police broke into mixed couples’ bedrooms at night and used forensic techniques to establish a sexual relationship so they could prosecute.
In this instance, they had absolutely nothing on us.
We were finally released that evening, but after the numerous blows that Ann had sustained, she aborted the foetus she was carrying.
She couldn’t deal with the pressure any more, so she left for London and I was to follow. I was so desperate that I was even prepared to take a one-way ticket to be with her.
However, I approached Dr Ahmed Sader, the ANC representative in Ladysmith who was under house arrest, for help with arranging a scholarship for me to attend a university in London, or anywhere in the UK. It was common knowledge that he had done so for his extended family, but he refused to assist me.
Once more, I saw the colours of the ANC through its representatives, and I was not impressed.
Devastated that I had no means of being able to join Ann, I returned to Weenen and spent time in solitude, dealing with the pain of separation by fishing, writing poetry and through self-reflection.
My relationship with Ann had ended – almost as abruptly as it had begun. All I was left with were memories of the joyous moments and thoughts of what could have been, in another time and another place.
BLACK HEN, WHITE EGGS
Love across the colour line
The time I spent with Ann was mostly in Hillbrow, a densely populated and cosmopolitan part of Johannesburg, made so by the large influx of Europeans attracted to the City of Gold. It was the grey in the apartheid separation between black and white.
Hillbrow never slept and had a unique vibe, distinct from the rest of the city and South Africa. At the time, Gerry Rafferty’s hit song “Baker Street” blared from the eateries near the Highpoint skyscraper landmark. You could have been forgiven for imagining you were in New York or any inner city in the US or Europe.
My friend Audrey, an attractive black woman who bore a striking resemblance to Diana Ross of The Supremes, was a successful entrepreneur who lived and ran a business there. She operated under the ownership of a white person because the apartheid laws prevented her from owning a business in what was designated a “whites-only” suburb. She designed clothes, had them made up on the Indian side of town and then sold them to a mainly white clientele. They thought she was a shop assistant and had no idea that she owned, designed, and managed the entire operation, which was even called Audrey’s.
She was a gutsy, street-smart woman, and a friend I held in high regard. She lived in a fancy apartment under cover of it being rented by a white person who was really her boyfriend, and she masqueraded as a maid and nanny to two beautiful blonde green-eyed little girls. The reality was that they were her daughters and their father was her Swiss lover, Walter, who travelled between Geneva and Johannesburg. Strangely, the girls bore no resemblance to Audrey at all.
Audrey had often served as a perfect cover for Ann and me. If the police confronted us, she would pretend to be my girlfriend while Walter pretended to be Ann’s boyfriend. That’s the way we survived in the minefield of laws that forbade relationships across the colour line.
Audrey’s daughters attended a whites-only pre-school, and she was always adept at keeping one step ahead of the apartheid laws that she had transgressed. She had violated the Immorality Act by engaging in a sexual relationship with a white person and she was living illegally in a suburb designated for whites only, falling foul of the Group Areas Act.
The white police enforcing these racist laws would often break into the homes of suspected mixed-race couples at odd times, hoping to catch (and photograph) them in bed together. This, and other incriminating evidence such as sheets with traces of semen, would be presented as evidence in court when the couple was prosecuted.
In one of these early-morning raids, the police broke into Audrey’s apartment. They were probably anticipating that they’d find her in bed with Walter, but he had left the evening before.
The flimsy charge they levelled against her was that she was living in the apartment illegally, to which she responded that she was the live-in maid and nanny. Although this was illegal, it was to some extent acceptable because the father of the girls travelled between Geneva and Johannesburg.
It looked as if Audrey had her bases covered until, with all the commotion, her daughters woke up and came into her room rubbing their eyes and crying, “Mummy, Mummy!”
The police were shocked to see two white girls with green eyes and blonde hair calling a black woman Mummy. Their eyes widened as she cuddled her daughters and warmly allayed their fears. In doing so, she had courageously defied the police.
Then, true to her nature, spirit, and courage, Audrey looked the policemen in the eye and asked defiantly: “Have you not seen a black hen lay white eggs?”
Seeing mother-and-daughter love manifest itself before their prying eyes, transcending colour, the police left without another word.
A FANCY-DRESS BALL
Blending in
Five years after quitting the University of Durban-Westville, I opted to go back to study, but at an institution of my choice.
To do this, I had to get written permission from Minister of Law and Order Hernus Kriel. My motivation was that I wished to study isiZulu, which was not offered at Durban-Westville.
On obtaining the permit, I enrolled at the all-white campus of Natal University in Pietermaritzburg, being among a handful of non-white students who were also there on special permits.
I enrolled for a Bachelor’s degree with English and philosophy as majors – intending to enhance my understanding of the meaning of life.
I sought to be an authentic South African and not an Indian South African but I immediately fell foul of the Black Students Society (BSS), which boycotted all social activity on campus. In essence, I faced the choice of attending lectures and refraining from all social interactivity – as they were wont to do – or behave like it was an “open university” and enjoy all that campus life had to offer.
My contention was simple, “If you don’t want to have any social interaction with white students, why are you here?”
Their rationale was, “We are here for the academics only, and we shall continue the struggle.”
My attitude was, “My father’s paying for my fees, which include sports and social activities. So, no matter what anyone says, I shall exercise my freedom to choose whatever I want to do, even if it means swimming against the current.” So I got involved in a wide range of social activities and even organised music concerts. Nonetheless, I understood the BSS stance, especially as we were not permitted to live in the student residences on campus.
As was the tradition, in the first week of university life, senior students arranged all kinds of activities for new students, to break the ice and acclimatise them to campus life.
In the activities pack I received at registration, I found an invitation to a fancy-dress ball at the Students’ Union hall. I guessed no non-white student had ever dared to attend one of these and it was a challenge I could not resist.
After giving it much thought I came up with a novel way of blending in while hiding my race and colour. I decided to attend as an American Indian chief. I went shopping at Reggie’s toy store in the city to kit myself out with feathered headgear, a toy gun, a knife and all the other paraphernalia. Then came the fun part: I got a make-up artist friend to paint my face, hands and all exposed parts red. I was pleased with her handiwork and my choice of costume.
Armed with a peace pipe loaded with tobacco (and some grass for good measure), I headed to the ball, confident in my costume and the anonymity it offered me.
When I stepped into the hall, blaring pop music enveloped me and lots of admiring glances were shot my way. Many students hadn’t made an effort and their costumes left