Publications
Partners
It’s Me, Marah: An Autobiography by Marah Teboho Louw
BlackBird Books
226 pages
R250
In 1996 I travelled to Boomplaas on a journey of discovery; I wanted to know who I was. Up to that point a part of my identity had been hidden from me, and uncovering it allowed me to understand more of myself.
I asked Moratuoa, my sister Sinet and her son Khali Furhu to accompany me to Boomplaas. I loaded my car with clothes and drinks for the uncles and aunts and whomever I was going to meet and interrogate. We set out in the early hours of a Thursday morning.
It’s a seven-hour drive from Johannesburg to Boomplaas. We had a few stopovers in Kroonstad and Bloemfontein. On the way, I asked Sis Sinet about Mabasotho being my mother, but she was adamant that she didn’t know what I was talking about.
The drive seemed to take forever. We eventually arrived in Sterkspruit at around 1pm. I stopped to get a few necessities, such as batteries for the torches because Boomplaas had no electricity.
Our next stop was my cousin Benela Ngcephe’s home in Hillside. He was surprised when he saw us stop outside his house. I had not seen him and his wife Mam’Tolo for a long time. Benela welcomed us into the house and told us that Mam’Tolo was in church for the Thursday manyano service.
We had a relaxed chat and I took out some gifts: a jersey, a pair of socks and a bottle of whisky.
He opened the whisky and poured for us. Sinet opted for her favourite beer. Moratuoa and Furhu had soft drinks. We were having a pleasant time when I eventually dropped the bombshell: ‘Mzala Benela, yinyaniso naa le endiyivayo yokuba uTrueblue nguye umama wam?’ Iyoo! Benela nearly dropped his glass. He broke into a sweat, walked outside and started pacing on the stoep. Everyone went silent.
Just then, Mam’Tolo came back from the manyano service. She was excited to see us but wanted to know why her husband looked as if he’d seen a ghost. I told her what was going on and repeated my question.
She sat down, calm, and said, to Benela and Sinet, ‘How long are you people going to keep this secret from Marah? When are you going to tell her the truth?’
Benela became angry and started shouting, ‘Heyi wena MamTolo, unguMakoti apha kule family, uzazelaphi indaba zaseDawini?’ His defensive reaction was confirmation that I was going to crack this case sooner rather than later, although he contemptuously denied any knowledge of what I had asked him.
He was actually annoyed with me, so I kept my cool and apologised for the inconvenience. We left peacefully, but I could just imagine what they talked about all night.
On the road, Sinet persisted in her denial. We headed to the village of Penhoek, which is close to Boomplaas, to see my cousin Kgathatso and his wife Mam’Hlakoana. He was sitting outside in the yard smoking his pipe, which was a permanent fixture.
Every time I’ve seen him over the years, that pipe has been in his mouth. I sat down next to him and exchanged greetings and pleasantries. I took out more gifts of clothing and another bottle of whisky for him. He was happy with the gifts and poured himself a shot of whisky.
I chatted a while before posing my question: ‘Motsoala Kgathatso, a ke ntjwetse, ke nnete nah hore Mabasotho ke mme wa ka?’
He nearly fell off his chair. He too started sweating and his leg bounced as he hit it with his fist. It was clear that he wished we hadn’t found him. He looked at me as if I was crazy and took a long time before responding. I waited patiently.
Eventually he said, ‘Teboho, o fapane hloho, o tswa kwa Gauteng o tlo mpotsa nonsonso.’ I waited placidly for the denials. He asked Sinet why she had brought me there to ask these silly questions. She said she didn’t know what I was talking about.
It’s interesting to watch the body language of a person who is not telling the truth; they twitch and rub their noses. Eventually Kgathatso dismissed me with a loud ‘No’. I apologised to him and his wife and we left.
We soon drove into Boomplaas village and arrived at my late brother Maluti Louw’s house. Maluti was the son of Manini, Mokgethi's elder sister. His son Kgotso was living there. The village kids came to help us with our luggage. I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted from the driving, the stopovers and the unanswered questions. But I was determined to probe further.
Word spread through Boomplaas that I had arrived, and people came to say hello. Their excitement was honest and humbling. My cousin Chobi Dada also came to greet me.
He had retired from his job as a captain in the police force. I hadn’t expected him to be there; the last time I saw him had been a few years before when he was stationed in Umtata in the Eastern Cape. He was keen to know what brought me to Boomplaas after so many years. I decided there and then to ask him the question I had been asking everyone on my way here. He looked at me with curiosity in his eyes. He had an irritating tendency to grind his teeth.
I felt like stepping far away from him whenever he started doing it and in this instance I went to fetch a gift for him: socks, a shirt and tie, and a bottle of whisky. He immediately poured himself a whisky and asked why, after so many years, I was interested to know about this.
I explained that it was important for me to know the truth about who I was.
He wanted to know what difference that information was going to make, because ke Motaung and that’s all that matters. I told him that knowing the truth would help me understand certain occurrences that had made me curious about my identity. For example, why had I stayed with Trueblue and her husband if my parents were living nearby?
Chobi did not break into a sweat like the others I had visited earlier that day. Instead, he remained calm and poured himself another whisky. Then he turned to Sinet and asked, ‘Keng lesa arabe potso ya Teboho?’
Sinet responded with denial.
Eventually Chobi said to me, ‘Nna ke kgathetse hodula le siphiri sena joale, Bataung lebo Ma’Nkwali – letla ntsoarela, ketlo joetsa Teboho nnete kajeno.’ Bataung is our clan name and Ma’Nkwali is the clan name of Mokgethi’s mother, Mamaikele, my grandmother.
It was Sinet who broke into a sweat as Chobi continued.
‘Marah, ke nnete, Mabasotho Trueblue ke yena mme wahao, Mme Macindi le Ntate Mokgethi ke bo nkgono le ntate moholo.’
I cannot describe the feeling I had when I heard those words. I broke down, tears running down my face, and Sinet started ranting at Chobi about his irresponsible behaviour. Moratuoa started crying with me.
Mabasotho ke mme wahao.
I exclaimed. ‘Ho etsahalang mo?’
I asked Chobi if he knew who my father was.
