My History and Afrikaans teacher, who also happened to be my rugby coach was Mr Swangaza back when I was doing grades six and seven. He was a short, energetic and loud man whom you would never miss in a room or at the side-lines of the rugby field. He was a very present figure and would never shy away from shouting his instructions to you as you are busy trying to navigate the tough rugby opponent in front of you. Playing rugby was the best time of my youth. I did practise karate, but rugby gave me a great experience that I still relate to even in my 30s. We were in Ndzondelelo Higher Primary School which offered standards three to five (grade 5 to seven), before you went to high school. This meant that we were in school with mainly 11- to 12-year-olds for a good three years. The best transition ever. It was a good space to build self-esteem and spend time with those of the same age group before being launched into high school. In this level of schooling, I met some of my best friends at the time like Lazola and Mthuthuzeli who were far much brighter characters than I was. I benefited a lot from their boldness and daring attitudes. I knew that I did not have this boldness in me, but the two friends and my cousin brother, Masixole, provided me with sufficient camouflage and training ground for me. These were the guys who could sing at the top of their voices and would not worry about onlookers. They also knew they could sing well, and I had to find my tune between their loud voices. At family funerals, Lazola and Masixole would quickly rehearse a duet outside and render it to a standing ovation to the dismay of the strict elders who felt there should be no handclapping while mourning the dead. They were confident to talk about the girls they liked, dance in public and Masixole got into more trouble that I could desire even as a kid. I do not remember making many decisions that got us in trouble, but I remember being a reluctant follower knowing very well that we are all breaking the rules for the sake of having a short-lived adventure. These bad decisions included going swim in Buffalo River, Zwelitsha Swimming Pool or Da Gama dam (kwaTshatshu). None of us could swim very well but we swam isigagamfu just to keep afloat and moving in the water causing a big splash all along the way.
Ndzondelelo was such a strict school, and the principal was Mr Makhalima, a tall, slim and dark-skinned gentleman in his 60s at the time, or at east that was my estimation. He would have a black sjambok with a split-tip from all the whipping he gave to wayward learners over the years. It was never an issue of speaking or gestures when it came to Mr Makhalima, his mere presence was enough to command the whole school of 500 teenagers into absolute silence and pretence focus into sometimes upside-down books until he passes around the corner. This one day in standard three, our class teacher had ‘taken ill’, we suspected she went to give birth after months of her big tummy - or so was the joke. At one moment, Mthura, Ladjedje and I were busy dancing and performing to the absolute pleasure of the whole class for some few coins. Suddenly, everyone was silent and focussed on their books. We just turned towards the old wide school windows and the door from where we would have expected trouble to come. Lo and behold, a well-melanated matured gentleman, with his forehead against the window and his hand covering the glaring light from the midday sun. The other hand kept the sjambok erect behind his back with the split-end slightly leaning over his greying hair. By the time we could find empty seats, we had stood out as trouble makers like three little stooges in the grey and white school uniform.
Mr Makhalima came through the door and just pointed at us to lead him to his office, which we had never entered before. The office was tidy but had lots of books and documents orderly packed in the brown wooden cabinets. Some unfamiliar gadgets, staplers and sports balls and trophies were around the corner. We knew the drill. We had to bend over somewhere and got lashes on our behinds. What we were not sure of was who will go first because I knew it was not going to be me. Whoever it was, it was not out of their bravery or boldness, it would have purely been the fact that we were not going to be there the whole day. Otherwise, we would have still been there even right now. Even in my old age, I would not desire to have those lashes on my behind. I remember we still got them when we were in standard 5 two years later. I can’t remember the reason for the punishment, but I remember I sustained the marks of the whip for months on the side of my bum, just above my right thigh. We would show each other not out of a sense of victimhood but that of bravery that we could withstand the punishment. We revered and feared Mr Makhalima, but that man had to keep 500 teenagers under control. Discipline and respect were mif e important than the curriculum those days, or rather we got disciplined to be more attentive to the curriculum. Every teacher must have had some military equivalent training to be a teacher, it certainly felt like it
For Mathematics, we would have winter morning classes starting at 07:00, and not 07:01. Mr Khalazani, affectionately called ‘DK’, would have his field day with us and ‘times tables’ (mathematical table) and numeracy. If you did not know your numbers - it's a whip. If you hesitate or stutter - it's a lash. If you seem to be miming when we all recite the ‘times tables’ from memory, the whole class will be your audience as you go at it alone. I did not have to be told to do my homework at home, I just did it because I knew no one would be standing in solidarity with me the next morning in class. As a result, my grandmother, Angelina Nomtokazi ‘Maweh’ Mnqwazi, would ask me once when I arrive home if I had homework and that is it. It took me years before I discovered that she could not read or write a word. In fact, I just thought her eyesight was not good to read off money notes or letters, which my uncle read to her. That’s why I knew all the news because reading letters was like listening to a radio where my uncle Sdwadwa was the host. My school years were the best, but not as good as my rugby days.
We had sports day on Wednesday but practised from Monday to Thursday from 13:00 to 15:00 or so. I would then go home to prepare to go to karate practice at 17:00-18:00ish. On match days, Mr Swangaza would write the whole playing squad on the blackboard for all to see who was playing and who was a reserve on the bench. It was never an easy moment, but I was always on the team. In hindsight, I was one of the fit ones since I also had karate practice for endurance. After sessions, we would all hop into a Nissan 1400 white bakkie as the whole team on some days, and two trips would be done on other days, depended on how far the match would be. From these games, I remember hearing the coach shouting at us, “Sukramelela kwedini! Sikramela!” He would shout this so that you don’t run away from the approaching opponent, but that you go directly towards the charging boys in front of you. At first, I did not get this, why would one want to run to trouble and not away or around it? It seemed plausible to me that one can outrun some of the big-boned and dangerous village boys from kwaTyutyu and score a try. But Swangaza says we should not avoid the opponent. He later explained to us through drawings on the board, that if
one has the ball and decides to run away from the opponent by coming close to the side-lines, he is taking the whole game to the side and not moving the team forward. The point of rugby is to cover ground against the opponent at all times. Running for the sake of running does not mean that we are making progress, it could even mean that we are making things more difficult for the team. This was an important lesson of leadership in my life that, sometimes we have the ball, but we decide to run away from imminent danger, conversation, or conflict by avoiding it. The longer we do this the bigger the trouble we create for ourselves in the long run. Now, I don’t profess to be good at this, but I do know enough that it is better to just go straight at the problem sometimes and ungakrameli. This lesson was clarified later in life that it is sometimes cleaner to go straight to the issue than go around it. Conflict and contact are sometimes an imperative if goals are to be achieved. However, there is something that requires confidence and not minding taking centre stage before you are assertive and when you confront issues. In my case, I thank my earlier peers for sowing those seeds of confidence in me, otherwise I would have probably remained in my shell for most of my life and missed valuable experiences as a result.
***A chapter taken from Olwam Mnqwazi's new book titled 'Leadership: An insignia more enduring'.
Painting image provided by Banele Njadayi. Title: Tomorrow's Leadership
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