Interlude: A South African union
Basotholand, 1992
“My father always said the Basotho were good mates in the big war, and he was happy to help them throw the Imperials out [1],” said Marius Coetzee to the circle of children. “But he never planned to stay here – not until my brother Piet was killed in the battle at Sani Pass. After that, he promised that he’d die here too – here at the foot of the mountains. He brought his family and took up his land, right next to Mohapi Sekhamane, the Mosotho captain who’d saved his life in the battle.”
Marius laughed suddenly as he looked at the children around him. Half of them were Sekhamanes themselves, and they hardly needed to be told that part of the story. The Coetzee and Sekhamane families had owned adjacent ranches for nearly three quarters of a century, and they were partners in a pasteurizing plant, two mountain lodges and a safari company.
“Did you fight in the battle too?”
“Yes.” That one and many others, he remembered, and wondered what more he should say. None of these children had seen battle, nor, in all but a few cases, had their parents. South Africa hadn’t had a war since Natal fell, and that had been almost fifty years ago. That was a blessing, no mistake, but how could he talk about warfare to children to whom it was hardly even a memory?
“Tell us!”
“I was very young then, Amantle – eighteen, nineteen,” Marius began cautiously. He was ninety-four now; how many veterans of that war were even still alive? “Our family lived in Bloemfontein when the Imperials took over, and my father was one of the people who realized what they had planned for us after they were done with you…”
“Marius.” The old man looked up to see Zivanayi, part of the Mutapa branch of the family. He was a distant cousin on Sannie’s side; the exact relationship would no doubt come to him in time. “Everyone’s getting ready. You need to come.”
He accepted Zivanayi’s hand up with gratitude. “I’ll tell you about the battle another time,” he said. “You should go find your parents.”
The children scattered noisily, and Marius followed his wife’s cousin to the main building. Piet was there – the other Piet, his grandson – and was the obvious center of attention, but a few of the older people had obviously been waiting for him.
“Look at your suit,” scolded his daughter Karin, her hands busy as she brushed and straightened. If Sannie were still alive, she’d have been the one to fuss. “The procession’s just about to start. Do you have the envelope?”
He patted his right pocket in answer. Yes, they’d need him for that. As the oldest, he would lead the procession, and when they got where they were going, the contents of the envelope would be very important.
“Come here, then.” She led him past Piet, helpless in the center of milling relatives, and to a place by the door. He saw, as he passed, that Piet looked remarkably nervous, although he could hardly be blamed for that. At almost the same time, he realized he was nervous himself. The Coetzee and Sekhamane families may have been next-door neighbors for more than seventy years, but in all that time, no Sekhamane had ever married a Coetzee… until today.
Marius had little time to think on that before an unspoken signal was passed and two of his great-grandchildren rushed ahead to open the doors. He walked through into the sunlight, the family formed up behind him. They’d filled the house for days, all the cousins from the Cape and the Free State and Stellaland and the old republic, even a few descendants of the people Sannie had left behind when Marius’ father had arranged the marriage with her parents in Mutapa. Boers were traveling people, and their clans were scattered far. He felt a brief flash of envy for the Sekhamanes; their house had only a few guests, because nearly all their relatives lived within two hours’ drive.
But if the family was chaos, the scene that greeted Marius outside was more so. It seemed like half the district was on the green in front of the ranch house, in a mix of Boer and Sotho finery that didn’t correlate to the wearers’ race. He let his eyes fall from the distant mountains to look at them: the Coetzees’ and Sekhamanes’ hired hands, friends from Thaba Tseka town, a few district councilors and members of parliament, the Swiss and Austrian families who ran some of the other mountain lodges, more country neighbors than he could count…
“The everyday neighbors and the weekend neighbors,” Karin whispered. Marius nodded; the Basotho were country people at heart, and everyone who could afford it had a cabin in the mountains or out by a cattle station, even the ones who had apartments in Motloang or Makhalanyane and took the cable car up to work on Thaba Bosiu plateau. Maybe that was part of the reason they and the Boers got along as well as they did, once they’d started fighting on the same side.
And at the end of the path the guests cleared, behind a table by the property line, were old man Sekhamane and his mother Mponeng, looking far too solemn for a wedding day. “Do you have it?” asked Mponeng, as bluntly as she might have asked a driver if he’d loaded all the milk.
“Of course.” Marius withdrew the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Piet, who in turn laid it on the table. “The other was delivered this morning.”
Mponeng, unsmiling, nodded and opened the envelope, counting the bills inside. She’d negotiated in much the same way, without mercy for the fact that the Sekhamanes’ spread was four times the size of the Coetzees’. She was almost Marius’ age, and when they’d been younger, women hadn’t taken part in lobola negotiations; now, Marius wondered if that was because the men were afraid of them.
But he didn’t really mind. Lobola – that wasn’t a Sesotho word, but that’s what they called it in the pan-Southern Bantu jargon that people spoke in the capital these days – was about the union of families, and although the parties had resorted frequently to the traditional bottle of Cape wine and pitcher of sorghum beer on the negotiating table, it had all been neighborly enough. In the end, the Coetzees had agreed to deliver five cows to feed the guests at a celebration the Sekhamanes were otherwise paying for, and to contribute thirty thousand pounds to set the couple up in business. That was how it usually was these days, among people who still paid lobola: the money would be returned to the couple and invested in something they would share. A house, a fi or motor-wagon, tuition, or as now, a florist shop in Makhalanyane…
“Twenty-nine thousand,” Mponeng said.
Old man Sekhamane – Moeletsi Mohapi’s son – broke into a smile and put his hand on Piet’s shoulder. “There’s always something left,” he said. “You still owe Nthati, and you will always owe her, because she’ll never stop bringing you happiness.”
He reached out with his other arm and clasped Marius’ hand. “We are one family.”
And that, it seemed, was all – all of Marius’ part in things, anyway. By Sotho custom, Piet and Ntathi were married now, and the parents and grandparents could retreat gracefully. Ntathi was already on her way from the Sekhamanes’ house, surrounded by dancing, stomping sisters and aunts, and the band was singing praise-songs to the bride in Sesotho and Afrikaans.
But they’d wanted to be married in the church too, so it wasn’t time yet for everyone else to start dancing; the pastor still had to do his work. Marius stood between Moeletsi and Mponeng as the music and conversation stilled, and as the couple prepared to take their Christian vows, he noticed that Piet’s apprehension had gone.
As it should be, he thought, and suddenly it seemed that he was at another wedding, seventy years ago in this very place. He and Sannie, too, had stood before the pastor, and that was when they both had realized that they would truly make a home together. There had been no praise-songs and no lobola, but Mponeng had been the one to welcome her to the district, and Moeletsi had helped carry the coffin at her funeral so many years later.
“We are one family,” he murmured, repeating old man Sekhamane’s words. Maybe we’ve always been.
_______
[1] See post 3755.
Basotholand, 1992
“My father always said the Basotho were good mates in the big war, and he was happy to help them throw the Imperials out [1],” said Marius Coetzee to the circle of children. “But he never planned to stay here – not until my brother Piet was killed in the battle at Sani Pass. After that, he promised that he’d die here too – here at the foot of the mountains. He brought his family and took up his land, right next to Mohapi Sekhamane, the Mosotho captain who’d saved his life in the battle.”
Marius laughed suddenly as he looked at the children around him. Half of them were Sekhamanes themselves, and they hardly needed to be told that part of the story. The Coetzee and Sekhamane families had owned adjacent ranches for nearly three quarters of a century, and they were partners in a pasteurizing plant, two mountain lodges and a safari company.
“Did you fight in the battle too?”
“Yes.” That one and many others, he remembered, and wondered what more he should say. None of these children had seen battle, nor, in all but a few cases, had their parents. South Africa hadn’t had a war since Natal fell, and that had been almost fifty years ago. That was a blessing, no mistake, but how could he talk about warfare to children to whom it was hardly even a memory?
“Tell us!”
“I was very young then, Amantle – eighteen, nineteen,” Marius began cautiously. He was ninety-four now; how many veterans of that war were even still alive? “Our family lived in Bloemfontein when the Imperials took over, and my father was one of the people who realized what they had planned for us after they were done with you…”
“Marius.” The old man looked up to see Zivanayi, part of the Mutapa branch of the family. He was a distant cousin on Sannie’s side; the exact relationship would no doubt come to him in time. “Everyone’s getting ready. You need to come.”
He accepted Zivanayi’s hand up with gratitude. “I’ll tell you about the battle another time,” he said. “You should go find your parents.”
The children scattered noisily, and Marius followed his wife’s cousin to the main building. Piet was there – the other Piet, his grandson – and was the obvious center of attention, but a few of the older people had obviously been waiting for him.
“Look at your suit,” scolded his daughter Karin, her hands busy as she brushed and straightened. If Sannie were still alive, she’d have been the one to fuss. “The procession’s just about to start. Do you have the envelope?”
He patted his right pocket in answer. Yes, they’d need him for that. As the oldest, he would lead the procession, and when they got where they were going, the contents of the envelope would be very important.
“Come here, then.” She led him past Piet, helpless in the center of milling relatives, and to a place by the door. He saw, as he passed, that Piet looked remarkably nervous, although he could hardly be blamed for that. At almost the same time, he realized he was nervous himself. The Coetzee and Sekhamane families may have been next-door neighbors for more than seventy years, but in all that time, no Sekhamane had ever married a Coetzee… until today.
Marius had little time to think on that before an unspoken signal was passed and two of his great-grandchildren rushed ahead to open the doors. He walked through into the sunlight, the family formed up behind him. They’d filled the house for days, all the cousins from the Cape and the Free State and Stellaland and the old republic, even a few descendants of the people Sannie had left behind when Marius’ father had arranged the marriage with her parents in Mutapa. Boers were traveling people, and their clans were scattered far. He felt a brief flash of envy for the Sekhamanes; their house had only a few guests, because nearly all their relatives lived within two hours’ drive.
But if the family was chaos, the scene that greeted Marius outside was more so. It seemed like half the district was on the green in front of the ranch house, in a mix of Boer and Sotho finery that didn’t correlate to the wearers’ race. He let his eyes fall from the distant mountains to look at them: the Coetzees’ and Sekhamanes’ hired hands, friends from Thaba Tseka town, a few district councilors and members of parliament, the Swiss and Austrian families who ran some of the other mountain lodges, more country neighbors than he could count…
“The everyday neighbors and the weekend neighbors,” Karin whispered. Marius nodded; the Basotho were country people at heart, and everyone who could afford it had a cabin in the mountains or out by a cattle station, even the ones who had apartments in Motloang or Makhalanyane and took the cable car up to work on Thaba Bosiu plateau. Maybe that was part of the reason they and the Boers got along as well as they did, once they’d started fighting on the same side.
And at the end of the path the guests cleared, behind a table by the property line, were old man Sekhamane and his mother Mponeng, looking far too solemn for a wedding day. “Do you have it?” asked Mponeng, as bluntly as she might have asked a driver if he’d loaded all the milk.
“Of course.” Marius withdrew the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Piet, who in turn laid it on the table. “The other was delivered this morning.”
Mponeng, unsmiling, nodded and opened the envelope, counting the bills inside. She’d negotiated in much the same way, without mercy for the fact that the Sekhamanes’ spread was four times the size of the Coetzees’. She was almost Marius’ age, and when they’d been younger, women hadn’t taken part in lobola negotiations; now, Marius wondered if that was because the men were afraid of them.
But he didn’t really mind. Lobola – that wasn’t a Sesotho word, but that’s what they called it in the pan-Southern Bantu jargon that people spoke in the capital these days – was about the union of families, and although the parties had resorted frequently to the traditional bottle of Cape wine and pitcher of sorghum beer on the negotiating table, it had all been neighborly enough. In the end, the Coetzees had agreed to deliver five cows to feed the guests at a celebration the Sekhamanes were otherwise paying for, and to contribute thirty thousand pounds to set the couple up in business. That was how it usually was these days, among people who still paid lobola: the money would be returned to the couple and invested in something they would share. A house, a fi or motor-wagon, tuition, or as now, a florist shop in Makhalanyane…
“Twenty-nine thousand,” Mponeng said.
Old man Sekhamane – Moeletsi Mohapi’s son – broke into a smile and put his hand on Piet’s shoulder. “There’s always something left,” he said. “You still owe Nthati, and you will always owe her, because she’ll never stop bringing you happiness.”
He reached out with his other arm and clasped Marius’ hand. “We are one family.”
And that, it seemed, was all – all of Marius’ part in things, anyway. By Sotho custom, Piet and Ntathi were married now, and the parents and grandparents could retreat gracefully. Ntathi was already on her way from the Sekhamanes’ house, surrounded by dancing, stomping sisters and aunts, and the band was singing praise-songs to the bride in Sesotho and Afrikaans.
But they’d wanted to be married in the church too, so it wasn’t time yet for everyone else to start dancing; the pastor still had to do his work. Marius stood between Moeletsi and Mponeng as the music and conversation stilled, and as the couple prepared to take their Christian vows, he noticed that Piet’s apprehension had gone.
As it should be, he thought, and suddenly it seemed that he was at another wedding, seventy years ago in this very place. He and Sannie, too, had stood before the pastor, and that was when they both had realized that they would truly make a home together. There had been no praise-songs and no lobola, but Mponeng had been the one to welcome her to the district, and Moeletsi had helped carry the coffin at her funeral so many years later.
“We are one family,” he murmured, repeating old man Sekhamane’s words. Maybe we’ve always been.
_______
[1] See post 3755.