Sipho
usk was settling over the endless sugar cane fields, the air was warm and sweet.
Sipho, a young native boy was kneeling down at the narrow stream gathering water for for
him and his family for the night. The ache in his stomach was almost unbearable, and he
winced, his teeth clenched with the pain of hunger as he dipped his bucket into the
dirty water. He struggled up the muddy, stony path, his bare feet numb from the cold
water and aching with the weight of the bucket on his small head. He ignored the dull
headache from the heavy pail of water, and hummed as he walked along the dusty path, the
sharp stones bruising the soles of his feet, and the thorny branches scratching his
scarcely clad body. This had been his daily chore for two years and he had been forced
to grow accustomed to the sharp stones.
Finally he reached his village. The Zulu village was of the traditional kind, with not much influence from the white man. Although many of the men in the village worked on farms or in the city, they preferred to be simple, and not bring anything back with them from the complicated world outside The familiar sound of chickens and half starved howling dogs, surrounded Sipho as he entered. He yelled as a couple of small children yelling and laughing, jostled him sending some of his precious water splattering to the ground. They were carefree and innocent and Sipho envied their free time to play. Finally he placed the bucket of now warm water on the ground outside his home. He entered the open door with the respectful and traditional greeting, " I see you mother."
The grass hut was small and dark illuminated only by the small fire in the centre of the dirt floor. His mother crouched on one of the grass mats stirring the hot corn meal. " Come sit and eat my son," his mother urged him, " you must eat and be strong before you bring the cows in ." Only a few belongings gave the hut its homely feeling; there was one old metel bed covered with a couple of blankets on which a chubby, naked baby slept, a few clay pots in the corner, some filled with herbs, and the homemade mats upon which Sipho sat and started eating. His mother would eat later with the rest of the village, but Sipho had to hurry and bring the cows in from the grassland to the 'kraal', the small circular enclosure, surrounded by a thorn fence before nightfall.
Sipho returned from his last chore of the day with Sibongele, his close friend and half-brother. They were both covered in dust and tired as the cattle had strayed far that day. Sihongele and Sipho had the same father. As was the tradition, most prosperous men had more than one wife. Their father was away working in the Kimberly Gold Mines. He had been away for a long time and Sipho could hardly remember him. This meant nothing to Sipo who in his early youth had already taken over the place of the man in the house. His mother was not inside as he entered the hut, he had probably passed her chatting with the rest of the womenfolk as they sat around the fire eating, in the centre of the village. With a deep sigh Sipho rolled up in a blanket and lay on the grass mat beside the remaining embers of the fire. The smoke, as it wafted up through the hole in the roof was comforting and warm. He had slept with his mother on the bed for the first six years of his life, until the young one was born and took his place. So Sipho took the sleeping place of the young men, and with pride accepted his bed of grass mats and a blanket. The distant sounds women chatting, the beating of drums, squarking of the chickens as they settled down for the night and the familiar sounds of the bushveld, the the crickets and night owls, the rustling of the night creatures, all familiar sounds belonging to his home blended together, and lulled him gently to sleep as he nestled down into warmth of his blankets.
The following morning Sipho awoke to the creaking of the bed to find his mother already awake and dressed, sorting through a suitcase. The sun had not yet reached the sky. The sky was purple and red, the colours before dawn. It was going to be a beautiful day. His mom hurried him to get up, and he did, forcing his eyes reluctantly open. "It is a big day, my son," his mother murmered as not to wake the sleeping baby curled under the covers, "Today you will start to learn the world outside our village. You will go on the donkey cart, and then walk to get to school." She reached into the old suitcase and pulled out to parcels wrapped in brown paper. "These did cost your father one week of his work in the mine, you will look after them and be proud, little son," she continued to murmer as she unwrapped both parcels. Sipho, completely awake from the surprise of school did not question his mother, but gazed in awe of the khaki, plain shorts and shirt. He had never had good clothes before, he had never had the need, and these second hand, faded clothes looked wonderful to him. The secondhand shoes were a little big, so his mother stuffed them with newpaper as she helped him dress. He stood proudly before her, scarcly eating a thing so she gave him some bread to eat along the way for the long walk.
The sun had just risen when he left. Sinbongele was busy letting the cattle out the kraal. He waved and watched with envy as Sipho climbed onto the donkey cart, driven by the old man Kechla, on his way to school. The air was cool in the early morning but Sipho hardly noticed it, his heart beat with anticipation and excitement. He removed the brown shoes and new socks from his feet, tied them together and carried them around his neck so that they would not get dirty before he reached the school house. He was dropped off a couple of miles from the school afterwhich he started walking. He did not notice the growing heat of the day, nor the bite of mosquitos as he hurried in the direction of the school. The walk was long and it was almost noon before he reached the school. Finally, there is was. Sipho scrambled to put his shoes, and straighten his clothes while he looked at the school. The red-brick building was old, with a broken, barred windows and a heavy wooden door. To Sipho it looked wonderful and he entered slowly, savoring the moment.
"You boy are late!" The voice rang out like a gunshot. A tall, stern white man with a thick dutch accent walked farward from the front of the class and stood before him. There were almost twenty students in the class, all white. They all turned and stared, the girls giggling nervously. " I feel sorry, master," Sipho muttered in his broken English, the language thick and awkward on his tougue, so different from the fluent speech of his native tongue. His feeling of happiness was gone, his bubble burst as he stared up at the intimidating man before him. "You will call me sir, do you understand that! You will also look at me when you talk to me, have you no respect? Now what is your name?" Sipho, was silent, dumb in his confusion as he struggled to understand the rapidly spoken English and the thick accent. " I am Sipho, sir master," he replied, looking down at his feet in respect, as was the native custom. " Well Sipho! I alway believe that first impressions are the ones that last and I would like to make an impression upon you. You do not seem to remember my instructions, I do not repeat myself. In defience you will not look at me, and you call me master, not to mention your late arrival which is unforgivable. These children here do not have trouble obeying my instructions, I'm afaid you will be punished. Follow me." The tall man walked to the front of the class where he picked up a 'shambok', a heavy leather whip with a silver handle.
The whip came down four times upon Siphos small hands before the teacher saw tears run down his cheeks, yet Sipho kept his gaze, looking at the teacher as directed. His body was stiff, only pride kept him from crying out in front of school mates that he had hoped would someday be his friends. "I have no doubt you will remember this, and comtemplate in the future that it was for the good. Your kind needs reminders like these. You may sit at the back, to the right. Hurry along," the teacher pressed with contempt. Sipho walked slowly along the isle towards the back, his face burning with shame but with his head held high. His red welts were rising on his hand, bleeding slightly and he clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the burning pain but for once he could not succeed and the tears poured down his cheeks. He got up, and with his hand held before him, as if in the stance of a begger, he pushed the door open with his good hand and walked out the schoolhouse. The door closed with a creak of finality, not before he heard the words of his teacher, "Leave the boy, concentrate on your lessons please ladies and gentlemen, he is only a kaffir boy!"
Sipho walked slowly home, pausing only at streams to run cool water over his swollen, bleeding hand. He could not understand what had happened in that schoolroom when all the students, turned and watched silently. The force and pain of that shambok was like nothing he had ever experienced. Never before had he hated someone, but it as he thought the whole incident over it began building up within him. The tears and disappointment was gone and replaced with a cold, deadly fury. The innocence had been erased by the sharp, searing pain of a whip. He had never heard the word kaffir directed at him before, although he knew what it meant. Never before had he known that they hated him, never before had he cried like that in front of anyone. The humiliation blazed within him. At the young age of six, he began to hate. At the young age of six he had been introduced to the pain of racism, the piercing truth of the times. All the happiness and anticipation he had previously felt had gone with the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He felt empty even though he was filled with anger. He decided to go back home and stay in the refuge of the village, but he would never forget this. The anger grew and boiled within him. An anger that later he and many others would gladly die for.
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