulnerable and finally realising that maybe that old uncle who promised her an escape from poverty, promised her heaven and earth, maybe he was not so bad after all. I watched him as he tricked her and impregnated her and left her as a teen mom.
I saw a young man who had the grades, the drive and the will, but was burdened with the responsibility of raising his three siblings. I watched him drop out of school and go out to look for a job to make ends meet.
I saw a young and beautiful lady who had many boyfriends. I watched her as different cars came to pick her up to go out partying. I sat there wondering what exactly she was celebrating.
I saw a father who went home drunk every night, but never had money to pay school fees or buy something for his children's lunchboxes. I watched him and wondered what made him drink.
I saw a single mother who worked very hard. I watched her sitting on her bed late at night wondering how she would be able to pay tuition fees for her A-student child.
Occasionally, I would see my neighbour getting up very early in the morning to catch the first train to work.
I watched him getting robbed and finally coming to the conclusion that he should quit his job because his life was in danger.
I think all these statements could easily have been true about me, too.
The only difference between me and these people is that I had a remarkable mother who was determined to see me succeed, and I responded to her efforts.ANGRY BORN FREE
This is an extract from Born in Chains: The Diary of an Angry 'Born-Free', by Clinton Chauke (Jonathan Ball Publishers, R210). Chauke, 24, studied at UJ and now works as a junior mining technician. His memoir covers growing up in poverty, the #feesmustfall movement, xenophobia, tribalism and many other issues he has faced...