more pronounced as she got older. She meticulously swept the mud floor of our three-bedroomed house and its surroundings, and washed dishes and pots. My responsibility was to mind the baby and to play with my toddler brother, Sethiba. I carried Phoshiwa on my back to encourage him to sleep, which then freed me to play.
Koko Tsheola spoiled us rotten as children. She was the embodiment of a fairy godmother, though with limited means to cater for our childhood fantasies. She divided up among us most of her old-age pension, which amounted then to a little less than £5 per quarter, starting with my eldest sister, Mashadi Ramaesela Ruth, born on 27 March 1943. Mashadi, who was named after her, was her favourite great-grandchild. The next allocation would go to my elder brother, Mathabatha Alfred, born on 6 February 1945.1 was the third in line and would get an allocation to suit my status. Next would be my younger brother, Sethiba Michael, born on 28 March 1950. We used our spoils to buy sweets at a local store run by an Indian man, known as Makana, who had a large family living on the property. The only unpleasant memory I have of my great-grandmother was of the pinching she once gave me because I had not responded to her repeated calls to go on an errand for her. She told us stories about her childhood as well as many riddles and folktales in the warmth of our kitchen, in which stood my mother’s efficient black coal stove with the proud label ‘Welcome Dover’.
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There is more to names in our family tree than a casual observer might notice. Naming of children among the North Sotho people, where my roots lie, is a major part of the process of incorporating new arrivals into the extended family. The name you are given also signifies your position within the lineage, which has major implications for access to scarce resources. Your namesake often looks after your interests in vital ways. Women play an important role in this system as partners to their brothers, who are the heirs in the family. Women partners are regarded as female husbands (borakgadi) and without them important rituals in their partner brothers’ families cannot be carried out successfully.
Central to these rituals is the naming ceremony, which takes place at the end of a wedding feast. The bride is introduced to the ancestors by the presiding female husband as Ma-So-and-so (Mother of So-and-so), according to the line of succession. For example, the wife of the first-born son is given the responsibility of perpetuating the name of her father-in-law, and therefore receives a title with his praise name attached, such as Matlou, Matshwene or Mangwoatshipa. Her own first-born son will then be known by the father-in-law’s name but, given the reverence attached to it, women are only allowed to use the praise name. If the first-born child is a girl, she is named after the mother of the man, unless special arrangements are made by the woman’s family to ‘ask for a name’ (go kgopela leina). Such an ‘asked-for name’ was customarily that of the woman’s mother.
Sons other than first-borns name their own first-born sons after their immediate elder brothers. If the first-born is a girl, she is named after the partner female husband unless the latter indicates otherwise, as when another family name is in danger of becoming extinct, because of a couple’s infertility or some other unforeseen circumstance. The next son has to keep his immediate elder brother’s name alive, and so on down the line. If there are more than two children, then alternate children are named after members of the maternal family, starting with the mother’s parents, then her siblings and other important relatives.
The names of children in an extended family within this system are not only predictable, but also pregnant with meaning and pulsate with the tensions embedded within each patrilineage. With knowledge of the naming system one can deduce the family tree from a set of names. Children born out of wedlock can also be easily identified by their names, which are out of kilter with the system, unless some agreement is reached between the two families to ritually adopt the child ‘who has come with his mother’. In most cases such children are adopted by their mothers’ brothers and brought up in their households to avoid the conflicts which often occur in families with children ‘who came with their mothers’.
My mother was Matlou, thus my elder brother’s praise name was Tlou, as he was named after my father’s immediate elder brother Mathabatha, with the same praise name. My sister, Mashadi Ramaesela Ruth, being the eldest daughter, was named after an important female in the Ramphele lineage. Because he had no sisters my father had greater freedom in naming her, so he chose his grandmother’s name, Ramaesela. Mashadi, her first name, was given to her by my maternal grandmother, Koko Mamphela, in honour of the German woman who was the founder and matron of Helen Frantz Hospital at the time of her birth. Helen Frantz was given the name Mashadi by the locals, because she could not pronounce the Sotho word for ‘women’ (basadi), referring to them instead as mashadi.
The European names which occur in my family deserve comment. They embody the legacy of the missionaries, who saw it as their duty to give Africans ‘Christian’ names as part of the sacrament of baptism. African names were regarded as heathen and unacceptable to God. Considerations of convenience were thus turned into a theodicy – for most whites did not, and still are unwilling to, learn African names, some of which are tongue twisters for foreigners. The ease with which most whites shrug off attempts to pronounce African names is a logical consequence of the low status accorded Africans historically: there were no incentives to learn to pronounce their names properly nor sanctions in the event of failure. Thus even those Africans who were not baptised were given ‘slave names’ by white employers for their convenience.
3 Praise names are important linkages with one’s clan and are used both as endearments and as a mark of respect among Sotho-speaking people in Limpopo Province.
4 Koko is the Northern Sotho designation for grandmother; and Rakgolo, for grandfather.
Chapter 2: Moeng etla ka gešo, re je ka wena
NEGOTIATING EXTENDED FAMILY RELATIONS CAN BE A tricky process. The fifty kilometres which separated Uitkyk No. 1, my father’s parents’ home, and our own home in Kranspoort in the Mara district did not pose any threat to the closely knit extended family network, and yet gave our nuclear family sufficient distance to develop its distinctive lifestyle. My mother’s parents were also within reach in their home in Krantzplaas, twenty kilometres due west of Uitkyk, where they had moved in December 1942.
Family ties were strengthened by regular school-holiday visits to my father’s home in Uitkyk. These trips were great occasions for all. There was never any need for my father to announce our intended arrival: there was mutual understanding that specificities such as dates were unimportant in the flow of communication within the extended family. People did not have to keep diaries – there was always time for everything, and no need to be uptight about schedules. Everyone relaxed in the knowledge that the visits would happen during the course of the school vacations.
My recollection of these visits dates back to the beginning of December 1953. Our mode of transport – the envy of the locals at the time – was a mule wagon. My father owned a span of six mules, which were a source of much family pride. Mules combine the elegance and beauty of horses with the sedateness of donkeys. My father’s mules were handsome animals; all but Japie had shiny black-haired skins. The journey to Uitkyk was an exciting day-long trip. We set off early in the morning laden with provisions. My cousin Oupa Phoshiwa, my father’s eldest brother’s son, whom he adopted after his own father had died in a car accident, took great delight in being in charge of the mule wagon. He loved speed and would ensure that we arrived at our destination early in the afternoon.
My brothers and sister and I enjoyed playing a game of spotting interesting things on the way, particularly the infrequent cars which passed us on the gravel road, throwing up clouds of dust. As we drew nearer to Uitkyk, we vied with each other in identifying members of our family as they milled around the homestead oblivious of our impending arrival.
The welcome opened with loud praise-singing by my grandmother who sang the family praise song as well as our individual praises. This was high-class theatre with my paternal grandmother as the lead actor generating a pulsating emotional atmosphere. She would emerge from the nearby fields, and occupy the centre stage, elegantly strutting