White boy in Soweto

I am a 45-year-old white male who was indoctrinated by the apartheid system. My late father (Lord, let him rest in peace) was a racist of note and, being a child who in a sense idolised his father, I had no reason to doubt this strong man's teaching.

But it wasn't limited to him: spending time with my mother and grandmother recently, I was reminded of where we as a country have come from. Any topic of conversation with them would inevitably bring some or other black person(s) to the forefront only to be slated for sins I doubt the subject matter is even aware they might be capable of. I cringe when I spend more than an hour with either of them, knowing that any contradiction will bring the same old response of admonishment and rebuke of the harshest kind. Hard for some to change, even if they want to, I’d think, and yet I did...

I was 24 and ambitious, Branch Accountant for a top 50 company; I believed I could change the world. Stephan Mosikidi, a loyal servant to the company, was in his 70's and had reached, as my manager told me, "past his sell-by date". I was to retire him. I was relieved because the complaints I had received concerning his performance were a mild annoyance. We went through the procedures and bid him farewell.

A farewell party in Soweto

I picked up Leonard Mola on the outskirts of Soweto, not far from the overworked Baragwanath hospital. It was the mid-1980's and unrest was reported quite frequently, although somewhat filtered through the eyes of the government-censored media. As we drove into Soweto — "…deep into Dube…" said Leonard — I wondered what was in store for me.

"They kill white people in Soweto," my Mom had warned. "Don't go to this, this meal. And you might as well be eating dog meat for all you know." I smiled and thought, why not, it's an experience.

"It's not far now," my passenger said. I noticed on either side of the dirt road, that people were sitting on what would be a pavement if there were one. The houses were all similar and very small, no larger than a generously proportioned garden shed in some cases and close to one another. No wonder you see black children playing in the street, I mused.

As I continued to drive slowly down the road, the people lining each side seemed to get thicker, two deep and then three deep, until we turned the corner into Stephan's road. The crowd had to part now to fit the car through and still I didn't understand why there were so many people. I began to get concerned. Perhaps my Mom was right. Could this be a trap and where would they begin to look for me?

Guest of honour

But everyone was smiling and cheering, ululating and singing. I parked on the shallow verge, there was no pavement to speak of and my bumper came to rest against the fence. Stephan's house was a typical Soweto home, small on a small stand with a small garden — nothing like what I was used to and I wasn't even from an affluent suburb.

I made my way through the crowd as I followed Leonard towards the front door and saw Stephan standing tall beaming from ear-to-ear. I was overwhelmed with the crowd and their cheering; I couldn't help but wonder if I was missing something.

"Welcome," he said and led me indoors to the dining room. It was a square table with four seats, very modest but well-kept. Sit. It was a request more than an instruction but I complied. Stephan didn't have a great command of the English language but even if he did, I doubted that he would be a man of many words.

An elderly woman came in and brought me a plate piled with pap and meat and sauce. This is Stephan's wife said Leonard. I didn’t know what to do. I smiled and greeted her and she returned the smile. Leonard got his meal last — he was the youngest there (besides me). Stephan tucked in and I followed suit.

Out the corner of my eye, I saw a line beginning to form at the back door. Plates of food were being handed out and the crowd, which had dulled to a murmur, was beginning to chat excitedly again. There were no formalities, no introductions and no more discussion. It suddenly dawned on me that I was the honoured guest. The crowd was the community, the old man's family, friends, neighbours — his community.

He had told them of my impending arrival and everyone had waited just for me, this white boy. Everything had been prepared and everyone was ready for the feast. The ox had been slaughtered and the community had gathered because Stephan was retiring from work to rest in his twilight years and a party was being thrown to celebrate.

The day the white boy came to Soweto

Stephan's white boss had come, into Soweto, in the midst of the uprising to celebrate with us. I felt lump in my throat and tears swelled in my eyes. How arrogant was I? One table for four had been set and I was selected to be one of those to sit at it; one of the hundreds outside. This man, some 50 years my senior felt it an honour for me to dine with him. I looked at him and he smiled back at me. He was happy; I was shattered.

How could anyone feel hatred for these dear people? How could I fear these people who opened their door to me and gave me a place of honour? I lifted my glass and toasted Stephan: "Happy retirement Stephan".

He smiled with contentment and continued to eat. I felt humbled being in the presence of this man, a father, a husband, a worker, a black. A man who had seen many years of oppression and may never see the end of it in his lifetime and yet, ironically, he considered me an honoured guest.

That day is still imprinted in my mind. The day the white boy came to Soweto. It was the first of many visits to Soweto to visit with colleagues who became friends. Simple people with honour and integrity that way exceeded that of my peers. I changed my view of black people that day and I only have Stephan Mosikidi to thank. You did more for me in one day than I did for you in the six months you worked with me Mr Mosikidi.

I pray that my fellow whites could learn about community and forgiveness from blacks, and for my black friends: remember the history of South Africa and don't repeat the discrimination of the past.

Can you relate to Bruce's story? Do you have a South African story of your own? Mail us and, if we like it, we'll publish it!

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