In The Dawn - Cedric & Sarah

Chapter 1

EARLIER THAT YEAR

It is known by all that a black man must eat where   he ploughs. It is also universally known that a poor man shall eat of a rich man’s hand. It is written, not in the paper, but in a mind of him who’s wise. I was told Wisdom is not the knowledge you equip through learning, but what is equipped through experience. Well, it’s not hard to believe since we are led by fools who believe citizens do not have a say in the country’s matters. A fool gets a reputation for his knowledge only to his disadvantage: it destroys the fool’s bright part and causes his head to split, which later brings anguish in the country. They do not make haste in what is right; they do not defend their minds from stupidity. If you are slow in doing good, your mind will take delight in evil. You should not think lightly of evil. By the falling of drops of water, the water-pot is filled. The fool is filled with evil, though he practise it little by little.
   The long nights I always seem to have had turned into long scary dreams. Dreams that make one question everything in the universe and the world’s existence. The prayers and pleads of our mothers could not help us from the trepidation that surrounded my nation. With each day, more sorrow was birth.
   05: 45am, I had just opened my eyes after a long tiring night. Blur from a long unintended sleep, cleared as I constantly blinked. My voice moaned with a tiring sound. When I regained half my focus, my mind and subconscious mind battled to stay woke.
     “Let’s go to work. Cedric needs money.” Said my mind.
     “No! I don’t want him go there. They don’t love him. They hate him. He should just quit his teaching job and seek another profession.” Replied my subconscious.
     “What is he going to eat if he quits his job?”
     “We’ll make a plan for him as we always have. It was us who got him a job at JOJOS remember?”
     “You say that now and yet you know it’s difficult for a black man to get a job in this country. This apartheid system does not favour a black man” My mind said.
     “Ah! You are such a bore Mindy. We are always working. Do we ever rest?”
     “If we rest no one will feed him. We are in a country that does not care for us. We have to do it by ourselves.” Replied my mind.
     “Okay! Let me get up. I just feel for the body. He looks tired.” Said my subconscious irritated.
     “Don’t even mention it folks.” Replied my body and continued, “I just want to die and rest. Ahh let me get up. This arse nigga want to use me again.”
   My body stood up from the bed and my eyes went to my father’s photograph that was hung widely on the wall of my room. This picture was taken because the universe knew it would be our last time seeing him. His tangled strong hair almost reached his forehead and with a smile not so pleasant for an eye. His looks were plain but his eyes told a tale I wish to have seen in my life. A tale of fierceness yet with love. A tale that is for peace yet with courage and pride – a tale that only exists in him whose mind is courageous and filled with hope for a better tomorrow. I shook my head to clear my focus of eyes and I saw plainly. Looking at my father’s picture reminded me of a history I wish I had – a history of my forefathers, which I’m taught to forget. A history which constantly dies in the mouths of the hoary. Oh my beloved people! What are we doing to our nation! I am crying because Isizwe siyaphela.
   The dark skin I had seemed to be a disgust to the soils of the Earth. Surviving slavery brought us nothing but pain – pain that constantly reminded us how inferior we are to other races. 1652 is a year it all began.

   Before all, my land was once a place closer to heavens. Trees were blessed with its fruits and the colours in leafs beautified them even more. Songs of birds and winds were food to the ear. The land was surrounded by light atmosphere which only covered some parts of South Africa and others were prone to heavy atmosphere, with my people dancing and telling tales around the fire. They were strong, courageous and loving. Roots and unity were our holding ground, – until Jan Van Riebeeck brought his foreign concept when he had his boot on these lands in 1652. Ever since then, our people were and still are subjects to white power under the National Party governance (NP). The ruling party came into power in 1948. I was born in July 4th 1920, and I was almost twenty-eight years old when the apartheid system was implemented. Troops were invited within lands to oppress us – to tell us who we are supposed to be, and who we cannot. Our people had to live for nothing but retaliation. It didn’t matter how old or young you were, but if a brick or stone presents itself to you, it was a weapon formed in your hands to fight police. You throw a stone in a crowd of police officers and to whom it hits, it’s a smile on your face.
   Being a black teacher in a white school gave me a privilege to be in two different parts of South Africa – a poor black community and a rich white community. When I’m at work I felt white and when I was alone I was back to being black. It was two different worlds that needed good pretence and acting. I had to act non-racial when I’m with the white kids but deep inside I hated their existence.
   I started working at JOJOS when I graduated for my teaching course. The only available courses for a black man are teaching, law, psychologist, social working and nursing. I had to choose amongst these careers. My mother wanted me to study law, saying, it is done by few and I would be able to get a job quicker, but my heart belonged in class teaching children. I loved being around children. If I didn’t study teaching, I’d definitely be the lonely Cedric. After graduating for teaching, I spent a year without a job. Day and night it was me going up and down with my bags seeking for a job and no luck came forth.
   HOWEVER, through favours, I was able to get a job at Jubert Oust-June Osborne Secondary, often stylized as (JOJOS), through Romero Jacobs who was the boss to my mother. My mother begged him to get me a job that would help me survive since he was close friends with superiors. By the bargain, my mother was to work double shifts and her pay would be decreased by 30%, and yet, she agreed. She traded her life as a slave for mine to be better. I spent nine full months without seeing my mother when I started working at Jubert Oust-June Osborne Secondary.
   It was a school that was situated in the centre of the city. Academically it was not doing better, but it gained its reputation years ago when it produced Alexandra Jinsloo, one of the best pop artist in South Africa at the time. This was the only reputation it ever took its pride on. And again, it was a school for whites only.
   Since I was the only boy amongst four girls in my family, my mother treated me like a king – like I was her husband whom she had not seen in ages. My father who is in exile (if by god’s he’s not dead already) sent us two to three letters in a month. He has been in exile for almost my whole life. When he was exiled, at least I was a grown child unlike my sisters whom they only know him in the pictures. He was blessed with four beautiful girls and one stubborn son. My father almost knew he’d be exiled when he made us. Right now I have lost memories of him. We are not exactly sure about his whereabouts. My mother said it’s best if we don’t know.
   My country was burning with hate and discrimination, and not even Allah could help us. My days at work were miserable. Being a black man who was teaching in a white school was a pain in my arse. The amount of respect I was given was measured based on my skin color. I was only given respect by my fellow black employee in the school, who was Bab’Khumalo – the school security guard who later became my friend. Mr Boerberg, the principal of the school never cared much about me. I was being mocked and insulted by my fellow white teachers and he did nothing to protect me. BUT For the sake of my mother, I played it safe. I pretended everything was fine. I did not let their negativity have control over me. My aim was to teach, fake love for the white kids and to fellow teachers but give love to the guard who was my kind. I always spent my days with Bab’Khumalo. I was never really fond of him at first, but he was the only person whom I could speak to and relate to (in terms of culture). He advised me in many things. For months he played a father figure in my life. He played a role of a father I wished to have had while growing up.
   I didn’t know much about him, all I knew was that he didn’t have a home nor a family, so he spent half of his life looking after the school that barely appreciated him.
   I was born to Senzokuhle ka-Ongahlulwa Nxumalo, an exiled freedom fighter and Cindy Mazibuko, a woman of wisdom and love but later became a slave cleaner. Bab’Khumalo has Mazibuko relatives, perhaps it is the reason he treated me like his son. I shared almost everything with him that a person could ever know about a man. Half of it and a quarter maybe. I shared things like my family background. My struggles. How I got the job. My thoughts. My feelings. My fears. My secrets. Literally everything. Having me as the only black man in the school forced him to like me even when he didn’t have a choice.
   He told me his wife and eldest daughter died when his house was set on fire and his youngest daughter was adopted when he lost his psych. His eldest son stabbed himself to death. “My life was taken away by white people.” He’d say.
     “Then why are you still working for them if they did such a horrible thing to you?” I’d ask.
     “Because my heart forgives. It can only love. I have no space in my heart to hate another person.” He’d reply with only these words. Or let me direct the question to myself. “Why am I here working for them if I hate them this much?” well, the answer would be I need money for survival. My siblings need money for survival. My reason was better than his. Of course I knew somehow he was lying to me but I didn’t bother to argue with him. In the leadership of white people, black people suffered a lot.
    I grew strong hate for them every minute I was in class teaching their children. My learners were all white. I was teaching standard ten which is known as grade twelve in today’s talk. Being in class with the kids gave me silly thoughts that one day I’d come to school with an M16 and start shooting them. For Mr Boerberg, the head of the school, I would even force a grenade in his mouth and blow it. For his big mouth, two grenades would fit in so well. And I would tie every teacher with a bomb jacket – including all the white staff and bomb them.
   I still remember the first day I started working at JOJOS like it was yesterday. The first day I came to the school, I saw pretence smiles they gave me. I could see in their eyes that they were hiding anger and discrimination behind a smile. If you’ve never been to a place you’re not wanted, then you wouldn’t understand my situation at Jubert Oust-June Osborne Secondary. It taught me something about values and morals of different races. I got to learn that being black is not about the color of your skin but morals and values you portray or one sees in you. There are certain things that we blacks do different from other races. Our morals and values comes from our mind and how one portrays them. A true black man is identified based on how he thinks, behave and his character – a color is just a description. In a white community things are done differently. They have their own way of approaching and handling matters and situations. Whites are most likely to be associated with taking risks. The white mind in them allows them to explore something before they can give it a physical attempt. Go to Afrikaners and you’ll come back toothless and stubborn. Go to a white community and you’ll come back with wealth and knowledge. Go to a black community and you’ll come back with no shoes and belt, and worse, less informed. This is the truth black people are trying by all means to ignore. We know this truth but we won’t admit. They say darkness is the absence of light and I say hate is the absence of love. The identity of our true self lies within our thoughts and how we process information. The problem we have as black people is that we confuse one another and we call it intelligence. Most black people understand complexity as intelligence. They think if they make themselves difficult to understand, they are supposedly intelligent. Making a simple thing difficult is not intelligence. They think if they make a problem out of every solution they’re supposedly intelligent. That’s not intelligence. Intelligence is making something difficult easy to understand. They speak in Bombastic words and they call it intelligence. Oh! Nkosi sikelel’ iAfrica.