Praise for Doing Time
Doing Time
I did not put the book down. I started off expecting humour, captivating stories of Soweto, the music, people, fashions, and of course profound insights on the African experience, a hard but hopeful look at ourselves, and of course observations on where we are as a people. I was not disappointed but I got much more. I enjoyed the frank yet humane manner of your reflections. No one could capture the heartbeat of the townships, the amazing story of our struggle, told with no heroism just the facts and complexities and contradictions of life. The book makes every actor a real presence, from your family – I loved your dad – to heads of state. Everyone mattered. This book is what should be in our school text books. Finally I felt that my story, a girl growing up in the dusty streets of Soweto, has been told. I thank you again for the privilege. – Bongi M khabela, CEO, Nelson M andela Children’s Fund Peter Vundla’s life story is also the story of South Africa: growing up in the ’50s and ’60s, rooted in apartheid’s forced removals, on through his experience in the ’70s and ’80s as a smart, successful black executive in a very white business world, then to founding the country’s first and most successful black-owned ad agency, and on past democracy and 1994 into the shadows of empowerment finance and corruption, the emergence of a vastly wealthy black elite and the ANC’s power politics. Vundla emerges from this incredible journey with head held high and reputation intact. It’s a remarkable tale. – Chris Gibbons, journalist & broadcaster I was introduced to Peter via my old friend Hugh Masekela on one of my first trips to South Africa, “You have to meet P.V.” Instantly likeable, Peter became my first point of reference in South Africa. Affable, dapper, amazingly humble when set besides his considerable achievements and so passionate about South African politics – Peter has indeed a story to tell. – Edward A kufo-A ddo, businessman, Accra
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Peter Vundla’s memoirs are a testament to and a celebration of an extraordinary life lived in extraordinary times. A boy from humble beginnings who made good against all odds; who at the apex of his achievements hobnobbed with the great and good (and still does), and eminently cares about more than just his immediate surroundings. There’s an unmistakable restlessness, regret and sadness coursing through the narrative, i.e. that the freedom attained at such great cost to so many seems to have turned into a mirage for most of his people. A dream betrayed. Peter can rightly claim to have been present at the creation. It is obviously an intimate personal story, but his is more than just a window into urban black experience especially as apartheid tightened its grip. Through him we see the painful evolution of modern South Africa. He has been witness to some of the major events that shaped this country as we know it today – the early stirrings and agitations in black politics, the introduction of Bantu Education, the ruthless destruction of Western Native Township and Sophiatown and their forced removal to the desolation that was Soweto and its rise to a metropolis that was to play such a crucial role in the liberation of South Africa; his involvement in the advertising industry was as epoch-making as his role in fighting for opportunities in business for those less fortunate is inspirational. Transformation of the South African business landscape remains his abiding passion. He could easily have been scarred by some of the events that negatively impacted on his life. Needless to say many of his compatriots have ended up as dregs of society as a result. But he has emerged triumphant, with a humility that is endearing – a model citizen. Success has thankfully not tainted his decency or his sense of fairness and justice. One gets the sense that he’s not done yet; that he’s still itching for action. These experiences – and the success he’s made of his life – have simply whetted his appetite. PV doesn’t do retirement, I reckon. It’s a great life. A great book. Enjoy. – Barney Mthombothi, former editor, Financial M ail ii
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Doing Time
Peter Vundla
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First published by Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd in 2013 10 Orange Street Sunnyside Auckland Park 2092 South Africa +2711 628 3200 www.jacana.co.za © Peter Vundla, 2013 All rights reserved. ISBN 978-1-4314-0447-6 Also available as an e-book d-PDF ISBN 978-1-4314-0448-3 ePUB ISBN 978-1-4314-0449-0 mobi ISBN 978-1-4314-0553-4 Cover design by Sergi Amilcar de Sousa Passos Set in Sabon 11/16pt Job no. 002095 See a complete list of Jacana titles at www.jacana.co.za
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This book is dedicated to my parents, Nchibudi Kathleen and Philip Qipu Vundla
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Contents
Foreword. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Acknowledgements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii About the title. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii Why an autobiography?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xix 1 In the beginning… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 Growing up. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 3 ‘We will fly like eagles’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 4 Booze, books and show business. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 5 An exhilarating ride. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 6 Dining with the Great Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 7 The foundations of a new country. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 vii
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8 Midwives of the new democracy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 9 ‘Not anti-white, just pro-black!’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 10 Charlize Theron talks about rape. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 11 Board games and football. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 12 Bidding for glory. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 13 In the wrong neighbourhood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 14 ‘Because we are South African’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 15 Redressing the past. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 16 ‘Mr President, go ahead and govern’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 17 Selling out the movement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 18 Spies are moegoes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 19 Conferring inside Tuynhuys. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 20 ‘We have a problem…’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 21 ‘Happy 60th birthday!’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229 22 Dyed-in-the-wool hero. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237
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Foreword
It is, perhaps, a mark of one’s age that one’s reading tastes change. The genre of biography at the moment is one that I find most entertaining at times, annoying at others, but almost always educational in that it opens up one’s eyes to perspectives that had been lying dormant. What excites one’s imagination is the telling of the story of our country through the lives of this country’s greatest sons and daughters. It is also recognition of the heroes and heroines of our time who project so much of our own inner feelings and experiences such that we can identify ourselves in them. Doing Time is a welcome addition to the literature of the new South Africa. First, it is a book that reveals so much about the author – sides of his nature and personality that could well have been shrouded in history had he not opened a window for us to look ix
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into his inner soul. It also tells of the many, often unheralded, personalities who have made contributions, however modest, to shaping the country that we have become. What may be most surprising is just how many of us are touched in small ways or large by the personalities that shape history – our Sunday school teacher, at Boy Scouts, at school or university, on the sports field and in the many social and community settings where life is lived to the fullest. What is fascinating about the telling of the South African story is just how much so many have achieved against such odds. It gets one to think that were it not for apartheid what kind of achieving country we could have become. Peter Vundla tells it all. He does so with his characteristic candour and irreverence at times, but always truthful and tender in equal measure. He begins with a moving portrait of the Vundla household, the nurturing within this rather large family, and the characters that have been built around it. He then has a candid portrait of his illustrious, even if at times controversial, father ‘PQ’. One has to admire the adventurous spirit, the ‘nothing-say-die’ attitude, the independence of mind and the entrepreneurial spirit that built out of nothing an amazing dynasty. It can only be out of that insight into ‘PQ’ that one can begin to understand Peter Vundla. I am glad that I do not feature in Peter’s account. I cannot tell how I would have emerged on the pages of his pen. Peter and I had the privilege of being students at Fort Hare during what would have been one of its most historic epochs. Like him I left Fort Hare without a qualification and like him I went on to qualify at the University of South Africa. Unlike him I spent years in exile and he cut his teeth in the struggles for existence and human dignity at home. He tells this story in a very matter-of-fact but poignant manner that draws you into his story with empathy, and you feel like you know all x
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about it. Perhaps most revealing, he tells of his development in business, in the creative art of advertising, and the ability to bring people together into successful endeavours. I also had the privilege years later of serving with Peter for nearly ten years at the University of South Africa (Unisa) when I was Principal and Vice Chancellor and he was a valuable member of Council. His sharp pen and characteristic candour have cut many an ego to size, and somehow he manages to get the reader to say ‘Good on you, brother…!’ Thankfully, for me that period does not feature in this memoir. Maybe he will correct that in a future episode of his life. For all that one also has a glimpse, dealt with with amazing understatement about his political views and his journey towards what could perhaps be considered conditional support for the African National Congress, very much on his own terms. From that one can understand the critical thought leader that Vundla has become, an independent operator and yet one who always shows the right blend of ethics in business and in politics and pragmatism and compromise. This is a work no reader will find boring. It is a human story. It does not try to be what it is not. It is entertaining, well written and at times even poetic in style but with every page it is possessed of vignettes of knowledge, insight and common wisdom that any avid reader will value. That is the genius of Doing Time. Peter Vundla must be congratulated for producing such an insight into the South Africa we might never have known. Camagu, Radebe! N Barney Pityana GCOB Rector: College of the Transfiguration Grahamstown October 2013 xi
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Acknowledgements
I suppose I must start my acknowledgements by saying the obligatory “This book would not have been possible without blah, blah blah”. I would then continue and say “Any inaccuracies or factual errors are purely of my own doing ….” But seriously I do have quite a few people to thank for making this autobiography possible. The idea of this book was Muzi Khuzwayo’s, who always had an exaggerated opinion of me. He introduced me to Jacana, who in turn introduced me to Monique Verduyn, who spent hours interviewing me, transcribing the interviews and giving a shot at the first chapter. Gloria de Abreu collated these in an orderly fashion.
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Noluvuko Mathibe was commissioned to conduct one-on-one interviews with family members, friends and business colleagues. Among the people Noluvuko spoke to were my three brothers, Hlangi, Mfundi and Temba and my sisters Dorcas and Karabo. She also spoke to my daughter Zizwe. They all said things they would say to my face, being Vundlas! Hlangi would assist me with verifying the family history. It was quite surreal to read interviews of the friends interviewed. It was like reading my obituary! Gratitude goes to Louis Molamu (who threatens to write the definitive biography!), Jabu Mabuza, Johnny Selelo, Rose Frances, Don Ncube, Eric Mafuna, Gigi Mbere and Santie Botha. Noluvuko also spoke to Nico Ferreira, who took the trouble to pen his memories of his ties with my dad and family. Many thanks to Charmayne Venkatsamy, Pumza Sobalisa and Miliswa Cawe. My good friend Mike Friedman also gave of his time. Special thanks also to the Buoys, Happy Ntshingila, Dimape Serenyane, Vijay Archery and Quintin Denyssen. Zenzo Lusengo and Andrew Sprague assisted with the background and reflections of our days at African Merchant Bank and AMB Capital. AMB Capital also made their resources available to me. I relied heavily on material meticulously filed over the years by my former personal assistant, Lindi Masina. Caroline McGovern was left with the arduous task of typing up the manuscript from my hieroglyphic handwriting. I cannot thank you enough Caroline! I would also like to thank Barney Pityana for making time to write the foreword for this book. The design of the cover was conceptualised by Sergi Amilcar de Sousa Passos of the Vega School of Brand xiv
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Leadership. Thanks to Gordon Cook and Christiaan Graaff for allowing me to brief their graphic design students to compete for the cover design. Congratulations to Sergi for the winning design. Finally, special thanks also to my wife Noluthando and daughters Matshepang and Nchibudi for tolerating a migrant husband and father who commuted between Morningside and Zimbali to pen this autobiography.
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About the title
The title of the book, Doing Time, is inspired by a visit to South Africa around 1989 by the doyen of advertising, David Ogilvy. After a lunch with senior management of Ogilvy and Mather, Rightford Searle-Tripp & Makin, holding onto my arm as we crossed 5th Street going back to the office, the great man enquired how long I had been with the company. I muttered something like, ‘Come November, I will have been with the company for eight years’. He stopped abruptly and looked me in the eye and said, ‘Good heavens, Peter, you sound like you’re doing time here!’
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Why an autobiography?
‘There is a book in everybody.’ – Roger M akin, circa 1984
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1
In the beginning…
The year 1948 was a good one for General Motors. The company rolled off the assembly line the Chevrolet sedan, a car that is still considered one of the best products ever to come out of Detroit. In that same year – on 1 January, to be precise – I entered the scene as Bunguza Peter. But my entry was not as auspicious. That year was also a turning point in South Africa’s history. The National Party came into power on 26 May under DF Malan and the abominable system of apartheid was born and institutionalised. It could, therefore, be said that I was born into apartheid – into bondage – unlike our post-1994 ‘born frees’! At the age of five months I started ‘doing time’. But let’s start where it all began. To put the record straight for one white advertising executive who, in the 1980s, 1
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enquired whether black people got married, my parents were married in 1932. My father, Philip Qipu Vundla, popularly known as ‘PQ’, came from Tyatyora, Fort Beaufort, near Healdtown, a Methodist mission station in the Eastern Cape. He was one of four children from a poor family that sometimes went without food. When he was 18 years old he left his village, like many young men of his age, to seek employment in East London. He soon realised that the real money was to be made in Johannesburg, the City of Gold, where he gained employment as a clerk at Crown Mines. It was a good job, one my father said he got only because he was a talented cricketer. The mining community at the time took its sports seriously. My father married well. My mother, Nchibudi Betty Kathleen Mashaba, was of royal blood and a niece of the chief of the Batlokoa people. She came to Johannesburg from Soekmekaar in Limpopo, then known as the Northern Transvaal, to train as a nurse at the hospital in Crown Mines. My mother and father met once at the home of one of her friends. She did not see him again for three months as he was travelling around the country on mine union business. Then she received a letter, asking her to marry him. It was not customary to marry outside one’s tribe or to marry beneath one’s status. But my mother’s love for him grew and she decided to defy her family, who saw my father as a man whose strong political convictions would almost certainly put him in prison and endanger her life. Much against their will, she married him. She moved into his small, two-roomed house in Western Native Township, adjacent to Sophiatown. In those days it was one of the major residential areas for black people working in or near Johannesburg. In many ways, Western was a labour camp. The two- and three-roomed houses were built from red brick 2
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and had corrugated-iron roofs. Many had verandas that could be used to provide an extra room. Each house had one tap and water-borne sanitation, but there was no electricity. People used candles and paraffin lamps for light and they cooked on coal stoves. The untarred roads were dusty yet passable in winter, but turned to mud with the summer rains. The houses, however, were mostly well kept and people grew flowers, vegetables and fruit in their gardens. My parents’ house had one bedroom and an L-shaped room that served as both a living room and a kitchen. Over the next 20 years they had 11 children who survived and five others who were born prematurely and didn’t survive. It was not unusual to have large families in those days, but my mother’s people started expressing concern about the number of times my mother was conceiving. They called my father aside and said, ‘Haven’t you had too many children? Why don’t you give this woman a break?’ The first of the 11 children was a girl Nozizwe (Clara). The second was Xolile (Xenophone Balaskas). Next was Philip (Qipu), followed by Mummy (Elizabeth), Mhlangabezi (Hlangi), Harriet, Mfundi (Michael), me, Dorcas (Nontsikelelo), Temba (Winslow) and Karabo (Caroline). My eldest sister, Nozizwe, was a wonderful, spiritual woman and, among the children, was the anchor in the family. She was a schoolteacher by profession and a disciplinarian who was very quick with a slap in the face should you stray from the straight and narrow. Xolile, being the eldest son, stopped school after matric at Madibane High to work and help our parents bring us up. He went to work at a company called Ozalid that sold office equipment. I recall he would bring home his weekly wages in an envelope and my father would open it, give Xolile some money to carry him through the week and for his own personal entertainment, and use 3
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the rest to feed the family. But Xolile was not only a caring brother – he also soon developed a reputation as one of the toughest and most feared dudes in Western and Sophiatown. Then there was Philip, the handsome, dapper dresser with strong Pan Africanist beliefs, who would later become close friends with Chris Hani. Philip was always teasing my sister, Mummy, by calling her ‘De Wet Nel’ after the then apartheid Minister of Bantu Administration because of her curiosity (Ndaba Zabantu!). Mummy was a gentle, loving soul, who subsequently became a teacher and the lead singer in the family. Hlangi, who came after Mummy, was the dark, lithe tennis player and photographer with the gift of the gab, whom I thought would make a shrewd politician some day. My dad’s younger brother Titus and his wife Irene had no children and Harriet would be ‘loaned’ to them. Her new home was only two streets away from us. While I had extremely close relationships with all my siblings (I suspect I was everybody’s favourite!), I developed a very close relationship with Mfundi, the quiet and reserved brother with whom I shared a classroom from Sub A right through to university. My younger sister Dorcas, whom everyone called Docie, was the beautiful one with the sparkling eyes. She always seemed to be on my case and I suspect that she was jealous of the favouritism I seemed to get from Mawe (the name by which we and everybody else in our street called my mother). Temba, who was next after Dorcas, seemed to think that being the youngest son gave him the right to be a spoilt brat and forever moody. Temba would become the victor ludorum of the family thanks to his athletic build. For some unfathomable reason, he was selected to inherit from my father, even though he was the youngest son. I found this 4
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strange as the cultural norm was for the eldest to don the mettle. Even today, I struggle to understand the logic here. Lastly there was Karabo, she of the angelic face, forever generous and caring, who left it to Temba to behave as if he were the youngest. Mine was a close-knit family and we loved and cared for one another. Suppertime was family time, as was lunch on Sundays, when my mother cooked the best food under the sun. Seeing us eat made our dad the happiest man. A better provider you could not find. Ever the disciplinarian who never believed in ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’, my father instilled in us a very strong sense of responsibility. Each of us had an after-school and a Saturday chore. And there were many chores: sweeping the yard, feeding and walking the dogs, polishing the shoes, washing and drying the dishes and doing the laundry. I was in awe of my dad. He was and remains my only role model to the extent that all who knew him believe I have more of his mannerisms (such as his speech, gestures, looks and intolerance) than any of his other children. I learnt from him and patterned my life on his. He spoke well and wrote in an elegant cursive. His was a very proud signature. He dressed better than any man I have known, in Borsalino hats, Chester Barrie suits and matching Church’s shoes, and he carried a walking stick. He was intolerant of those he considered fools. He was the most outspoken and principled man I have ever known. My mother was dad’s counterfoil. She was spiritual and beautiful, with an abundance of grace. She was everything a mother should be. She often confided in me, to my embarrassment and admiration. One day Mawe told me that I had a half-sister, dad’s daughter called Lillian. Sis Lillian is a warm, loving and humorous woman who remains an 5
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important part of my life. My mother was loyal, faithful and dedicated to my dad. My dad never left the house during the week without a snowwhite starched shirt, one of which took my mother a whole hour to iron. Yet, she was not just our mother; we shared her with every child in the township, who affectionately called her either Mawe or Aunty Kay. At an early age I was introduced to my first cousins from my mother’s side: Sis Florence, Louisa, Esther and Mogadi. I always found my mother’s people so much warmer than the relatives on my dad’s side. My dad’s desire to improve the living conditions of our people in a segregated township led him to become an admired and trusted community leader. In 1939, he was elected to sit on the Advisory Board of the Johannesburg City Council, a committee of democratically elected black leaders who advised the City Council on African affairs. At 35 years old he was the youngest member on the board and subsequently served on it for more than 30 years. In 1943, my father was going to give evidence to a commission set up to investigate the working conditions of miners but the authorities found out and he was demoted. Having been told to report to another shaft, he said to the man in charge, ‘I will not go. I will go out and play golf.’ He left the office and never returned. By this time, his love for cricket had been replaced by an equally ardent enthusiasm for golf, a sport all of his sons would later play. He joined the African Mineworkers’ Union as a full-time organiser and devoted his time to improving the working conditions of black miners. For the family, these were hard times. There was no money coming in apart from a small allowance from my father, so my mother had to find work. Nursing would have kept her away from home too much, so she took in washing. 6
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Many women in the township earned money by doing this, but it was generally seen as a sign that one did not have an education. Nonetheless, my mother swallowed her pride and the family now had a regular income. She later set up a cooperative of women who did laundry for white people. She made more money doing laundry for families such as the Fattis and the Monis, the founders of the local pasta brand, than she would have made as a nurse. She also did laundry for the Menells, a prominent family in the mining industry. When I was about four or five years old, caustic soda was the preferred bleach for laundry. My brother Hlangi remembers the time that I ate the stuff, believing it was sugar. I started screaming with pain as my mouth turned red. My mother made me gulp large dollops of milk, which provoked vomiting, in case I had swallowed the corrosive bleach. I thought I was going to die. By then our family had grown and our home had become too small, so my parents asked the township superintendent for a bigger house. They were given one with three rooms and a veranda, which they enclosed and turned into a kitchen. The house was then painted green, gold and black, the colours of the African National Congress. A steady stream of people came to visit my father, particularly in the evenings and on Saturday mornings, to seek his help. Although our home was small, it was always open to people with legal, financial and personal problems. My father was adept at circumventing apartheid laws such as the influx control and pass laws. Among the many prominent people he assisted were Drs Nthato Motlana and Jiyana Mbere. Others would come with issues relating to the notorious dompas (pass book that had to be carried at all times within ‘white areas’) and my dad would find a way to get them qualified for a Section 10.1A, which allowed them to live and work in 7
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Johannesburg. Where this was not possible, he would ensure that they qualified for a Section 10.1B stamp, which allowed them to stay in the city under certain conditions. Throughout this period of getting around apartheid laws, my dad was aided and abetted by progressive white bureaucrats such as JP Carr and one Mr Robinson. It was during this time that my siblings and I became acutely aware of the injustices of the apartheid system. As a child I encountered many African leaders in our parents’ home, such as JB Marks, a gregarious man who was a Marxist and a thinker, who was always willing to give us a ride in his six-seater Jeep. And there was the effusive Nelson Mandela, dapper in grey flannels and a navy blazer. To him my dad was ‘PQ’ or alternatively ‘Radebe’, our clan name. Yes, I met Mandela long before the latter-day revolutionaries in the new ANC. My mother recalled how my dad attracted the interest of the Communist Party in 1944. They did not really trust him, and they strongly disapproved of his dapper style and immaculate appearance. Nevertheless, they invited him to their meetings and gave him training in public speaking. But my father had very little patience with communism, as he believed it to be an alien ideology. He was also wary of whiteled organisations and the communist influence on the ANC. The spirit of unrest was spreading among black people on the mines. Grievances about wages and working conditions were reaching a crisis point. In 1946, my father, in his position as organising secretary for the African Mineworkers’ Union, called a strike. It spread east and west of Johannesburg and became the biggest industrial strike ever organised by black people. A demonstration was arranged and mineworkers headed for the headquarters of the Chamber of Mines, but they never got there. The police stopped them and my father 8
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and other leaders were arrested. To everyone’s surprise, however, the charges were withdrawn, but a regulation was brought in prohibiting Africans from holding gatherings of more than 20 people on mine land. My father left the union in 1947 because he felt that trade-union work would be impossible if one could not hold meetings. He had become a marked man by this time and the police regularly raided our home. In an interview in 1958, my dad related how mineworkers staged sit-ins underground. Police then went underground to forcibly get the miners to work. General Smuts was the prime minister at the time. In 1948, the Johannesburg Municipality raised the tram fares, which caused a public outcry in the townships. My father became chairman of the Anti-Tram Fare Increase Committee. The trams were boycotted and ran empty for two months. Riots and clashes with police followed. My father had enemies on the Advisory Board who saw this as an opportunity to get him thrown off the board. They had him arrested and he was roughed up by the police and thereafter kept at Marshall Square for two days. The police then, however, discovered that the accusations against him were false and they let him go. The tram boycott also resulted in the Vundla name being registered on police files across the country. He had yet another brush with the law when he attempted to help citizens of the township who had been having trouble with their chimneys, which smoked terribly. The matter was brought to court and suddenly he found himself facing a charge of inciting people to oppose the government. The magistrate eventually dismissed the case when my father proved the charges resulted from a conspiracy against him by his opponent in the upcoming election in the township. A carnival atmosphere always prevailed during the 9
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campaigns leading up to the election of the Western Native Township Advisory Board. Community election parties were identified simply by colour: Green, Yellow, Blue and so on. My father’s party was Blue and year after year it won hands down! Although my father organised boycotts and protests, his main concern was the preservation of law and order. He wanted to make the township a safer and happier place. This led him to establish the Civilian Guards in 1950, a group of volunteers who patrolled the streets at night. The township was a dangerous place, with gangs burgling and looting houses and ready to stab anyone who resisted. The Civilian Guards knew who these young thugs were. They sought them out and collected many dangerous weapons. But my father also helped them to get their passes so that they could find jobs and stay off the streets. In 1952, when Chief Albert Luthuli was president of the organisation, my father was elected to the National Executive of the Transvaal African National Congress (ANC). My mother was also a member of the ANC at the time. He served for a year, but then decided he could contribute more to the cause by writing, so he took up journalism. He wrote for the Bantu World, which had been founded in April 1932 for an intended audience of black middle-class elite and distributed nationally. This improved the family’s financial situation. My father continued his political fight through the articles he wrote. He also earned extra money by working as a freelancer for other publications. One of the chores of the young men in the family was to sell newspapers. What is today Mary Fitzgerald Square in the Market Theatre precinct used to be a huge bus terminus, directly adjacent to what we called the Indian market. It was there that I plied my trade as a newspaper vendor. But the 10
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largest sale I ever had was one edition of the Bantu World with the headlines: ‘Tokoloshe Exists!’ This was at Westbury Station in Newclare. Sophiatown was separated from Western Native Township by nothing more than a fence. It was a popular place to live because it was close to the city and it was also one of the few places where Africans had freehold rights on their properties. It was an old township established in 1904 and coloureds, Indians and some whites lived side by side with Africans. Some of the homes were in dreadful condition and there were many slums, but people liked to live there. When news of the imminent forced removals of black families to Meadowlands in Soweto began to spread in Sophiatown and neighbouring townships, reaction to the scheme grew. My father was furious. He organised large meetings in a square in Sophiatown, which became known as Freedom Square, and encouraged the crowds to refuse to move. Meetings of support were held in Western Native Township and women like my mother played a great part, singing liberation songs and providing support for community leaders. (My mother’s favourite song was about the then prime minister, DF Malan: ‘Malan otsogile, le mmuso wagage. Luthuli phakisa onke mmuso’ – ‘Malan is running scared, even his government. Luthuli, hurry and take over government.’) The situation grew more and more tense. Foreign correspondents arrived in the city and it was thought that the day of the removals would signal the beginning of a revolution in South Africa. As the day approached, all meetings were forbidden. During this time a young white man came to visit my father, much to his surprise and displeasure. As far as he was concerned, no good news ever came from a white man 11
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– that the only good white man was a dead white man. But this young man, whose name was Nico Ferreira, had come to ask if they could work together to start building a real and different future for South Africa. My father had never heard a white man speak like that. Later it emerged that he had attended a conference of the Moral Re-Armament Movement (MRA), a non-denominational, spiritual group founded by American thinker, Frank Buchman. The basic tenet of the MRA was that the reformation of the world could be achieved only by creating a moral and spiritual force; by convincing all people of the necessity of absolute honesty, absolute purity, absolute selflessness and absolute love. Co-operation, honesty and mutual respect between opposing groups were also encouraged. The movement held a series of conferences that were attended by thousands of people and it spread widely in Protestant countries, especially Australia, Holland, Scandinavia and South Africa. Buchman hoped that the world would avoid war if individuals experienced a moral and spiritual awakening. In many ways the MRA was a precursor to the current Moral Regeneration Movement – the only difference was that there was a commitment by the former! But there was little time for my father to think about what Nico told him that night. On 9 February 1955, 2 000 armed policemen began the forced removals. They served notices on everyone, and the bulldozers rolled in to demolish the houses. The atmosphere was tense, but having no choice, many people agreed to move and the crisis passed without too many incidents. For my parents, however, the sense of foreboding about the future grew. A new Act was about to be passed that would affect the education of their children, namely the 12
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Bantu Education Act, which decreed that black children would receive inferior education. My parents feared that this would make us inferior to white children and dwarf our minds. Because schooling was not free, black parents everywhere felt that they were entitled to have an opinion as to what type of education their children should receive. In December 1954, the ANC decided that parents should withdraw their children from school. Later, they relaxed the boycott on the grounds that any schooling was better than none, a position my father felt very strongly about. The ANC Youth League (ANCYL), however, was very keen to impose the boycott and children were forced to stay at home. Then the Minister of Native Affairs, Dr Hendrik Verwoerd, ordered parents to send their children back to school or they would be expelled and not allowed to register again. At a crowded meeting in Western Native Township, my father advised parents to send their children to school. The ANCYL was furious and spread the word around the township that my father was a traitor and a sell-out. They said that he had been seen with white people and could not be trusted. On the evening of an executive meeting of the Advisory Council, a woman came to my parents’ house with my father’s hat in her hand. There had been a fight. My mother went to Coronation Hospital where she found him. He had been admitted with serious head injuries. He had arrived early at the meeting and while he was waiting for his colleagues, around 30 ANCYL members burst into the room shouting that he had betrayed the youth and was not fit to live. They all carried weapons. The first thing my father did was put out the light. He had been stabbed in the head but in the darkness he managed to climb out of a window and escape the mob. Covered in blood he went to a friend’s home and then to hospital. His assailants, 13
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meanwhile, were certain he had died of his wounds and they were jubilant. I later discovered that one of my father’s assailants was a man who, in exile, had been well connected with both the underworld and the South African security forces. I met him on his return from exile and when we were introduced he told me that he always had only the deepest respect for my dad. This shifty-eyed tsotsi-comrade subsequently became a senior minister in Mandela’s Cabinet. Nico paid my dad a visit in hospital, bringing him a gift of grapes. He had many other visitors too, including some white journalists who came to get his story. The police also went to see him but he didn’t want to press charges against his attackers. However, his supporters wanted vengeance. When he was discharged, my father called a meeting and told them revenge was not the answer. Instead, he said, it was important to get the children back to school so that they could learn to read and write and be taught discipline. The crowd listened to him. He was militant in his fight for the rights of his people but he was not a violent man. His enemies continued to threaten to kill him and he had to seek police protection, but he believed he was providing the right sort of leadership for his people. He was invited to a meeting of the MRA movement in Johannesburg to talk about the future of the country. My mother was not happy about it and did not see why he would want to fraternise with whites. On his return, he told how he had met many educated Afrikaners and both English- and Afrikaans-speaking whites who treated him like a fellow citizen and an equal. They spoke about the importance of changing themselves and their attitudes. They said it was not enough to go to church; they had to behave according to the principles of honesty, purity, unselfishness and love that 14
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Jesus Christ preached. My father began to apply these in his own life and my mother noticed a softening of his attitude toward the family. My father believed that both change and unity were possible in Western Native Township. He went to see the leaders of the opposing parties and talked to them about putting aside their differences and working together for the good of the residents. Some were suspicious and not prepared to co-operate, however the word began to spread that Vundla was not just a politician – he was a man who cared for the welfare of the people. The gangs were of great concern to him. In our township there were two: the Co-Operatives and the Headquarters. Across the road in Sophiatown, there were the Vultures, led by Don Mattera, a coloured boy who was the son of an Italian father and a black mother. One day, my father, who had written extensively about the madness of blacks fighting blacks, broke up a fight between two of the gangs with the help of the police. The boys ran away but my father tracked down Don Mattera and asked him to put an end to the fighting. But the gang warfare went on and then tragedy struck. One of the Headquarters’ members was killed in a fight with the Vultures. Don and other members of his gang were arrested and charged with murder. But because of a lack of evidence, the charges were dropped. Again my father pleaded with Don. He invited the gangs to a meeting in the community hall and it turned into a peace conference. The fighting stopped. In 1956, when the Advisory Board elections were held, my father was re-elected by an overwhelming majority. The following year, he returned unopposed because the opposition did not think it worthwhile to put up a candidate. Over time, he won the friendship of some men 15
Peter Vundla
who had opposed him and they were able to work together for the common good. He was welcomed by all – even by the white superintendent who had, at first, been suspicious of his activities. My mother believed it was his honesty and forthrightness above all that disarmed his opponents. Around this time, he admitted to her that he had been militant in his outlook, ready to assault people who oppressed him, because his sole focus had been his political activities against the white oppressors. By the end of the 1950s, his understanding of leadership had evolved, as had his sense of responsibility. He began to think beyond the borders of South Africa. Then he and my mother met a Scotsman, Charles Burns, who had become a South African national. He had bought a home in Westcliffe, Johannesburg, and people of every belief and colour were welcome there. My parents formed strong friendships with people who knew what risks the Vundlas were taking by visiting a white home and, in turn, receiving white guests in their home. Burns decided that it was in the national interest that my father attend the MRA movement’s international conference at Caux in Switzerland. My parents applied for passports but were turned down because of my father’s criminal record. His friends then mounted an 18-month-long campaign to prove how he had helped to avert bloodshed within his community. During this time, he became part of a consultative group of black and white men, formed in response to a crisis that arose when the local bus company increased fares by a penny. Militant black leaders called for a boycott, which my father opposed. The boycott spread from Western Native Township to Alexander. He called for an end to the boycott and met with officials from the Native Affairs Department, but there was no machinery set up at the time to enable negotiations. 16
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My father and nine black community leaders met with a group of white businessmen who were concerned about the impact of the boycott. They learnt of the hardship that the penny increase meant for poor, black families and raised £25 000 to form the basis of a transport subsidy. My father called a meeting of the residents of Western Native Township. As the meeting began, he requested anyone not from the area to leave. He had seen lorry-loads of people arriving from all over the Reef and he knew that the ANC, the Youth League in particular, had been organising against him. A fight broke out but my father and his supporters quickly subdued the militant youths. The buses began running normally again. But there were men who felt that the settlement was a crushing defeat for them and my father’s life was in real danger. My mother became ill with anxiety. Later, they both recalled that it was their faith in God that had got them through this frightening time in their lives. Shortly, after this episode, they were both invited to attend an MRA conference in what was then Salisbury, Rhodesia. Passports were not required and they managed to secure permits to enter the country. It was the first time either of them had left South Africa and they met many new people. One of them was an Afrikaans-speaking housewife and mother from Johannesburg, Sophie Smuts. She was to become one of my mother’s closest friends.
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2
Growing up
I had in the meantime attended school for the first time, doing Sub A with my brother Mfundi, at the Western Methodist Primary School (also known as Thula Ndivile). One of the offensive clauses of the Bantu Education Act decreed that black children should enter school at the age of seven. I was six at the time. But my parents, like many others, connived to get around this. In the absence of birth certificates, the authorities had a crude method of assessing a child’s age – they would get you to place one of your arms across your head in an attempt to touch your opposite ear. If you failed to touch your ear, you were immediately dismissed as being under seven years old. To get around this, my parents connived with a teacher for me to place my arm 19
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around my head rather than over it, thus enabling me to touch my ear! Like the pencil test, this was another physical humiliation black people had to endure under apartheid. I cannot recall any happy events or moments during our schooling at Western Methodist School. What I do remember is that it was not a long stay because my dad and the headmaster, a fellow called Sihlahla, did not get along. So off it was up to the Mzamo Primary School in Sophiatown. I was very fond of Sophiatown. Even at a young age I was able to experience and enjoy the spiritual and cultural Renaissance in Sophiatown, the Bohemian and laissez-faire spirit of those times. This was the age of outstanding black journalism led by people such as Nat Nakasa, Henry Nxumalo, Bloke Modisane, Bob Gosani and Can Themba. These Renaissance journalists would be succeeded by others, such as Doc Bikitsha, Stan Motjuwadi, Leslie Sehume, Obed Musi, Casey Motsisi, Aggrey Klaaste, Percy Qoboza, Joyce Sikhakhane, Harry Mashabela, Gordon Siwani, Sophie Tema, Judy Mayet, Mohlaudi Mosielele, Godwin Mohlomi, Revelation Ntoula, Sydney Matlhaku, Alf Kumalo, Peter Magubane and Selwyn ‘Duke’ Moleko. This generation, in turn, was succeeded by the likes of Maud Motanyane and Khulu Sibiya, and courageous writers such as Thami Mazwai, Sekola Sello, Joe Thloloe, Nomavenda Mathiane, Ferial Hafajee, Jovial Rantao, Makhudu Sefara and Mondli Makhanya. And then there was arguably the finest writer of them all: Barney Mthombothi. I also wanted to be a journalist. My dad thought it was a bad idea. He said they drank too much! Under James Madiba I became a server at Christ the King church, hanging onto Father Huddleston’s cassock Sunday after Sunday. And there was the oft-forgotten Reverend 20
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Michael Scott, after whom my brother Mfundi was named. Midweek, after school at Mzamo Primary, I practised playing a bugle for the First Johannesburg Boy Scout Movement. I turned out to be a lousy bugle player and was demoted to playing the kettledrum. My monotonous style of play, rather than the required rhythmic roll, ensured that my career as a drummer was short-lived! During this period we had dedicated teachers who instilled discipline in their pupils because they were disciplined themselves. One such individual was the principal of Mzamo, Mr HH Dlamlenze, who was feared by students and thugs alike! The preferred method of discipline at the time was caning and Mr Dlamlenze was extremely adept at this. He would often make me carry his very heavy briefcase, panting and running after him. Whenever he needed assistance, Mr Dlamlenze would shout from his office: ‘One Boy!’ I have vivid memories of our home at 1650 Mfeka Street, Western Native Township, because these were happy times, despite apartheid. Our immediate neighbours on the right were a coloured family, the Thompsons. They could speak Setswana and their son George happened to be my best friend. They were also a large family. The eldest sister was Georgina. We used to call her Sis Georgina. She then married one of the leading boxers of the time, a guy called Kid Dynamite Lekoete. He was the biggest rival of Jake Tuli, who was the leading black boxer of the time; the Toweel brothers dominated white boxing. Kid Dynamite campaigned overseas and he was my first real hero. ‘Boetie Varkkop’ Selelo, a big band leader, lived opposite us. He had three sons and two daughters: the eldest was Thelma, second was Johnny, then there was Michael and Aubrey, both of whom were subsequently murdered. Cecilia was the youngest. Johnny and his two daughters lived with 21
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his mother, Aunt Elisa, in Meadowlands. We were all very close. The Selelo boys all became good musicians and Johnny ended up playing trumpet for the Elite Swing Stars. To the left of our house lived the Mafokosho family. The eldest son, Tsintsa, was also called ‘Breezy Mjojo’ because of his oversized American attire and his swagger! His youngest brother, Wonder, became one of my best mates and Mita was my sister Mummy’s bosom friend. The youngest was a guy called Morgan. Further down the street lived Peggy Senne, one of Johannesburg’s colourful characters. Bra Peggy was already a bootlegger by then and he drove the most beautiful cars, including a new 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air, and this subsequently became his nickname: Peggy Bel Air. Cynthia, whom I believed to be the most beautiful woman in Western, lived opposite. She had an affair with a Putco bus driver called ‘Lulu Special’. I used to be the conduit between the two of them and in return he would give me free rides in the bus. Also on our street were my two mates, Moses (Moshe) Kalane, a really naughty bugger, and Paris Maishoane, a stingy fellow if ever was one! Together we caddied at golf, hunted birds in the pepper trees around Balandene Street, sang wedding songs around a tyre pyre and told jokes about one another. But I must mention one ‘blight’ in our happy street – a woman whom we called ‘Nkgono wa Boykie’ (Boykie’s Granny) because nobody knew her! We came to the unassailable conclusion that this old hermit, who lived in a spotlessly clean house, could be nothing other than a witch. She never ever came out of the house. Then one day I caught sight of her, the first and last time ever. I thought I was going to die because I had seen a witch! To get to Sophiatown to shop or to go to the movies 22
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at Balanksy Cinema, we had to go through a fence that surrounded our township. There was a white family who lived on a smallholding with a son named Flippie. Now Flippie thought it was his mission in life to harass blacks who came through the fence. He would shoot at us with a catapult, with a pack of dogs in the vanguard. We would respond with our slings but these were no match for Flippie’s catapult. Odin was a second cinema in Sophiatown. At both cinemas we would watch movies such as The Drums of Fu Manchu. Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan was a favourite. We shrieked with laughter at the cartoons – my favourite was Casper the Friendly Ghost. To this day I am a sucker for Westerns. The Fastest Gun Alive starring Glenn Ford and Broderick Crawford remains an all-time favourite. Having a dad who played golf, it was natural for us to take up the sport, and golf has become an important part of my life. When we were not caddying for our dad, who played at a blacks-only golf course (a barn really) in Sophiatown called Toby, we would caddy at Parkview Country Club. My dad used to play with the colourful Sam Tau, the father of Moss, Sekamotho and Papi, who lived near Thami Mazwai’s home in John Mohohlo Street. Uncle Sam’s nickname was ‘Akufani nokuhlala’ (better than doing nothing). Later we gathered that this nickname in full was ‘Akufani nokuhlala namadikazi elokishini’ (better than staying with whores in the township) – this after a bad round of golf! To get to Parkview golf course at the crack of dawn we would run non-stop through Sophiatown, Westdene and Northcliff. Whoever got there first was assured first place in the kraal, waiting to carry the master’s bag. The club professional was Bert Thomas (the bugger used to call me Pikinini!) and the leading amateur was Eric Walker. Bobby 23
Peter Vundla
Locke and Gary Player, who were frequent players in the Transvaal and South African Opens, also played there. When I returned home one day, I had a massive nosebleed, which PQ tried for hours to quell. I have suffered from nosebleeds ever since. I was often given a leaner bag with fewer clubs and these belonged to white female golfers. It was a big frustration and demeaning to carry for these women. Every five or six holes, they would sneak behind a bush and come back and put a pair of panties inside the golf bag! Sometimes I used to carry for men as well. There was one guy I used to carry for and I hated him with a passion. Actually, I felt sorry for the poor fellow. We called him Mr Hills. (His name was actually ‘Hills’ but because he called himself ‘Mr’, we called him ‘Mr Hills’.) He was a lousy golfer and a hell of a racist – every time he missed a putt, he would chastise himself loudly and say, ‘No, Mr Hills. You’re playing like a Kaffir, Mr Hills.’ For our efforts we were given a slice of bread with jam, a peanut snack and Canada Dry cold drink at halfway mark and four and sixpence at the end of the day. My children still give me a peanut snack when it’s my birthday. Soccer played an important part in our lives in Western Native Township. The leading teams of the day were the Hungry Lions and the Western Rangers. Two leading players of the time were Jafta ‘Inch-by-Inch’ Gwamanda and Norman ‘Bahlekazi’ Ditsebe. I played soccer against individuals such as Percy ‘Chippa’ Moloi, but I was not good at it, definitely nowhere near Chippa’s prowess! I have many fond memories of my school days. Although I was not the studious type, I enjoyed learning and loved going to school. After Mzamo Primary School in Sophiatown, my dad thought it would be better for Mfundi 24
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and I to move to the American Board Mission School, which was closer to our home in Western. The headmaster was Mr Clement Molamu. I was in Standard 4 at the time and my classroom was near Mr Molamu’s office and whenever he went banking, he would insist that I accompany him to Barclays Bank on President Street, in Johannesburg. He had a fine black car – I think it was a DeSoto. I could not understand why he took such a liking to me when he had his own sons at the school. Little did I know at the time that his son, Louis, would become my life-long friend. His mother, Winnie, became my mother’s midwife for the birth of three of my siblings. Like the teachers at Mzamo, the teachers at the American Board Mission were inspired. Besides Mr Williams, my Standard 4 teacher, two others come to mind: the effervescent Job Sebalo, who was always immaculate in good-fitting suits and Edwin Clapp shoes; but the tall and regal Themba Sowazi was not to be outdone in sartorial elegance and a red handkerchief, peeping from his pocket, was his dress signature. Both, for some reason, reproached wayward pupils by calling them ‘Sissy’ (pronounced Sizzy). We left the American Board Mission with heavy hearts when our family moved to Dube Village, Soweto. In late October 1958, my parents heard that their passports had been granted. A week later they left for Europe. Busloads of their friends arrived at Jan Smuts Airport to see them off. They were to go on from Europe to the United States to meet Frank Buchman. It was an expensive trip and one that they could not afford, but a group of people from the MRA had clubbed together to raise the money for their fares. Their first stop was at a conference in The Hague where my father spoke to many of the Dutch people he met about their attitude to Afrikaners, which was really about 25
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disowning Afrikaners and denouncing their Dutch ancestry. He admonished them for thinking that all black people were right and all Afrikaners were wrong. He made it clear that he did not want to be treated as a special case and told them that their attitude was not based on character, but on colour. My parents found themselves confronting bitter attitudes in Holland. Their memories of the harsh German occupation during the war were still fresh and it was helpful for my parents to hear how people dealt with bitterness in a situation that had nothing to do with colour. They spent the next six weeks travelling through Germany, where they met with working-class people who were members of the MRA. Their next stop was California. They arrived on Christmas Eve and were whisked directly to the conference. On their arrival, a choir of young people from all over the world had joined together to sing ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika’. Nothing had ever moved my parents so much. They met Frank Buchman at his home in Tucson. He was old and frail but very alert and keen to know what my parents had been up to. He advised my father to go home and offer the government ‘something new’. He said that it would not be easy, yet he was confident it could be done. Buchman asked my mother to tell him the names of her 11 children and to describe our home. She told him about our tiny house and how hard it was to raise a big family in so little space. He told them to build a big house when they got home so that all their children could grow up decently. My mother had dreamt of such a house for many years but had no idea how her vision could ever be achieved. It all seemed impossible. My parents spent a total of three months overseas, during which time my father decided that the fight for equality was not one confined to South Africa but was in fact global. On 26
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their return, one of the first things my father did was throw a party for his supporters who had fought an election for the Advisory Board on his behalf while he was away. His opponents had resisted his candidacy, saying that he had deserted the people by going overseas; but the election went ahead and he won 707 votes to the opposition’s 128. It was said that he won because he was prepared to visit the poorest of the poor and they knew he cared for them. He managed to gain the trust even of his enemies simply because he battled on until he had convinced them of the value of his ideas and what he was trying to do. My parents’ visit to Europe and the United States also encouraged people to visit them because they wanted to hear about their experiences and what they had learnt there. Shortly after their return, we found out that the government was going to clear Western Native Township in the same way they had Sophiatown as part of the removals programme. The family had to move to Soweto, some 20 kilometres from the centre of Johannesburg. They remembered what Frank Buchman had said to them and chose a site in Dube. They set out to raise money for the house and wrote to friends who were part of the MRA, in South Africa and elsewhere, telling them of the home they hoped to build for our large family. The money started coming in and although they were sad to say goodbye to the people of Western Native Township, there was also a sense that something far bigger and better lay ahead. In 1959, we suffered a great loss. My eldest sister Nozizwe, who was a diabetic, went into a coma and died suddenly. As was the case with many of the hardships my parents had suffered, they worked through their sorrow with the help of friends, both black and white. Sis Nozizwe’s death left me totally gutted. She was only 27 years old and I found it 27
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inconceivable that such a pure and angelic person could die. I also learnt from my dad the proud proclamation that ‘Hlubis don’t cry’ (‘Amahlubi awalili’). One of my aunts, Phuti, had the temerity to wail and was stopped by a slap from my father, who told her to shut up. Sis Nozizwe’s funeral was large – a two-kilometre cortège went from Mfeka Street to Nancifield Cemetery.
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